The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3)

by Mary Kingswood

  She had ended one chapter of her life, but she could not yet see what her future life would be. The child growing within her was as yet a nebulous, barely-comprehended being, no more than a slight queasiness each morning. She could not be sure of the outcome. Her stay at Willow Place might be quite temporary, a few months only, so was there any point in making changes to her routine? It was easier to follow Mr Huntly’s schedule for her. At least that way she need not make any decisions.

  She had already changed for dinner and was waiting for Judith in the peacock chamber when Adam arrived.

  “How did it go off?” she asked him.

  “The burial? It went off as well as these things ever do. No one dropped the coffin or fell into the open grave, no one was visibly drunk, at least until a decent interval had elapsed. The whole village came out to pay respects to him.”

  “They are your tenants, not his, surely?”

  “Oh yes, but there was free pie and ale to be had at the Three Stags. A man must be strongly disliked not to attract a goodly number of mourners in such a case.”

  She laughed. “I am glad to discover that he was not strongly disliked, then.”

  “Not by the labouring classes, at any rate,” Adam said more soberly. “I confess that I was beginning to dislike him a great deal, myself.”

  “Because he insulted you?”

  He smiled. “Not for that reason, no. He thought me a frippery sort of fellow, I daresay, but he is fully entitled to whatever opinion of me he chooses. It was his treatment of you that concerned me most. You must have been aware that such closeness as he expected of you was not usual? It seemed to me to be quite unnatural, and not the affectionate intimacy of early matrimony.”

  Annie made no comment. Although she agreed with him, it seemed disrespectful to her husband to say so publicly.

  After a moment, Adam went on, “I have been into Salisbury today, visiting every solicitor and attorney I could find, in case one of them might hold Rupert’s will. My quest was unsuccessful. Not one of them has even had any dealings with him, apart from an attorney by the name of Wakeman who drew up a tenancy agreement a few weeks ago. Have you heard mention of him?” Annie shook her head. “He is the regular attorney for Willow Place, seemingly, and has the handling of all routine matters. He drew up a will for Herbert, years ago, but nothing of the sort for Rupert. Nor does he hold the title for the estate. It was kept here at Willow Place, he said, but I have not found it.”

  “What will happen if it is not found?”

  “Nothing of great moment to you, I am sure. The entail on the estate is a matter of record, so there is no issue there, and your jointure will also be secure. I am sure your uncle will know about that. It is only the small bequests and so forth. Twenty pounds here and there for the servants. His clothes to his valet, that sort of thing. Modest amounts, but very significant to the recipients.”

  “Yes, of course. So there will be no question about where the estate is to go?”

  “None at all. To your son, if you have one, or to this James Huntly, if he lives. Failing that, to me. No, it is not the contents of the will that concern me, it is that it cannot be found at all. Having been through all Rupert’s papers, I can say that he was a man of meticulous order. Everything was annotated — bills marked as paid, with the exact date, letters marked as replied to, with the date and a copy of his reply, unpaid bills in drawers labelled with the due date, his accounts up to date. He was a very, very methodical man, so why no drawer labelled ‘My last will and testament’? Why no box or cupboard or safe for important documents? It makes no sense. But I shall write to Aunt Dempster in Grantham.”

  “Perhaps he used a solicitor there, do you mean?”

  “There is always a possibility.” But he did not sound convinced.

  12: On Being Alone

  Annie’s days fell into a dull pattern, which bore a striking resemblance to the pattern they had borne before Mr Huntly’s death. She still saw Mrs Cumber at eight, dealt with her correspondence during the morning, rested for an hour each day and went out for long walks beside the river as the sun waned. Her only rebellions were to move dinner to five o’clock, and to replace her morning chocolate with a much more palatable cup of tea. She no longer practised the instrument, but that was from a feeling of the impropriety of music during the first weeks of mourning. She received no callers other than the indefatigable Mrs Popham, who seemed quite oblivious of the usual rules of etiquette, assuming that her husband’s position as parish clergyman gave her licence to behave with greater freedom. Annie was glad of it, since she would have no other company besides Judith, and could not even go out in public to attend church yet.

  Only the evenings were quite different from before. Somehow, without any explicit agreement between them that it would happen, Adam came for dinner almost every night. He often called late in the day, on his way home after seeing a tenant or inspecting some woodland, and either Annie or Judith would be sure to say, “Well, Adam, will you stay?” and he always seemed very happy to do so.

  They sat at the furthest end of the dining table from Mr Huntly’s chair, Annie in the place of honour as mistress of the house, and Judith and Adam either side of her. Often the conversation was between the two of them, as Annie listened in silence. She never felt excluded when they talked thus, for they frequently addressed her directly or looked her way, so that she was drawn in to their circle of intimacy.

  On one evening, Judith was teasing Adam for his willingness to accept last-minute invitations. “Surely your housekeeper cannot be still away?” she said, as they lingered over a bowl of peaches. “You are a generous employer indeed if you deprive yourself of your cook for so long.”

  “Turville and Mrs Turville are both away, but I expect them back any day now.”

  “Both of them away? And you do not know when they will be back? What a grand holiday for them. ‘Do go away and be entirely at your leisure for as long as you like, and do not return until you are quite sure you feel like it.’ What a way to run a household, do you not agree, Annie?”

  “I daresay there is a sound reason for it.”

  “Thank you for your faith in me, Cousin, for indeed there is!” he cried. “They are not enjoying a holiday, I assure you. There is an errand for them to undertake on my behalf which involved a journey. They will return whenever their task is accomplished, but I hope it will be soon, since the boys cannot come to me without a cook in the house, and I am being deluged with pleading letters on a daily basis. Cecilia would keep them for ever if she could, I think, for never was a woman blessed with more maternal feelings, but John would be glad to have a little peace and quiet again.”

  Annie shook her head in bemusement. “Cecilia? John? The boys? So many names I have never heard before.”

  “Have I not mentioned them? How remiss of me. The boys are my younger brothers, Benedict, Edwin and Jerome, and a more troublesome trio were never sent to plague a poor, innocent brother. Cecilia is my older sister who is married to a clergyman, John Elkington, and has a growing brood of her own, but never fails to take the boys in for a few weeks each summer. They prefer the freedom of the Manor, however, to the confines of a parsonage, and so they are wild to come to me, but unhappily for them, they must wait until the Turvilles return.”

  “Do they go to school?”

  “Yes, to Winchester, which has survived more or less unscathed so far. Benedict is to go up to Cambridge in the autumn, though, and I fear for my alma mater, truly I do.”

  Annie laughed. “It has stood for several hundred years, as Winchester has, and both will very likely stand for several hundred more, despite the efforts of generations of Huntly boys. Such establishments are used to a degree of juvenile wildness, I imagine.”

  “True enough. I passed through their portals and lo, they still stand, so there must be a certain robustness in their constitution. These peaches are magnificent, Cousin Annie. I must obtain a cutting from Dewey.”

  “Do you have
glass houses? They grow better under glass,” Annie said.

  “How knowledgeable you are! My glass house at the Manor is a paltry affair compared with yours, Cousin. Should I expand it, do you think? Or build a second structure?”

  “How can I answer such a question, when I know nothing of your situation? I know something of the growing of plants — their needs regarding sunshine or water or whether an east wind is detrimental to the spring blossom — and I know how each may be beneficial for digestion or the ague or melancholia, but as to whether a gentleman should build a glass house or not, I can offer no opinion.”

  “And yet I would have your opinion, nevertheless. Supposing I should be able to afford to build a second glass house, would it be worth my while, do you suppose? Would the fruits so produced be sufficient recompense for the effort and expense?”

  “Impossible question!” she cried. “If you like peaches and nectarines and figs and grapes, then build a glass house, if it be within your means. If you care nothing for them, then do not.”

  “Or if you eat always at your cousin’s house, you need not take the trouble,” Judith said, although she smiled as she spoke.

  Adam raised his hands in surrender. “A hit! A palpable hit! But when Mrs Turville returns, I shall invite you all to dine with me, and perhaps then Cousin Annie will advise me on the question of the glass house.”

  “I do not think the Turvilles are ever coming back,” Judith said. “You have given them carte blanche and now they are living like kings at your expense. I cannot imagine why you let them go.”

  “There must have been a very important reason,” Annie said again.

  “You may be the judge of that,” Adam said. “When they return, you may tell me whether you think their efforts were well spent.”

  “I?” Annie, said, astonished. “Why am I to be the judge?”

  But he only laughed.

  The following day, Annie was dressed for dinner and waiting in the peacock chamber at half past four when Adam was shown in. He was always in good time for dinner, and she had to admit that he cut rather a fine figure in evening dress. Her husband had dressed well, but he had always looked, to her eye, like a man who had risen in the world and felt a slight discomfort in the trappings of a gentleman, whereas Adam looked as if he had been born to that station. Which was undoubtedly the case, being the oldest son of his branch of the family.

  “Ah, Cousin Annie!” he said, bowing with perfect formality to her. “How well you look today! You have a little colour in your cheeks, which is reassuring to see. Have you been taking some exercise?”

  “I went for a walk along the river bank.”

  “You were not alone, I trust?”

  “Why should I not be alone, Cousin?” Annie said sharply. His solicitude awoke echoes of her husband’s close watch on her activities. But then, with a spasm of fear, she went on, “Do you think the murderer may still be nearby? That I may be at risk?”

  “As to that, there is no knowing, and taking a servant with you would be a wise precaution. But that is not the cause for my concern. It is tempting when one is distressed to seek solitude, and why should you not, if that pleases you,” he said with his warm smile. “If solitude brings you solace in your grief, then I have no quarrel with it. However, I would not have you fall into melancholy. Too long spent alone can induce an inward contemplation of a dolorous kind, and long walks without company, especially following the same paths you frequented with your husband, may bring your spirits lower than your friends would like to see.”

  “It is kind of you to take an interest, but I have no fear of solitude, nor does it lower my spirits. The river here can never be other than uplifting, so you need not be anxious on my account, whether I walk there alone or not. Indeed, today I should have gone with Judith and her eldest daughters, but a crisis arose in the nursery and Judith felt she must stay.”

  “There is always some crisis with Judith,” he said lightly. “Nothing seriously amiss, I hope?”

  “A misplaced doll, which is a crisis of monumental proportions to Isobel.”

  “Ah.” He smiled again, and she was struck once more by how different he was from her husband. Rupert’s habitual expression had been stern, verging on a scowl, and his smiles had never quite reached his eyes. To Annie, he had always seemed to be disapproving of something or other. Adam, however, was a sunnier person altogether. When he smiled, his expression was so sincere and so warm that Annie always wanted to smile too. No matter how disconsolate she might feel, Adam cheered her up, and although she could not quite explain it, even to herself, she trusted him.

  So it was that she leaned forward and said in a low tone, “Cousin, may I ask your advice on a discovery that is troubling me?”

  His expressive face registered surprise and then clear pleasure. “It would be an honour to receive your confidence in any matter, great or small,” he said.

  “On my walk today I happened to pass by the boat house, and I thought to look inside, for I had never done so before. When I asked Rupert about it once, he said only that no boats were kept there and so it was empty and of no interest. It interested me, however, for I have never seen inside a boat house before, so today I went inside.”

  “And was it interesting?”

  “It was, for I understand now how it works — that a boat may be taken inside and yet still be on the water. It is very ingenious, although there were no boats inside — Rupert was correct about that. But there was something… odd. In one corner, almost out of sight behind ropes and boxes, I found a pile of blankets and candles, and none of them coated in dust, as they might be if they had been long abandoned. It was almost as if someone were living there. Yet that cannot be, can it?”

  “Just blankets and candles?” he said. “Nothing else?”

  “What else might there be?”

  “If someone were living there, I would expect to see evidence of cooking, or at least plates or flasks or the remains of food. There might also be clothing or other possessions.”

  “Oh, I see. No, there was nothing of the sort.”

  “Then most likely it is one of the servants. With this hot weather, the attics must be very stuffy, and the boat house is no doubt a cooler place to sleep.”

  “Perhaps. You think then it is someone from the house?” she said.

  “Who else could it be?” he said gently. “I do not imagine anyone comes out from Salisbury to sleep in your boat house.”

  “But suppose…” she said, and then stopped. “Cousin, someone murdered my husband just eight days ago. It has been presumed that the perpetrator must be local because of the remoteness of Willow Place, but what if someone came from elsewhere and then hid in the boat house? He could have stayed there unseen for days, watching the comings and goings at the house. He could have known when Rupert went to his Vestry meeting, he could have—”

  “This is… a little fanciful,” Adam said. “Not impossible, I grant you, but… it seems unlikely. Just consider, Cousin — for a stranger to know Rupert’s likely movements that day, he would have had to observe his habits closely. That would imply venturing near enough to the house to see who entered and left, whether by the front door or the kitchen door or the garden door, then follow Rupert to see where he went and at what hour he returned. He would have had to repeat that process day after day, and week after week to be sure of his target. There are a dozen, or perhaps a dozen and a half people living in this house, and more visiting or delivering. Any stranger wandering about over so long a time, no matter how adept at concealment, must have been seen. Do you not think so? Yet no stranger has been seen.”

  “But I have seen him!” she cried.

  “What! When? Where?”

  “At night, or rather, very early in the morning, when it was already light, but no one was up. I have seen him several times, just standing, as if he is watching the house.”

  “From your window, then?”

  “Exactly!” she said. “He simply stands there,
just inside a clump of trees, almost hidden, but he wears a white shirt so he is quite visible. Oh, and I have just this moment realised that those trees are very close to the boat house.”

  “Close to the boat house…”

  “Sir Leonard should be told about him. Good Heavens, but I have seen the murderer himself!”

  “Well… possibly.” There was something in his tone that made Annie suspect that he did not believe her. “It seems unlikely to me that a man bent on murder would show himself so clearly, and at such an odd hour, too. What would be the purpose of it?”

  Annie was immediately deflated.

  Adam went on, “Have you told anyone about this?”

  “Only Rupert. He thought it was the gamekeeper, or his son, perhaps, for it was a young man.”

  Adam started. “You could tell that? Would you recognise him if you saw him again, do you suppose?” There was an odd tension in him as he spoke.

  “Oh no, he was too far away, and I cannot be sure he was young, but there was something of vigour in his stance that suggested it. Or it might have been my fancy, I suppose. But Sir Leonard must be told, and everyone warned of him, in case he returns to kill again. And I was out walking alone!”

  He frowned, started to speak, thought better of it and chewed his lip indecisively. Annie had never seen him nonplussed before, and it puzzled her.

  “What is it, Cousin?” she said. “Do you think I imagined this man? If so, my imagination has created him several times.”

  “By no means,” he said, with a swift smile, but she thought it rather forced. “I still think it most likely, however, that there is nothing sinister in his appearances. Almost certainly it is one of the grooms. Or perhaps Rupert had the right of it, and it was the gamekeeper, or his son, perhaps, for he is a young man, such as you saw. Cousin, will you permit me to make some enquiries amongst the servants before we raise the hue and cry to Sir Leonard?”