A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  Mrs. Hodges’s husband had died many years ago, long before I had married Milo and moved to Thornecrest. No one, it seemed, knew much about him, for he had died before Mrs. Hodges came to the village, but I couldn’t help but think that Marena must have inherited her good looks and sunny disposition from him.

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Hodges,” I said, taking up my jar of honey. “You’ve given me a good deal to think about.”

  “There’s more to all of this than meets the eye,” she told me as I reached the door. “I’d be wary of digging too deep.”

  “I shall bear that in mind.”

  I crossed back through the garden and exited the front gate. Sliding into the backseat of the car felt rather like making an escape.

  I wondered if I should go to the village and confront Imogen about what Mrs. Hodges had told me. I realized, however, that a short time in the woman’s company had drained the energy from me. Detective work was very tiring in my condition.

  By the time I returned to Thornecrest, I was feeling weary indeed. So it was with no great enthusiasm I received the news that my mother had rang and left word she intended to arrive in a week.

  “Maybe she’ll be detained again,” Winnelda said, in an attempt to cheer me.

  “I very much doubt it,” I answered with a sigh.

  My mother had been visiting more often since I’d become pregnant, and I was very much afraid that this time she meant to stay with us until the baby was born. At least I still had a week before she came. It would give me time to brace myself.

  I had completed the nursery, so I would not need to finish it while contending with her input. There was, however, still the matter of a name to be settled. Milo and I had different ideas of what we wanted to call the baby. I preferred traditional names like Mary and Alice or Thomas and Henry. Milo said that he thought we ought to choose something a bit more exotic.

  I supposed that Amory and Milo weren’t the most traditional of names, and it had never done us any harm.

  My mother, who in every other matter adhered to the strictest conventions, had chosen an uncommon name for me on the basis of familial loyalty hedged by prudence. Her favorite great-aunt was named Delilah Amory, but she had balked at so scandalous a given name. “There was nothing Christian about Delilah, now, was there?” she had once noted.

  And so she had compromised by bestowing her aunt’s surname upon me. Though I might have been more glamorous had I been christened Delilah, I supposed that Amory was fairly well-suited to me.

  My middle names were the more traditional Rosamund Frances, so I supposed we might use one of those if it was a girl. Milo’s were Anthony Lucien, but he had said he didn’t care for either of them enough to give them to a child. He was especially opposed to Anthony, which had been his father’s name.

  My mother, though she would never deign to say so directly, had made several comments that had informed me that she would not be displeased if the baby were to be named after her or my father. I had dutifully added Luella and Franklin to the list of possibilities.

  I had no doubt my mother would be advocating for them for the remainder of my pregnancy.

  “I found a trunk in the attic, madam, when I was looking for baby things,” Winnelda said. “I didn’t open it, but it was near the nursery furniture, so I had Nathan bring it to the nursery for you to look at later.”

  I had been so lost in thought that I had forgotten she was still in the room.

  “Oh. Excellent. Thank you, Winnelda.”

  She looked at me closely. “Are you feeling all right, madam? You look a bit peaked, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I am a bit tired,” I admitted.

  “Why don’t you lie down for a bit before tea?” she suggested. “It will do you good.”

  “Yes. I think I shall.” Though I would never have admitted it, I was in dire need of a bit of rest.

  I supposed that now, with the baby’s arrival nearing and my mother’s impending visit, was not the ideal time for a murder investigation. Perhaps Milo was right; perhaps it would be best to let the police handle things.

  Unlike Milo, however, I could not just abandon Darien to his fate. He might be a thoroughly unprincipled young man, but I didn’t think he was a killer. And, whatever Milo said, I felt it was our responsibility to help him.

  I needed to speak to Imogen about what Mrs. Hodges had told me. I found it very suspicious she had left out the fact she knew Bertie Phipps. What was the relationship between them, and what had she been doing in that field shortly before he died?

  She had told both the inspector and me that she had seen Darien there, but apparently no one had thought to question her about why she had been in that spot to see him.

  There was still information to gather and avenues to be explored. But it could wait until I’d had my nap.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I had a sudden thought: today had shown me that I could count my blessings. My mother might drive me to distraction, but at least she wasn’t Mrs. Hodges.

  * * *

  AS LUCK WOULD have it, the next opportunity for investigating presented itself at my doorstep that afternoon.

  “Inspector Wilson is here asking for Mr. Ames, madam,” Grimes said as I took my tea in the small sitting room.

  I didn’t hesitate. “I’d like to speak with him. Show him in, please.”

  Grimes had no discernible change in expression, but I could sense that he was not exactly thrilled with this request. He knew, as everyone did, the sort of intrigues in which Milo and I had been involved over the past years. Though he would never comment upon such things and had, naturally, kept his feelings on the latest developments within the Ames family to himself, I was sure that even his well-honed sense of professionalism must be strained by this point. Grimes was of the old school, and we were all behaving in much too modern a fashion for his tastes.

  He made no further comment, however, and left to show the inspector in as I considered how best I might be able to use this unexpected visit to my advantage.

  To be honest, I was not entirely encouraged by the fact that Inspector Wilson was on the case. He had always seemed a pleasant enough gentleman in our brief encounters, and I had no reason to believe that he was anything other than genuinely devoted to the cause of justice. The fact remained, however, that he was not a man of great imagination. He was the sort of person to look at facts and assume the most straightforward interpretation. The evidence pointed to Darien, and so he assumed Darien was guilty.

  That didn’t mean that he was a poor investigator. It simply meant that he might need someone to open his eyes to alternate possibilities.

  The first step would be to get him to relax his guard, even if just slightly.

  “Inspector Wilson, madam,” Grimes said as he returned to the room with the policeman in tow.

  “Thank you, Grimes. Good afternoon, Inspector.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ames,” he said. He still held his hat in his hand, apparently unwilling to relinquish it to Grimes’s charge. That meant, it seemed, that he did not intend to stay long.

  “I understand you’ve come to see my husband, but I thought perhaps I might do just as well,” I said brightly.

  He looked uncertain about this, as men often do when a woman suggests she might serve just as well as a man, but I wasn’t about to let him get away without at least gleaning a bit of information from him.

  “I thought you might give me an update on the case.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you with this unpleasant business, Mrs. Ames.”

  If he expected me to be a delicate wife, I might as well play the part. I put a hand on my stomach to draw attention to my condition. “It would set my mind at ease to hear it directly from the authorities.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m happy to do what I can, ma’am.”

  I smiled. “Excellent. There’s no need for us to be formal. Would you care for some tea, Inspector?” I thought for a moment that he
would refuse, but I could see that he was tired—no doubt the investigation and Darien’s arrest with its incumbent paperwork had kept him occupied for long hours over the past days—and knew the prospect of a hot, strong cup would likely be a worthy enticement.

  “I would like that very much, Mrs. Ames.”

  I moved to the tea tray and poured him a cup.

  “Milk or sugar?” I asked.

  “Both, please.”

  I fixed his tea as he sat uncomfortably on the edge of the yellow velvet cushion of the Thomas Sheraton chair across from the sofa.

  “Now,” I said when we were settled with our cups and saucers. “This is better, isn’t it? Much more civilized. What is it that you’ve come to see us about?”

  He took a sip of tea. I noticed that, despite his apparent discomfort, his hands were steady and his movements assured. “I know your husband isn’t best pleased that I’ve arrested his … ah … brother.”

  I had the sense from these words that there was some resistance on the part of the villagers to recognizing Darien as Milo’s brother. It wasn’t just the fact of his illegitimacy, though I was certain that played a part.

  The other reason was that Milo’s family had lived here for generations. A great many of the villagers had watched him grow up, had read of his wild ways in gossip columns for years, and had watched as he mellowed into his own rough-edged version of respectability.

  Whatever there was wild in Milo’s past, there had also been his bond with Thornecrest and the people of Allingcross. That a stranger should come here claiming to be an Ames and then be charged with murder was a lot more than many people wanted to accept.

  “It’s been a surprise to all of us, naturally,” I said, holding out a tray of biscuits. He accepted one, crunching on it as I continued. “We had no idea about Darien’s existence until a few days ago, but one doesn’t like to imagine that one’s relative might be a murderer. After all, there are any number of people who might have killed Bertie Phipps. Most of the village was at the festival that day.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “But most of the village hadn’t threatened to kill the young man.”

  “People often say things rashly in the heat of the moment that they don’t mean.”

  “That doesn’t answer for the evidence, I’m afraid.” He said this mildly, as though not to give offense, and I was careful not to give the impression that I was growing combative.

  “Of course,” I agreed. “But it seems strange, doesn’t it, that he would have kept the stolen objects in his room? Darien might be a reckless young man, but he isn’t stupid.”

  Inspector Wilson shrugged. “People do strange things at times. I’ve seen the brightest of criminals do something thoughtless and swing for it in the end.”

  He seemed to realize what he had said and flushed, taking a quick sip of tea to cover his embarrassment. I pretended as though I hadn’t noticed the faux pas of referring to the possibility of my brother-in-law’s execution.

  “Yes, I suppose.” I leaned forward to refill his teacup. “Just for the sake of argument, have you considered anyone else?”

  “We like to consider everyone who might have done it, naturally.” He wasn’t affronted by the question; the tea had mellowed him. He reached for a second biscuit.

  “Who else, for example?” I asked, taking a biscuit myself.

  I was fairly certain that he would tell me he could not divulge this information, so I was surprised when he answered me. “There were strained relationships in his life, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I shouldn’t say too much. Reputation is a delicate thing, after all.”

  I nodded sagely, my expression soft with understanding. “Yes, it certainly is.” I stirred my tea. “I know, of course, that he was dating Marena Hodges and that things didn’t end entirely well between them.”

  “She broke it off with him and took up with your … eh … brother-in-law.”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “No, I heard it long ago. In fact, I was at the inn during the altercation between Darien and Bertie. Marena herself told me that she was quite angry with Bertie over it.” I was not trying to implicate her in the crime; I merely meant to point out to Inspector Wilson that there were other possibilities.

  He seemed to consider this, and I hoped that my words would be weighty enough to keep the matter in his mind after our tea was finished. “That may be,” he said. “But that blow…”

  “The doctor was of the opinion that either a man or a woman might have done it, I believe. My husband was at the inquest and told me all about it.”

  He looked at me, his gaze sharpening ever so slightly, and I realized that I would need to tread carefully.

  “That’s so,” he admitted at last. “But physical violence is often done by a man. Poison is more a woman’s weapon.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Though, in the heat of passion, a woman might as soon pick up a rock to do harm with it as a man.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” I felt a little hint of triumph that was immediately dampened by his next words. “Of course, I’m certain we’ve the right man, so speculation is useless. After all, Darien Ames was seen walking across the field around the time Bertie Phipps must have been killed.”

  “It was my understanding that Mrs. Hodges was seen walking across the field around that time as well.”

  The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed that no one had witnessed Bertie’s murder. With all the people in that field, they might as well have held the festival there.

  He looked at me, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly as he began to realize what I was about.

  “You’ve been talking to Lady Alma,” he said at last.

  So she had told him, had she? “She mentioned something to me about having seen Mrs. Hodges walking across the field. Surely that’s just as compelling as Imogen Prescott having seen Darien doing the same thing.”

  “I don’t think Mrs. Hodges had much of a motive.”

  “What about Imogen Prescott?” I asked casually. “Did you ask her what she was doing in the field when she witnessed Darien walking across it?”

  He sighed, leaning forward to set his empty cup and saucer on the table. “Mrs. Ames, I’m not really at liberty to discuss the case with you. I’ve already said more than I ought.”

  I realized I had pressed him too far, but an idea occurred to me, and I thought I might well seize upon it while I had the chance.

  “Inspector Wilson,” I said. “I should like very much to visit Darien in prison.”

  17

  “MRS. AMES, I don’t think this is the sort of place you should be visiting,” Inspector Wilson said for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last quarter of an hour. “Especially as you … well, as you are…”

  He broke off, finding himself unable to reference my condition. “It just isn’t the place for you, madam.”

  He had been saying as much since I had convinced him to let me accompany him back to the police station. We had just walked through the front doors, and his unease seemed to be increasing by the moment. I only hoped he wouldn’t change his mind after we’d come this far.

  “I’m certain I have been in worse places, Inspector,” I said soothingly.

  He looked doubtful.

  “I’d just like to speak to him for a few minutes.”

  Torn between his desire to be accommodating and what he felt was his duty to shield me from the rougher elements, he eventually relented, realizing, I supposed, that I would not be easily thwarted.

  “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to our interview rooms. We’ll have him brought to you there.”

  I thanked him and followed him down the corridor and into a dim, sparsely furnished room. There was a table that looked as though it had seen much better days, and two rickety wooden chairs. I sat carefully in one, testing it to be sure it wouldn’t collaps
e beneath me before settling my full weight in it.

  With one last doubtful look in my direction, Inspector Wilson left me alone.

  I felt a little hint of triumph that I had succeeded thus far. I felt certain that if I could speak to Darien, I might be able to clear up a few points that were troubling me.

  A few moments later, Darien was led into the room by a burly officer. Inspector Wilson came in behind them.

  Darien still wore the expression of indifference, but he seemed a bit paler than when I had seen him last, and his clothes were rumpled. They had taken his necktie.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said when he saw me. I wondered who he had been expecting. I suspected he had hoped it would be Milo.

  “Hello, Darien,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  The officer led him to his seat and pushed him down into it. He set his arms on the table between us, and I saw that they were shackled together. I felt sorry for him, though everything in his expression said he didn’t want it.

  “May I speak to him alone?” I asked Inspector Wilson. “Just for a few moments?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think…”

  “I’m sure with an officer right outside the door, no harm will come to me,” I said in my most imperious of tones. He hesitated. I sensed he wasn’t the sort of man to back down easily, but he was weighing whether or not it was worth it to argue with me. One had to pick one’s battles.

  At last he gave a shrug. “Five minutes, no more.”

  I nodded. I would take what I could get.

  Inspector Wilson and the officer went out, and we were alone.

  I turned back to Darien and smiled. “There. That’s better, don’t you think?”

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  I didn’t smoke, but I had known this would likely be his first question. I reached into my handbag and brought out one of the cigarettes I had taken from the box Milo kept in the sitting room.

  He took it and put it between his lips, and I flicked on the lighter and leaned forward to light it.