A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  I felt the color drain from my face at the grim description, at the awfulness of it all. Poor Marena.

  Winnelda continued, oblivious to my distress. “There was blood and foam on her lips, May said. Isn’t that awful, madam?”

  “Awful indeed,” I said faintly. I pressed down the growing ill feeling in my stomach. It wasn’t just the description of Marena’s death; it was the fact that such a lovely girl was gone.

  I couldn’t seem to make sense of it. My mind was in a fog of disbelief.

  Someone had killed her just as they had killed Bertie Phipps. But who?

  * * *

  I DRESSED QUICKLY and hurried downstairs. I would have a quick breakfast and then go to see Lady Alma. It was too early to visit the vicar and Mrs. Busby, but I would go later in the day to pay them my condolences. In the meantime, perhaps Lady Alma could tell me what exactly had occurred since she had been there at the time.

  I had reached the bottom of the stairs when Grimes approached from the direction of the drawing room.

  “Mr. Darien is here to see you, madam,” he said.

  I stopped short. “Oh. Is he? I … Thank you, Grimes.”

  Darien was here? Had he escaped? I certainly hoped not. What was I meant to do if he had? Tackle him to the ground if he tried to leave? It wasn’t as though I could move very quickly in my current condition.

  I felt quite at a loss. I had slept for a few hours, and now the world was very much askew.

  Mustering up an outward serenity that I did not feel, I went into the drawing room. Darien turned from where he stood near the window to smile at me. “Hello, Amory.”

  “How did you get out of prison?” I asked, forgoing the pleasantries.

  “Good morning to you, too,” he said with a little laugh. “Inspector Wilson let me go this morning. You’ve heard what happened?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry, Darien. Marena’s death is a great shock.”

  He nodded. “We hadn’t known each other long, but I cared for her, in my way.”

  It was a lackluster declaration, and I decided it would be best if neither of us went on pretending he was grieving.

  “He let you go because he believes the murders are connected, and you couldn’t have murdered Marena when you were in prison,” I said, putting the facts together.

  “Yes, though I’m not entirely cleared of suspicion, it seems. I’ve orders not to leave the village. I told him you would look after me.”

  “You did, did you?”

  “Yes.” He stepped forward. “I wanted to thank you for coming to see me yesterday.”

  There was something earnest in his expression, and I immediately distrusted it. He was Milo’s brother, after all. I knew he was perfectly aware of his charms and how to use them. One didn’t grow up to be that good-looking without realizing the advantages it afforded one.

  “What do you want, Darien?” I asked bluntly.

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  “I can tell. But you should know, I am immune to flattery and to that particular sort of smile. I’ve seen it often enough from Milo.”

  He laughed. “You’re sharp as a thorn, Amory.”

  I waited.

  “I didn’t suppose I would have much in common with him, other than our looks. I suppose I ought to have known that one can’t escape heredity.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s a very difficult thing to do.”

  “I came to ask if I might stay at Thornecrest,” he said. “Just until the matter is cleared up, of course.”

  The matter. As though two violent deaths were a mere inconvenience to be swiftly resolved.

  “I’m afraid I gave Inspector Wilson the impression that I would be welcome here,” he said when I didn’t answer.

  I hesitated. I knew what Milo would have to say about it. But things were different now, weren’t they? Darien was no longer the prime suspect. Surely Milo couldn’t object.

  I knew the answer to this well enough, but I decided to deal with the consequences later. After all, if he wanted to be rid of Darien, he was going to have to do it himself.

  “Milo’s in London,” I said. “We’ll discuss it when he gets back. I’ve got somewhere to be, but you’re welcome to have breakfast here.”

  “It’s good of you,” he said. “Thank you.”

  It was an unexpected moment of sincerity, and I was momentarily thrown off my guard. I suspected that might have been his intention, but I felt a little of my goodwill return.

  “You’ll behave yourself, I trust?” I asked.

  He put his hand to his heart. “I shall be a perfect angel.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” I replied. “Perhaps you might start with being a decent human being.”

  “Touché,” he said with a grin.

  * * *

  EVEN WITH DARIEN’S unexpected visit, I knew it would still be too soon for me to go to the vicarage. The police would likely be there, and no doubt the Busbys were still in shock over what had happened.

  Poor Mr. and Mrs. Busby. They were so very fond of Marena, had looked upon her almost as their own child. I could only imagine the blow this would be for them.

  So my first stop would be Bedford Priory. Neighbors often shared their concerns, after all. And Lady Alma had been present at the time of the incident. Perhaps she would be able to shed some light on this latest tragedy.

  Leaving Darien in Grimes’s capable hands, I asked Markham to drive me to the Priory. It was still almost unbelievable to me that Marena had died. Who would have done it? How had she been poisoned? It was all so horrible.

  I reached the Priory and was shown into Lady Alma’s comfortable drawing room. It was decorated in shades of gold, red, and dark brown, and, as one might expect, there were numerous paintings of horses on the walls, including a Stubbs and a Landseer.

  I had only just taken a seat in an oversized leather chair when Lady Alma came striding into the room. “Hello, Mrs. Ames.”

  “Lady Alma,” I said, beginning to rise from my seat.

  “No, no. Don’t get up,” she said. “I know you must be uncomfortable. I’ve dealt with enough pregnant horses to realize that.”

  I fancy I managed to hide my surprise at this comparison. I certainly hoped I didn’t look like a pregnant horse.

  “Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”

  Given the nature of my visit, I supposed it would be polite to refuse. But I had neglected breakfast due to Darien’s unexpected arrival, and I was already feeling its absence.

  “Coffee would be lovely,” I admitted.

  Lady Alma issued brusque orders to a maid and then came and settled heavily into a chair across from me. She looked tired, as though she hadn’t slept, and her normally tanned skin had taken on an unhealthy color, highlighted by the darkness beneath her eyes.

  “I suppose you’ve heard what happened,” she said.

  “Yes. It’s awful.”

  “Awful doesn’t begin to describe it. That poor girl…” Her voice trailed off. Lady Alma had never been a woman of strong emotions, but I could see that she was clearly upset.

  “I … I heard it was poison,” I said. There was no sense, I supposed, in beating about the bush.

  She nodded. “It couldn’t have been anything else, not the way it happened.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked. I have to admit that I was rather hoping she would say yes. Not from any sense of morbid curiosity, but rather because I felt it was important to get firsthand information about what had happened.

  “It was all so unexpected. I’d stopped by to talk to Mrs. Busby about the festival. Marena came down to have tea with us. The maid brought it in. Nothing out of the usual. Then that girl came to the door.”

  I frowned. “What girl?”

  “Prescott, I think she said her name was. Mrs. Busby let her in, though it was late for a social call of that nature. She was looking for Marena.”

  Imogen had been there? I felt
a sudden cold chill. Why hadn’t Winnelda mentioned this aspect when she’d related the story she’d heard from May? Perhaps, since Mrs. Busby had let her in, the maid didn’t know about it.

  “What did she want?” I asked.

  “It was something to do with a young man.” She looked at me searchingly as she said this, wondering, I supposed, just how much I knew about that particular triangle.

  “Darien,” I said. “My husband’s brother.”

  She nodded. “It seems both fillies had taken a liking to him. They exchanged some terse words with each other.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I have to admit, I wasn’t paying much attention. Such matters have never been of much interest to me. I wandered to the other end of the parlor and was looking at Mrs. Busby’s collection of sheet music. Never knew there were so many hymns.”

  This was incomprehensible to me, as I would have found it impossible not to at least listen unobtrusively to the conversation between the two young women. How could one be uninterested in such a thing?

  “What about Mrs. Busby?” I asked. “Was she uncomfortable?”

  “You know how she is, always soft-spoken. She got a bit flustered, I think, but then the vicar came in and set everything to rights. The two young women managed to be civil, and then the girl went away. The tea had just about gone cold by the time she left, but we decided to drink it anyway. More’s the pity.

  “Marena took a drink of hers and said, ‘This tastes strange,’ or something of that nature. I thought nothing of it at first. Cold tea isn’t good, after all. But then she made a strange strangled sort of sound and grabbed her throat. A moment later she was on the floor.”

  I couldn’t imagine the horror of it.

  “I didn’t know what was happening at first. Mrs. Busby seemed to think she’d fainted or some such thing. She cried out for the vicar, and he came back in and tried to revive the poor girl. I rang for Dr. Jordan. But it was no good. She was already dead.”

  Lady Alma had recited this in a fairly calm manner, but her hand was a bit unsteady as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips. She set the cup back down again and pulled the familiar flask from her jacket pocket. Instead of adding it to her coffee, however, she took a long drink directly from the flask.

  “What did the doctor say?” I asked.

  “He seemed to realize it was poison right away. Said none of us should touch anything and rang for the police.”

  “I imagine Mr. and Mrs. Busby were in quite a state.”

  “Mrs. Busby was crying a great deal. She was very close to Marena. Almost like a daughter to her. The vicar was calm, as he usually is, but I could tell he was much affected by it. He was very fond of Marena, too.”

  I nodded. Marena had been almost like a second daughter to them after they had lost Sara. And now Marena was gone, too. It seemed almost unfair that they should have to deal with so much grief.

  Belatedly, my thoughts turned to Marena’s own mother.

  “I suppose the police told Mrs. Hodges.”

  “The vicar went to see her,” Lady Alma said. “He thought it his duty to do so.”

  “I suppose she was quite distraught.”

  She looked up at me, her gaze suddenly hard. “I suppose that’s the question, isn’t it? Was she really?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who killed Bertie and who killed Marena? No doubt the killer is one and the same. And you know who I suspected of killing Bertie.”

  I remembered her accusation against Mrs. Hodges. “But surely she wouldn’t … not her own daughter,” I said.

  “There has never been a natural mother-daughter relationship between those two,” she said. “Everyone in the village could see that Jane Hodges cared very little for her daughter.”

  “But why? What possible reason could there be?”

  She shrugged. “That woman has always been strange. Who knows what notions she’s taken into her head?”

  Somehow this explanation didn’t sit well with me. Mrs. Hodges was an unusual woman, yes, but I couldn’t see her killing two people, including her own daughter, on a whim.

  “If … if it wasn’t Mrs. Hodges, who else might it have been?” I asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t see who else it could have been. Unless you believe the vicar or Mrs. Busby might be capable of such a thing.” There was something in her tone that didn’t entirely rule out the possibility.

  “One doesn’t like to think that any of one’s acquaintances are capable of such a thing,” I said vaguely.

  “No, one doesn’t,” Lady Alma replied. “But someone killed Marena Hodges. Someone that we know.”

  There wasn’t much else to be said. I left a few moments later, my mind a whirl.

  Of course, I had to include Lady Alma on my list of suspects. I wasn’t sure why she might have wanted to kill both Bertie and Marena, but the fact remained that she had had the opportunity to do so in both cases. As had Mr. and Mrs. Busby. As had Imogen.

  Any of the suspects in Bertie’s death might also have been responsible for Marena’s untimely demise, I realized. The field had not been narrowed at all.

  That meant I would have to narrow down the suspects myself.

  19

  SINCE I WAS already out, I had Markham drive me to the village. While I supposed it was still too early to pay a visit to the vicarage, I thought I would go and speak to Imogen next.

  So she had decided to confront Marena Hodges, had she? I supposed it was inevitable that it would happen eventually. Truth be told, however, I hadn’t pictured Imogen as the sort of person who would meet the issue head-on, at least not with an audience. Of course, she likely hadn’t known that Lady Alma would be there having tea with the Busbys and Marena.

  This also meant, of course, that she might have had the opportunity to poison Marena’s tea. The cup had been sitting there in the open. It would have been a risk, but not impossible. After all, someone had accomplished it.

  Markham pulled up before Mrs. Cotton’s boardinghouse, and I went through the gate in the little white fence and up the flagstone walkway.

  I knocked on the door and was greeted by the maid, who informed me that Miss Prescott had gone out. She certainly was a difficult person to contact.

  What was keeping her in Allingcross? I wondered suddenly. Things were clearly not going well with Darien. To my knowledge, she had not even seen him since she had been here. It seemed perfectly plain that he had neither the desire nor the intention to continue their brief romance.

  In her position, I would have returned to London and tried to get on with my life. Of course, it was easy to speculate what one might do in another person’s position. Imogen might have her own reasons for wanting to linger in the village.

  Some little part of me wondered if she had stayed just to seek her revenge.

  I was just approaching the car when I spotted Imogen coming back up the street. She smiled and waved when she saw me.

  “Hello, Amory,” she said when she reached the gate.

  “Hello, Imogen.” I searched her face for any sign of guilt in the wake of what had occurred last night in the vicarage, but I saw none. She merely looked pleasantly surprised to see me.

  “Were you coming to visit me?”

  “Yes. I wanted to speak to you for a few moments … if you have the time?”

  “Of course.” She hesitated. “But do you mind if we walk? Mrs. Cotton’s parlor is so small. And I have the impression that she listens at keyholes.” She said this with a little laugh, but it was an astute assessment. Mrs. Cotton was our resident busybody. If there was gossip to be had in the village, she was the one who would know it.

  It occurred to me then that I might have a conversation with Mrs. Cotton at another time. Who knew what she might be able to tell me?

  “I won’t be long, Markham,” I said, turning to my driver. “If you’ll just wait for me here?”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  “I’m
sorry,” Imogen said suddenly with a glance at my stomach. “I didn’t think … if you don’t feel up to walking…”

  “I’d very much like to walk,” I assured her. “I spend much too much time stationary these days.”

  “All right.”

  We began walking, passing the apothecary shop and the post office before Imogen spoke. We saw only two or three villagers, but I noticed a few curious glances our way. News of the circumstances surrounding Marena’s murder had spread by now, I was sure. And Imogen, as an outsider, was no doubt viewed as the likely suspect.

  “I suppose you wanted to talk to me about Marena Hodges’s death,” she said, her thoughts moving in the same direction as mine.

  “You’ve heard what happened then.”

  “Yes. The police came to see me late last night.” She sounded very calm about it. It was almost a bit strange. In a similar situation, I might have been alarmed to have the police question me about the death of a girl with whom I’d had an argument moments before she died.

  “I understand you quarreled with her.”

  “Something like that,” she admitted quietly.

  “Why did you go to see her last night?”

  She sighed. “I started thinking, about everything. I thought that perhaps we ought to discuss the matter, face-to-face. I know she’s heard things about me. I saw her once, across the street, and the look she gave me was hateful.”

  “It wasn’t her fault that Darien … is the way he is.”

  “I know,” she said. “I thought about that, too, that she didn’t understand what sort of person he is. I thought if we talked about it, we might be able to clear things up.”

  “But she wasn’t interested in doing that.”

  She shook her head. “I think she’s under Darien’s spell. She … she said some rather cruel things to me.”

  “Did she accuse you of killing Bertie Phipps?”

  Her face went white and then crimson. “I … I … yes, she did. It’s so silly because … I didn’t even…”

  She was fumbling for excuses, and I decided not to give her time to formulate them. “I was told you were seen talking to Bertie Phipps the day of the festival.”