“I’m sure she saw your potential and knew you’d one day live up to it,” I said.
He looked at me. I thought for a moment that he was going to make one of his sarcastic quips, avoiding the emotion that lay beneath the topic. But then he nodded.
“I suppose. We were fairly happy, all told,” he said. “She did what she could to make life easy for me.”
I imagined she had tried very hard. Darien seemed as though he was the sort of young man who had been given a great deal of latitude. Too much.
“What was his mother like?” Darien asked, shifting the subject back to Milo.
“He never knew her. She died when he was born.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said.
I wondered if Mr. Ames had ever spoken to Darien’s mother about his wife. Somehow, I doubted it. It seemed that her death had been something he had bottled up and hidden away.
Milo’s father, Anthony Ames, had been a man who seemed to have lost his way in life along with his wife. I sometimes wished I had been able to meet him so that I might have had a better understanding of Milo.
There were few people I’d met who had known him, aside from Milo, and his side of the story was not exactly impartial.
“His life hasn’t been all comfort and ease,” I said. “It sounds like you had the advantage of him in one respect: a mother who loved you.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Milo is much as I expected,” Darien said at last. “But you’re not how I thought you’d be.”
I looked up at him. “Oh?”
“I’d seen pictures of you in the society columns, of course. Beautiful and glamorous and dressed to the nines. I thought you’d be a thorough snob. But you care about people. I can tell.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond to this assessment, the compliments mingled with insults.
“I suppose none of us are exactly what we might appear to be to outside observers,” I said pointedly.
He took my meaning and smiled. “I’m afraid I’m as much of a cad as I seem to be.”
“Are you?” I challenged him.
He studied me for just a moment. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a spoiled young man who would do better to use his considerable talents for good rather than going about getting into trouble.”
He laughed. “You’re a marvel, Amory. I wish I had met you before Milo did.”
“Nonsense. I’m much too old for you.” Even as I said it, I realized we were probably very close to the same age, Milo being five years older than me.
“I’ve always liked older women,” he said. Good heavens, he was flirting with me. I knew it was an act of charity, given my condition, but it was naughty nonetheless.
“That will be enough of that,” I replied. “You’d better go. I’m very busy.”
He rose from the chair, a grin on his face. “If you ever decide to leave him, you could marry me. You wouldn’t even have to change your surname.”
The young man was thoroughly incorrigible.
I pointed at the door. “Out.”
I heard him laughing as he exited the drawing room.
21
THOUGH HE HAD proved an amusing diversion, I had other things than Darien’s outrageous behavior to worry about at the moment. Or even Milo and his off-putting surliness, for that matter.
There had been two deaths in the village, and the killer needed to be stopped before he killed again.
I went back to my sewing as I thought, my mind attempting to stitch together a row of facts as neat as the hem of the blanket.
It was just so strange. Bertie’s manner of death spoke of passion, not of planning. But there was premeditated malice behind what had happened to Marena. Which individual might be responsible for both?
Imogen was the most likely suspect, I supposed. Despite what she had told me about her innocent meeting with Bertie, there was the possibility that their relationship had been more involved than she let on. Perhaps she had killed him, worried he would stand in the way of her winning Darien back. And then she might have killed Marena to clear the rest of the path. It seemed outlandish, but the reasons for murder were seldom logical.
The vicar and Mrs. Busby had both been displeased with Bertie and close to Marena. Was it possible that Bertie had discovered a secret about one of them and shared it with Marena, and either Mr. or Mrs. Busby had decided that they both had to be silenced?
I found it difficult to believe that either of them would have killed Marena in such a cruel way, especially after the death of their own daughter. But the fact remained that Mrs. Busby had purchased poison only three weeks ago. What had been her intention?
Lady Alma had also been there at the time of Marena’s death. I wasn’t sure why she would have wanted to kill Marena, except perhaps if she thought Bertie had shared something with her and she, too, needed to be silenced.
I just couldn’t seem to wrap my head around what might have happened. What I needed was someone to talk things through with. Milo was clearly out of the question at the moment, which was disappointing. He was usually so useful at times like these.
An idea occurred to me. I might ring up my friend Detective Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard. If anyone could help me sort out these matters, it was him. Though we had met under less-than-ideal circumstances, we had formed a friendship that was, I thought, based on mutual respect. He didn’t always approve of my interference into criminal matters, but he always took me seriously and offered excellent advice.
I went to the telephone, and, after a series of switchboard operators and secretaries, I was at last greeted by a familiar voice.
“D.I. Jones.”
“Inspector Jones. It’s Amory Ames,” I said.
“Ah, Mrs. Ames! How are you?” There was geniality in his tone, but also a certain wariness. I could not blame him for this, as my contact with him usually meant there had been a murder. This time was no different.
“We’ve had a death here in our village,” I said. “Two, actually.”
“Have you indeed?” There wasn’t the faintest hint of surprise in his tone. More like resignation.
I quickly explained the circumstances surrounding the murders, leaving out the bit about Darien’s involvement for the moment. He listened quietly.
“It does sound like an interesting problem,” he said noncommittally when I had finished.
“It’s all so very strange. I don’t know what to make of any of it. I feel as though I should have enough information before me to give me the answer, but the solution keeps evading me. I thought, perhaps, you might have some insight.”
“Who’s the inspector on the case?”
“His name is Wilson,” I said. “He’s perfectly competent, but he doesn’t seem at all keen on sharing information or letting me involve myself in any way.”
“Imagine that,” Inspector Jones said dryly.
I ignored this bit of irony in his tone. As Milo did, Inspector Jones had frequently reminded me that the business of solving crimes was not really my concern. I had proven to him on more than one occasion, however, that sometimes an invested bystander could be instrumental in bringing a case to a close.
“I’m very much afraid the murderer might strike again before he’s caught,” I told him pointedly.
“Yes, we don’t want that,” Inspector Jones agreed. There was a slight pause. “You are taking care of yourself, Mrs. Ames? Not getting yourself into danger, are you?” The real question was there beneath the surface: Are you sticking your nose into places where it doesn’t belong?
“Certainly not,” I assured him. “I just thought … perhaps if I could discuss the case with you, something might come to light. Then perhaps you could mention it to Inspector Wilson. He would take it seriously coming from you.”
Again, there was a pause as he seemed to consider the matter. I hoped he might have a few salient questions or of
fer an insightful remark that might give me a new avenue for thought. What he said, however, was even better than that.
“You’re in Kent, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Allingcross.”
“It just so happens that I’m following up a lead in Maidstone this afternoon. If you’d like, I could stop in on my way back in this evening, and we could discuss things in more detail.”
That was a bit of luck indeed. A chance to sit and talk the matter over with him face-to-face was more than I had hoped for. I felt, somehow, as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
“Inspector Jones,” I said, “nothing would delight me more.”
* * *
AFTER A HEARTY lunch and a short nap, I decided I would return to the village. I needed a bit more information before Detective Inspector Jones arrived.
The time had come to visit the vicarage.
Truth be told, I was dreading the visit. Paying grief calls was never a pleasant pastime, and now that I was constantly tired and emotional, it was even less appealing. I knew, however, that it had to be done.
There were several cars outside when I arrived, as well as a stunning black mare tied to the gate. It seemed Mr. and Mrs. Busby had several visitors during their time of sorrow, Lady Alma among them. I realized now would not be the time for questions, but paying my respects was the least I could do.
I knocked at the door, which was opened by May, the maid. Her face was red as though she had been crying, and she sniffled repeatedly as she led me into the parlor.
Mrs. Busby looked up at me as I entered. She wore a black dress and looked as though she had aged years in the space of a day. “Amory, dear, it’s so good of you to come.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Busby,” I said, leaning down to embrace her.
“Thank you. It’s been … rather like a nightmare. I feel as though I should awaken at any moment and find it isn’t true.”
“Hello, Mrs. Ames,” the vicar said as he, too, approached me. His face, usually shining with good humor, was solemn and drawn.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, vicar,” I said as he took my hand in his cool, damp ones. “I know Marena was very special to you.”
“Yes, she was a wonderful girl,” Mrs. Busby said. Her eyes filled with fresh tears, and she pressed a crumpled handkerchief to her face. The vicar patted her gently on the back. He was composed—force of habit from a long career dealing with loss, I supposed—but I could tell it was an effort.
“It has been very hard on us, I’m afraid,” he said. “We looked on Marena almost as a daughter.”
They both looked shattered. After their daughter Sara’s death, they had weathered the storms of their grief with the help of their faith and the support of their parishioners. I hoped they could do the same with Marena’s death.
“I’m so sorry,” I said again. There was little else to be said in times like these, for I knew that no words of mine would be able to give them comfort. Not now. The grief was still too fresh and raw.
“There’ll be no … arrangements made until after the inquest, of course,” Mrs. Busby said. “But we will send word to Thornecrest.”
“Thank you.”
Another visitor had come in behind me, and they excused themselves and moved to greet her, the vicar maneuvering his wife’s chair as though they were two parts of the same whole.
I nodded at the other visitors seated around the parlor, most of whom I knew. I was glad Mr. and Mrs. Busby had company. We could not ease their sorrow, perhaps, but I thought it helped to know they had the love and support of the village behind them.
I noticed there was a pot of tea on the table, but no one was drinking any of it. I couldn’t say that I blamed them.
Glancing around at the faces of those gathered there, I saw that Marena’s mother was not among the mourners. Had she decided to bear her grief alone? Or was there some other reason she hadn’t come?
Lady Alma sat in a corner, staring into the middle distance, her mind clearly occupied. There was an empty chair next to her, and I moved toward it. She didn’t notice me until I was nearly upon her.
“Oh. Hello, Mrs. Ames,” she said, looking up at me.
“Lady Alma.”
I sank carefully into the chair, glad for a moment of rest. I was uncommonly tired these past few days. “I see you rode here,” I told her. “Is that Medusa tied up outside?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t trust Medusa alone tied to a fence post. Besides, her leg is still on the mend. That was a nasty scratch.”
“I hope she’s all right?”
“Yes, she’s coming along fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said in a low voice.
I turned to look at her. “Oh?”
She glanced around the room. Everyone appeared to be in subdued conversation. There was little chance of our being overheard in this corner of the room, but she leaned closer and lowered her voice a bit more before she spoke.
“I got to wondering what Bertie might have discovered when he broke into the vicar’s desk.”
Lady Alma knew about that, did she? I wondered who else might have known that Bertie could potentially be in possession of village secrets.
“I suppose there’s no way to know,” I answered.
“There you’re wrong,” Lady Alma said. “I went in and had a look.”
My brows rose. “When?”
“A few minutes ago. Excused myself and slipped in. You’d have thought he’d be more careful after finding Bertie in there, but it was still unlocked. I knew they were preoccupied and I’d have a chance to take a look.”
I was shocked and a bit jealous that I hadn’t had the idea myself.
“He still hadn’t fixed the lock on the drawer?” I asked.
She shook her head. “You know he can be absentminded at times.”
“What was in it?” I asked.
“Didn’t seem to be much at first. Parish records. Births, marriages, deaths. That sort of thing.”
I waited. The “at first” told me she was saving the best for last.
Her eyes met mine. “And the vicar’s journal.”
I looked sharply at her as she said this. Surely she hadn’t read it. The proper society lady in me could think of few things more scandalous than reading a vicar’s private journal without permission.
“I flipped through it,” she said in a low voice. “Too much to read it all at once, of course. Besides, his handwriting is abominable. But when I was looking, a sheet of paper fell out. It was a banking notice.”
“Oh?” I was thoroughly invested in her story now.
“His account balance is … quite high. It seems he’s made several large deposits as of late.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
“What are you saying?” I asked in a whisper.
She shrugged. “Nothing in particular. Only that that money must be coming from somewhere. One can’t help but wonder where.”
22
AFTER WHAT I felt was an appropriate length of time, I left the house, trying to shake some of the heaviness of grief off me. Grief and suspicion. It was all so very sad and upsetting.
Surely there were any number of reasons why the vicar might recently have added a good deal of money to his bank account. I could think of very few, however. Unless he was embezzling from the church.
I didn’t like to believe such a thing of Mr. Busby. In fact, I found it almost impossible to believe. But it did lead to more questions.
If, for example, he had been taking money from the church, was it possible Bertie had found out? If so, perhaps the envelope he had given Bertie was meant as a blackmail payment. Was that how Bertie had been able to afford his new horse?
And what of Mrs. Busby? Had she known about it? Would she have been willing to kill to protect her husband?
I felt the heaviness of sadness and suspicion weighing on me. I desperately needed someone to talk to. I would be glad when
Inspector Jones arrived.
It occurred to me then there might be another untapped source of information nearby: the proprietress of the rooming house where Imogen was staying, Mrs. Ursula Cotton.
She was what could most kindly be described as the village gossip. There was nothing the woman did not know. I had always wondered how it was that she managed to maintain a comprehensive catalog of all the indiscretions committed within a five-village radius of her comfortable cottage. I supposed having a rooming house helped. There were always people happy to chat about what was happening in their own lives.
In the past, I had tried to avoid Mrs. Cotton, mainly because my own life had been fodder for gossip among the villagers for years. Milo had never been at all concerned with appearances, and his behavior over the years had provided more than enough speculation for even the most gluttonous of county scandalmongers.
I debated, as I made my way to her rooming house, what might be the best means of approaching her on the subject of the murders. The more I considered it, however, the more I came to realize that she would no doubt be immediately suspicious upon my arrival. She would have heard of Bertie’s death, of Darien’s arrival and his connection to our family, and of Marena’s murder.
Moreover, she was no doubt familiar with my forays into the world of detection. My appearance at the scenes of several different murder investigations had been the stuff of much speculation among residents of the village. Not that I could help it that people happened to be murdered in my vicinity. As Milo had pointed out, murders happened all the time. In the course of our extensive travels, we were bound to encounter some of them.
Of course, this murder had not happened on our travels. It had happened on our doorstep. And Milo’s brother had been a suspected culprit.
All of this led me to believe that the best way to approach Mrs. Cotton would be directly. She would know I had come to learn something, and somehow I doubted she would oblige me freely. As with my old friend Yvonne Roland, notorious telltale and perpetual widow, I would be most successful if I came with an offering of information.
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 20