by Nancy Warren
Others, however, were newer. In death, as in life, there was a hierarchy. Those with money in life had been more honored in death by ornate tombs overlooked by stone angels, while the more modest parishioners had nothing but a small square of stone to mark their passing.
A couple of the gravestones were recent enough that I wondered if Elizabeth would be buried here. Though not, I supposed, if she were going to be buried at sea. Someone had been busy cleaning the area around a newer gravestone. The dirt was freshly dug up, and a burst of flowers brightened the gray stone. I dawdled, hoping against hope that in the few minutes it would take me to reach Mrs. Beasley’s house, someone else would realize how very much they wanted that poodle lamp and I would arrive to find it already sold. It was a faint hope, but it was all I had.
I passed a newish-looking and particularly imposing tomb and stopped to read the words.
“But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the son, but only the father. Be on guard! Be alert! You do not know when that time will come.” Mark 13:32 – 33.
Beneath that Bible verse was inscribed, Grayson Timmins, beloved husband and father, taken before his time. 1931 to 1981.
I stood there listening to the buzz of bees and the sweetness of birdsong. Grayson Timmins. That was the name of the man who had been murdered, presumably after walking in on a burglary.
The village seemed so peaceful, the graveyard most of all, but not everyone lying beneath my feet had gone to their final rest by dying of old age.
Chapter 14
I headed toward the gate that would let me out onto the other side of the graveyard when I felt a feeling, almost as though I were being tugged, and I turned to see a large stone, obviously old and dingy with time and moss. A small plaque beside it said this was believed to be the grave of a witch, Ginnie Barrow, who’d been buried upside down and the heavy stone placed on top of her to prevent her from rising again.
I shuddered, thinking fear of witches was nothing new.
I opened the gate and shut it carefully behind me. As I looked around at the postcard-pretty village, I had the creepy feeling that I was being observed. I decided to pick up my poodle lamp and get out of here.
The first house on Church Lane was, of course, the vicarage. As I progressed, I noted that all the homes on the street were large. Number Twenty-Two was set at the end of the lane, behind imposing gates, so its many windows faced toward the church. Nothing about Florence Beasley had suggested she lived in a manor house, but this was easily the most imposing dwelling in town. A truck with the words Earthly Delights Gardening written on the side was parked in the wide drive. It must take a staff of gardeners to keep up these grounds. One guy who looked barely out of his teens was mowing the lawn while an older man was stooped over, weeding.
I made my way to the front door and rang the bell. Mrs. Beasley answered the door, looking pleased to see me. “Lucy,” she cried, as though we hadn’t arranged to meet here only half an hour ago. “It’s so good to see you.” No doubt she thought I wouldn’t come for that lamp after all and she’d be stuck with the thing.
“Your home is beautiful,” I said.
She looked as though she had never received a compliment on the house before. She beamed. “I’ve always loved it. Of course, I can’t take any credit. It was in my husband’s family. Come in. I’ll give you the tour.”
It was impossible to resent her good fortune when she seemed surprised by it herself. The entrance hall was grand and imposing, featuring a large, carved wooden chest, heavy oil paintings in ornate frames and maroon wallpaper that had no doubt been the height of fashion when Queen Victoria was on the throne.
I took it all in and felt a bit like I’d stepped into a museum. “I see you love antiques.”
She laughed. “It’s lucky that I do, as my husband wouldn’t hear of anything being changed. He was very close to his parents, you see, particularly his father, and he likes to keep the house exactly as he remembers it from his boyhood.”
I liked the family sentiment, but I wondered how it would feel for her to be stuck in her husband’s past. As though she had read my mind, she said, “Of course, our kitchen is modern, the sitting room is both modern and comfortable, and he finally let me redecorate the bedroom.”
That seemed like a reasonable compromise. She led me through a formal living room that smelled of beeswax furniture polish and felt curiously lifeless, as though not much entertaining went on there. The dining room could seat twenty comfortably and again featured heavy furniture, including a curio cabinet containing the strangest collection of things from shells to old bottles to a few stuffed birds and then two rows of fossils.
One painting on the wall was a still life, beautifully done I was sure, but it would put me off my dinner if I was seated across from it. It featured a sack with several dead birds hanging out of it. I recognized the bright feathers of a pheasant, and the other bird, its long neck draped across the canvas and its eyes staring, looked like a heron. She followed my gaze. “It’s enough to put you off your dinner, I know. But the artist was very famous, and those hunt scenes were more popular a hundred years ago than they are today.”
Over the fireplace in the dining room was a massive portrait. The man in it looked like the lord of all he surveyed. He had a heavy face, and even from the painting, his eyes were arresting. He wore a dark suit, and in his hand was an open pocket watch. Once more, she followed my gaze. “That was my father-in-law. Sadly, I never met him. They say he was the most punctual man. Always on time for everything, and he used to write letters to the National Rail if ever the local train was so much as a minute late.” She shook her head. “The funny thing is, my husband is exactly the opposite. Always late for everything.”
“It’s a wonderful picture. You certainly get the feeling that his personality was larger than life.”
“Oh yes. People still talk about Grayson with enormous respect.”
It was funny that I’d just walked past the grave of a man named Grayson. Perhaps it was a more common name here in Moreton-Under-Wychwood than it was in the general population. Then she said, “He met a tragic end. He came home one day and surprised a burglar in the act of stealing from him. From what I’ve heard of my father-in-law, it’s no surprise that he tackled that burglar head-on. Tragically for him, he was killed by the intruder.”
I turned to her. “Your father-in-law was Grayson Timmins?” So it wasn’t that common a name after all.
“Yes. Of course, it seems confusing, because our last name is Beasley. My husband was Grayson’s wife’s boy. They came here when Robert was five years old. Sadly, they never had children of their own, so Robert had no brothers or sisters. I often think it must’ve been rather lonely to be the only child in this large house, but luckily his memories are all happy ones.”
I looked up again at that face. He didn’t look like the kind of dad who’d carry a little kid on his shoulders and play football out in the back yard. But, I supposed, an oil painting couldn’t tell everything about a man.
“Come into the kitchen. If you’ve time, I’ll make you a cup of tea. I’ve got the lamp all ready for you. When I gave it a good rub, the pink really began to shine. It’s in the kitchen.”
Sadly, no one had rushed forward in the last few minutes to claim that lamp. It looked like I was going to be stuck with it. I didn’t really want tea, but I did want to talk to Mrs. Beasley a little longer. “Sure. I’d love some tea. Do you mind if I look a little closer at the things in this curio cabinet?”
“Of course, dear. There are some very interesting fossils. Feel free to open the cabinet and take a closer look. Robert loves to show off his father’s collection.” She smiled at me. Warm and motherly. “I’ll just put the kettle on. Come in whenever you’re ready.”
I waited until she’d left the dining room and then swiftly brought my phone out of my purse. That pocket watch in the painting looked an awful lot like the one Elizabeth had bought at the whit
e elephant sale. Not that I was any expert on pocket watches, of course. Which was why I snapped a photograph. First I took one that included the whole painting, and then I zoomed in on the watch itself. Naturally, the artist hadn’t lavished a great deal of attention on that watch, but still I thought that vine pattern was similar to the one I’d seen in Elizabeth Palmer’s watch.
I was going to peer more closely at the fossils in the cabinet just so I could tell Mrs. Beasley that I had admired them, but as I moved toward that cabinet, I felt as though I’d walked into a freezer. Goose flesh rose on my arms, and my heart began to pound. Fear and anger filled the air.
I wanted to move, but I felt frozen to the spot.
“Well, hello, there,” a friendly male voice said from behind me.
It was as though someone had turned on the light, dispelling the darkness and the horror. I moved quickly to the side of the room, nearer the window. The man who’d spoken blinked, as though trying to place me. He was about my dad’s age, I thought, which would put him close to fifty. He had a kind of vague way of looking at me that also reminded me of my dad, as though his brain were taken up with more important things than day-to-day conversation.
He wore gray sweats, his face was damp with perspiration, and he was huffing slightly. Call me a genius, but I had the feeling he was coming back from a run. Either that or about to have a heart attack.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Lucy. Your wife invited me to come and pick up an item I bought at the white elephant sale at the village fête.”
“Oh. Right. Good.”
The door from the kitchen opened, and Mrs. Beasley appeared. “Lucy?” Then she saw the man I’d been talking to, and her eyebrows flew up. “Robert! What are you doing still here? You’re meant to be at the town meeting. I promised them faithfully you’d be on time today.” She glanced at her watch and moaned. “Oh, you’re so late.”
Robert seemed blissfully unworried about the time. “They always chat a bit before the meeting. I’ll just shower and be on my way.”
“No. No shower. Towel yourself off and get going. Please, Robert. I promised.”
“All right.” He went back out of the room, then paused at the door and turned to me politely. “Very nice to have met you.”
“You, too.”
“Are you staying in the area?”
“Robert!”
“Right. On my way.” But he seemed in no rush.
I followed her into the kitchen. Unlike the showrooms in the front of the house, the kitchen was like Mrs. Beasley herself, warm and homey. There was a big Aga stove against one wall, but she plugged an electric kettle into a wall socket.
“I love that man, but he’ll be the death of me. No idea of time.”
“Not like his father, then.” The man had a verse about time on his gravestone, for heaven’s sake.
“No. Not at all.”
Following a hunch I asked, “Was that why the painter took such detail in painting Grayson Timmins’s pocket watch? Because he was so punctual?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I’d love to see that watch. It looks beautiful.”
She poured boiling water into a bright red teapot. “I’d love to see it, too,” she said sadly. “But I’m afraid it was one of the items the burglar stole.” She shook her head. “What kind of person could do such a thing? Kill someone and then take the watch right off their body?”
On another hunch, I asked, “Did Mr. Timmins die in that dining room?”
She shuddered. “How did you guess? Of course, the carpet was changed and the place was thoroughly cleaned, but I’ve never felt quite comfortable in that room.”
Try being a witch. I could have told her exactly the spot where it had happened. Weirdly, the likeness of Grayson Timmins must have witnessed his murder. If only that picture could talk.
“It seems unthinkable, doesn’t it? I took a shortcut through the graveyard, and I saw your father-in-law’s tomb. Even the Bible verse talks about time.”
“Yes. Robert’s mother chose it. It seemed appropriate. Robert said they’d have buried his watch with him if they’d got it back.”
And yet, someone had taken that pocket watch. I was very much afraid that it had disappeared again when Elizabeth Palmer was killed.
Why? What was so special about that watch, and did it somehow link the two murders?
Chapter 15
Clara had said she would drive Gran’s car and drop me off at Rafe’s for my second appointment of the day, a visit to the Wychwood Bowmen. She assured me she was an excellent driver, as she’d driven trucks and ambulances in the war. “If I could manage to steer an ambulance through the rubble-strewn streets of London, carrying wounded Blitz victims in the back, I think I can manage to drive this car safely for a few miles.”
Clara squeezed herself into the driver’s seat with Sylvia beside her, and I was left to wedge myself into the back seat with a shiny pink poodle lamp as my companion. Clara pulled away from the curb, and while she did deliver us to Rafe safely, she drove as though we were roaring along through the London Blitz dodging bombs. Actually, I wondered how any wounded had survived the trip to the hospital, the way she changed gears with such force that I ended up clutching the lamp to stop it from breaking. Though that might’ve improved it.
However, at length she deposited me at the top of Rafe’s circular drive, and apart from some fear that I might need dental work, I was in one piece. So, unfortunately, was the lamp.
In order for me to get out, Clara had to get out too and fold back the seat.
By that time, Rafe’s butler or manservant or whatever he was had the double doors open to the Georgian manor house.
He said, “Good morning, Lucy. Can I offer you some coffee?”
He must’ve seen the look of revulsion my face. More coffee or tea, I did not need. I was so jittery from caffeine, I felt like my fingernails were vibrating. “Morning, William. Maybe just some water?” I asked
“Of course.” I pretended I didn’t hear the screech as Clara roared off down the drive, spitting gravel behind her. Even Henri the peacock stopped preening long enough to glance up. He looked particularly handsome today, the sun glinting off his iridescent blue-green feathers. “Do you mind if I walk around the grounds a bit?”
“Of course not. It’s a beautiful day. I’ll tell Rafe you’re here, and I’ll bring you out your water. Would you like anything to eat?”
I felt bad. He must have so few people to cook for. Rafe was certainly low-maintenance in the food department. And it was nearly lunchtime, after all. “Maybe a sandwich?”
He looked so pleased, I was glad I’d asked. “I can offer you lox and cream cheese. Ham and cheese? Steak tartare?” I glanced at him and saw his eyes were dancing with amusement. No doubt that was what his boss most often ordered.
“Ham and cheese would be great.”
I walked carefully toward the peacocks. There were three of them. The one I was fairly certain was Henri was out front, plump and pleased with himself. He all but posed in front of a white rose bush. Two other peacocks were pecking the ground beneath a clump of bright red peonies. On the other side of the drive, the peahens were going about their business. I wondered if they minded being so much less glamorous than their male counterparts or even noticed.
I walked carefully so as not to startle Henri, and he watched me steadily out of his black, beady eyes. When I grew closer, I crooned to him, “What a handsome boy you are.” He really was, too. Sleek and clearly well-fed. To my astonishment, he put his head to one side and then the other, and then, as I watched, his glorious tail opened out into a perfect iridescent fan. And then he danced for me, turning in a complete circle, his fanned tail waving slightly, reminding me of a showgirl’s headdress in Vegas. Though, presumably, peacocks had the idea first.
I giggled in delight and clapped my hands. I pulled out my phone and took a picture. Then I took a video as he did his whole routine again, twirling slowly around. “Oh, you are a
beauty.”
Behind me a low, amused voice said, “He’s flirting with you. It’s mating season, and I think Henri has a crush.”
I turned to see Rafe watching me from under the shade of an apple tree. I felt a little foolish that I’d been caught crooning to a bird. Since our kiss, I felt a little foolish altogether around Rafe.
He was, as always, cool and elegant. He wore black linen trousers and a white cotton shirt open at the neck. Conscious of the sun, I said, “Should we go inside?”
He shook his head. “William is serving lunch on the patio.” He held out his hand. “Come.”
I put my hand into his cool one, and he led me around his stone manor house via a path through more gardens. Behind the manor was a beautiful, well-shaded stone patio that looked out over the grounds. Beyond the gardens were acres of rolling green and the glint of a lake, around which fat, happy-looking sheep munched on grass.
William came out with my sandwich served on a beautiful china plate as well as a jug of ice water. He’d also added a cold salad of sliced tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and fragrant basil leaves, all drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. On the tray was a thermos flask for Rafe, and we settled companionably enough to our lunch.
Rafe even helped himself to a little of the cold salad. “How’s Violet holding up?” he asked me.
“She’s pretty shaken up. That attack on her house really threw her. She claims she’s being shunned when she goes into the village. I’m sure it’s all in her mind, but still that can’t be pleasant.”
“What did you discover in the village this morning? Did your plan to visit Nora Betts work out?”
I related my conversation with Nora. “It seems so crass and tacky of them to go on the cruise, but maybe it does make sense to turn it into a burial at sea and scatter her ashes. I don’t know.”
He looked out over the fields. “If someone I loved had died, I’m not sure I could go on a trip we’d planned together.” I wondered whether he’d ever been in that situation. In all his time on earth, he must have loved and lost, but I was becoming a little better at keeping my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself.