by Amy Corwin
“Nonetheless, we should ask him. And the vicar. He was there, too. One of them might have noticed something.”
Grace slipped her hand through the crook of her sister’s arm to begin their much-delayed walk. “It was nice of Miss Dutton to take the runt of the litter, don’t you think so?” she asked, changing the subject.
Her sister nodded absently.
“Have you ever met her?”
“Who?”
“Miss Dutton. Have you ever met Miss Dutton?”
Martha’s forehead wrinkled, and she pushed her glasses up her nose. “I suppose so. In church, I should imagine.”
“If she looks like her brother, I can see why you don’t remember.” Grace laughed. “Though I shouldn’t make fun of him. He is a perfectly respectable and very nice man, is he not?”
Martha nodded.
“And I’m sure his sister is just as nice.” Curiosity, as pesky as a fly, buzzed around her. Miss Dutton sounded so kind to take the mother dog and runt for pets. Did she look like her lanky brother? Why couldn’t Grace remember seeing her at church?
The more Grace thought about it, the more she realized that her sister was right about one thing. She ought to speak to Mr. Dutton about last night. He might remember something important, even if it was from earlier in the day. Visiting his sister would serve as an excellent reason to search out the family and strike up a conversation.
She flicked a glance at Martha as they walked through the damask rose arbor. “I think we should visit the Duttons, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Martha agreed. “I do, indeed.”
While Mr. Dutton’s well-maintained but very small cottage was easy enough to find, the mysterious Miss Dutton remained mysterious, nonetheless. Mr. Dutton had not returned home yet, and Grace assumed he was still trying to tempt Mrs. Willow with the last puppy as Grace knocked again on the blue front door.
“Mr. Dutton’s not at home,” a voice called. A woman stood on the stoop of the small house opposite, watching them. Pale brown hair straggled damply out from under her limp cap, and she was wiping her reddened hands on her apron as she leaned tiredly against the doorframe. It was clear that the opportunity to gossip about her neighbor gave her the excuse to take a much needed rest from the drudgery of housework.
Grace and Martha exchanged glances before Grace returned to the gate. “Have you seen Miss Dutton? We were hoping to visit her.”
“Miss Dutton?” The woman stared at her, her heavily-veined hands smoothing her apron over her flat stomach. Her gaze roved over the two sisters with a critical gleam. “There’s no sister that I’ve ever seen.”
Grace exchanged a puzzled glance with Martha.
Shrugging, Martha edged through the gate to the dirt road.
“Are you sure?” Grace asked, following her sister.
“I’ve lived here my whole life.” The woman’s face assumed an implacable, “there’s no point in arguing with me” expression. She jerked her chin at Mr. Dutton’s cottage. “He’s only been here a few months, and I’ve never seen signs of any woman. I ought to know, I keep his house for him and cook his meals. There’s no sister.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t live here?” Grace moved over to rest her hand on the woman’s gate.
The yard beyond was neatly kept and trimmed to within an inch of its life, and even the front steps and stoop appeared to have been freshly scrubbed. The boards were still damp around the woman’s feet, and the window in the door gleamed in the sunshine.
The woman shrugged and turned to go back inside. “He gets a letter now and again—I’ve seen them on the table next to his chair. Of course, I don’t know who they are from—it’s not my place to know, and I don’t go reading other people’s letters.”
“Of course not,” Grace agreed. She had the distinct impression that the woman did know and simply had a gossip’s reluctance to let any crumb of information fall from her lips without receiving something tasty in return. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I should have introduced myself. I am Miss Grace Stainton, and this is my sister, Miss Martha Stainton.”
“Soon to be Lady Ashbourne from what I hear,” the woman said, her eyes gleaming as she studied Martha. “Well, I’m Mrs. Notley.”
Martha nodded, though from the way her mouth twisted, Grace knew that her sister had yet to reconcile herself with the idea that she would soon be Lady Ashbourne rather than plain old Miss Stainton. Martha had always been too sensible to want a title and its inherent social responsibilities.
“How do you do, Mrs. Notley?” Grace smiled.
Instead of appeasing their curiosity, Mrs. Notley pushed her door open and glanced at them over her shoulder. “Begging your pardon, but I’ve got to get on with my baking.” She grinned. “And I still don’t know what was in those letters or who sent them, Miss Stainton, so there’s no point in asking again. I wish you both well, though, and a good afternoon.” With that, she slipped back into her house and closed her glossy black door.
“Well, that was useful.” Martha leaned over to shut the gate behind Grace and to ensure that the catch was properly fastened.
“I wonder where his sister lives, then?” Grace tucked her hand through her sister’s elbow as they started back toward Hornbeam Manor.
“Perhaps she passed away recently. Mr. Dutton seemed distressed when he let slip that he had a sister.”
Grace nodded. “I noticed that, as well. Or she could be married and therefore living in another village or town.” She let out a long, thoughtful breath. “I suppose I let my curiosity get the better of me.”
“It’s easier than thinking about what happened last night,” Martha commented with distressing accuracy.
She was right, though. The puppies and Mr. Dutton had been a welcomed distraction. Flossie, in particular, had raised her spirits and made her feel more optimistic than she had since last night. Just the thought of the puppy’s big blue eyes made her smile and quicken her step.
Then, she jerked to a halt. She glanced at her sister. “I have another notion—”
“Oh, no.” Martha cast her gaze up at the fluffy white clouds racing overhead. “What sort of notion?”
“I think we should visit Lord Glanville. I would dearly love to meet his sister.”
“I’m sure you would, but under the circumstances, I cannot imagine what possible reason we could have for going there. And I’m not sure his sister would be interested in meeting you.”
“No.” Grace laughed. “No reason except curiosity. Any woman would be dying to meet the female cast aside by their betrothed, if for no other reason than to feel horribly superior about the entire thing.”
“Yes. But I doubt that applies when the jilted lover is suspected of murder,” Martha replied dryly.
Her good mood crumbled as sorrow and grief wrapped their cold arms around her, squeezing tightly. The future looked bleak, indeed, whether she lived or was hung as a murderess. Mr. Blyth was gone, and her reputation was in tatters. Even such wretched positions as governess were beyond her, now. Who wanted to hire a woman who had been suspected of murder?
And if she went back to the Polkinghornes… No, she couldn’t do that. Not with Stephen following her around, all dewy-eyed and panting. She shivered, and her grip tightened on her sister’s arm. Perhaps she could stay here with Martha… It would be an imposition once Martha married, but Grace could keep out of the way. They’d hardly know she was there. She’d be like a mouse that left no sign of its trespassing as it scurried from one room to the next, always out of sight.
She flicked a glance at her sister, to find Martha frowning with thought. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” Martha straightened her shoulders. “Or rather, I wish there was something I could do—some tangible evidence that would show you are as innocent as we know you are.”
“Yes. If only he were poisoned instead of bludgeoned to death,” Grace replied bitterly.
That would indeed have been helpful. Her sister was a noted sc
ientist and had given Lord Ashbourne considerable assistance in solving a previous, unfortunate death. Martha had identified the poison and led the way to the discovery of the truth. However, in this case, there seemed to be nothing anyone could do.
Martha suddenly stopped. “Look! Is that not Lord Glanville and his sister, now?”
Another couple was approaching them from the opposite direction. Lord Glanville’s tall, broad-shouldered figure was immediately recognizable, and Grace eyed his companion with interest.
The woman, Lady Lenora, was nearly as tall as her brother, and willowy in her very modish walking dress of deep, rich peacock blue silk. The puffy, gigot sleeves draped off her shoulders becomingly under a lacy white shawl, and a wide belt adorned with a large gold buckle cinched her narrow waist. As they watched, she flung one end of the lace shawl over her shoulder in a casual, graceful manner, and she nodded at something her brother had said. A shallow bonnet, trimmed with blue and white silk flowers, adorned her head and even seemed to reduce her height somewhat. And the pleats and embroidery on her gown were further subtle evidence of her excellent taste, for they were subdued and well-designed. More elaborate decoration would have been overpowering on such a tall woman.
Mr. Cavell had been right: Lady Lenora did dress very well.
As they neared and Grace got a better look at Lady Lenora’s face, she had to congratulate Mr. Cavell on his decision to avoid any additional description. Lady Lenora could only be described as plain. She had smooth, pale blond hair swept up under her bonnet and blue eyes, but her eyes were set very close together over a thin, pointed nose. Her mouth seemed small, as well, and all of her features seemed too delicate for her broad-cheeked face and obstinately square chin. In fact, there simply seemed to be too much “face” for such tiny features.
Her annoyed expression didn’t help, either. As soon as she saw Martha, a flicker of recognition lit her blue eyes. She glanced at Grace with a frown that further squeezed her small features into a narrow line set between her wide cheeks.
Lord Glanville halted a few yards away from the sisters. His mouth twisted into a cynical grin as he glanced from Grace to his sister. “Good day, Miss Stainton. Miss Grace.” He raised his hat and gave them a bow.
“Miss Stainton,” Lady Lenora echoed with a nod, her gaze fixed firmly on Martha.
“I don’t believe Miss Grace Stainton has met my sister, Lady Lenora.” A gleam of amusement lit Lord Glanville’s blue eyes.
Trying to be charitable, Grace resolutely refused to believe it was malicious amusement that she saw in his gaze.
“How do you do, Lady Lenora?” Grace curtseyed.
Lady Lenora’s gloved hand tightened on her brother’s arm, but she managed to nod, though her gaze was stormy.
Grace couldn’t help but wonder what Lord Glanville had told his sister about the events of last night. The woman must be devastated to have lost her betrothed in such an abrupt and horrible manner. To find her out today, calmly walking with her brother, seemed incredible.
She fixed her compassionate gaze upon Lady Lenora. “Please accept my condolences, Lady Lenora.”
“Condolences?” Lady Lenora pressed her lips into a thin line and cast a quick glance at her brother. Anger flashed over her face, raising ugly red splotches over her fleshy cheeks. She swallowed repeatedly, clearly trying to overcome some internal conflict and avoid a scene.
“That is very kind of you, Miss Stainton,” Lord Glanville said when his sister seemed unable to continue.
“May we talk, Lord Glanville?” Grace asked impulsively. Flicking her glance from Lord Glanville to her sister, she flushed, aware that her request had sounded rude at best.
However, Lady Lenora seemed to have recovered her equanimity for she gave Martha a smile. “Miss Stainton, we were just on our way to the church.” She held out her crooked arm. “Would you care to walk with me a ways?”
“Certainly.” Martha looked relieved as she linked arms with Lady Lenora.
The two of them appeared a little odd with Lady Lenora so tall and willowy next to the more sturdy and compact Martha, but the two ladies seemed happy enough to move forward at a leisurely pace.
Grace glanced up at Lord Glanville. Her pulse fluttered, and she felt a sudden desire to run after the two women. She looked around. The lane seemed terribly private, even though she was sure that Mrs. Notley had them under observation.
What had she been thinking to ask for a private word with him, of all people?
Chapter Nine
“Thank you for sending along the gown, Miss Stainton,” Glanville commented, studying Miss Stainton.
A flush stole over her pale cheeks. She looked away hastily, her gaze following their sisters. She looked hesitant and embarrassed. “I could hardly help it. Lady Branscombe’s maid whisked the dress away before I could protest.” Her blue eyes flashed with aggravation as her mouth tightened. She reached out to grip his arm. “Have you heard anything? Learned anything new?”
He thought about the box he’d uncovered in Blyth’s cottage. Until he could discover if it belonged there or not, there was no reason to discuss it. He had the distinct impression that Blyth’s character would shortly undergo sufficient blackening without him adding to it prematurely.
Certainly, Blyth had made at least one enemy who hated him sufficiently to kill him. Not that Glanville wished to foist the blame onto Blyth’s narrow shoulders—not at all. No man deserved to be murdered. However, the few times Glanville had met Blyth, he’d been convinced that the curate lacked both spirit and a backbone, and the weakness in Blyth’s character that Glanville had sensed had left him uneasy. Weak men often did foolish things. They frequently took the easiest course open to them, and the easiest course was often fraught with danger.
“Won’t you tell me?” Miss Stainton prompted him.
“It is not a matter of won’t so much as cannot. There seems to be nothing more to say at the moment.”
“Did you not return to the church? Surely, someone must have searched the grounds further, as well as Mr. Blyth’s cottage. There must have been something—some reason for what happened to him.” Her hands twisted together, and he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She looked pale with worry to the point of illness.
“I did return to the graveyard,” he admitted. Despite his suspicions of her, it was difficult to watch anxiety pinch creases into her lovely face.
A wry smile twisted his mouth. Apparently, he was just as susceptible to a pretty woman as the next man. Despite his cynicism, a heartbeat later, he found himself telling her about the piece of marble used as a weapon and from which grave marker it must have come. Only the knowledge of the organ fund box remained unspoken.
She clasped his arm again when he finished, her eyes dark with anxiety as they roved over his face. “But—that confirms what I told you, does it not? Someone else was there, I heard him!”
“Or her—”
A thoughtful frown wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,” she said slowly. “But the vicar uses that path at times to visit those living on Carter’s Lane. It is a shortcut, you see. And I’ve often seen him returning to the church that way.” A smile trembled for an instant upon her pale lips. “Mr. Wolstenholme is really quite athletic—you should see him vault over the low wall. You would never expect it of him, would you?”
“Are you suggesting the vicar—”
“Oh, no! Of course not!” She looked at him with an appalled expression. “No. It’s simply that… Well, you see, it made me remember something my sister wrote in a letter recently. Do you think it might have been a thief?”
“A thief?” He studied her face, but she appeared serious enough.
She nodded. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “Martha wrote that Mrs. Wolstenholme had confessed to her that she was deeply worried about her husband. The vicar hasn’t been eating or sleeping properly, you see. He told his wife that he was worried to death about some funds that were missing—”<
br />
“Missing funds?” The image of the nearly empty box marked Organ Fund flashed into his mind. “Church funds?”
“Yes. They have been collecting to repair the organ.” She smothered a laugh behind one gloved hand. “Mr. Wolstenholme has been collecting for absolutely ages—I would have thought he could have replaced that wheezy old thing twice over by now—but Martha wrote that the money is missing. Or, as Mrs. Wolstenholme indicated, mislaid in some forgotten corner of the church, making her husband ill with worry. In any event, it made me wonder… Is it not possible that someone has been robbing the church and that Mr. Blyth tried to stop him, only to be murdered? The person I heard in the churchyard might have been the thief, escaping down the back path to Carter’s Lane.” Her eyes searched his face. “Don’t you think it likely?”
He studied her, reluctant to reveal precisely what he was thinking.
Because it occurred to him that if the vicar was so frantic about the missing money and happened to find the nearly empty box in Blyth’s cupboard, he might be extremely angry. Perhaps angry enough to hit his curate over the head with a handy chunk of marble on his return from Carter’s Lane.
Except… The facts didn’t entirely fit. Whoever it was, he had escaped down the shortcut to Carter’s Lane. If there was indeed anyone in the graveyard other than Grace Stainton and Trevor Blyth. In fact, whoever it was must have come into the graveyard along that shortcut, as well, killed Blyth, and then returned the same way.
Unless the rock had been picked up earlier for some reason. Perhaps as a reminder that the grave marker needed repair. Bringing it back to the vicar’s door again, for he would be the one most likely, other than the family of the one interred under the broken gravestone, to be interested in having the stone repaired.
Though why should Mr. Wolstenholme pick up the piece from that broken gravestone, instead of the one nearest to Blyth’s body? That remained a mystery.
He wished the grave marker hadn’t crumbled to the point where the name of the person interred there was obliterated. It might be useful to know if there were any living relatives, and if any of them had a reason to dislike Blyth.