Deadly Curious

by Cindy Anstey

  “Any of us might have been the shooter’s target, Daphne. We don’t really know. We were huddled close together and rifles are notoriously inaccurate.”

  Daphne stared at Sophia. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Sophia regretted her words immediately.

  “This shooting might have had nothing to do with Andrew’s killing,” Sophia said, rather lamely.

  “Again, how does that help?”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t.” Sophia slowly shook her head. “Besides, it would be an odd happenstance to have two murderous persons running through the grounds at the same time.”

  “Very odd,” Daphne muttered, lifting the magazine closer to her nose. “Be that as it may, why are you not trying to find out who did shoot at you?”

  “No clues were left behind yesterday, and we didn’t see the villain—only heard him—and we’re not certain who was the target. With no new information, we’re back to solving Mr. Stacks’ and Andrew’s cases where we might have a chance at success.”

  “I thought you were going to help. I’m afraid, Sophia,” Daphne said, sounding much more aggravated than afraid. “I fear going out of doors; I fear going anywhere. I don’t know what to expect. I want to stay in my room behind a locked door and never come out again.”

  “You would need food and the necessary every once in a while.”

  Daphne laughed at Sophia’s words, as she was meant to, and then her expression grew serious again. “You need to expose this villain, Sophia. He must pay for these lives he has ruined … and ended.”

  Sophia nodded and sighed deeply. “It’s not the work of a minute, Daphne. I’m new at this. If villains were easy to catch, investigators would not be necessary. I’m not sleuthing today, as Mr. Fraser is speaking to Andrew’s friends this morning.”

  “That sounds pointless.”

  Sophia ignored the comment, knowing that it was fear forming her cousin’s words, not intellect. But Sophia agreed with one aspect of Daphne’s complaint; she should do something.

  “May I use the library?” Sophia asked, seeing Stacks in her mind—the ghastly color of his skin when he lay on the table. Yes, the library might be able to offer her some information … possibly.

  Had the library books been cataloged or arranged in any sensible fashion, Sophia would have turned to the large, well-stocked room far sooner. Unfortunately, the collection at Allenton Park was in a haphazard state—none of the Waverleys over the years had shown any inclination toward organizing the many volumes. As a result, fifteenth-century history and the study of stamps sat beside travel logs and descriptions of islands of the South Seas.

  “Thought of something?” Daphne asked, returning to her magazine and showing no sign of wishing to move with Sophia to the other room.

  “Yes, indeed: poisons. I was hoping to find some information about poisons in the library.” She stood, gathering up the ripped paper for disposal. “We assumed that Stacks was killed with wolfsbane, but your gardener says there is none in the flower beds. So, I would like to verify that nothing else could have caused the same effects.”

  Daphne nodded. “You might want to ask Mrs. Curtis about where the books on poisons might be. She has a knack of finding things. Better than me, at any rate.”

  “Excellent,” Sophia said, opening the door to the hall. “I’ll do just that.”

  * * *

  Jeremy had lied.

  It was not the kind of lie that would send him to Hell or have him thrown into a dungeon, never to be seen again. However, it was the kind of lie that might get him into trouble with a pretty young lady staying at Allenton Park. That was even more daunting.

  Jeremy had claimed the rain as his rationale for denying Sophia’s wish to accompany him in his continuing investigations, which would take him to the seedier side of town and into questionable company. It would be messy and unhealthy—not a good place for a properly brought up young lady.

  That was the lie.

  Andrew Waverley’s friends were part of the middle class, not the criminal class. In truth, visiting them at home or at their places of business would not put Sophia’s health at risk directly. But the same could not be said for her overall well-being. Therein lay his objection: The more the killer saw the two of them investigating together, the more likely this twisted individual would make Sophia his target, see her as a threat.

  She could have been shot in Glendor Wood along with her uncle. They had been huddled together, after all; that Sophia had not been hit as well was nothing short of miraculous.

  So, Jeremy would do whatever he could to keep her safe—even if that meant spending less time in her company and spouting an occasional lie. She would understand … when he explained it to her.

  If he explained it to her.

  * * *

  As it turned out, visiting Andrew’s friends was a waste of time. They were not in the least helpful. Oh, they made all the right sounds—tsking, and huffing, agreeing and plying Jeremy with questions—but when push came to shove, they offered Jeremy nothing new. No added information at all.

  Todd Rummage was a cheeky young man, overly confident and comfortable with his place in the world. His father was the squire of West Ravenwood, and Todd clearly believed that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. Rather stout and short with a ski slope nose and a wispy mustache, he spoke with bravado when Jeremy caught him at home. Todd described Andrew as a regular out-and-outer, and his sad recollections of their escapades rang as true—and of little value.

  Baxter Temple, the banker’s son, added to Jeremy’s knowledge of Andrew by describing their pranks. Knocking over haystacks and racing across fields—some planted and others fallow—bathing in the pond, and knocking Joan Bossidy into said pond. Mr. Temple laughed as he described the girl’s outrage. Jeremy was unimpressed; his opinion of Baxter Temple and Andrew Waverley plummeted.

  Shirley Chips, pretty and petite with thick black hair and quick steps, proved to be the most interesting source of information.

  “No, not by then,” she said when Jeremy asked if she and Andrew were still considered a couple after his year away at Oxford. “He were interested in several girls.” She laughed. “Yes, all at the same time. I could never keep up with the gossip. After a while I stopped caring.”

  She paused and stared out the window at the rain for a moment. “After a while,” she repeated.

  They were standing in the back room of the bakery. The heat from the ovens, long since tamped down, dried the damp air wafting through the open door.

  “He wasn’t likely to settle down anytime soon,” she finally continued. “Especially with the likes of me—he needed to find a lady. A lady for Allenton Park. But he were fun. Yes, indeed. We had many a laugh; he was good company and always up for a lark.”

  Shirley shook her head, pulling her thoughts from her memories. “But if it were jealousy that did him in, you’re going to have to talk to Audra. Audra Pratt, the apothecary’s daughter. She had Andrew in her sights, but he kept putting her off … Or, oh yes, or Charlotte Dewey. Don’t know her from Adam, but it were put about that Andrew was trying to look under her skirts. I imagine the reverend took care of that right quick … but ya never know.”

  When Jeremy did finally track Audra down at the haberdashery, she waved him off with little more than a how-do-you-do. She was too busy to bother with the likes of him. And Charlotte was not at the circulating library or the millinery as Mrs. Dewey believed.

  All in all, the damp, rainy day proved to be most unproductive. Jeremy returned to the inn to plan his next steps, but found that he was distracted.

  Sophia Thompson kept popping into his mind, and he was disinclined to shoo her away.

  * * *

  After having spent the better part of three hours in the library, Sophia closed The Daily Garden with a slap.

  Her frustration was extreme. She had been through a quarter—no, perhaps an eighth—of the books in the li
brary to no avail. She had found several volumes about roses, the properties of good gardening soil, and the best plants to grow side by side. But she found nothing about poisons.

  Sitting in one of the armchairs near the window, Papa frowned over the top of his newspaper. “Is something amiss?” he asked. They had been sitting quietly and companionably for some time without any need of discussion.

  “I can’t find any books describing poisons.”

  “I would think that would be a good thing,” he said with a reflective expression, and then returned to the article he was reading.

  Sophia sauntered over to the window and leaned on the back of her father’s chair, staring out the window. “Perhaps I should visit the circulating library.”

  “Or speak to the gardener. He would be a fount of knowledge.”

  “Mr. Phillips?”

  “No, Mr. Quinn, the head gardener. Very nice man. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.”

  Sophia continued to stare through the window, but no longer sightlessly lost in thought. No, she was watching a rather odd-looking woman disappear down the path to Glendor Wood.

  The woman wore a strange combination of skirts and aprons—plural—on her ample form. A long blue skirt hung to her feet, a shorter pink skirt to her calves. Atop these were two aprons, no longer white, but rather smudged with green and yellow stains. One apron covered her belly, the other covered the woman’s backside. She wore a baggy jacket with huge sagging pockets, and a perfectly delightful hat, replete with three long pheasant feathers. It was rather bizarre.

  And curious, for Sophia did not recognize the woman at all.

  “Who is that?” Sophia asked her father as the feathers, and the woman wearing them, bobbed out of sight.

  “Who?” he asked without looking up.

  “Never mind. I’ll asked Benton,” Sophia said, leaving the library and heading to the main entrance.

  There, she found Benton staring past the threshold of the front door. Upon hearing her steps, the elderly butler looked over his shoulder and slowly swung it closed. “There you are,” he said as if he had been looking for her. “I wondered where you might be.”

  “I did not know you were looking for me, Benton. I was in the library with Father.”

  “Not to worry, Miss Thompson. I told her to come back tomorrow.”

  “Who?” Sophia stared at Benton with a frown creasing her forehead.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Curtis said, entering the front hall from the direction of the kitchen. Her keys jingled as she moved, and her heels tapped across the tiles until she stood directly in front of Sophia. “You had a visitor. Benton told her to come back tomorrow.”

  The housekeeper glanced behind Sophia—no doubt at Mr. Benton—and nodded. Seconds later, Benton’s footsteps could be heard echoing through the hall, leaving the two women alone.

  “Would you be so kind as to instruct her to use the service entrance next time,” Mrs. Curtis said waspishly. “It is most unseemly for a person such as Bertha Tumbler to beg entry at the front door.”

  “Who is Bertha Tumbler?” Sophia asked. “And why does she want to see me?”

  “I have no idea why she wishes to speak with you, Miss Thompson. It is not for Benton to ask such a question. As to who she is, Bertha Tumbler is a spinster, the blacksmith’s sister. She has a cottage and plot of land on the other side of West Ravenwood. She sells plants, seeds, and vegetables to keep food on her table. Rather eccentric and rarely leaves her house. I’m actually surprised to see her out and about; she normally keeps to herself. As to why she asked for you, I expect you’ll find out when she returns tomorrow. She said something to Benton about not being willing to talk to a Runner. So, there you have it. Your own little mystery, and it will soon be solved.”

  There was a sarcastic tone to the housekeeper’s explanation that put Sophia’s teeth on edge.

  “Indeed. Thank you, Mrs. Curtis,” Sophia said with a forced smile.

  Why would a perfect stranger—and a strange stranger, at that—come knocking on the Waverleys’ front door asking for Sophia?

  A sense of foreboding settled across her shoulders. Something was wrong.

  * * *

  The next morning, Sophia worked on her needlework in the drawing room with Daphne, watching the clock as hour after hour ticked by with no visit from Bertha Tumbler. Uncle Edward was showing signs of improvement, sitting in a comfortable chair in his room and complaining about his meals. As a result, Daphne was no longer overwrought with anxiety, and back to planning her Season in London. She seemed to vacillate between abject terror and abject apathy.

  The distraction was almost welcome. Almost.

  “I quite like this lace,” Daphne said, pointing to an illustration in the catalog on her lap.

  Sophia could only see that it was white. She nodded with a half smile; it was rather weak, but Daphne didn’t notice.

  “Mother does as well, I asked her at breakfast. We shall wait, of course. Not order anything as yet. But I’ll be ready the moment Mother says we’re to go.” She smiled at the catalog and flipped the next page.

  “That’s nice,” Sophia said, not paying the least bit of attention.

  “If you like I can ask Mother for a length of lace for you as well.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “We could have a gown made for you at the same time. I’m quite certain Mother would not mind. A day dress or a carriage gown—probably not a ball gown, as you would not have anywhere to wear it.”

  “That’s nice.” Sophia was baffled that Daphne could be diverted by such trivia when murder and mayhem met them at every door.

  “What’s wrong, Sophia?”

  She looked up to find her cousin staring at her. “What do you mean?”

  She dropped her eyes back to her canvas and saw that it was a tangled mess; it looked nothing like the daisy it was meant to be. With a huff, she secured her needle in the material and tossed the hoop onto the seat beside her. “I keep wondering when Bertha Tumbler is going to arrive and what it is that she has to tell me.”

  “Or ask of you.”

  “Yes, or ask. I’m not enjoying the wait; this inactivity is most unsettling. I should be doing something!” Sophia stood and planted her feet in a take-charge manner. “Enough. Where does Bertha Tumbler live? I’ll go there rather than wait any longer.”

  “Should you? By yourself? Horrors. I’d go with you but I promised Father a game of chess,” Daphne said, as if glad to have the excuse. “Best not go alone, though. Take Betty. It’s not far really, an easy walk to the other side of town. I’m sure Benton or one of the other servants can tell you where the Tumbler house is located.”

  Sophia found this to be a most estimable idea and set about doing just that. Within a quarter hour, she had her bonnet tied, gloves on, Betty by her side, and directions to the cottage.

  It took a little less than twenty minutes to get to the Tumbler place. It was a small cottage set off from the main road by an overabundant garden enclosed by a white fence. It had charm and character and … an open door.

  Sophia frowned. Her heart began to pound as she stepped through the gate and up the stone-paved walk. The gaping entrance into the cottage was clearly visible as they approached—a gloomy interior rife with shadows.

  “Strange,” Sophia said in a strangled voice.

  Betty offered a reasonable explanation. “A warm day. Likely letting the wind blow through.”

  Sophia nodded but did not agree, nor did she feel any better.

  “Mrs. Tumbler!” she called into the shadows. “Are you here?”

  It was dark and dank inside the cottage, smelling of earth and drying plants. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the low light cast by the small casement windows. As they did, the table in the center of the room came into focus, the bed in the corner and the unlit fireplace catercorner from the door. Rows of flowers, twigs, and roots hung from brackets on the ceiling, drying.

  Betty made
a gurgling sound in her throat. It was half gasp and half scream.

  Sophia whirled around to see a mound of clothes lying on the floor by the table. An arm stretched out from the mound, cradling a head. Both were soaked in blood, while glassy eyes stared across the room, unblinking.

  Bertha Tumbler was dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Jitters

  For some time, Sophia neither moved nor breathed.

  “Is she dead?” she finally asked in a whisper, though it was easy to see that Bertha had, indeed, shuffled off her mortal coil. The blind stare and the amount of blood puddled on the floor told the story even if she could ignore the gaping slit in her throat, clearly the cause of Bertha’s demise.

  Sophia approached the corpse, slowly and carefully. She apologized to the dead woman even as she reached out to hold her cold wrist. There was no pulse and the woman was not breathing. She was, indeed, dead.

  Bertha Tumbler was a stranger, and yet Sophia felt overwhelmed with sadness. She breathed deeply through her mouth, struggling to keep her stomach calm and her nerves steady.

  “Get Constable Marley, Detective Fraser, and the surgeon,” Sophia told Betty, who was still standing beside the door, shaking like a leaf. A task would distract the poor maid, and hopefully supplant this horrid sight.

  “Yes, miss.”

  Betty was out the door faster than a whip, and Sophia was left alone in the eerie silence. Glancing into the shadows of the room, Sophia squinted, looking for any signs that the murderer was still within. With great relief she saw that nothing moved. There was no large furniture to hide behind and the back door led to a shelf-lined but equally unoccupied storeroom.

  Shifting to the other side of the body, Sophia stared at Bertha for some minutes, willing her heart to calm and her shaking hands to still. With the light no longer in her eyes, Sophia could see that Bertha was lying on her side with a sharp knife next to her. As it was spattered with blood and therefore quite possibly the murder weapon, Sophia left it where it lay. She was not an official investigator yet and would not want to be accused of tampering with evidence—a warning that she had read in Investigating Murder and Mayhem.