by Emily Queen
If there was one thing Vera could never resist, it was the urge to cheer up the downtrodden. “Come now,” she said, slinging an arm over Abigail’s shoulder. “No use letting that flat tire spoil your mood. Let’s get—what was the term Freddie used? Spifflicated.”
As willing as a puppy, Abigail followed Vera towards the pub.
Rosemary’s curiosity got the best of her, and she craned her neck to see what it was that had caused Martin to abandon his wife on the street. He was talking to a tall, thickly muscled man, and though his back was turned so that she couldn’t see his face, Martin appeared more than annoyed. He gesticulated wildly for a moment but kept his voice low enough that from that distance, Rosemary couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Feeling like a voyeur, Rose returned her attention to Vera and Abigail, who were laughing heartily by the time the trio reached the pub across the street.
***
“You mean we missed all the excitement, and the opportunity to see Jennie Bryer undressing?” Frederick whined once the tale had been retold to his satisfaction a solid three times.
Martin, who’d joined them just a couple of moments after they’d ordered drinks, brightened infinitesimally. “It was a sight to see, I will vouch for that.”
“Vera was fantastic,” Rose enthused. “It’s a wonder she didn’t break the poor girl’s nose.”
“Poor girl,” Vera harrumphed. “Considering what she said to me, that poor girl is lucky I didn’t do more than tussle with her.” Her voice had begun to slur thanks in large part to the second G&T an enthusiastic Freddie had just lavished upon her.
“She might have a point, Vera darling,” he said, winking in Desmond’s direction. His friend, at least, had the sense to keep his mouth firmly shut other than to offer congratulations to Vera. True, Des had spent countless hours with the group as a child, but it had been years since then, and he judged wisely that he ought to get the lay of the land before invoking Vera’s wrath.
What he remembered of her was that she’d been a spunky, fearless girl who’d played as roughly as any of the boys. In fact, sometimes even more so in an attempt to prove herself just as tough. It appeared she hadn’t changed much, and if pressed, he would admit he admired her tenacity. As far as Rosemary went, there were plenty of attributes to admire there, but he was smart enough to keep his thoughts on those to himself, as well.
“What do you mean, she might have a point?” Vera demanded, the color rising in her cheeks. Rosemary pushed herself away from the table slightly, just in case Vera came to blows again. She didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.
Frederick gulped, realizing he might have bitten off a bit more than he could chew, but refused to backtrack. This was how their arguments always started: Freddie poking at Vera and Vera shoving back at him. “Well, you aren’t counting on a paycheck, are you? She’s not wrong about that. Perhaps that degree of financial insecurity provides a higher level of motivation.” He sat back, eyes twinkling, and waited for the onslaught.
Vera, angry but also well on her way to being completely ossified, raised an eyebrow while contemplating how to respond.
Martin spoke up in her favor, earning him a few points in her esteem. “In my own experience, you can never tell what might drive a person to do anything.”
“Fair point, my friend,” Freddie said, nodding to Martin in thanks for taking the heat off him for even a second. “Fair point.”
“That is true,” Vera slurred, “and we know from firsthand experience, don’t we Rosie?” She tried to wink, but it came off as more of a flutter of the lashes and Rose wondered whether she ought to get just as zozzled. Vera, in a combative mood was much easier to take when one was also carrying an edge.
“What is she talking about?” Abigail asked, avid with curiosity about the look that passed between Rose and Vera—and even more curious about Vera in general. The way the woman was goggling, she might as well have been sitting across from the Queen of England.
Rosemary leaned over the table towards Abigail, but before she could get out so much as a word, Frederick beat her to it.
“Rosie here is the next best thing to Sherlock Holmes. A regular sleuth, don’t you know?”
“A private dick they call them in the States,” Desmond added to the conversation. “Or would that make her a dickess? One can never be sure about these things.”
Deep in his cups, Freddie found the term inordinately amusing. “Whatever you call it, she is the one who solved the murder at Barton Manor. You must have read about it in the papers. Of course, the police took all the credit, but Rose and Vera almost got themselves killed tracking down the culprit.” His voice rang with pride as if he’d forgotten how terrified he’d been at the time.
“Oh, Freddie, hush,” Rosemary admonished. “It wasn’t as thrilling as you’re making it out to be. We simply put the pieces together, is all.”
Vera guffawed. “It certainly was that thrilling, and you know it. I have no problem taking a bit of the credit. We only narrowly escaped death!” She’d become even further intoxicated and, having missed the opportunity to perform onstage, even more theatrical than usual.
She told the tale, and by the end of it, had everyone cheering for herself and Rosemary. Martin peered at Rose with newfound respect, and Abigail could barely contain her excitement. His hand rested on her back, and it appeared his transgression from earlier had been entirely forgotten.
When Vera moved on from true life events, she began reciting Titania’s lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Nearby patrons, most of them well greased, egged her on. Before anyone could stop her, Vera had mounted the bar to stand and deliver her lines to the packed house, and despite having consumed a number of cocktails, she never missed a word. The performance would have put Jennie Byers to shame had she walked through the door.
By the time Frederick and Desmond had persuaded Vera from her perch atop the bar, Martin had reached his limit, “I have early patients in the morning, dear. Are you ready?” He yawned, and Abigail reluctantly agreed it was time to depart for home.
“I’ll see you all soon, I hope,” she said as she made her way to the exit after an enthusiastic hug and a kiss from Vera that was meant for her cheek but landed somewhere near Abigail’s ear instead.
Chapter Seven
Sometime during the early hours of the morning—or, at least, what seemed the early hours but was coming on for noon—Rosemary awoke with a hammer in her head and her stomach tied in knots. Silently, she cursed her friends for pressing too many cocktails into her hand the night before. She moaned and tried with little success to wrench the covers free from Vera’s grip.
The ringing in her ears gave way to the shrill tones of a whistle, and for a moment, Rosemary thought her head might fall off. Immediately following came the thought that losing her head might not be a bad thing. Vera stirred, shoved the sleep mask off her eyes, and turned towards Rose with an equally confused expression on her face. “What on earth is that noise?” she asked sleepily.
“Police whistle. More than one, I think. Or we’re having a simultaneous auditory hallucination,” Rosemary replied, peeling herself off the bed and crossing to the window that looked out over her front stoop. “Probably an accident around the corner. I can’t see from here.” She flopped back down onto the bed and closed her eyes.
“Rosie, come on. We’re not going to get back to sleep with this racket, and we have to catch a train in a few hours anyway. Besides, I’m curious, and I know you are, too.” Vera jumped off the bed with more vigor than she ought to have had, considering how much she’d had to drink the previous evening.
Rose opened her eyes and glared at her friend, but allowed herself to be pulled into a standing position. She dressed quickly, as did Vera, and they headed downstairs. There, they found a disheveled-looking Frederick accompanied by Desmond, who looked fresh as a daisy, peeking through the windows in an attempt to discern the origin of the unrelenting ringing.
“I
see I was the only frugal drinker last evening,” Desmond commented with a glint in his eye.
“Shut up, Des,” Frederick fired back after taking a sip of black coffee with his eyes closed against the pounding in his head.
Rosemary strode towards the front door, “I’m going to go for a short walk around the block. Anyone care to accompany me?” Of course, everyone did, and the foursome trooped out to the footway to investigate the disturbance.
As she rounded the corner, Rosemary’s eyes widened at the sight of two police vehicles parked in front of Dr. Redberry’s office entrance. She saw Abigail standing near the gate, breathed a sigh of relief, and then put a hand to her head as another whistle blast sounded. Vera and the men, feigning politeness, hung back a short distance away and looked on with concern.
By the look on Abigail’s face, something terrible had happened, and Rosemary’s heart leaped into her throat. Before she had a chance to make her inquiry, a deputy exited the office and said to the officer still stationed outside, “The coroner will be along shortly, along with the inspector.”
All Rosemary could think about was how Abigail would survive the loss of her husband. She knew the experience first-hand and had nearly lost herself when Andrew passed. The horror of it came crashing back, and she instinctively reached out to take Abigail’s hand, her face filled with empathy for the woman. “Oh, Abigail,” she cried.
“It’s not Martin,” Abigail said, having watched the cycle of emotions and understanding the conclusion to which Rosemary had jumped. “It’s one of his patients. They’re interviewing Martin now. Do you think we should call our solicitor?”
Abigail looked past Rose to Vera and the men, her eyes wide with worry. Her hands were shaking, but otherwise, she appeared steady. Rosemary judged that Abigail was riding an adrenaline high, given the circumstances, and would eventually and inevitably crash once the excitement had died down.
“I think,” Rosemary said slowly, “it would be best to let events play out until a determination is made. Do they seem to think the circumstances around the death are suspicious? What happened, exactly?”
Abigail sighed, “He died in the chair. They suspect from an overdose of nitrous oxide.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Martin mentioned they were having problems with the valves, and that he had to take precautions to ensure the dosage was correct. I think they’re considering it an accident at this point; however, mightn’t it be prudent to hedge our bets?”
“Perhaps,” Rosemary agreed, choosing her next words carefully, “though in my experience, calling for a solicitor too early tends to make one look guilty in the eyes of the police. For now, I would advise waiting for a beat to see how things develop. Speak to Martin, and then make that decision together.”
“Thank you for the advice, Rosemary,” Abigail said sincerely. “It must be comforting in times like these to have experience in such matters.”
Rosemary smiled tightly. “Yes, in a way it is, I suppose.” She fetched her friends, and at Abigail’s request, invited them to stand in wait until Martin had finished giving his statement.
When Maximilian Whittington pulled up in front of Dr. Redberry’s office, he was both irritated and secretly pleased that he recognized three out of the five people draped over the fence. If his heart settled into an uneven rhythm, it was only because he feared he might once again find himself having to defend Frederick Woolridge’s innocence—it had nothing whatsoever to do with how beautiful Rosemary looked in her summer dress, her face flushed with the heat of the sun.
He’d been close friends with her husband, Andrew Lillywhite, since their days on the police force, before Andrew had fallen in love and decided he preferred the private sector to the public. Max had known Andrew better than almost anyone; he’d respected him, and that meant that he had no intention of acting upon the flood of longing he felt when he recognized Rosemary’s golden hair.
Or, when her face lit up the moment she caught sight of him. “Max! Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Abigail, you’re in good hands, dear. Inspector Whittington is the best we have. He’ll make sure to take good care of Martin, won’t you, Max?” Her eyelashes fluttered, and whether her intent had been to dazzle him or not, he found himself nodding in agreement.
“I take it you are the wife of Dr. Redberry?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from Rosemary’s face with an effort.
Abigail nervously dipped her head. “Yes, I’m Abigail Redberry. Pleased to meet you.”
“And you,” Max replied. “Now, please excuse me while I check in with my deputies. I’ll return to ask for your statement when I’ve finished speaking to your husband.”
“Of course, of course. You must do your job. Please excuse me; this has come as quite a shock. Martin is good at his work. We don’t usually have dead men in the house. As you can imagine, it’s quite unnerving.” Abigail wrung her hands, and her eyes widened until she looked like a deer in headlights yet again.
“We’ll stay here with you, won’t we?” Rosemary directed the last towards her friends, who were all as interested in the outcome as she.
“Why don’t we go around the corner and take a rest on your front stoop, Abigail?” she asked as the coroner’s vehicle arrived. The last thing Abigail needed to see was the body being carted out of the house. Gently, Rosemary guided her neighbor around the corner and out of sight of the more grisly details.
On their way past the lower-level window that allowed a bit of light into Martin’s office, Rosemary kicked a few stray cigarette butts out of the way and made a mental note to ask Helen to do the Redberrys a favor and sweep the footway free of debris. It irked her that people cared so little about the aesthetics of the neighborhood, but there wasn’t time to stew about that while she carried on down the block.
Chapter Eight
When Max had concluded his questioning almost an hour later and pulled Abigail aside to speak to her privately, Rosemary had a chance to confer with her friends.
“We’ve two hours left before we catch the train. Is there any way to get out of this situation with any sort of sympathy?” Frederick asked, for once having left his sarcasm at home.
Rose sighed. “I don’t know. It feels wrong to leave without knowing the possible outcome. I should like to speak to Max first to see what his thoughts are on the death. I don’t know why, but I feel an obligation to Abigail. She’s been going through a rough time, and I get the sense she doesn’t have many people other than Martin to lean on in times of trouble.”
“It’s perfectly fine, Rosie,” Vera reassured her. “We’ll take a later train if we must.” She shot a scathing look at Frederick as if challenging him to contest the decision. “It’s not as though any of us are on a time constraint, what with my lack of an acting job and Frederick’s sabbatical.”
At that, Frederick returned Vera’s glare. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about, much less talk about. Having been forced to take a break from his family’s business after having been accused of murder was a sore spot, to say the least.
Desmond, seeing the expression on Frederick’s face, spoke up. “I’m free as a bird as well. I’d say a death next door qualifies as good enough reason to postpone for a day. I’m intrigued, and what’s more, I like the Redberrys. I think we’ll all feel better knowing this matter is settled before we go off on holiday.”
“Okay, then, it’s decided. I’ll run and let Wadsworth know.” Vera offered, skipping up the steps to Rosemary’s townhouse and disappearing through the front door.
“Rosemary, may I speak with you?” Max broke away from the Redberrys.
“Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked without preamble.
Max ran a hand through his hair, “There isn’t much to tell, as of yet. It appears to have been an unfortunate accident. We’ll investigate, of course, but there’s no reason for you to worry, as I’m certain the evidence will bear out my initial findings. There’s no need for you to hone your investigative skills. This wa
s an accidental death.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Rosemary allowed herself the tiniest of smiles. “Max, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were warning me off your territory.”
“You may take my caution as such, but I only meant to reassure you. Did I overhear you saying you were going on holiday?” he asked, glancing towards Desmond, who was standing with Frederick and watching the conversation between Max and Rose with interest.
“Yes, that was the plan,” Rosemary explained. “Vera and I decided some sun and sand were in order. When Frederick heard, he decided to horn in and to bring along his old school chum, Desmond, to round out the numbers. We were supposed to leave on the 4 o’clock train, but we’ve opted to wait a day or two in light of what’s happened.”
After a pause, Max said, “I see no reason you should postpone your holiday.” It cost him something to encourage her to run off to spend time on the beach with a handsome man.
“Aren’t you going to also warn me to keep my pretty little nose out of other people’s business?” Rose asked with a smirk. “It makes no difference; Abigail is a new friend, and I won’t be able to relax until I know her husband won’t be put up on charges.”
The Inspector had attempted to discourage Rosemary’s involvement with another untimely death, and felt he’d done his duty to the best of his ability. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered to try to talk any sense into the woman; Rose would do precisely as she pleased. What’s more, she would act as though it were entirely reasonable for her to do so, and make him feel like a chauvinist pig for being concerned about her safety.
Halfway through the conversation, he’d realized he was engaging in an exercise in futility, and that he might as well accept her position.
Max sighed. “Is there really any point in arguing? I’m not sure why I bother. There’s nothing to indicate foul play, but you won’t be satisfied until you see for yourself.”