Deadly Thyme (31 page)

Perstow cleared his throat and held the phone away from his ear. “Beggin
’ yer pardon, sar.”

“Just on my way out,” Jon said.

“Walkers have found a pink windcheater buried in the sand at the beach.”

“Probably from a beach outing last weekend. Get Stark and the other constable on that. I
’ve got a scheduled appointment and then I will stop by and check on Mrs. Butler. After that incident last night, I want to make sure she is doing well. Do you know where Constable Craig is?”

“She was interviewing one of the lads who works at the Nap.”

“Tell her to meet me at Mrs. Butler’s in an hour, please. I’m off to meet with Mr. Malone. After that, I’m conducting a telephone interview with the nephew. Just for my own peace of mind.”

“You
’re visiting Mr. Malone?”

“He said he had some historical notes on Cornwall to show me. May help, he said. Looks as if we
’re grasping at straws just now. It’s good to have such citizens willing to help out.” Besides that, he was one of the wealthier citizens of Perrin’s Point. His house was on the national registry, not that that meant much. It might be an ancient tip pit.

There was a visitor information kiosk in the car park across from
the Spider’s Web. Jon needed directions to the estate called Medlingham. It wasn’t but a mile away by car, but the cliff paths would take him there faster. Apparently, Medlingham was the property just south of the B & B where he was staying. The skies were clear, so he decided to walk.

On the way
, he watched the water, the waves, and his footing as the path had a tendency to dip or twist unexpectedly. An unsettled feeling of something left undone invaded every other thought.

He arrived at his destination, Medlingham spelled out in an iron arch near the entrance. He walked down an impressive drive, catching glimpses of a tower before him. Just as he came to the front of the large brick house, he observed a garden gate surrounded by huge fuchsia rhododendron. Curious, he walked closer to peer through the gate.
He saw a lone stone wall, glassless window set high, and what remained of a Palladian tower attached—ancient ruins. What had befallen the original house? Wind? Rain? Damnation?

He walked up the pathway to the door of the newer house, a neatly symmetrical Queen Anne style country estate house
that looked like it may have been built around 1700. Indeed, there was a small marker near the front step.

Green tufts of lichen grew in the crevices of the flagstone, softening his footsteps. Pressing his finger against the bell push, he could hear the chime faintly resound from a great distance. Footsteps approached the door. He anticipated a butler. The door swung open and Mr. Malone stood one step above, smiling down at him.

“Hello, Chief Inspector!” Mr. Malone stepped back. “I’m sorry, I meant Inspector. I was just thinking of Peter Trewe, poor man. I understand he is in hospital?”

Jon stepped inside. “Word travels fast.”

The entry led into a longer hall. A staircase twisted around and up. Rugs on the floor brightened the polished stone.

“Yes, yes! In a small community such as ours the grapevine works extremely well. Extremely well. Much to our chagrin or benefit. Can be a benefit.” Mr. Malone stepped aside and opened a door to the right.

The brightness of the room left Jon dazzled. He had noticed the open curtains in the wide, tall windows across the front of the house. Large, overstuffed white furniture sat on a white fitted rug that looked as if it had never seen a shoe. The only color in the room came from oil paintings set like jewels against the white walls—nothing large or flashy, just expensive. There were no photos or small objects of any kind.

The one thing missing to create a picture perfect for a home magazine was a great slathering beast of a hound ensconced next to the fireplace. But this room couldn
’t afford a living, drooling canine. It was too perfect. The place smelled of disinfectant, like a hospital. The walls teamed up at him. He needed an open window.

“You look pale, officer. Pale.”

“Just a bit claustrophobic.”

“I
’ll open a window.” Mr. Malone opened the window, which swung out. “Take a seat.”

Jon took Mr. Malone
’s suggestion and sat on the puffy settee, hoping he didn’t have anything on his trousers that would rub off. He noticed with regret his shoes had left a marks on the carpet. He pointed at the mess. “Oh no! I am sorry.”

“Not to worry. Liz will know what to do.”

“Liz is your wife, then?”

“Yes. Good woman. Yes.”

“She’s home then?”

“No. Visiting friends for a few days.” He fluttered his hands. “She
’ll be sorry to have missed you. We don’t receive many visitors. Not many visitors at all.”

“I
’m not imposing on your time?”

Mr. Malone
’s thick eyebrows drew closer. “My time?”

“You said you were something of an expert on history.”

Mr. Malone went to a table near the window. He rubbed the table with a hand, as if searching for unseen dust. “Used to teach it. Used to. What are you needing? History of Cornwall in general?”

“Tell me about the pirates of Cornwall.”

Mr. Malone gave a curt nod and put his hands behind his back. “Before I begin, can I offer you something to drink? I was just going to have an afternoon sherry.”

“I regret I
’m on duty.”

Malone opened an impressive wardrobe-type cabinet. “You don
’t mind if I do?”

“Of course not. Go ahead.”

Malone poured and took a swallow. “Good. Good.”

“Mr. Malone, you volunteer at the library but I don
’t see very many books. You must have a library.”

“I don
’t care to display them. Ostentatious. Spoils the color scheme. I keep my books upstairs. Private library. Private.”

“I beg your pardon. I didn
’t mean to offend.”

“None taken. None taken.” He took another swallow. It didn
’t take a moment for the man’s demeanor to relax into a litany of stories so well told that Jon found himself listening with interest and enjoyment. The pirates had used the rough coast and the jutting harbors to their advantage again and again. Smugglers, too, had been a huge source of income for the residents of Cornwall for centuries. Mr. Malone finished with “I hope that answers some of your questions.”

“It
does. You have a way with stories, Mr. Malone.” He stood up, prepared to leave. After some awkward remonstrations, Mr. Malone trailed him to the door. At the top of the steps Jon turned back. “You seem knowledgeable about many things. Is there something you can tell me about the history of herbs in England?”

“Oh
my, my! I’m not an expert. Liz is the gardener.” He leaned against the closed door and studied Jon. “One can learn a lot about herbs on the Internet.”

“I expect I could find most of my questions answered on the Internet.” Jon paused. “But my computer
… er … crashed recently, I’m afraid. I have my mobile with internet, but the screen is small.”

“Amazing how dependent we can become. Amazing.” Malone appeared flustered. “My computer isn
’t acting right. Can’t figure the bloody contraption—”

“I
’m somewhat knowledgeable,” Jon interrupted him.

“Liz would be extremely irate if I let anyone touch her computer. She has said it responds best with her. I expect when she returns she
’ll know what to do or take it in to get fixed. You see, there’s a chance she’ll know how to fix the thing. A chance.”

“Mrs. Malone is
a computer expert as well, is she?”

“An inalienable right of the young, being computer savvy. Born with it.” Mr. Malone grinned. “I
’m preaching to the choir.”

Jon nodded.

“I expect she’ll be back shortly,” Malone added.

Jon took another step down. “Thank you. No. I
’ll take myself off. Thank you for your time.”

“I certainly wish I could have been more helpful. I offer help and then turn out to be useless.”

“No, no! You have helped. I found your stories full of information.”

“I
’ll make us tea,” Ruth Butler’s mother, Mrs. Thompson, announced as Jon entered Mrs. Butler’s cottage. Allison Craig followed.

“They may want coffee,” Mrs. Butler said. “Would you, Mr. Graham?”

“Coffee would be nice.”

Mrs. Thompson shook her head, “My land and stars! Coffee! What was the revolution for then? Do you like it strong?”

“Yes, thank you very much indeed.”

“That
’s my kinda guy, Ruth-Ann.”

Jon remained standing as Allison Craig sat next to Mrs. Butler on the couch. He had briefed the constable about what he would tell Mrs. Butler. Mrs. Butler was as beautiful as ever, though some bruises remained. She wore a flowing dress that accentuated her shape and form. He cleared his throat to give himself time to get over it. “Have you recovered from the fright with the stranger in the garden?”

Her eyes narrowed. He wasn’t winning any “favorite’s awards” here. She said, “We are survivors, not victims. He wants us to be victims. We refuse. You look tired. Why don’t you sit?”

“The line of inquiry we
’re working on has everyone on edge. Everyone is busy. But I have a twenty-four hour watch over you.”

Her mother brought in a silver coffee service set, and left again. The coffee set looked old and ornate, not really what he would have expected
, but then it seemed nothing about Mrs. Butler was typical.

“A twenty-four hour watch? Why?”

“I believe he is after you.”

“What about my daughter? This line of inquiry has to do with my daughter?”

“Possibly.”

“You
’re either being obnoxiously cryptic on purpose or I’m just dense.” Mrs. Butler poured and handed him a cup. “Please say what you’ve come to say and get it over with.”

“This person left shoes at the front of your house and at the back. Shoes are symbolic.”

“Of?”

“Travel, either a desire to go, to be somewhere else, or to escape.”

“Would the fact that we traveled here from somewhere else be significant?”

“The first time something weird is found with a body
, it’s simply an odd thing. Second time? Coincidence. The third time some object is found with a body, it becomes the killer’s signature.”

“Keep going.”

“Now, with Tavy’s body being found, we have a fourth body found with herbs. We have shoes.”

Her eyes grew large.

“The DNA isn’t back from the lab yet. Getting your hopes up would be the worst thing you could do.”

“Then why are you concerned?”

“There is still a girl missing without a body being found.”

She seemed dazed. “You do believe me.”

“Do not get your hopes up, Mrs. Butler.”

“Can
’t you call me Ruth?”