Rules of Murder (19 page)

“It was
because
he didn’t have a head,” Anna insisted, her chin quivering. “It couldn’t be no one else, not after what was done to him in the greenhouse. And after what Mr. Peterson seen.”

“You mean the poacher?”

Anna sniffled. “He says poacher. There are others would say different.”

“Did Peterson tell you more than he told me?”

Anna dropped her eyes. “Not as such, Mr. Drew, but I could tell from what he didn’t say. He said the man was all in black. Sounds to me it could have been evening clothes. What poacher goes about in evening clothes?”

“Just because he wore black, that doesn’t—”

“And Mr. Peterson said he couldn’t see his face. Nor tell what color of hair he had. Well, how could he of a man without any head? And what’s a poacher doing at the greenhouse, I’m wondering, except he’s Mr. Lincoln haunting the very place he
was murdered?” She shuddered. “Now we’re sure to be plagued with spirits and groanings and tappings in the night.”

Three soft taps broke the silence, and Anna stifled a cry.

“Excuse me, Mr. Drew.” Mrs. Devon poked her head into the room. “Mr. Dennison said I should come look after Anna, if you’ve done.”

“Yes, I think so, Mrs. D.” Drew helped Anna to her feet. “Go along with Mrs. Devon now. We’ll see to things down here. And if you think of something you didn’t tell me about, anything at all, you come tell me right away.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Drew. Thank you, sir.”

“Come along, dear,” Mrs. Devon said. “We’ll go and have a nice cup of tea and see if that doesn’t put things right.”

“It was awful, just awful.” Anna clung to her as they left the room, her voice still low and frightened. “I tell you, Mrs. D, he was lurkin’.”

Drew shut the door after them and sighed. “So much for our lovely evening out.”

“It was still a lovely evening,” Madeline assured him, slipping her slender hand into his. “You don’t suppose she really saw something, do you?”

“Not likely she and Peterson both dreamed it all up. Not on the same day. But we did check the house already.”

“I can’t help feeling a little unnerved now.” Shuddering a little, she nestled against him. “I suppose poor Anna could have just imagined it after the excitement this afternoon, couldn’t she?”

“True, she could.” He held her tightly, just for an instant, and then turned her face up to him. “Are you going to be all right on your own tonight? Shall I send Mrs. Devon to stay with you?”

“No, that isn’t necessary. I wish . . .” She pressed her face against his shoulder, and he lifted her chin once more.

“What did you say, darling?”

There was an extra touch of pink in her cheeks. “Don’t think badly of me, but I . . . I wish you could stay with me. I know you shouldn’t and you can’t, but I wish you could.”

Again he sighed. “I wish I could, too. No need to pretend otherwise. But best not play with fire, no matter how innocently it starts.”

“I know.” She stroked her fingers down the line of his jaw. “No matter how tempting it is.”

“Besides,” he added, “I wasn’t figuring on you discovering what a cad I am at least until our silver anniversary.”

“You never give up, do you?”

He grinned. “Do you want me to?”

She laughed, but there was a touch of longing in it. “You could still see me to my door, I suppose.”

“That I certainly can.” He tucked her arm under his. “And I can put a chair in the hall and watch it all night if you’d like.”

“What if someone comes in through the window?”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I’ll have to roust Nick out of his bed and get him to spend the night in the garden watching it.”

“Where is he, anyway? I thought he’d be the first one down when Anna screamed.”

“The man sleeps like a stone. Shall I go to his room and fetch him down?”

She laughed. “How about I just lock the door
and
the window and let both of you get your sleep?”

“Well, all right, but there’s not much thrill in that. Come on then.”

He accompanied her upstairs, and she left him at the door with no more than a peck on the cheek and a wistful glance.

Maddening.

T
he morning dawned bright and clear, and the sunshine gilded Farthering Place with a normalcy that was most welcome. The night before, once he had made sure Madeline was securely in her room, door locked, Drew had made another search of the house. In deference to the peaceful slumber of the other residents, it wasn’t as thorough as he would have liked, but he saw no sign of anything untoward. He had even taken a peek into the lumber room at the top of the house, but it had obviously not been disturbed for some time. Not since Christmas at the very least. In the darkness, he had also managed to upset a Grecian urn on a hallway table, wake one of the footmen, and only very narrowly escape a thrashing. Once everyone’s identity was sorted out and the contrite footman had returned to his bed, Drew had gone to his own.

Now he found himself rather eager to take Madeline into the village for Sunday services, another comfortingly ordinary event to counterbalance some of the recent unsettling goings-on at home. She had on a trig little frock made of some sort of gauzy material the color of Mrs. Beecham’s dog roses. It was modest
enough, showing just a fetching curve of calf and turn of ankle over dainty pink slippers, but it was still undeniably attractive.

Mason positively beamed as she walked between him and Drew, her arms linked in theirs, her eyes smiling up at them both.

Drew pressed her hand and looked away from those shining eyes. She might not forgive him if it happened that he was the one to prove her well-loved uncle a liar, thief, and murderer. He might not forgive himself. But the case was such a muddle yet. There was precious little evidence against Mason or anyone else.

The service itself was blandly forgettable. Old Bartlett, the vicar, had stumbled through the homily, expounding on a verse in the book of Revelation, the message to the church at Sardis: “I know thy works, that thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead.” Drew couldn’t really follow the tenuous connection the vicar was trying to make between the verse and his experience with fox hunting, but Madeline seemed to glean something from it. Perhaps, as she had said the night of the party, the Scripture had force in and of itself.

He considered the possibility that someone who was thought to be alive, alive to conscience and to honor, could in actuality be dead. Who really was as he seemed to others? His father hadn’t been. Neither had Constance. And Mason?

He glanced at Madeline as she joined in the closing hymn. No doubt she would need the stalwart assurance it promised if he were to destroy her faith in her uncle, and it was hardly likely she would turn to Drew himself for comfort under those circumstances. There had to be someone else worth suspecting, someone else with a name for honesty who was at heart a murdering scoundrel.

“. . . thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead.”

He could think of little else over the midday meal.

“You seem a bit off your feed, old man,” Nick observed as
Drew picked at his half-eaten lamb chop. “Something on your mind?”

“Oh, just things.” Drew forced a smile and took another bite of potato.

“Don’t you like your nice courgettes, Mr. Drew?” Mrs. Devon asked as she cleared away the plates for the next course. “Mr. Peterson brought them in just today. You couldn’t ask for better than that.”

“No,” Drew said, managing another smile. “No, you couldn’t.”

“Peterson’s a good fellow,” Nick said, “and an honest man of the soil, God bless him.”

“Hear, hear!” Mason lifted his glass in a toast, and, laughing, Madeline and Nick joined him.

An honest man. Drew had always known the little gardener to be plainspoken and honest. He had denied meeting Lincoln, but was that strictly the truth?

Drew decided to slip away for a quiet walk after lunch. Soon he found himself at the gardener’s cottage, a neat little thatched house with roses growing round the door. Madeline would have thought it perfect, too. Peterson ought to be finished with his Sunday dinner by now. Drew rang the bell, and soon the door opened to reveal a stocky little woman of middle age in an apron that looked as worn as she did.

Drew removed his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Peterson.”

“Mr. Drew. What a surprise.” Mrs. Peterson turned to call to her husband. “It’s Mr. Drew from up at the house.”

Peterson hurried to the door, struggling into his coat and smoothing down his shaggy hair.

“Mr. Drew! Come in, sir. Come in. I was just sleeping off the Sunday roast.”

“Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Peterson, but I was wondering if I might have a brief word with you.”

“Certainly, sir. Sit yourself down. Bring the gentleman some tea, Mother.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Peterson. I’ll be only a moment.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, taking Drew’s hat from him and laying it on a doily-covered side table. “I can have the kettle on in two ticks.”

“I’m most awfully grateful, to be sure. Perhaps another time.”

“Just as you say, sir. I’ll get back to my washing up then and leave the talk to you menfolk.”

“Sit yourself down,” Peterson repeated, showing Drew to a faded armchair near the hearth. “Do forgive the mess. We wasn’t expecting no company.”

He snatched up his newspaper, the only discernible mess in the spotless little room, and folded it up before seating himself in the straight-backed chair in the corner.

“You should have sent for me to come up to you, sir, instead of coming all this way.”

“‘All this way’ is little more than across the back lawn,” Drew said, smiling. “I don’t like to bother you on a Sunday, but I really must ask you about something, and I hope you won’t think it impertinent of me.”

“Don’t suppose I’ll know till I’m asked, will I, sir?”

“I suppose not.” Drew was glad for the other man’s good humor and hated the prospect of spoiling it. Well, there was nothing for it but to ask. “I’d like you to tell me about Opal.”

Peterson’s expression turned solemn, guarded. “What do you want to know?”

“Where is she, for a start.”

“I dunno. She left home over a year ago. Not a word since.”

“Why did she go?”

Peterson made a disgusted, huffing sort of sound. “Who knows with girls today? Nothing’s ever good enough for them.
They have to be swanning up to London and heaven knows where with bobbed hair and skirts hardly long enough for a child of six and faces painted up like circus clowns. She went because she wanted to is all I know. Said she fancied taking up the stage. Takes her fine ways from the cinema nowadays, I expect. Can’t look like a decent girl no more. Now it’s got to be Greeta Garbo and Marilyn Dietrich and that brassy Harlow girl or that Lucy Lucette having everybody chasing about looking for her. Well, if they find her, they can have her, I say, and welcome. And Opal as well.”

“I understand she was friends with Mr. Lincoln awhile back.”

Peterson shrugged. “Might have been. All I know is she never talked about who she went with, not to me. She certainly never brought him home to supper like any respectable girl would do.”

“Did they quarrel?”

“I wouldn’t know. All I know is she were moping about for a week or two, then she were off. Not so much as good luck and goodbye to them as raised her all these years.”

“You may as well tell him the truth, Arwel. He’s sure to find it out in time.” Mrs. Peterson stood slump-shouldered in the doorway to the kitchen, the platter from her best tea service wet and shining in her hands, along with a dish towel to dry it. “What’s done is done.”

“I can’t tell you much more anyhow, Mr. Drew.” Peterson’s voice was suddenly humble. “Girls are such silly creatures, and no amount of warning seems to keep them out of mischief. Yes, she were walking out with Lincoln. I told her it warn’t no more than a fancy of his that wouldn’t last the month, but she wouldn’t hear it. Well, I were wrong about that. It were nearly three month before he went his way, but not before he’d ruined her for good and all.”

“And she went up to London after that?”

“That’s right.”

“And she never brought him home to meet you?”

“No. Thought she might once, but he never turned up. The roast were burnt black.”

Drew nodded and then turned to Mrs. Peterson. “Pardon my asking, but I must know. Because of the case, you see. Was she . . . was she in trouble?”

Tears sprang to the woman’s dull eyes. “No, thank God. She would have told me, I know she would. But I thought she would come back by now. Or at least write.” She made a little sobbing noise, and Peterson went over and put his arm about his wife’s shoulders.

“Now, Mother, buck up. Buck up. If she’s decided to go on, we’d ought to let her be. We can’t make her stay forever.”

“I know, I know.” She blotted her face with her dish towel and then took an uneven breath and dredged up a quavering smile. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Drew. I shouldn’t let things get the better of me, I know I shouldn’t.”

“Not at all. Not at all. I must beg your pardon for bringing up such a painful subject.” Drew stood and took her hand, the one holding the dish towel. “If there’s any way I can be of help, Mrs. Peterson, do let me know. Promise?”

She closed her eyes, nodding a few times, and made a little curtsy. “It’s too good of you, Mr. Drew, I’m sure.”

“We’ll see to our own, sir,” Peterson said. “No need to trouble yourself, but thank you.”

Drew picked up his hat from the tiny side table. “Well, if there’s nothing more then—to do with the case, I mean—I suppose I’ll be off.”

Mrs. Peterson’s eyes filled with tears once again. “You don’t think our Opal would have anything to do with murder, do you, Mr. Drew?”

“No, no,” Drew assured her. “Not in the least. I just had to know about Lincoln, you see? If we know the sort of man he was, we’re more likely to find out why he was killed and by whom.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She sniffed and blotted her face again. “You . . . you won’t be telling anything about this, will you, sir? I mean, to anyone not in need of knowing. I don’t mean the police and such, if they were to ask.”

“You may rely on me, to be sure.”

“Mr. Drew,” Peterson said, “as you’re here, I’d like to show you something as might be of interest down to the shed.”

“Really? What is it?”

Peterson shrugged. “Might be nothing, but it’s better shown than told of.”

“All right then.” Drew gestured toward the shed. “Lead on.”

With a final farewell to Mrs. Peterson, Drew followed Peterson down the garden path.

“I didn’t want to cause Mrs. Peterson any further upset,” Drew said as they walked along, “but I would like to know where you were last Sunday but one. Bobby tells me that’s the only day you’ve been away since Christmas?”

“I didn’t like to say in front of the wife, sir.” Peterson hesitated, staring out over the fields and fidgeting with the striped braces that held up his trousers. “A mate of mine, chap called Clancy, was in the Queen Bess a month or so ago. He’d been up to London and happened to see our Opal there.”

“And?”

“She were . . . well, he said she were in one of them dancing halls, as they say, where the girls get a shilling a dance and heaven knows whatever else goes on.” Peterson’s face was red, and there was a tremor in his voice. “I couldn’t let the wife hear about that, as you can well imagine, sir, but she was visiting her aunt
a couple of Sundays ago, and as it were my day off, I thought I’d take the train up and see if I could find Opal.”

Drew said nothing, waiting for the man to go on.

“I found her, just where Clancy said, working in that place and living with five or six other girls crammed into a mean little flat not fit for pigs. She wouldn’t see me at first, but I pushed my way in, and there she were in a tatty old robe and slippers, looking thin and edgy and talking all shaky like, most faster than I could follow at times. What makes a girl like that? Maybe she were that mad at me. I don’t know.”

Drew kept his silence still. A man who’d rarely left the village in his entire life would not recognize the signs of cocaine addiction.

Peterson groaned. “I didn’t care. Not what she done nor where she was. I begged her to come back, said we’d take care of her and get her all rosy again here at home. I told her that her mother had wept over her this whole year, but all she did was laugh, kind of crazy-like. She said she were still going to be on the stage and one day she’d be rich enough that we would all live better than the king. It were like she couldn’t even tell the sty she were in.”

“And all this because of Lincoln,” Drew said, watching the other man’s expression.

“Lincoln?” Peterson spat on the pathway. “I’d say rather all this because of me. My wife, she don’t know it, but Opal and me quarreled, right after Lincoln threw her over. I told her she had no more than she deserved from him, and besides that, she were no better than she should be. What’s a girl to do when her own father don’t have no kindness for her? When she’s already hurt past her young heart bearing?”

“Did you tell her to go?”

“No,” Peterson said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Might as
well have done. I been that ashamed this year now to even tell the missus what I done. I thought I could make it right and bring Opal home, but she won’t have none of me now.”

Drew wanted to say something to comfort the man, something to assure him that his child would be home again in time, as soon as she came to herself, but he wasn’t as optimistic as that. There were too many of them, nice girls from good families, who tried the stuff for a lark and were never again free of it. A good many more than the ones who could take it or leave it alone.

“At least you tried,” he said finally. “She knows where you are if she decides to come home. There’s not much more you can do unless she wants to come.”

“It’s what my missus says. She says even God don’t make us come to Him if we’re dead set on living with swine, like the Good Book says about the prodigal son.”

“But He watches for us to come home and runs to meet us when we do.” Drew smiled a little to think he would remember that bit of his Sunday lessons in particular.

Peterson smiled faintly now, too. “True enough, sir. True enough. Here we are.”