The Green Remains (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

“Every thing, saith Epictetus, hath two handles, the one to be held by, the other not.”

— Robert Burton,
The Anatomy of Melancholy

9:15
PM

Daniel Rowley had almost finished in the lodge kitchen when Agnes sighed.

  “These long days at the end of the week aren’t good for my arthritis, but then staying home drives me crazy and doesn’t pay the bills,” she said, drying her hands on a towel.

  Daniel grunted in acknowledgment as he tied the last garbage bag shut in preparation for taking it out to the commercial bins. He watched Agnes take one last look around.

  “I like coming in mornings to a clean workspace, no doubt about it,” she told him, wiping a rag across the stainless steel countertop and using it to dry out the clean sinks. She threw the wet rag into a laundry hamper, then paused and sniffed hard. “What’s this, then?” She lifted the lid off a small bucket kept in the corner by the sinks.

  He waited for her yell.

  “Daniel! You’ve forgotten the compost bucket.” She was on a tear now. “Jings! You can’t remember anything. And I’ll not tell you again, if you don’t wash that greasy hair and beard, I’ll not be having you in my kitchen tomorrow night.”

  He finally found his tongue. “Relax, it’s on my list for tonight,” he told her, scooping up the bucket.

  “I know what’s on your list on a Friday night, and a good washing won’t be found at the pub. I mean what I’m saying, you minger.” With that firm pronouncement, Agnes tied a red kerchief around her grey curls. She pulled on a bulky cardigan and headed out the kitchen door. “Mind you lock the door behind you.”

  “Bloody bitch,” he muttered when he was certain Agnes was out of earshot. Dullard he might be, but he was lucky to have this scullery job and didn’t intend to lose it. He emptied the bucket into the outside compost pile, then rinsed it with the garden hose and left it drying on the end of the counter.

  Daniel stood at the head of the hall while counting slowly to a hundred on his fingers. Tiptoeing through the door and down the hallway to Simon’s door, he paused outside, one ear pressed against it.

  From inside came the murmur of voices. Daniel stole back across the hallway and entered the dining room. The tables were bare, the chairs placed upside-down on them, the floor swept clean. He crossed the darkened room by the light coming in from the main hall, and paused in the doorway. No movement came from either of the front rooms the guests used. The public had gone home, and the few lodgers were all upstairs in their rooms.

  Avoiding a floorboard he knew from past experience contained a persistent creak, Daniel approached the registration desk and opened the third drawer on the left. Lifting out a metal box, he picked the lock and rummaged under the credit card slips. Avoiding the large bills, he stuffed a few pound notes and a handful of coins in his pocket, then relocked the box and replaced it, sliding the drawer closed.

  When he returned to the kitchen, he turned out the lights and left the way the kitchen help should, by the back door, which he remembered to lock as he exited. He turned left, toward Jack Halsey and his other buddies waiting for him at The Scarlet Wench, where he was now prepared to enjoy himself on his employers.

*

9:25
PM

Nora basked in the warmth of the fire, listening to Kate and Simon talk about changing the Sunday lunch to a buffet in the future.

  “We can save money yet offer locals a more varied menu by serving a buffet,” Kate said. “If Keith’s plans go ahead, and Clarendon Hall eventually opens as an art center, people wanting a change from their menu would get served at a buffet much faster. If we have more guests dropping in to eat, we need to keep them moving along.”

  Simon pushed for keeping their current waitress service. “I can see updating the menu, but we do that seasonally anyway. I don’t want to encourage busloads of tourists to stream in here every Sunday, no matter what happens at the Hall. Besides, with Keith dead, who knows what will happen to those plans now?”

  With her eyes closed, Nora thought Simon sounded petulant, a new note for him, and came off as not the best business owner. Did his artistic side chafe at having to run the lodge? Their chat seemed amiable enough, but what would happen when Kate married, eventually had children and was less available to share their chores? Nora shook herself out of her state. It wasn’t her worry right now. She should go to bed or risk falling asleep in the comfortable chair by the fire.

  Nora said goodnight and left, crossing to her door. She stopped abruptly when she heard a noise. For a moment, she had the eerie feeling she was not alone. A door latch clicked into place somewhere down the hall; then there was silence.

  Nora swallowed and opened her door to the welcoming light next to her bed. She shut the door and calmed herself. Chiding herself for her foolishness, she felt her son waving. Could he be an Evan or a Rory? She put a hand on her belly to feel the movement, pushing back against him, and was rewarded with the responsive kick that never failed to thrill her. Then she thought of meeting Antonia Clarendon tomorrow and wondered if her pregnancy would upset the mother who’d just lost her son.

  Still feeling uneasy, she walked over to look out the French doors to the front of the lodge property. She saw a large figure cross the road beyond the garden and hurry away, and a feeling of menace ran through her.

Chapter Fourteen

“Whoever is spared personal pain must feel himself called upon to help in diminishing the pain of others.”

— Albert Schweitzer,
Memoirs of Childhood and Youth

Saturday, 23rd October

8:20
AM

Nora woke with the sense she’d been dreaming, but it faded as she sat up. Surprisingly, she’d had no nightmares of Keith that she remembered, and she resolved not to let the experience of finding Keith haunt her.

  She recalled the firelight etching shadows last night in the planes of the Ramseys’ faces before she’d left them in Simon’s sitting room. Nora envied them even their sparring, friendly as it was, a warm playfulness between a brother and a sister who respected and loved each other. She wondered if they ever had knock-down, drag-out fights. She also wondered how different her life would have been if she’d had a sibling to share it. Certainly, her guilt over her father’s death would have been assuaged sooner if she’d had a sister or brother to turn to. Despite her mother’s efforts to encourage Nora’s self-forgiveness, it had taken her years to feel she wasn’t the cause of her father’s death. He’d drowned while sailing alone after she’d turned down his invitation to accompany him in favor of a date whose name she’d long forgotten. She got out of bed, cradling her belly. The fact that he’d not know this child was one of her deepest regrets.

  Nora turned on the shower and heard a rumble as chairs were put into position in the dining room. Agnes knocked, then came in and left Nora’s tea; Nora called out her thanks. Should she mention the noises she heard or the person she saw last night? No, Ramsey Lodge was more than a hundred years old, a haven for creaks and noises. What she thought was a door click could have been the roof settling. And the figure could have been anyone—and not necessarily connected with the lodge. In the daylight, last night’s fears seemed more a reaction to the events of that day, reasonable as that was, and not anything concrete or reportable.

  Nora took her time in the shower, remembering that Kate had said she wanted to sleep in. As she dressed, Nora caught the smell of frying bacon and realized she was hungry. She added a scarf to the same old denim skirt and tunic blouse she’d been wearing far too long. It had taken a while to find a maternity skirt with pockets, and she didn’t want to spend money on a temporary wardrobe. Only a few weeks more, and she might contemplate getting back into her soft, washed-out jeans again.

  She entered the dining room, nodding to the guests she passed on her way to the table. Simon waved to her from across the room, where he stood at the kitchen door conferring with Agnes.

  It was close to 9
AM
when Kate joined her. Nora ordered a full English breakfast from Maeve, who’d decided to wait on them herself. She seemed dour today, wearing a crisp, white blouse and black skirt, doing double duty as a waitress.

  “Make that two, please. Did someone call in?” Kate asked.

  “Daisy has a cold,” Maeve answered, rolling her eyes to let them know what she thought of that excuse. She left to put in their order.

  Her curtness surprised both women. “I wish that woman would learn to smile even if she’s in a bad mood,” Kate sighed as she stirred honey into her tea. “She can look like she’s just lost her best friend.”

  “Maybe she has,” Nora countered, wondering if Maeve had been a friend of Keith’s. Who knew if they’d dated before Maeve’s crush on Simon? Both were single and good-looking; it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine it.

  “Perhaps you’re right. We never do know what others carry around, do we? I should be nicer to her.” Kate sipped her tea. “Ready to face the fortress later? I thought we’d walk to Clarendon Hall. It’s only a quarter of a mile, but a portion is uphill.”

  Nora brightened at the thought. “I can use the exercise. I’ll bring my camera, maybe get some shots of Belle Isle from up there.” She remembered what she’d been thinking before falling asleep the night before. “Kate, do you think my pregnancy will be a problem for anyone at the Hall?”

  “I really don’t think so,” Kate answered as Maeve appeared. “I believe they’ll appreciate your regards.” She paused as Maeve set their plates down. “Thank you, Maeve.”

  Not a blink from Maeve, who moved on to clear another table. So Maeve could be moody, Nora decided. Maybe that’s why Simon resisted her—if he had. Time to find out.

  “I wondered if Maeve and Keith dated and that’s why she’s upset today. Or even she and Simon?”

  Kate smiled. “Not for her lack of trying again with Simon. I never saw her with Keith, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  Again? Nora nodded. “I didn’t realize she and Simon had been an item.”

  Kate waved the thought away. “Eons ago, before he went to France. They had a few dates, but I got the impression she was too shallow for my dear brother.”

  That explained it—history that Maeve was trying to resurrect. Nora attacked her breakfast with relish, surprised at her hunger. When she was finished, she put her fork down with a sense of satisfaction.

  “I think the young man and I have had our fill of breakfast this morning. I’ll just get some air before we take that walk. You take your time here.”

  They agreed to meet at 10:30, and Nora left the dining room, exiting the main lodge door. The fresh morning air was bracing. She looked at the lake across the road and hesitated. She turned away, passing instead through the curved trellis draped with vines that led to the flower garden just outside her own room. Empty. With a grateful sigh, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Her baby was quiet this morning, just an occasional flutter to remind her of his presence—as if her constant backache could let her forget. Most evenings, her feet and ankles were swollen, but Dr. Ling, her obstetrician in nearby Windermere, assured her this was normal.

  Despite having ignored the lake, Nora thought of Keith and remembered clearly how his eyes had shone when he’d talked about the water he loved. Could he have chosen it deliberately as the place to spend his final moments, lulled to eternal sleep in its depths? But why would he have wanted to end his life? He seemed so positive, so filled with ideas for the future. If his death was at the hand of another, what had Keith done to provoke someone to kill him?

  Even though she was blameless, Nora wasn’t happy to be any part of Ian’s investigation. She knew being involved in a murder inquiry cast widening circles, like the ripples of a mud puddle, contaminating and infecting everyone within its reach. Nora slipped her feet out of her loafers and wiggled her toes. She wouldn’t be in the middle of another death investigation if she’d stayed at her job at the magazine, she thought ruefully.

  Nora remembered her last day at work before leaving for the Lake District. She wrinkled her nose with distaste when she recalled the morning spent reading a truly awful piece of Tony Warner’s on a new memorial being built for Princess Diana. Nora thought the readers of
People and Places
wanted the poor, dead princess to rest in peace so many years after her death as much as she did, but the Third Floor insisted that one article per issue highlight some royal, and Nora had stopped fighting the Third Floor early on in favor of her weekly paycheck. Tony’s stunted prose reflected the smugness he felt because a distant uncle was an earl. He also had the habit of coining new words he insisted were trendy, words Nora ruthlessly obliterated with her sharp, blue pencil. “Punkishness” would not be printed in any article edited by Nora Tierney.

  At least she didn’t have to deal with Tony Warner anymore. Supporting her heavy belly with her hands, she rose to retrieve her camera and steeled herself to face the bereaved parents.

Chapter Fifteen

“Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go …”

— Michael Drayton,
The Baron’s Wars

9:54
AM

In Oxford, Tony Warner received a phone call from his boss, Clive Jenkins, managing director of
People and Places
magazine. Jenkins had just heard the local BBC newscaster announce the death of Keith Clarendon, an employee of the Worth Travel Agency. He told Tony he had no difficulty placing the name of the pompous man who had brought them so much publicity when Nora Tierney won that contest.

  “I want you to drop everything and head to the Lake District to get an exclusive interview with Nora,” Jenkins told the reporter. “Find out everything you can about the death of the Clarendon heir.”

  Tony could picture his boss hurrying to retrieve his aluminum Zero Halliburton and pulling out his bulging Filofax to look up Tony’s home number. Publicity for the magazine took precedence over even Jenkins’ precious daily crossword.

  “Absolutely; no problem,” Tony told his boss. A few minutes later, Tony was on his laptop, looking up the quickest route to the Lake District. Jenkins’ call had stymied Tony’s plans to meet later with a lass who had once worked as a maid for Princess Anne, but he accepted this assignment with glee. The maid could be postponed—that story would keep. A good investigative reporter had to be flexible, ready the instant a story broke.

  Not only could Tony freelance this story to several papers, he would show that Tierney bitch and her blue pencil he knew how to write.

*

9:58
AM

In a flat in Nora’s old building in Oxford, Val Rogan had stepped out of the shower minutes before, in time to hear the same announcement of Keith Clarendon’s death. Val immediately recognized the name of the agency that had sponsored Nora’s contest and Keith’s name as the chap who had engineered it.

  She wrapped herself in a terry robe after carefully drying the tiny gold bar that pierced her left nipple, then blotted her short, dark hair with a towel and ran her fingers through it. Opening the first of a series of tiny boxes set out on a side table, she began searching through each of them successively for the note Nora had given her with the phone number of Ramsey Lodge.

*

9:59
AM

Nora was in her room, emailing her mother in Connecticut before leaving for the Clarendons. She pointedly left out the news of stumbling across Keith Clarendon’s body. It was doubtful that news would reach Ridgefield. When her mobile rang, she saw it was Val Rogan. Either her friend had heard the news of Keith’s death and was calling for details, or she had ESP.

  Val listened in surprise to Nora’s ordeal in finding Keith’s body. “I heard on the radio he’d died. I had no idea you were involved.”

  “I’m not involved, Val,” Nora insisted. “I merely stumbled over his body.”

  Val’s nurturing spirit kicked into gear. “That makes you involved. When do you want me? I can get coverage at the cooperative and be there later today.”

  “Thanks, Val, but I’m absolutely fine. Simon and Kate are taking good care of me, and Kate’s fiancé, Ian, is heading up the investigation.” Nora knew her friend couldn’t help but think about her own recent loss.

  Val took a deep breath. “It’s so sad. I remember when you won the contest. Keith seemed like a decent bloke. On the other hand, that agency he worked for—what’s its motto?”

  The two friends chorused: “It’s always Worth your while with us!”

  “Still,” Val said. “There must be something I can do. You want me to start snooping on this end?”

  Nora sighed. She didn’t want her friend getting into trouble, but Ian had said drugs were involved. What if Val was right, and Keith’s death was less than innocent? Still, she was having second thoughts about getting involved herself. “Hmmm. Remember how annoyed Declan was when I interfered in his case? I should let Ian handle this one; he’s in charge, after all, and I don’t want to get on his nerves.”

  “Since when did you grow a conscience? I’ll be discreet, but I think you need me to do a little sussing out right here in Oxford, Yankee.”

*

10:12
AM

Far out on the Woodstock Road, the same announcement had caused Keith’s Oxford associate, Glenn Hackney, to immediately lose his erection, much to the chagrin of his current bed partner, a rather hairy young man Glenn had picked up the night before.

  Once he’d thrown the guy out, changed his sheets and showered, Glenn Hackney, as he was known in his current occupation and guise, dressed quickly. He set out for the short drive to the Worth Travel Agency, his office keys in the pocket of his pressed jeans, an empty leather satchel on the seat beside him. Tall and sleek, with longish hair and a haughty manner, he was known to Scotland Yard by an entirely different name.

*

10:28
AM

At The Scarlet Wench, Daniel Rowley and his best pal, Jack Halsey, were back at their stools along the bar, almost still warm from last evening’s session. News of the death of the Clarendon heir dominated last night’s conversation and continued into today. The men had been at the door for a special early opening, prepared to drown their sorrows in a succession of real ales and wash down the sad fact that their favorite sport had come to an abrupt end.

  “No more noisy town meetings trying to squash KC’s development plans,” Daniel pronounced.

  “Those meetin’s won’t be the same without Keith to badger,” Jack agreed.

  The men shook their heads in agreement.

  “More time to spend in here, though,” Daniel noted.

  Jack raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that!”