Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter 11

THE SUMMER HAD BEEN PERFECT. Warm days with gentle, playful
breezes and the right amount of rain had given West Yorkshire a summer so
exquisite that few old folks could remember a better one.

If any place epitomized an English country house in its
summer finery, it was Healy House. Originally built by a wealthy wool merchant
in 1569, it exhibited all the best of Elizabethan architecture. It was a
rambling, timber-framed house of twenty-three rooms and four clustered
chimneys.

Flower boxes filled with ivies, fuchsias and petunias of
every color festooned its front mullioned windows. Healy had a picture-postcard
location with pine-covered hills behind and a lovely section of the river
Calder meandering placidly through its foreground. The house and its environs
either made visitors feel like the luckiest of souls to behold its charms or
made them desperate to own it. Fortunately for Piers Cousins, its owner, the
majority of his guests that day were of the former disposition.

It was Cousins
’
father, John
Cousins, who was responsible for his son
’
s immense wealth.
He invented
Manly
, an aftershave made popular in the sixties but still
in demand today. The senior Cousins had a brilliant business mind and landed on
the idea of gifting his products to famous sports stars. By doing so, he became
the father of the celebrity endorsement idea and it had paid off nicely.

Cousins Senior bought Healy House and built four grass
tennis courts with which he intended to host tournaments with world-renowned
tennis pros benefiting both his pocket book and his business’
brand name.
Unfortunately for John Cousins, he died too young, leaving his estate to his
seven-year-old son, Piers. Once he came of age, Piers reinstated the yearly
invitation-only, private tennis tournament as a legacy to his father.

When Piers was invited to be on The Grange
’
s
board of directors, he graciously offered the tennis tournament as a
fundraiser. The usually private tennis tournament was opened to well-healed,
paying guests who could afford to mingle with tennis stars and other
celebrities. The money generated from the event allowed The Grange’s collection
acquisition committee to focus on purchasing only the best works currently
available in the world to buy. Needless to say, The Grange was creating quite a
name for itself in the museum world community.

Once again this year, everything for the tournament had been
planned to perfection and even the weather had complied nicely. Celebrities had
been photographed arriving in Birmingham
’
s airport with
captions in gossip papers about how they were attending Healy
’
s
famed and exclusive tennis party.

The tennis pros and their coaches had arrived and were
readying themselves for their matches. The public and press waited eagerly at
the entrance gates to catch sight of the famous and the infamous. Dark-suited
security officers patrolled the estate while caterers were busy managing the
dining facilities within immense, white billowing tents.

Martha and Helen arrived looking like typical summer lawn
tennis spectators. They wandered around to the refreshment tents for a glass of
chardonnay and a bowl full of summer berries with clotted cream while
surreptitiously eyeing the collection of who
’
s who.

Martha
’
s cell phone rang. The number displayed
was the Marsden-Lacey
’
s police station.

“This can
’
t be good,”
she said to Helen
as she answered the phone. “Hello, this is Martha Littleword speaking.”

“Mrs. Littleword, DCI Johns, Marsden-Lacey Police. I
’
m letting you know that until further notice I
’
ll
need you and Mrs. Ryes to stay in contact with the station. You
’
re
potential suspects in a murder investigation.”

“
Murder?
”
Martha said a bit too loudly.

Helen
’
s eyes flew open at the word and
a blueberry almost escaped from her mouth due to her dropped jaw.

“That
’
s right. Sir Carstons died in the
hospital. I need to be able to keep close tabs on everyone involved. You found
the body, so stay in town for awhile,”
Johns said. “Oh, yeah, I
’
ll be getting in touch
with your cohort, the Ryes woman, to tell her the same thing.”

“Don
’
t bother, Inspector. My cohort is
right here. I
’
ll tell her myself.”
Martha ended the call.

“He
’
s dead, isn
’
t he?
”
Helen asked in a whispery voice.

Martha could see what was coming but Helen went on.

“Oh, my God. Sir Carstons is dead. What if we had done more?
What if it
’
s our fault he didn
’
t make
it?”

“Don
’
t go there, Helen. It wasn
’
t our fault and we did everything we were able to do. I wish
old Johns could see you right now, then he would be absolutely convinced that
you aren
’
t a murderer.”

“What?”
Helen roared as people turned to look at them. “What do you mean ‘convinced
I
’
m not a murder?
’”

People in the dining tent whispered to each other while
throwing furtive glances at Martha and Helen.

“Okay, simmer down,”
Martha said in a firm but hushed voice. “He doesn
’
t
want us to leave the village for a short bit because we
’
re
potential suspects in a murder investigation. We need to stick around.”

“I can
’
t. I absolutely can
’
t stay any longer. First, my reservation is almost up at the
hotel from hell and I need to get back to Leeds to start work on some of these
conservation jobs.”
Helen
was taking the denial route.

Martha sat back in her chair and stirred the berries around
in their cream with a silver spoon. “You know what? You can stay with me. I
’
ve got a dog and a cat, though. Some people don
’
t
like animals in a house but they
’
re my kids now that Katie
is at Oxford. I
’
ve got plenty of room and it
’
s
definitely quieter than The Kings Way.”

Helen studied her new friend
’
s face,
looked down at her hands lying limply in her lap, and started to cry. “I feel
like things are so out of control, you know?”

Martha did see, and because she was a deeply nurturing soul,
she wanted to make Helen’s situation better somehow.

“Hey, it
’
s not all that bad,”
she coaxed. “We
’
ll have fun. Do you like pets?”
She patted Helen
’
s hand maternally.

“Yeess, I do.”
Helen sniffled using her table napkin to wipe her nose.

“Well, then, it
’
s settled. You
’
re staying with me until this thing is done and we can work
something out with Chief Inspector Johns about your work in Leeds. He’ll have
to work with us somehow.”

Martha picked up her purse and Helen dried her eyes. They
meandered around the beautiful grounds of Healy House like two old friends
visiting a pretty garden.

It was a fantasy land of natural and human-inspired beauty.
Their spirits picked up and they found themselves laughing at Martha
’
s story of her recent mugging in the market place by some
teenager. They were having a good time for being murder suspects and even had
high prospects for an enchanting evening with the handsome, eligible, and
wealthy prince of Healy, Piers Cousins.

Chapter 12

CHIEF INSPECTOR JOHNS SAT IN his chair at the police
station. He was off duty so he reached into the bottom drawer of the file
cabinet and pulled out a woman
’
s purse. It was a nice,
black number, discrete and something most women might have in their wardrobe.
This made it a perfect place in a police chief’s office to hide a bottle of
scotch whiskey. No one would ever look there.

He made a cup of black tea and added the whiskey. The phone
rang and he grimaced. It was like the universe enjoyed messing with him some
days.

He picked up the phone. “Johns, here,”
he said in a grumpy
tone.

“Sergeant Cross here, Chief Inspector. We have the forensic
reports on the Carstons
’
case. Looks like his head was smashed
in by a blunt object and it had to be a good sized one. We didn’t find anything
the day of the attack that might have been the murder weapon. Should I go back
again to The Grange and take a look around the garden?”

“Yeah, I
’
ll meet you there in thirty
minutes, Sergeant.”

This was Marsden-Lacey
’
s first murder
in six years and young Sergeant Cross could barely contain his enthusiasm. It
was like giving a kid his first bike, thought Johns as he swigged down the rest
of his tea, grabbed two cookies and stuffed them into his pocket. He wouldn't
be having dinner anytime soon, and he wished Cross wasn
’
t
so gung-ho. It would have been nice to stop into The Traveller
’
s
Inn and get something to eat tonight. Lilly would be working.

When he arrived at The Grange, Sergeant Cross was already
there and he signaled for Johns to join him by the rock wall overlooking the
hillside toward the village.

“Eager beaver,”
Johns thought to himself.

“Okay, Cross, what have you found?”
he asked.

“Sir, I think I should scramble down the side and take a
look. We’ve scouted the entire area except this hillside. Since it’s now a murder
investigation, we might see if anything was tossed over. I waited for you to
decide.”

“Go ahead, son. If you find something, leave it. We
’
ll need to call in forensics.”

Ten minutes later, as Johns sat on the stone wall outside
The Grange finishing his cookies and pondering the universe
’
s
sense of humor, Sergeant Cross called up jubilantly from the side of the hill.

“I found it, Sir! It
’
s matted with
blood!”

Johns looked down the slope. Sergeant Cross smiled up at him
like a puppy who had fetched his first ball.

“Get yourself up here. I
’
m calling
Thompson. His forensic team will take it from here.”

Johns looked down the hill at the young man scrambling up
towards him. He was a good kid and it had been nice for a change to work with
someone who still had a thrill for the job. Youthful enthusiasm could infect
even a cynic like Johns.

“Cross, nice job and good instincts,”
Johns gruffly complimented the young
detective.

“Thanks. Sir, there is one thing more. I saw a hefty-sized
rock with blood on it, but something else was with it.”

“Oh? What did you find?”
Cross had Johns
’
full attention.

“There appears to be a piece of paper stuck to the rock or
maybe a torn half of a check. I couldn’t tell exactly,”
Cross said. “It may have stuck to it
as it rolled down the hill, but I thought it might be of importance.”

“Could you make anything out on it?”

“Yes, Sir. It had a name. Said ‘Cousins.
’”

HELEN AND MARTHA WERE ENJOYING their tea time in one of the
open dining tents when Helen
’
s mobile rang.

“
Hello,
”
she said.

“Mrs. Ryes? Hello, this is Piers Cousins. I wanted to offer
you and Mrs. Littleword one of my guest rooms to rest in and refresh yourselves
before dinner. If you will come round by the small garden door, my housekeeper,
Mrs. Thyme will show you to your room.”

Helen smiled showing a dimple in her right cheek.

“Oh thank you. That would be lovely.”

She ended the call. “Looks like there
’
s
another treat in store for us today. Piers Cousins offered us a room to rest in
until dinner. Follow me.”

It was hard to suppress the excitement of seeing inside such
a wonderful house. They made their way to the house
’
s west
side but once they reached the door, Helen came to an abrupt stop. Waiting to
let himself through the gate was Mr. Louis Devry, The Grange
’
s curator.

“Mr. Devry? Hello,”
Helen said, surprised at seeing the missing curator.

“Mrs. Ryes, hello. How are you this afternoon? You must be
attending Piers
’
dinner tonight, too. It
’
s always wonderful to be at
Healy,”
Devry
said with a warm smile.

Louis Devry stood six feet tall and weighed about 190
pounds. His sandy blond hair was trimmed short in a conventional manner for men
and he looked to be in his mid-forties.

He had the accent of an Englishman who had spent a good deal
of his young life in America probably near Boston. He was dressed in a light
summer suit of grey with simple dark loafers and no wedding ring. On the whole,
he was a pleasant-looking man who looked over-tired and slightly worried.

“I
’
m so sorry, Mr. Devry, but have you
been made aware of the terrible incident which happened yesterday at The
Grange?”
Helen
asked.

“No, I
’
m sorry I had to leave yesterday
in a hurry. A care nurse telephoned from Oxton and said my mother was ill. I
went to her immediately.”

“Oh, I
’
m sorry to hear that and I hope
she
’
s doing better,”
Helen replied then pushed on. “Mr. Devry, I
’
m sorry
to tell you but there was a terrible attack on Sir Alan Carstons. He was found
senseless. Someone hit him in the head. The police came and he was taken to the
hospital. He…
died.
”

Louis Devry blinked at her like he couldn’t take in what she
had said. Without responding to her, he leaned back against the rock wall and
took his handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He wiped his forehead and
flushed visibly.

“Are you okay, Mr. Devry?”
Helen asked.

“Oh, Mrs. Ryes,”
he said breathlessly. “How did it happen?”

Helen glanced quickly at Martha who raised her eyebrows and
shrugged slightly as if to say, “Go ahead but I
’
m glad it
’
s you and not me.”

“No one knows exactly what happened but someone hit him from
behind. He didn
’
t regain consciousness at the hospital.
Maybe someone was trying to rob the museum. The police will probably want to
talk with you,”
Helen
finished.

“Of course.”
The exhaustion in Devry’s face intensified and he was looking unwell.

Martha, who had been fiddling with the gate
’
s
latch, finally worked the mechanism and the gate swung open. Helen and Devry
followed her into the small, walled garden.

Martha turned to Devry. “Mr. Devry, my name is Martha
Littleword. I was supposed to meet with you yesterday to take your statement. I
’
m with Partridge, Sims and Cuthbirt.”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Littleword. I am so sorry. Mary wasn
’
t around and once I got the call from my mother, everything
else went out of my mind. Would tomorrow be okay to try again?”

“Yes, thank you. Would three o
’
clock be
convenient?”

“I think that will work fine,”
Devry replied. This last bit was said with a vagueness which didn’t
inspire confidence in his remembering the next meeting any better than he had
the first.

They reached the flagstone patio to the rear of the house
and pulled the bell chain hanging beside a wide set of French doors. A small,
bright-eyed woman with a perfectly white apron opened the door.

“Louis. How are you? It is so good to see you again,”
she said with
warmth and obvious joy at seeing an old, much-loved visitor to Healy. Then
looking at Helen and Martha, she gave them a big smile, “And you must be the
guests Mr. Cousins told me about. I
’
m Mrs. Thyme, Mr.
Cousins
’
housekeeper. Follow me and I
’
ll show you your
rooms.”

They had been let into the back of the house along a
corridor flanked on one side by ornate, multi-paned clear windows and an
honey-colored, oak-paneled wall on the other. The sunlight dappled across the
flagstone floors and made shadows dance along the passageway. Soft tones of
green coming in from the garden gave the space a feeling of peacefulness and
timelessness.

Too soon, they came to a low door which opened into the main
hall. Mrs. Thyme gestured for the group to follow her up the stairs. She
merrily chatted about the day
’
s excitement and the number
of famous people staying in the house.

Louis Devry was shown his room where he said good-bye to
Martha and Helen, promising to see them later at the dinner. The girls followed
Mrs. Thyme to the end of the hallway. There she opened the door into an
exquisite bedroom.

Two mahogany twin beds sat side by side, each with canopies
made from a rose-patterned chintz fabric. In between the beds lived a small
Sheridan night stand with an exquisite brass student
’
s lamp
sporting a green shade. The old oak beams of the room
were blackened with age and stood out in contrast to the plaster of the walls
which was painted a simple, fresh butter color.

Every comfort had been considered by their host. Bottles of
water and a tin of chocolates were placed on the night stand with a small,
delicately-printed card which read:

“Stranger, what e’er thy land or creed or race,

Here rest awhile, there’s virtue in the place.” --
Anonymous

A beautiful bouquet of fresh, summer flowers had been placed
on a round cherry-wood table and a basket full of toiletries sat on a delicate,
ladies dressing table.

Martha moved towards the open windows. A gentle breeze
lifted her hair as she pulled aside the lace curtains and looked out onto the
manicured lawn which stretched down to the river and the pastures beyond.

Mrs. Thyme showed them the adjoining bath then reminded them
that dinner would be served at eight but cocktails started at seven. She let
herself out and with a soft click of the door, left Helen and Martha alone.

“Does this place give you an oddly wonderful feeling?”
Helen asked.

They could hear the cheers from the tennis matches still
taking place but the sound was muffled by the distance between the house and
the courts. There was an unspeakable pleasantness and peace that came from
relaxing in such a delightful room.

“Yes it does,”
Martha said in a slow, lazy way as she sat down on one of the beds and
fiddled with trying to open one of the chocolate tins. “It’s like I have
slipped off into a happy dream and I don
’
t want to wake
up.”

Helen watched Martha flip her shoes across the room. “I
know. It
’
s almost as if I
’
ve taken
some kind of tranquilizer and everything is how it
’
s
supposed to be. I get the feeling some people might do whatever it takes to
wrangle an invitation to visit Healy.”

“I think,”
Martha replied as she popped one of the chocolates from the opened tin
into her mouth and stretched out on the soft bed, wriggling her bare toes, “that
some people might take it further than an invitation, Helen. I think some
people might even commit murder to have Healy House.”