Death by the Book (3 page)

“But your clothes—”

“I guess they have wash buckets in this country? And even dress shops?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then I don’t think that will be a problem. Now show me this cottage of yours.”

“But Drew—”

Drew took Madeline’s hand. “I think having your dear auntie to visit will be perfectly charming, darling. That way she and I can become great friends, and she’ll see you’re in no danger here whatsoever.”

“No danger.” Aunt Ruth smirked. “None besides the half-dozen murders, more or less, and who knows what other shenanigans that have gone on here.”

Drew pressed his lips together, and a shadow passed over his gray eyes. It had been not even two months since Mason was killed, and Madeline knew Drew still felt pain in the loss. And then there was Constance, murdered just a few days before that. Drew had told her of the guilt and regret that goaded him at every memory of her. Did Aunt Ruth have to trample those still-raw remembrances?

The heat in Madeline’s face intensified. “Please remember, Aunt Ruth, that besides being my uncle, Uncle Mason was Drew’s stepfather. We were both very fond of him, and his death came as a great shock. I met his wife, Constance, only the one time, but she was Drew’s mother. You can understand how he must feel. How we both feel.”

Drew managed a gracious smile. “It was a difficult time for all of us, Miss Jansen, as I’m sure you can well imagine. Surely you wouldn’t have wanted Madeline to travel all the way back to America on her own after such a loss.”

Aunt Ruth pursed her lips. “I suppose not, not right away, but she could have come home anytime this past month. How long did you think I’d be put off with those letters, Madeline? And time passing and us wondering only the Lord knows what you might be doing over here.” She sneered at Drew. “Society folk. I told your mother, God rest her, she had no business marrying a foreigner
and
an upper-crust bigwig to boot. At least your father, God rest him, didn’t take her back over here where we’d never see her again. But that uncle of yours, and God rest him too, I suppose, I was always afraid he was going to turn your head with his fancy falderals and riding horses and high-toned finishing school. Now I see he did after all.”

Madeline’s eyes stung. “Uncle Mason was like a father to me, and you know he was. After Daddy died, he tried his best to look after me, even if he couldn’t come see me that often.”

“
We
looked after you, your aunt Emily and I, and it was only right that we did.” Aunt Ruth looked away. “I’m sorry that wasn’t good enough.”

“I never said or thought any such thing. I know you both did everything in the world for me, and I’m more grateful than I can ever say.”

“All Em and I ever wanted was for you to grow up a fine Christian girl, and this is the thanks we get.”

Madeline sighed and didn’t reply. Obviously Aunt Ruth had made up her mind and wasn’t to be troubled with such paltry inconveniences as actual truth. Discretion being the better part of valor, Drew also said nothing.

Finally, Aunt Ruth rapped her cane on the marble floor. “Well, is there or is there not a cottage?”

Drew gave Aunt Ruth a determined smile. “Why don’t you show your aunt down there, Madeline, and I’ll see where Nick’s got to with your luggage. How would that be?”

A few minutes later, the two women were standing on the doorstep of Rose Cottage. It was a charming place, picture-postcard perfect, and Madeline smiled as she opened the green-painted door to the quaint little front room.

Aunt Ruth peered inside. “Not very big.”

“We won’t need a lot of space.” Madeline led her through to the bright kitchen. “I haven’t done much cooking since they take care of that up at the house, but we can, anytime we want to. Isn’t it sweet?”

“Humph.” Aunt Ruth stomped back into the front room. “Where’s the bedroom? Or do you not use the one here much, either?”

Madeline bit her lip, but whether it was to keep herself from crying or laughing, she wasn’t sure. “I’ve been using this one.” She pushed open the door to the room she’d been occupying, a nice airy space with a cozy bed and heaps of fresh down comforters and mullioned windows all along the back wall that flooded the place with light every morning. “But if you’d like, I can move to the other one.”

The second bedroom was much like the first, clean and bright and cheerful. Evidently even Aunt Ruth could find no fault with it.

“No need for you to change now,” the older woman grumbled. “I suppose the girl can put all your things back where they were until you come to your senses.”

Madeline squeezed her aunt’s hand. “You’ll see. It really is
lovely here.” Then, without warning, she pulled her aunt into a tight hug. “I am glad to see you again. I am really.”

Aunt Ruth stood stiff in her embrace, studying Madeline’s face, her own expression severe. Then she softened and stroked Madeline’s hair back from her temple.

“I just hope you don’t end up being sorry you were ever mixed up with this Farthering boy. If you are, I’m certainly not one to say I told you so. Now go find out who’s knocking at the door while I see what’s what in here.”

Madeline found Drew and Nick peering around the still-open front door. Nick looked especially wary.

“Is it safe?”

“Come in, you silly thing. Did you get it all?”

Nick nodded.

“All present and correct,” Drew said as he and Nick set down their burdens of bags and boxes. “After much persuasion, Anna is on her way to unpack for you.”

“Oh, good. Poor girl, Aunt Ruth must have scared her half out of her wits. And she’s taken such good care of me here so far.”

“I did have to give her a pound note to get her to come back.” Seeing the older woman come into the room, he winked at Madeline and put one finger to his lips and whispered, “Not a word.” He then turned and smiled at Aunt Ruth. “I trust everything is satisfactory, ma’am.”

She granted him a nod. “It’ll do. For now. I don’t suppose there’s such a thing as a telegraph office nearby.”

“Of course. You may come up to the house and telephone your message, or if you’d prefer to write it out, I’ll be happy to send someone down to the village with it.”

“I’ll take it myself.” She narrowed her eyes. “Just to make sure.”

“Certainly, ma’am. I’ll have the car brought round for you.”

She made a grudging little huff of acknowledgment. Then, seeing Anna had made a wary appearance, she began settling herself and her belongings into the cottage.

While Aunt Ruth was ordering Anna and Nick around, Madeline moved closer to Drew and lowered her voice. “It’s very nice of you, you know. Putting up with all this.”

“I’m a nice fellow. And as irrefutable proof, I brought you this, hot off the presses.” He took a little book from his coat pocket and presented it to her. “Haven’t even cracked the cover.”

“Oh, Drew! It’s the new Lord Peter.”

“And Harriet Vane, as well.”

Hugging the book to her chest, she leaned up and swiftly kissed his cheek. “And after I stole the last one from you.”

“I told you I was a nice fellow.”

“It might not do you any good, you know.”

He smiled the warm, lazy smile she loved. “They say trials build character, so there’s that at least.”

“Madeline!” Aunt Ruth stood in the doorway, hands on hips. “Come and see that all your things are put where you want them. Then you’ll be going to the village with me too, so say your goodbyes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Madeline sighed, and Drew squeezed her hand.

“Courage, darling. You’ve got Lord Peter to help you along for now.” He raised his voice for her aunt to hear, “We would be delighted to have you to dinner this evening, Miss Jansen.”

Aunt Ruth acknowledged the invitation and dismissed him with the same curt nod, and Madeline could only watch as he walked the path back toward the house. But before he disappeared, he turned and gave her that smile once more. It helped tremendously.

T
o say that Drew’s first dinner with the formidable Aunt Ruth was uncomfortable would be a rather mild assessment, but he gave thanks that it was little more than that. Between him and Nick and Madeline, they managed to keep the conversation pleasant, directed away from those subjects most likely to cause contention. So the topics of shifty-eyed foreigners, slick talkers, and morally bankrupt scoundrels being strictly off-limits, they were left to discuss the weather and Aunt Ruth’s difficult and dangerous first-class passage across the Atlantic via luxury liner. Drew found himself only occasionally wondering about who had murdered Quinton Montford, and each time he banished those thoughts, they became less and less insistent. After all, he wasn’t the police.

After three days, Aunt Ruth still managed to be only a little more than civil to Drew, but civility was an improvement nonetheless. Still, it was a bit wearing to feel like an intruder in one’s own home, and Drew decided an afternoon of golf would be a welcome change.

Nick and Bunny hadn’t arrived at the club by the time he got there. Roger’s car was parked outside, but Drew hadn’t yet seen the man himself. He decided to go ahead and change his clothes. He was early for their tee time after all. Perhaps a few practice shots wouldn’t come amiss.

Just as he got out of the Rolls, one of the caddies hurried up to him.

“Mr. Farthering, sir?”

“Yes?”

“A man asked me to give you this.”

Drew tossed the boy a half crown.

Would appreciate you joining me
on the first green.

The words were scrawled across the back of the card the boy had handed him. On the front, along with the official seal, it said
J
. T. BIRDSONG, Chief Inspector, Hampshire Constabulary.

Drew walked through the clubhouse. There seemed to be a lot of people standing about the club in little groups, talking in low voices and glancing toward the course.

“Good morning, young Farthering!”

Drew turned to see Mr. Llewellyn from the village among the onlookers.

“Good morning, sir. I didn’t know you played here.”

“Don’t play at all,” he said, chuckling. “But I do ride my bicycle through this way quite often. Saw there’d been some sort of row, so I thought I’d find out about it.”

“And?”

The old man scowled. “No one knows anything. People milling about, claiming a man was hit by a stray ball and killed outright. Shouldn’t be allowed, talking when one hasn’t a clue, yet they won’t let anyone near enough to see what did happen.
I may as well pedal myself on back to the village, eh? Tomorrow’s newspaper will be quicker than this.”

“I daresay.” Drew waved and made his way through to the course.

Several constables were holding back onlookers, and by the time Drew could see the first green, he didn’t need Birdsong to tell him anything. There was a body lying not two feet from the hole.

Drew removed his hat, grieved once again to look upon death.

The chief inspector managed a grim smile. “Ah, Detective Farthering. Good of you to come.”

“Not at all, Inspector. What’s happened?”

“Act Two, it would seem, of our little drama in Winchester last week. I thought perhaps another pair of eyes that saw the aftermath of the Montford murder might help us here.” Birdsong shrugged a little self-consciously. “Saw your car turn into the drive.”

Like the last time, there was a note on the body, secured by a hatpin through the heart. Judging by the amount of blood on the shirtfront, Drew assumed the man had first been stabbed in the same area.

He knelt to get a closer look. The victim was a placid-looking middle-aged man with a sedentary paunch in his jowls and belly. Rather well-off too, judging by his clothing. There were tobacco stains on his fingers and tiny burn holes in his coat.

Drew scanned the neatly clipped grass at his feet. It seemed pristine still. The body must have fallen where it lay. There were no marks that would have indicated it was dragged or even shifted much. It would take nerves of steel to stab a man here on the green at the first hole at three o’clock in the afternoon with dozens of potential witnesses.

Drew looked about again. The trees were a good ten or fifteen yards away. The clubhouse was in plain view. He gave a quick wave to the men sitting up there with their gin and tonic, and they were obliging enough to wave back. He hadn’t a clue who they were, but they could certainly see him.

How was it that no one seemed to have seen the murder?

“Do you have any idea what sort of weapon might have been used?” Drew asked.

“As best I can tell, something sharp and narrow-bladed,” the chief inspector offered. “Most likely the letter opener we found in the victim’s inside coat pocket. Common enough to be untraceable.”

“And the body was lying this way?”

“No. It was facedown, a bit doubled over. Impossible to see the blood or the wounds from any distance.”

Drew considered that and then the note itself.

Kentish wisdom would have
him paid so.

It was the same graceful writing, the same aged parchment as was used on Montford in the hotel room, fastened by another antique hatpin. This one was larger than the first and looked to be silver with an amethyst set into it. Drew read the words again. What did the killer mean by
Kentish wisdom
? And what had that to do with the first murder?

“‘Kentish wisdom would have him paid so,’” Drew murmured. “‘Advice to Jack.’”

What was the connection?

“I don’t know how I can help you, Inspector,” Drew said.

“You were involved with the first murder. Your solicitor.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say ‘involved.’ I merely had an appointment with the man. He was dead well before I arrived.”

“Fair enough,” Birdsong said. “But you were some little help
in that matter at Farthering Place. I thought perhaps you might have some observations on these current cases.”

Drew smiled faintly. “I see.”

Birdsong drew himself up with a sniff. “It’s part of my job to make use of any source of information as may become available in an investigation.”

“No need to be defensive, Inspector. If you want my help, all you need do is ask.”

Birdsong scowled. “No, I do
not
want your help,
Detective
Farthering. I do
not
want you mucking about interfering with my official duties. No, nor your friend, Nick Dennison. Nor your young lady. All I want is for you to tell me if you’ve noticed anything besides these blasted bits of writing that would connect the two murders.”

“The hatpins, of course.” Drew dropped to one knee again and peered at the body. “Both men middle-aged. Both appear to be professional men.”

“You didn’t know the man?”

“No. Should I have?”

“It’s your club, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t assume an acquaintance with each and every member, does it?”

“I suppose not.” Birdsong consulted his notes. “He was a doctor. Name of Corneau. Ever hear of him?”

Drew shook his head. “Do you know anything else about him? Where he lived? Where he had his surgery?”

“He lived in Chilcomb and practiced in Winchester.”

Drew frowned. “And no one here saw anything?”

“What they saw was Dr. Corneau playing the hole with his caddy. Next thing they knew, Corneau was on the ground and the caddy was running for the clubhouse, calling for a doctor. Claimed it was the man’s heart.”

“Have you talked to the caddy?”

“The man’s not to be found. Corneau’s regular boy was called away on some family urgency, and evidently this one took his place. No one at the clubhouse seems to know anything about him, and the manager claims all of his regulars are accounted for. None of them was out here with the doctor.”

Drew’s frown deepened. “So this unknown boy comes out to the clubhouse, waits until Corneau needs a caddy, gets himself hired on, and before the doctor can sink his first putt, stabs him through the heart and disappears. Why?”

Birdsong shook his head.

“And I suppose no one thought to detain the caddy.” Drew looked up at the clubhouse again, squinting against the afternoon sun. “The sun would have been behind anyone who was looking this way, so he’d have had a clear look. Did you get a description?”

“Not anything specific. Evidently no one really looks at a caddy. ‘Thin, tallish chap’ is all anyone’s said.”

“No one saw him when he came running into the clubhouse?”

Again the chief inspector shook his head. “Seems all the attention was on Corneau. This fellow ran in shouting and ran out again. Perfectly natural to think he was going after some help. By the time they all realized the doctor had been stabbed, the caddy was well away.”

“So no one could tell you what he looked like? What he was wearing? What he sounded like?”

“Not anything helpful,” Birdsong admitted. “He had a cap on, dressed like any of the other fellows who caddy here. Seems he had darkish hair, but no one’s overly certain about that. One of the men who saw him leave said he had a rather low voice. ‘Husky,’ he said it was, as if he’d had a sore throat or congestion.”

“Or didn’t want to be recognized.”

“There is that.”

Drew thought for a moment. “I suppose you’ve turned out his pockets. Might I see?”

“Griffiths,” the chief inspector called. “Bring me what you have.”

One of Birdsong’s men came up to them with a few small items bundled into a gentleman’s handkerchief.

“This is everything, sir.” He spread the handkerchief over the chief inspector’s outstretched hand, displaying the dead man’s possessions. “Certain he wasn’t robbed.”

Birdsong prodded a stack of three five-pound notes. “No, I’d say whoever did it wasn’t after money. Has Tompkins photographed this lot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then. Clear all these people away from here. I want everybody who’s not on police business back in the clubhouse.”

“Right away, sir.” The constable turned to the onlookers, shooing them away from the crime scene with both hands as if they were barnyard fowl. “That will be all, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll all have to go back inside now. Everyone, if you please.”

Birdsong turned his attention back to the items in hand. “Besides the notes, a pocket watch, a few shillings, matches, wedding ring, couple of tees, penknife, bit of pocket lint. Not much help.”

“No cigarettes?” Drew asked. “Or cigarette case?”

“Not that we found.”

Drew nodded, then turned his attention to the plain gold band. “I thought . . .” He looked down at the corpse. “I thought he had a ring on already.”

The band on the dead man’s left hand was similar to the one found in his pocket—of high quality but not ostentatious.

Birdsong narrowed his eyes. “You don’t reckon this was Montford’s, do you?”

“Might have been. Did his ever turn up?”

“No. No, it didn’t.”

Drew shrugged. “It’s obvious the two killings are connected. The messages, the hatpins.” He paused. “You don’t suppose this man, this doctor—”

“Corneau.”

“Right, Dr. Corneau. You don’t suppose he might have taken Montford’s ring for some reason.”

“You think he could be our Winchester killer?”

Drew shrugged. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility, is it? Then someone might have done for the good doctor to get vengeance.”

“A bit fanciful, don’t you think? Granted, if the doctor
is
a murderer, it stands to reason someone may want to kill him as a measure of payback. But why would he have killed Montford in the first place?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. But no, that doesn’t seem right at all. The notes are written in the same hand, I’d lay odds on that, and the same paper. Corneau couldn’t have written them both. More likely our killer brought Montford’s ring from Winchester and left it on Corneau.”

“But why?”

There was no humor in Drew’s low laugh. “We don’t even know for certain if it actually is Montford’s ring. Worth inquiring into, I expect.” He looked round and saw the men were there with the stretcher, waiting expectantly. “I suppose that’s all there is for now, but I’ll certainly keep my eyes and ears open, Inspector, and my mind working. Any flashes of brilliance will be immediately reported to you.”

Birdsong’s dour expression did not change. “I’ll have an extra man put on just to take your telephone calls. We really haven’t enough to keep us busy as it is.”

Drew gave him a sarcastic smile in return and then sobered as he looked down at Dr. Corneau for the final time, watching as the men carefully lifted his body onto the stretcher and covered it with a sheet. It was now just a sad, empty shell without the spirit it had housed.
God
have mercy.

Drew turned back to Birdsong. “What else do you know about the doctor? Did he have family?”

“According to one of club members here, he had a wife and three children, all grown, and a number of young grandchildren.” Birdsong hesitated. “Would you like to come to his surgery with me? Hear what his staff have to say?”

Drew nodded, trying not to look too surprised. “Yes, if I might.”

“Best come along, then.” Birdsong shook his head, watching the men with the body. “Always devilish sudden, aren’t they, these killings?”

“Devilish,” Drew murmured, and then Dr. Corneau was carried away as if he had never been.

There would be no more golf today.