Death by the Book (7 page)

She murmured her thanks and hurried away.

“So, Detective Farthering, what did you think of her?”

“I’m not quite sure. She doesn’t at all seem the murdering type, but so few murderers do. She’s not a very good liar, at any rate, but I’d take bets on one thing. She’s sure she’s lost the love of her life.”

Birdsong sagged in his chair. “She’s young, isn’t she? A girl like that should have people looking after her, father or brothers or someone to warn the old lechers off. Of course, they won’t let you look after them anymore. Not these modern girls. If I thought my Betty was carrying on with someone my age, why I’d . . .” He sat up straight again, fumbling with his notes and not looking Drew in the face. “But that’s neither here nor there. The Allen girl had an appointment with Montford at three, and that was when—”

“Perhaps there is something in that line of thought, Inspector. Suppose there
is
a father or a brother, an uncle or even just a bloke she went round with before she met Montford. Maybe this protector, whoever he might be, felt the same way about her as you do about your daughter. It would be enough motive for murder, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, I expect, except there isn’t anyone. No family. But we’ll do some investigating to see if she had a young man. As best we know at the moment, though, she’s all on her own.”

“Right. Any problem with my telling Mrs. Montford about this? I am in her employ in a manner of speaking.”

“You think she’d want to know?”

“She claims she does. Whether or not she believes it is another matter.”

The chief inspector shrugged. “Not very comforting news for a grieving widow, but do as you please, only no specifics. No need to give out the girl’s name and that.”

“You may rely on me, Inspector. And I’d like to hear about the boyfriend, if any such person exists.”

“Fair enough. Er . . .”

Drew lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the chief inspector to continue.

“You don’t think, well, the girl acted as though she were wondering about Montford’s wife and all. You don’t suppose—”

“I thought your men had spoken to Mrs. Montford already.”

“Yes, of course. She has a reasonable alibi, neatly verified by the staff.”

“Well, there you are. Of course, we can’t rule anyone out as yet, eh?” Drew put his hands behind his back and rocked a little on his heels in imitation of the chief inspector. “It’s early days yet. Early days.”

Birdsong’s expression held perhaps one part amusement to nine parts sour tolerance. “So it is.”

“One last favor, Inspector, if you’d be so kind.”

Birdsong narrowed his eyes, and Drew smiled.

“I’d like to use your telephone.”

T
he maid who answered the telephone at the Montford residence told Drew that Mrs. Montford would be pleased to receive him at any time that afternoon. He jotted down the address on the back of the envelope Birdsong had pushed helpfully toward him and was soon on his way. It wasn’t an errand to which he looked forward. From what he had seen of Mrs. Montford to date, she wasn’t likely to change her conviction that her husband had been always faithful to her and to his beliefs no matter what the police had
uncovered.

The house was a gracious three-story Georgian, the last one in a long, quiet streetful of homes much like itself. Drew rang the bell, and the door was almost immediately opened by a simpering young girl in a maid’s cap and apron. After he gave the girl his calling card, she showed him into a small sitting room that was as charming and feminine as its occupant.

He bent briefly over the hand the lady offered. “How are you this afternoon, Mrs. Montford?”

“I have my moments.” She smiled unconvincingly and fingered the pink chiffon sleeve of her dress, a touch of pain and pleading in her doe’s eyes. “Quint never liked me in black, you know, and I’m sure he’d hate seeing me in it now. He said it was a cruelty to widows to expect them to look grim when they already feel grim. I know that’s terribly scandalous, and I would never appear in public like this, but you don’t think it’s too awful just at home, do you? This was always one of his favorites. Wearing it makes me feel as though he’s just in the other room or on his way home from his office.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, ma’am. I only wish the information I have for you could be a comfort, as well.”

“You’ve found out something? Oh, forgive me. Please do sit down.”

He pulled up the delicate little Louis XVI chair she indicated, steeling himself for what he was about to do. “We’ve found the girl.”

There was a flicker in her dark eyes, but her face betrayed nothing. “The girl?”

“She works in a shop in Winchester. She had been meeting Mr. Montford at the Empire since March.”

Mrs. Montford’s chin quivered, and Drew was certain she was going to crumple into tears, but she only took a trembling breath and looked steadily at him. “I know that couldn’t have been the case.”

Drew cringed inwardly. “Mrs. Montford, I know this can hardly be pleasant for you to come to terms with, but the police know—”

“The police know only what some shopgirl has told them. What evidence do they have?”

“Only what the girl told them and what the hotel staff claim
to have seen. Are you saying he hadn’t made regular visits to Winchester over the past several months?”

“No, I can’t positively say he hadn’t. But I can’t say he had either. He never told me much about his work. He wanted to put that all behind him once he was at home with me. But I know he often met clients elsewhere if they were unable to come to his office. You were to have met him in Winchester yourself according to that Chief Inspector Birdsong. What’s so odd about that?”

“Nothing at all. But it hardly proves he wasn’t seeing the girl, does it?” Drew paused for a moment, then added, “Then again, I suppose it doesn’t exactly prove he was either.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Mrs. Montford let out a sigh. “You don’t understand. Quinton loved me. We’d been sweethearts since we were children. He would never betray me. I know he wouldn’t.”

“Why do you suppose the girl would lie?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Perhaps she thought it would be exciting, claiming to be a murdered man’s mistress. Or she wants to be in the newspapers. I don’t know.”

Drew made his voice as gentle as he could. “I’m not saying your husband didn’t love you. I’m only saying . . .” He struggled to find a way that would not add hurt to what she already had to bear. “We men can be a rather sorry lot at times. I know men, good men, who love their wives, and yet they strayed. I by no means excuse it, but it happens all the same. And I’m not saying this girl meant anything to him.”

She lifted her eyes to his, and her mouth was a firm line. “And I’m saying you don’t have any proof that he ever even met her. She says she knew him, that the two of them went to that place in Winchester several times over the past few months. Did anyone ever see them together? Do you even know what dates and times she claims they met?”

“I’ll grant you that much. She says she doesn’t remember the exact dates. And she says she used a variety of false names to register, so there’s really no way to track them down. And no, as of yet there’s no one who claims to have seen them together.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Rather suspect, isn’t it, once you give it a hard look? I just don’t know what this girl could hope to gain by lying other than a ruined reputation.”

“Whatever her reason, she
is
lying. She is.”

“That doesn’t explain how she knows about your son.”

She blinked. “My son?”

“She mentioned him when she was telling the chief inspector about Mr. Montford. If your husband didn’t know her, how would she know about the boy?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Perhaps she guessed. Most men Quinton’s age have children. A great many of them have sons.”

She dabbed her eyes with her lace handkerchief, and he felt very much the cad for having told her any of this.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Montford. I wish I had something more comforting to tell you.”

“What else have you found out?” she asked after a moment. “Do they know why someone would have killed him?”

“Just guesses at this point, I’m afraid. Possibly someone who didn’t like him seeing this girl. The police are still making inquiries.”

“I want to know, Mr. Farthering. I want you to find out why. And why this girl is lying about my husband.”

“Ma’am—”

“No, I won’t hear anything more about this girl and my husband being involved with each other. If he was killed because of her, how do you explain this Dr. Corneau being killed, as well? I suppose he was her lover, too.”

“They’re not sure why the doctor was murdered. There’s really nothing else I can—”

“Then give me the girl’s name and address. I’ll speak to her.”

The woman was nothing if not single-minded. Would Madeline be like that after twenty or thirty years of marriage? Drew was almost certain she would be, gentle and womanly and boned with steel. Smiling a little, he shook his head.

“You know very well I can’t do that, Mrs. Montford. If I were to tell you that, it would put an end to my already rather tenuous relationship with the police. They tolerate me, for the present at least, because I try not to interfere with their business and because I lend them a hand when I’m able. If I were to muck this up, as the chief inspector would say, that would be the last of it. No more inside information. No more viewing the evidence. No more being admitted to the scene of the crime. What good would I be to you then?”

She caught an eager little sobbing breath. “So you’ll keep trying?”

How could he refuse her? “I’ll find out what I can. If the girl is lying after all, I’ll find out why. Provided—”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“
Provided
you stay strictly out of it. Are we agreed?”

She nodded rapidly, but there was a brightness to her eyes that hadn’t been there when he first came in. “And you’ll tell me the moment you find out anything, no matter how small?”

He took the soft hand she held out to him. “The most monumentally infinitesimal item will be reported to you without delay.”

She pressed his hand before she released it, and her eyes were made even brighter with a glimmer of tears. That was all the thanks she could manage and, for the little he’d accomplished so far, more than he felt he deserved.

Madeline turned from the shelf where Mrs. Harkness kept books on lace making and other traditional crafts.

“And just
why
couldn’t she have done it?” She put her hands on her hips and looked up into Drew’s face, a challenge in her periwinkle-blue eyes and a defiant set to her mouth that made it not a whit less captivating than usual. “You never think women are capable of real crime.”

“That is not so. Just because I don’t think Mrs. Montford committed murder doesn’t mean I don’t think she possibly could have, farfetched as it seems. All women are quite notorious, and you’re the worst of the lot. I’m surprised old Birdsong hasn’t had you in custody for theft well before now.”

Madeline laughed. “Theft? What are you babbling about?”

He dropped his voice and leaned close enough to smell the light fragrance of her hair, glad to be with her now and not wrestling with questions about solicitors and shopgirls and golf-playing doctors. “I know you’ve stolen the heart of every man you’ve met here in Hampshire. In all of England, I’ll be bound.”

That brought a pretty color to her cheeks, but it took none of the contrariness out of her expression. “I mean it. You think every woman you meet is sweet and gentle and would never hurt anyone.”

He shook his head. “Oh, no. I’ve been taught to know better. I have the scars to prove it.”

He smiled when he said it, but in spite of his intended lightness, he knew there was a touch of rue in his face, in his voice, that she was quick to pick up on.

“I’ll want to know someday.”

It wasn’t a demand. Her tender words held only a desire to know and console, and he felt certain he could trust her with those little raw places he carried inside.

“Someday,” he said, and then he pulled away from her, coloring a little himself. “Ah, Mrs. Harkness, there you are.”

“Do forgive me interrupting you and the young lady, Mr. Farthering, but I couldn’t help overhearing just a bit of what you were discussing, and I thought this might interest you.”

Mrs. Harkness handed him a rather thick, scholarly looking tome entitled
Leave Her
to Heaven: Women and the Crimes They Commit
.

Drew looked at the book for a moment and then caught the older woman’s eye. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d stock such a thing here.”

“Not usually, no. I ordered it for a gentleman who was writing a book of his own. Some lurid murder mystery with a kindly old grandmother slaughtering her neighbors right and left and for no reason I could figure out. Frightful stuff.”

“Really? Someone from the village?”

She smiled faintly. “I told him I’d never say. You know how people talk, and he didn’t want everyone thinking, well, that he wasn’t quite right.”

Drew couldn’t help but laugh. “Did he ever have it published?”

“I think he’s abandoned the idea. He took up a new hobby and never came to collect the book. But I hate to even let you look at the thing. His bloodthirsty stuff was nothing worse than what’s in that book right there, and all of it from police files. I glanced at only a few pages, but it’s a wonder I slept all the next month. Women bludgeoning their flat mates, stabbing the boss, smothering the kiddies, poisoning old mum or dad.”
She shuddered. “If you want to know what all they did to their husbands, you’ll have to read it for yourself.”

“Sold.” Drew grinned. “And never let anyone tell you that you don’t tell a good tale.”

“Now, Mr. Farthering, you know what they say. Truth is stranger.” There was reproof in her expression, and a definite fondness, too. She turned to Madeline. “Did you find something you wanted, miss?”

“Yes, thank you. I think my aunt will enjoy this book on Irish lace making.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely one, isn’t it? And such good photographs.” Mrs. Harkness took the book from her as well as the one Drew was carrying. “I’ll just put these on the counter for you until you’ve finished having a look round, shall I? You’d better get used to it, Mr. Farthering. I know when I see a young lady who enjoys shopping.”

“I’ll make sure and keep a close watch.” Drew took Madeline’s arm and strolled over to the shelf that housed crime fiction. “Now, you suspicious character, which of these should we take along with us this time?”

“Hello there.”

They both turned at the decidedly American voice, and Madeline’s face was all-over smiles.

“Well, hello to you. What are you doing here? Oh, let me introduce you to Drew Farthering. Drew, this is Freddie Bell. I met him yesterday when I was out.”

Bell was one of those hearty-looking outdoor types, tall and blond and brashly good-natured. Drew offered his hand but not a smile.

“How do you do, Mr. Bell?”

“Call me Freddie.” Grinning, Bell pumped Drew’s arm as if
they were long-lost friends who hadn’t had a falling out. “And how are you today, Miss Parker? I took your advice and came to buy some picture postcards and a guidebook.”

“It’s a pretty area, isn’t it? Of course, Drew is always telling me there’s nothing to see here.”

“Tourists generally prefer somewhere a bit more exciting, don’t they?” Drew shrugged. “What can I say about dear Farthering St. John? ‘An ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own.’”

“You’re too modest, Mr. Farthering.” Bell had the audacity to wink at Madeline. “I’d say your little village has some very attractive features.”

Drew managed not to sneer. “How long before you have to leave? I’m sure there are many things you’ve yet to see here in England, and I’d hate for you to miss any of them. York or the Lake District perhaps? Hadrian’s Wall?”