Rules of Murder (15 page)

“And was it? A bore?”

“Not half!” Nick chimed in, coming properly into the room. “There’s a secret passage from McCutcheon’s lab to the accounting department and to the directors’ offices. And maybe his accident was no accident. And he had a photograph of the same girl Lincoln had.”

“Marielle?”

“Seems so,” Drew admitted. “Although it’s not clear why. He may have been going to report Lincoln to the police, or they just might have been in on the whole thing together.”

“Why else would he have her photograph?” Madeline asked. “Strange, him and McCutcheon both being dead now.”

“It’s quite possible that Lincoln spilled the benzene on purpose and then escaped through the passageway.” Drew frowned. “Too bad McCutcheon died before Lincoln. Otherwise he’d be a prime suspect in our murders here.”

Nick sat himself on the divan and leaned toward her. “That secret passage at Farlinford, quite inappropriate according to Father Knox, but it’s there all the same.”

“And no one’s found it before now?”

Drew shook his head. “They’ve redone the offices, your uncle’s, Rushford’s, and Lincoln’s. Lincoln was in charge of the project. Looks as if he gave himself access to all the financial records, the other directors, and McCutcheon. The chief inspector will be quite interested in our discoveries, no doubt.”

“We tracked down the invoices for the builders, Chatterton and Son,” Nick said. “Of course, there is no Chatterton and Son.”

“And of course,” Drew added, “Lincoln authorized it all.”

“Could he do that?” Madeline asked. “Make those kinds of decisions by himself?”

Drew hesitated, not wanting to bring up anything that might prove unsettling to her.

“Well, could he?” she pressed.

“No, actually. The company is set up to require the signatures of two directors for unusual expenditures.” Again Drew hesitated, and then he took a deep breath. “The other signature was your uncle’s.”

Madeline’s eyes flashed. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“No, that doesn’t mean anything.” He squeezed her hand. “It doesn’t mean he knew what Lincoln was up to. Lincoln was put in charge of the project. It would be perfectly natural for him to have your uncle countersign the authorizations for it. Don’t let it trouble you, darling.”

She managed a trembling smile. “No, of course not.”

D
rew was forced to leave Madeline to her own devices all the next morning while he and Nick and Mr. Padgett took care of some estate business. Fortunately they were through by lunchtime, and he was quick to claim Madeline afterward. He found her in the library, intent on another book.

“Hullo,” Drew said.

She started and then laughed. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone who’s reading a murder mystery?”

“Sorry, darling. Who is it today?”

“Agatha Christie. Yours, I’m sure.”

She held up the book,
Peril at End House
, and he tried to take it from her.

“I didn’t pay seven and six for that only to have someone else read it first.”

“How much is that in real money?” she asked, smirking as she held it out of his reach.

“Now, now. Give me the book, there’s a good girl.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t even know it was here.”

“That’s as may be, but Mrs. Harkness at the bookshop always
sends me out the month’s selection from the Mystery Mavens’ Newsletter. It’s the only bright spot in my otherwise dreary existence.”

She seemed unmoved by his piteous expression, but there was a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

“You can have it after I’m finished.”

He sat on the divan beside her and tried to read over her shoulder, but she turned to block his view.

“Be fair,” he protested. “At least tell me what it’s about.”

“I’ve read only a few pages, but according to the dust jacket, it’s about a girl who lives in a run-down old house on the coast, and someone is trying to kill her.”

“Probably because she goes about taking other people’s books.”

Madeline made a face at him. “All right, I’ll read it to you. ‘No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St. Loo. It is well named the Queen of Watering Places and reminds one forcibly of—’”

He cleared his throat. “You know, this would be lovely if it were after dinner on a cold January night. But just now it’s far too nice out to stay indoors, isn’t it?”

She eyed him narrowly. “What did you have in mind?”

“I thought you might like to spend the afternoon with me. You’ve been shut up in the house with nothing to do all this time, and I was positively abominable to you yesterday.”

“And after you begged me to stay.”

He hung his head. “I’m quite paralyzed with self-recrimination.” Then he looked up at her, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Shall we take the grand tour? Farthering St. John and environs? Afternoon walking tour only a tanner, tuppence for the kiddies?”

“Oh, can we, please? I’ve been just dying to see it.”

“Then it’s high time you did.” He took the book from her,
set it on a side table, and tucked her arm under his. “Of course, you’re likely to be gawked at. We don’t see many strangers in Farthering St. John.”

As Drew had expected, they passed a few people along the road, people who looked at Madeline with unabashed curiosity but offered only a tip of a hat or a brief “good afternoon” before continuing on their way. But the lady working in the garden of one of the first houses they came to stopped her work and met them at her gate.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Farthering,” she said, brushing the dirt from her hands. “Lovely day.”

Drew tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Beecham. It is indeed. May I introduce Miss Parker? She’s staying with us at Farthering. Madeline, this is Mrs. Beecham. She grows the loveliest dog roses in all of Hampshire.”

“I can see she does,” Madeline said. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Beecham.”

The older woman’s round face glowed as she looked over the well-loved pale pink blooms. “Why, thank you, Miss Parker, though I’d rather call them briar roses. So much prettier, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes, I—”

“Aren’t you Mr. Parker’s niece? Poor Mr. Parker, and you, Mr. Farthering. I hope you’re getting on all right, now your mother’s gone. Mrs. Harkness from the bookshop was just asking after you. She’s so fond of you, dear. Anyway, such a shame a tragedy like that happening right there at Farthering Place.”

“Yes, certainly,” Drew said, and all at once the day didn’t seem so perfect. “Tell Mrs. Harkness we’re all very well, thank you.”

“And aren’t you a pretty thing?” Mrs. Beecham said to Madeline. “American, aren’t you? That’s a perfectly charming hat.
I don’t know why they say American girls have no style about them. Of course, I’ve never thought any such a thing, but you know how people talk.”

Drew cleared his throat. “Yes, well—”

“You know, I believe there are some Americans staying at the Queen Bess just now, Miss Parker. Do you know them?”

Madeline shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? I’m certain I heard they’re from America.”

“America is quite a large place, Mrs. Beecham,” Drew said pleasantly. “Who are they?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say, dear. I’ve got my garden to take care of, you see. I haven’t time for idle gossip. All I’ve heard is that they’re two Americans come to the Itchen to fish for trout, a Mr. Whiteside and a Mr. Flesch. Mr. Flesch lost his wife this spring, and his friend Mr. Whiteside, he’s in business of some sort, brought him here to cheer him up a bit because Mr. and Mrs. Flesch’s tickets couldn’t be exchanged. It’s understandable Mr. Flesch might want to keep a bit to himself, losing his missus and all, but Mr. Whiteside has been rather a favorite with the ladies of the Women’s Institute. Not a stripling anymore, you’d have to agree, but not one to give in to the rust and rot, as they say. Now there is a young man staying at the cottage Mrs. Chapman lets out, a Mr. Barker, but then he’s not an American at all, so I don’t suppose you’d know him, would you, dear? Are the two of you off to see the village?”

Seeing Madeline could manage only a bewildered smile after all that, Drew answered for them. “Miss Parker wanted to go down to the shops and all and take another look at the church.”

“Oh, my dear, do,” Mrs. Beecham told Madeline, gushing only minimally. “It’s not Winchester Cathedral, of course, but our little church can be quite charming in its own right.”

Madeline smiled. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Beecham,” Drew said, tipping his hat. “It’s been nice chatting with you.”

“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Beecham,” Madeline added as he turned her once more toward the village.

“Oh, do take her to Mrs. Leicester’s for tea!” Mrs. Beecham called after them. “She does a lovely sherry trifle!”

Drew didn’t look back. “Thank you, Mrs. Beecham. I’ll do that.”

“She was nice,” Madeline said once they were out of earshot.

“I’m certainly glad she doesn’t poke about in anyone’s business,” he said with a smile.

She giggled. “Be good. If you’re going to grow up to be a big detective someday, you’ll be lucky to have people like her who notice every detail, even if they don’t have a clue as to what those details mean.”

“You’re right as always, darling. Henceforward, I shall cherish the gossips, the busybodies, and the meddlers, binding them to my heart as with hoops of iron.”

They walked along the high street, and the houses eventually gave way to the little row of shops and other businesses that, along with the church and the train station, formed the center of the village.

Drew stopped and made a courtly bow before a two-storied building with black and white half-timbering, mullioned windows, and, swinging above the door, a weathered image of Queen Elizabeth herself, ruff and all.

“The Royal Elizabeth Inn, my lady, known locally as the Queen Bess.”

Madeline looked up at the sagging roof. “Is it going to fall down?”

“It’s managed to stand, by one means or other, since its
namesake wore the crown. And that, my dear, was well over three hundred years ago.”

“That’s not three hundred years old,” she said, pointing to the addition at the right side of the building that more than doubled the inn’s size.

“That? No, that’s practically brand-new. Mr. Muns, the proprietor, tells me his grandfather added it on about thirty years ago. Shall we go call on your friends, the fishermen?”

Madeline giggled. “Does she think I know everyone in America?”

Drew squeezed her hand. “Well, she’s a good old soul, even if she does mind everyone’s business but her own.”

“Someone’s up to no good,” Madeline observed, looking above and behind him, and Drew turned to see a scrawny little boy climbing down the trellis at the back of the inn.

“Hi there!” Drew called. Panicked, the boy dropped into the back garden and out of sight.

“What do you think he was after up there?” Madeline asked.

“There’s no telling with small boys.”

She took his arm again. “As you prove every day.”

He grinned. “Shall we take Mrs. Beecham’s advice about the trifle?” He looked up at Holy Trinity’s tower. “‘Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?’”

She pursed her lips. “It’s only twenty after two.”

“I promise not to tell if you won’t.”

“I do still want to see the church and some of the stores,” she said. “They won’t be closed, will they?”

“Not for a while yet. And though it’s rather early, we’ll be all the better for a bit of nourishment.”

“Is it nearby?”

“Just across the corner there.” Drew pointed out another half-timbered building set snugly between the tobacconist’s and the post office, this one considerably smaller than the Queen Bess.

“All right. It might be a good idea, after all.” She looked ruefully at her little buff-colored pumps, now smudged with dust and grime. “I knew I should have worn my walking shoes. Next time I’ll be better prepared.”

He took her arm and escorted her across the way. “I’m sure it’s nothing a nice cup of tea won’t put right.”

The sign above the shop read
The Rose Garden
and, in smaller letters,
Cream Teas.
The inside was all lace curtains, crocheted doilies, and bone china with ladylike floral patterns and gilt edges. It was exactly what Madeline would expect it to be, and he was certain she would love it. Six tiny tables were all the room would hold. None of them was currently occupied.

“Hullo, Mr. Farthering,” the waitress said, flashing brazen blue eyes at him, and then she looked Madeline up and down and her expression turned very cool indeed. “Two of you then?”

“Yes, thank you, Kitty.”

The girl showed them to the table in front of the window. “Will you have the cream tea or would you like to see a menu?”

“The tea would be lovely, thanks,” Drew said. “And perhaps some of your watercress sandwiches. Or do you prefer cucumber, darling?”

“Just tea for me,” Madeline decided. “I want to try some of that trifle Mrs. Beecham was talking about, even if I’m not really sure what it is.”

Kitty smirked. “It’s sponge cake soaked in brandy, miss, with strawberry preserves, custard and cream.”

“Is it as good as Mrs. Beecham says?”

“I hope so, miss,” the girl said, her smug look belying her modest words. “I hate to say with my own cooking.”

She strolled back into the kitchen, swinging her lithe hips.

“That’s old Mrs. Leicester?” Madeline gasped, lowering her voice.

“No, old Mrs. Leicester died eight months ago. That is the new Mrs. Leicester.”

“Why, she couldn’t be more than twenty-two.”

“A fact of which I believe old Mr. Leicester is most appreciative.”

Madeline shrugged. “He might not be so appreciative if he saw the way she looked at you.”

“You needn’t worry, darling. I’m certainly not looking back.” He put his hand over hers. “Not as long as I have someone so much more attractive to look at.”

A touch of pinkness came into her cheeks, but she bit her lip. “She’s not someone you, um, used to know, is she?”

“Please, give me a bit of credit here.”

“She is pretty,” Madeline admitted. “Well, prettyish. In an obvious sort of way.”

“That may be so, and she certainly can cook.”

“Yes,” Madeline drawled, “I bet she can.”

No sooner had Kitty brought in their tea and scones, flirting outrageously with Drew as she did, than the little bell above the front door jingled and the door opened to admit three stout middle-aged ladies and a florid-looking older gentleman with a white mustache. The man was smiling roguishly, and the ladies were all tittering like schoolgirls.

“Four, please, Kitty,” one of the women said, and she giggled again when the man said something too low for anyone else to hear. Frowning, Kitty excused herself to see to them.

“What do you eat in a place like this?” the man asked, befuddled, and Drew and Madeline looked at each other, trying not to laugh as they realized who he must be.

“One of your fishermen, by his accent,” Drew murmured, spreading a generous amount of clotted cream and strawberry jam on a bite of scone.

“They’re not my fishermen,” Madeline hissed.

“At any rate, he certainly can’t be the recently bereaved Mr. Flesch. At least he oughtn’t to be. So that leaves only jaunty Mr. Whiteside.” The group at the table across the way burst into fresh gales of laughter, and Drew nodded. “Decidedly Mr. Whiteside. Shall we introduce ourselves?”

Madeline sighed. “I suppose we might as well. Everyone seems to assume I know him, anyway. But I want my trifle first.”

Once they had finished their tea and scones, along with a generous portion of very excellent sherry trifle, they went over to the other table.

“Good afternoon, ladies, lovely to see you all,” Drew began, bowing slightly. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I couldn’t help noticing that you’re from America, and I thought you might want to meet a countrywoman of yours.”

The older man stood, and his face split into a wide smile. “Well, sure I would.”

“I’m Drew Farthering, and this is Miss Madeline Parker from Chicago.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Whiteside said, swallowing up her hand in both of his. “My name’s Whiteside. Jonas Whiteside.”

Madeline returned his smile. “Hello.”

“Jonas Whiteside, the architect?” Drew asked, and then he shook his head. “Of course! You don’t know me, sir, but I believe you’ve done some work here and in Canada for our company, Farlinford Processing, haven’t you?”