A Pretty Deceit Page 15

  “Well, that’s something. I’ll see what I can do.” He paused and then added, “Is there a message I can relay to Ernest?”

  I’d already considered this, worried the missive I intended to ask Nimble to deliver to Max would not reach him in time. “Tell him to save me an 8-14-23-8-14-23,” I said, risking the use of a shorthand numerical code a number of us in the service had utilized when necessary to spell out the word pom-pom. Mrs. Pimlico’s brow furrowed in consternation, but then she shook her head and carried on with her watering.

  “And he’ll know what this means?” Alec asked doubtfully, letting me know he’d been able to decipher my code correctly.

  I couldn’t help but smile, remembering the first time Max and I had met, and the streamers his niece had affixed to the hood ornament of his Rolls-Royce. “Yes.”

  “Then leave it in my hands.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Being you, I expect there’s an interesting story behind all this,” he replied wryly.

  “There is.”

  “Then you can tell me all about it over a drink the next time we meet.”

  I agreed before ringing off, hoping I wasn’t making a promise I shouldn’t keep.

  I thanked Mrs. Pimlico for the use of her telephone and chatted with her about her plants for a moment before excusing myself.

  About an hour later, Sidney and I set off not by train, but in his Pierce-Arrow, motoring west. In a little less than three hours we once again drove up to the imposing edifice of Littlemote House, looking stolid and gloomy under the lowering skies. My aunt did not rush out to greet us this time, but Miles ushered us into the Elizabethan Room, where she sat waiting with her skirt spread wide over the gold chintz fabric of a settee. She made quite the regal, affronted picture, especially with her neck arched so that she could stare down her nose at us.

  Though I’d felt nothing but irritation at her moments before for diverting our plans, I couldn’t halt the twinge of pity that stirred in me seeing her seated in such a manner. She must truly feel vulnerable if she’d adopted such a contentious posture. Here she was, desperately grasping at anything she could control while her world turned upside down and spun out of her control.

  “This wasn’t my doing,” Reg murmured, having entered the room behind us.

  I turned to see his furious scowl. “It’s all right,” I assured him. The last thing this meeting needed was to start off with a confrontation.

  Tucking his walking stick under his arm, he reached out to grip my elbow lightly as I began to stride forward, an acknowledgment of the alterations to the room our presence may have wrought. I guided him toward the wingback chair he seemed to favor before crossing to my aunt and bending to press a kiss to her cheek. “Good afternoon, Aunt Ernestine. That tea gown looks lovely on you.”

  She glanced down at the navy-blue brushed silk. “Thank you, my dear.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “Your uncle also seemed to like me in it best.”

  I could imagine why. It did make her appear quite formidable—every inch a baronet’s wife. Her armor, so to speak. But she had no need of it. Not with me anyway, and I knew Sidney would follow my lead. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as well before retreating to the other wingback chair.

  “Now, what is this about Mrs. Green being arrested for her husband’s murder?” I declared as I removed my gloves and hat, and laid them on the table next to the settee with my handbag. “Have the police already uncovered enough evidence to do so?”

  “They seem to think so, but I am not convinced,” she replied.

  “Only because Miss Musselwhite isn’t,” Reg protested.

  “Well, Miss Musselwhite would know, wouldn’t she? Mrs. Green is her sister.”

  “And so her opinion is biased.”

  “Why isn’t she convinced?” I raised my voice to ask, then had a better thought. “May we speak with her?”

  My aunt considered this request and then nodded. “Sidney, if you would?”

  My husband was already striding across the room to pull the tassel to summon Miles, and when he appeared, directed him to send Miss Musselwhite to us.

  I crossed my arms over my torso to clutch the opposite elbow with each hand, wishing the fire in the hearth burned a little brighter and warmer. “Have the police revealed how they think Mr. Green was killed?”

  My aunt leaned toward where I sat on the opposite end of the settee, her face starkly earnest. “Poison.”

  “They found cigarette butts soaking in a jar in their kitchen.” Reg’s voice rang with contempt. “Mrs. Green claimed she was making insecticide for her garden.”

  I frowned. “They believe he was poisoned by nicotine?” Surely the tests that must be conducted to determine such a thing were not finished yet, so they must be basing such a conclusion on other evidence. And yet . . .

  “Why does that bother you?” Sidney asked as he rejoined us.

  “Well, I thought nicotine poisoning was supposed to cause stomach upset.” My gaze shifted to Reg. “But we never found any vomit or other evidence of gastric troubles.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t do so in everyone,” my cousin pointed out. “Or maybe the evidence was elsewhere. After all, we didn’t search the entire park or the route he would have taken from his home in the village.”

  Except, surely he would have recognized something was wrong. If he’d begun vomiting or cramping on his way to Littlemote, other symptoms also would have occurred. So why had he continued on?

  It was possible he’d come from even deeper in the park, staggering away from the evidence of his gastrointestinal distress. But wouldn’t we still have smelled the evidence on him, perhaps faint, but noticeable? A dribble on his shirt or a foul scent about his mouth.

  “Is that the only evidence they have against her?” I asked.

  Reg scoffed. “That, and her screaming at him like a harpy for all the village to see.”

  But yelling didn’t equate to murdering. “What of the object in Mr. Green’s hand? And the earth that was disturbed? Have the police explained about those?”

  “Not to us,” my aunt replied as the door opened and Miss Musselwhite appeared, hovering in the doorway.

  “You wished to see me?” she asked, clasping her hands tightly before her.

  “Come closer, Miss Musselwhite. Don’t make me shout.” Aunt Ernestine’s voice might have been crisp, but it was evident she felt some affection for her maid, horrified though she might have been to know that it showed. “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Kent would like to ask you some questions about your sister.”

  Having risen from his chair, Sidney gestured for her to take it while he fetched from across the room a Hepplewhite chair from the table used for card-playing and carried it closer.

  “Oh,” she murmured uncertainly, perching on the very edge of the chair’s cushion. “What do you want to know?”

  Though she was slightly taller than average, her sparse frame and muted coloring made her seem smaller. She was no great beauty, but she was also far from homely, merely unremarkable. But to be fair, that might have been the result of her uniform, which consisted of a gray floral print gown covered in a white apron, with a white lace cap on her head. The gray and white washed out everything but her guinea-gold hair. Given the fact that most lady’s maids were allowed to wear simple dresses or cast-offs from their mistresses, I couldn’t help but wonder whether my aunt had insisted on this bland attire or Miss Musselwhite had chosen it herself.

  “We understand your sister has been arrested for her husband’s murder. That must be incredibly distressing,” I began sympathetically. “What’s been done with the children?”

  “My . . . my aunt is caring for them.”

  I nodded, relieved to hear they were somewhere safe. “But you don’t believe your sister did it?”

  “No, I. . . I don’t.” Her voice grew firmer with each word, perhaps recognizing we were not there to patronize her. “My sister and her husband had their problems, but she would never ha
ve killed him. She loved him.”

  Reg snorted. “She had a funny way of showing it.”

  Miss Musselwhite’s lips pursed and a telling crease formed between her brows when she looked at my cousin, one that seemed to indicate some deeper emotion she was trying to hide. I suspected she didn’t like him very much, but one didn’t openly display aversion for one’s employer, or one’s employer’s son.

  “Yes, they fought a great deal.” She sighed. “And rather openly. But that’s because she loved him so desperately.” She strained forward in her seat as if to make us understand. “Don’t you see? She was terrified of losing him. So it simply can’t be her. It can’t!”

  “I can appreciate why you believe that,” I replied gently. “But it was evident from your sister’s behavior the morning after that she had been drinking the night her husband died.”

  Her eyes dropped to her lap, her face flushing.

  “As I understand it, she does so often. And liquor can make people behave in ways they never would otherwise.”

  I’d thought Miss Musselwhite was struggling to contain her embarrassment, either on behalf of her sister or their family. But when she lifted her gaze from where she’d clasped her hands together, the knuckles turning white, I realized the color in her cheeks wasn’t due to shame but anger.

  “Yes, my sister drank too much,” she bit out. “And yes, she yelled at her husband. But it was out of fear, not hatred. Frank understood that. He understood all of it. The war was too much for Tilly. She couldn’t cope with his being gone for so long, and being in so much danger. Eventually the distraction of caring for their children wasn’t enough.” Her eyes flashed. “If Frank can see it, if Frank can comprehend, then why should it be anyone else’s business?!”

  “Because Frank Green is now dead,” Reg stated flatly before I could say something more diplomatic.

  Aunt Ernestine scowled at him, little good it did since he couldn’t see her.

  “You are right,” Sidney told Miss Musselwhite, though he seemed to be directing his voice at Reg, for the tone was similar to what he must have utilized in the trenches to keep his men in line. “Her drinking and their arguments are not necessarily an indication of strife in the marriage, or a motive for murder.” His voice moderated. “And the police must recognize this, as well. So what of these cigarette butts they found soaking in water? Is it true she made insecticide from them?”

  “Yes, she learned the trick from our mother.” She shrugged. “Why pay for the nicotine solution when you can make it for free from your husband’s discarded cigarette butts? She always had a jar on the shelf above her sink, where she collected the butts until she had enough to make the repellent.”

  “What does she do with them during winter?” my aunt asked.

  “Store them, I presume, like Mother. Until spring.”

  I looked toward the window, contemplating the overcast sky. I imagined there was just enough time left in the growing season that Mrs. Green would be able to use another batch. Except . . . if she’d used that batch to poison her husband, then how were there more soaking in the jar? I supposed they could have been the same ones, but why keep them? Why not throw them in the fire and destroy any evidence you’d made the insecticide? There was always the possibility she had excess, but it seemed like a strange thing to do—preparing or keeping a second batch after poisoning your husband with the first.

  “What did she do during the war?” Sidney pondered, seemingly in idle curiosity. “While Mr. Green was gone.”

  Miss Musselwhite turned to study his face, perhaps surprised he’d asked. “Mr. Plank was kind enough to collect his butts for her. Even gathered some from the airmen, I believe, because Tilly always had more than enough.”

  Then Mr. Plank was aware of her insecticide recipe. For that matter, much of the village probably was, as well. Any of them could have used the same method to poison Mr. Green.

  That is, if nicotine was the culprit.

  “Do the police have any other evidence against your sister?” I asked, feeling uneasy about this revelation.

  She shook her head. “Not that they’ve shared with me.”

  I considered asking her about the item clutched in her brother-in-law’s dead hand and the disturbed ground, but I doubted she knew. I looked at my aunt, wondering how far she expected me to pursue this, whether I was about to tread where I shouldn’t.

  “If not your sister, then who do you think killed Mr. Green?” I questioned.

  Miss Musselwhite turned timorous. “Oh, I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come. You must have some suspicion.”

  She shook her head.

  I exhaled wearily. “Miss Musselwhite, I recognize why you’re hesitant to point the finger at someone else, but the best way you can help your sister is by helping us to understand why someone else would wish your brother-in-law dead.”

  Her gaze flicked nervously between her employer and her son before settling on a spot on the bare floor several feet in front of her. “Frank was also working for the airfield, helping to maintain their grounds.”

  “What?!” my aunt demanded, making her maid wince. “How? When?”

  “On his days off. And . . .” She hunched her shoulders. “In the early morning or late afternoon when he was less likely to be missed here.”

  In other words, he’d been working for the airfield while he was still supposed to be working at Littlemote—collecting two wages.

  My aunt harrumphed, drawing herself upright in outrage. “And you knew about this?”

  Miss Musselwhite nodded, her head still lowered in shame. “I told him he had to stop. That it was dishonest. But he said he had Tilly and the children to think about.”

  “How did Mr. Green travel back and forth to the airfield?” I asked, ignoring Aunt Ernestine’s continued exclamations of indignation in favor of a more pressing matter.

  Her gaze lifted to meet mine through her pale lashes, clearly understanding why I was asking. “Through the west park, over the bridge that spans the river to connect the airfield with Littlemote. He made repairs and improvements to it about a year ago.”

  The same way Minnie Spanswick had been able to rendezvous with her airman.

  “Then your brother-in-law often passed through the western portion of the estate park,” I clarified. “Which might explain what he was doing there in the early hours of Monday morning.”

  Except the old stablemaster, Mr. Plank, had said Mr. Green avoided the area, especially during the evening. If he worked at the airfield in the late afternoon, I didn’t see how he could avoid passing through the west park in the evening, especially during autumn and winter. Unless he’d been lying. Unless his talk of shadows and ghosts had all been for show, to keep others from venturing there.

  “You think his death might have something to do with the airfield, then?” Sidney asked Miss Musselwhite.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she demurred. “But if he was coming from there, perhaps?”

  I turned to see cold rain now splattered against the windows. Obviously we wouldn’t be traveling on to the Isle of Wight that day. Not when we had so many answers to uncover, and the weather was being uncooperative. I could only hope Max was enjoying an uneventful journey under the watchful eye of one of Alec’s associates, and the explanations to our questions about Mr. Green’s murder presented themselves swiftly. For resolved or not, Sidney and I were departing the following afternoon. We couldn’t afford to wait any longer than that to pursue the answer to the late Earl of Ryde’s riddle. Not with Ardmore’s men possibly hot on our tails.

  CHAPTER 13

  For all that my aunt claimed she wished me to handle the matter, she persisted to meddle. I had decided the first thing to be done was to speak with those members of the staff I thought might hold any answers for us, and I’d explained how they might be more willing to speak candidly without their employer looking over our shoulders, but my aunt still tried to demand she be present for their interviews
. Only Reg’s plea for her assistance convinced her to retire from the Elizabethan Room before the maid Opal arrived. I cast a grateful look his way before recalling he couldn’t see it.

  Opal edged into the room, wringing her apron before her. I beckoned her closer, and she scurried across the room before stopping abruptly to dip an awkward curtsey.

  “Please, have a seat,” I said, gesturing toward the chair Miss Musselwhite had vacated, while Sidney sat next to me on the settee.

  She eyed it with misgiving, before slowly sitting and then sliding back so that her toes barely touched the floor. I’d forgotten how petite the girl was, and how great a fright the discovery of Mr. Green’s body had given her. Dark circles ringed the eyes gazing warily up at us through long lashes.

  “This is my husband, Mr. Kent,” I told her, hoping she might perk up at the sight of his dark good looks, and I was not disappointed. A welcome flush of color rose in her cheeks. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you think you can help us?”

  She studied me a moment and then nodded.

  “Monday morning when you were sent to find Mr. Green, you said someone told you to look in the west garden. That he’d been making repairs to the ha-ha there.”

  She swallowed and nodded again. “Yes, ma’am. Harry told me. He’s the chauffeur.”

  “But when you got to the west garden, Mr. Green wasn’t there.”

  “No, ma’am. But I . . . I thought I saw someone in the distance, walking between the trees in the park. I thought it might be him, so I shouted. But he didn’t seem to hear me. So I followed him, and that’s when . . . when . . .”

  “Yes,” I replied, sparing her the necessity of saying the words. That’s when she’d found Mr. Green’s body. “But I thought you didn’t like going into the west park?”

  “Oh, that’s only at night.”

  “I see.”

  “The ghosts don’t haunt the park during the daytime,” she assured us.

  Sidney stilled at this pronouncement, and though I knew if I looked at him I wouldn’t be able to see any trace of cynicism, I could practically feel it rolling off him in waves.