A Pretty Deceit Page 16

  I recrossed my ankles and leaned toward her. “Then you’re certain the person you saw walking away from you was Mr. Green?”

  Her shoulders hunched and her head sank downward rather like a turtle retreating into her shell. “Well, I thought I saw someone. I . . . I thought it was Mr. Green. But I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong.”

  I suspected this reticence and uncertainty was the work of the police. For she’d not wavered over the facts the morning she’d found Mr. Green’s body. Whatever Inspector Titcomb had said to her, however forcefully he had questioned her on this point, had clearly unsettled her.

  “Could it have been someone else?” I coaxed gently. “Another estate worker or an airman, for instance?”

  Her head lifted slightly. “I suppose it could have been someone else.” Her brow furrowed, and then alarm widened her eyes. “You don’t think . . . ? Could it have been the murderer?” The last was gasped on a thread of sound.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I hastened to reassure her. “What did this person look like? Why did you think it was Mr. Green?”

  “I . . . I only saw their back. It was just a glimpse. And I was looking for Mr. Green, so I just assumed . . .” Her voice tightened with panic.

  “But it looked like a man?” I interrupted.

  “Yes.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Her eyes darted left and right as if she was searching her memory. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. A dark coat and pants, maybe.” Her eyes widened. “I don’t know.”

  Considering the fact that Mr. Green had been wearing a drab coat and rough umber trousers, this description wasn’t very reassuring. But then, I’d already suspected he’d been dead for some time when she found him, so if she had seen someone in the woods, it couldn’t have been Mr. Green.

  As to that, her fear seemed genuine. Unless she was as good an actress as the errant maid Minnie hoped to be—and I strongly doubted it—then she wasn’t lying about what she’d seen. But just to be sure.

  “Were you telling the truth when you said you’d never met up with any of the airmen at the edge of the estate? Not like Minnie used to.”

  Her chin dipped. “I didn’t want to say so in front of Agnes, but I did go once. On my day off. But it was before sunset, and I . . . I didn’t fancy the chap Minnie’s beau introduced me to.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He was dodgy.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  “I don’t know how to put it into words, but he gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. And my mum told me whenever a fellow did that it was best to steer clear of him.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. It was sound advice.

  “So you’ve never been back?”

  She shook her head.

  I turned to Sidney, and seeing he had nothing to add, dismissed the girl. But once she’d disappeared through the doorway, he found his words soon enough.

  “A ghost?” he asked, his voice ringing with skepticism.

  “Yes, apparently a number of the staff and surrounding villagers believe that the airfield was built on some ancient burial tomb—a barrow, or what have you—and the souls they disturbed now haunt the grounds.” I drummed my fingers on my thigh, still ruminating on the airmen Opal had mentioned. When Sidney did not speak again, but instead sat staring at me in derisive disbelief, I turned to scowl at him. “Oh, don’t be so disdainful. Local superstitions can have remarkable power over people. Sometimes it’s not always a matter of what’s true, but what people perceive to be so.”

  I sank wearily back against the cushions behind me. “Now, whether these ghosts hold any bearing on Mr. Green’s death or not, I don’t know. I doubt it. However, the rumors surrounding Froxfield are evidently quite pervasive. I asked Goldy about them, and he was well aware of the tale.”

  Sidney shifted so that his shoulder brushed against mine. “Well, what say we gather some more logical facts?”

  I gazed up at him sideways. “Divide and conquer?” Thus far it had proved the most efficient and effective manner of gathering information.

  “I’ll go see what I can find out from the police, and whether my war credentials convince them to cooperate.”

  Given Detective Inspector Titcomb’s reaction to my attempts to assist him in the glade where Mr. Green’s body had been found, I knew he had a much better chance of learning anything than I did. “Then I think I shall pay a visit to Dr. Razey. Perhaps he’ll share some of the police surgeon’s findings with me.” He’d seemed a reasonable man when I met him when he’d come to give my aunt her injection. As I understood it, he was great friends with the local police surgeon, who would have examined Mr. Green’s corpse, and often consulted with him on medical matters.

  “Oh, I’m quite certain you can convince him to share the police surgeon’s findings.” A teasing glint lit his eyes, reminding me he had also met Dr. Razey and witnessed his reaction to me. Though Dr. Razey hadn’t stammered precisely, he had seemed rather flummoxed by my presence and overly solicitous.

  I made a face. “Oh, stop. I am not going to flirt or turn coy with the man simply to gain information.”

  “I never supposed you would. I predict that any such ploys on your part are entirely unnecessary.” The amused curl of his lips told me he was enjoying teasing me about the physician’s interest in me far too much.

  “He is rather endearingly courteous.” I arched my chin. “Perhaps I’ll run away with him.”

  He laughed. “Please, Ver. If you didn’t leave me for Ryde or Xavier, you aren’t going to leave me for Dr. Razey.”

  “Odious man,” I retorted, pushing him to the side and rising to my feet.

  However, Sidney snagged me around the waist, dragging me back down onto his lap before tipping me back so that he could gaze down into my face. “Come now. It’s not my fault you fell in love with me.”

  I opened my mouth to make some withering remark, but he stopped it with a kiss. One that at first I refused to participate in, but then found I was helpless not to reciprocate. Not when his fingers trailed over the skin at the back of my neck and his lips caressed mine with such supple warmth. His teeth nipped my bottom lip and I gasped, nipping his back. And then I buried my fingers in his hair and gave myself over to the heat of his mouth and the artful dance of his tongue against mine.

  When he pulled back, I discovered that all trace of amusement had vanished from his eyes to be replaced with an intensity that seemed to suck all the air from my lungs, making it difficult to draw breath evenly.

  “And I thank God every day that you did,” he murmured, his calloused thumb trailing over my cheekbone.

  I exhaled raggedly and tightened my grip on his hair, pulling him back into the kiss.

  * * *

  Dr. Razey’s home and practice were located in a tidy red-brick house in a quiet street between the church and the town hall in Hungerford. Sidney waited long enough to be certain I was invited in before speeding off in his Pierce-Arrow toward the constabulary. Dr. Razey’s housekeeper, who couldn’t have been a day under sixty, possessed round, rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes beneath a mop of white hair restrained in a bun. She ushered me into the parlor to wait while Dr. Razey finished his consultation with another patient.

  My eyes widened at the unique art decorating the walls and side tables. Finely carved tribal masks hung beside brilliantly colored feathered headdresses, while beautifully weaved baskets rubbed elbows with ancient-looking ceramic sculptures. It was more than my mind could absorb in one single glance, and I was still taking it all in when Dr. Razey bustled through the doorway, his face wreathed in a smile.

  “Mrs. Kent, what a pleasant surprise.” He paused, acknowledging my rapt gaze. “Yes, it is quite impressive, isn’t it? It all belongs to my predecessor, Dr. Maslen, of course. As did this house. But he asked if I would look after his collection for him when I took over his practice and residence. He’s off to South America again, you know. To
the Amazon. It’s his true passion. And now that he’s retired, he has more time for it.”

  I nodded and he chuckled in recognition of this somewhat long-winded response.

  “In any case, I haven’t had the wherewithal yet to redecorate or to even attempt to package all this away. The locals are already used to it, so much of the time I forget how exotic it all is.” He grinned. “Except in situations like this. But I thought you and your husband had returned to London.” He turned as if searching for Sidney.

  “We had. But given recent developments, my aunt asked us to return.”

  “Oh, yes.” Some of the brightness dimmed from his eyes as he assessed my features, seeming to deduce the reason for my visit. “Why don’t you come into my office?” He gestured for me to proceed him, and then held open a door across the small corridor for me before closing it. “Please, have a seat.”

  I settled into the gently worn ladderback chair before his desk, suspecting from the patina of the wood it had cradled decades, if not centuries of bottoms. There was something comforting in that knowledge. Or perhaps it was my surroundings, for Dr. Razey’s office was far from cold and clinical. While the parlor still bore the marks of his predecessor, I somehow knew this space had been made over into his own. The usual certificates and licenses graced walls painted the softest shade of mint green, while the furniture was gracefully worn, like what one would normally find in an old aristocratic home. Cabinets lined one wall, with vials neatly arranged in rows behind the glass, and an examination table stood in the corner, its buttery leather draped in a crisp cloth. The clutter of paperwork was tidied into stacks on a sideboard behind him, leaving only a leather blotter on the surface of the desk between us.

  As Dr. Razey sank into the worn calfskin chair behind his desk, the leather creaking with age, I decided the space suited him. He certainly presented himself as a neat and efficient man. His brown hair was parted and combed, his clothes pressed and starched. I judged his age to be about thirty, which meant he’d likely been in the thick of it during the war. I would not have been surprised to hear he’d served with the Royal Army Medical Corp alongside my oldest brother, Freddy. That might have accounted for the orderliness. But there was also a depth of warmth and kindness that gleamed in his dark eyes and tamed the chill that so often accompanied such trimness. I suspected he’d been quite popular with his patients at the front, and just as much so with the female residents of Hungerford.

  He clasped his hands together and rested them on the desk before him. “I heard that Mrs. Green had been detained.” His eyes radiated sympathy.

  “Yes, her sister, Miss Musselwhite, is distraught. Which means my aunt is unsettled, as well. They’re both convinced she didn’t do it.”

  A vee formed between his brows. “I understand they found a nicotine concoction in her home.”

  “Yes, one that her sister insists she uses as an insecticide, and has done so for more than a decade.” I paused, searching his troubled expression. “It was nicotine poisoning, then, that killed him?”

  “The police won’t know that for certain until the toxicology of the samples the police surgeon collected can be tested, but it is a possibility.”

  I narrowed my eyes in contemplation. “I thought that nicotine poisoning caused stomach upset. Vomiting and such?”

  “Yes, well, usually. Though not always. I understand there wasn’t any evidence of such gastrointestinal distress found near the body, but it could have occurred elsewhere.” He hesitated, as if debating whether to say more. “I can tell you there was very little in his stomach at the time of his death.”

  Which meant that either he hadn’t eaten in some time or he had heaved it back up. But which was it?

  “Dr. Winslow thought that was indicative,” Dr. Razey added about his police surgeon colleague, but the tone of his voice suggested he himself was not as convinced.

  “I suppose there’s no doubt Mr. Green was poisoned?”

  He nodded once. “He died of respiratory failure, but it was not a natural death. His heart showed no signs of damage. He had no lung conditions or known illnesses. He’d suffered no injuries to his spine or chest.” He tilted his head to the side. “He did have an inflamed liver, but that seemed irrelevant to the cause of death.” He spread his hands wide. “Which left us with the conclusion the respiratory failure was induced.”

  I turned my head to gaze out the window at a boy trotting past with a dog following at his heels. The paper and twine package tucked under his arm suggested he was delivering a cut of meat from the butcher. “If the poison was nicotine, how long after he ingested it would it have begun to take effect?”

  “Perhaps thirty minutes.”

  “How long before he died?”

  I couldn’t tell if my question had shocked him, even as solemnly as I asked it, or if he was merely hesitant to discuss such a thing with a gently-reared woman, but it took a few seconds for him to answer. “It may have taken several hours.”

  I swallowed, envisioning the agony Mr. Green must have been in. Then, it was entirely possible he could have eaten the poison with his dinner—or at a pub or other establishment he might have visited that evening—vomited on the roadside on his way to Littlemote, and expired in its west park. But once he’d become ill, why hadn’t he turned back or sought help? I knew men could be stubborn about such things, but I could only imagine the pain must have been excruciating.

  Then another thought occurred to me. A vague remembrance of one of my mother’s friends telling us how her gardener had nearly killed himself by spilling insecticide on his skin. “Must the nicotine be ingested? Could it be absorbed through the skin or by an injection or something?”

  “Poisoning can occur by skin absorption,” he confirmed. “Also inhalation.” His gaze dipped to the desk in front of him, seemingly finished with his statement, but I could tell by the slight pursing of his mouth that he had more to say. The question was whether he would share it with me. Recognizing he was a conscientious person, I knew better than to try to verbally impel him. Instead, I waited for him to lift his gaze again to meet mine, communicating with my eyes that I could be trusted.

  He cleared his throat, reaching out to straighten the already square blotter. “It’s funny you should mention an injection.” His gaze darted up toward me before dropping again to the blotter. “Dr. Winslow noticed a prick in the skin of Mr. Green’s neck behind his right ear. He dismissed it as a superficial injury, but I wondered if it might have been made by the needle of a syringe.” He frowned. “Except nicotine isn’t injected.”

  I sat taller, remembering the small smear of blood I’d noted on Mr. Green’s neck in the glade. “What of another poison? Are there other toxins that induce respiratory failure that can be injected?”

  “Yes, dozens.” He shook his head. “But the police found Mrs. Green’s nicotine concoction. They say she has ample motive. And unless the toxicology tests show differently, the most likely conclusion is that Mr. Green died from nicotine poisoning.”

  I understood what he was saying. I even understood why the police had detained Mrs. Green. More often than not the simplest explanation was the right one. But if they were wrong, that meant the real culprit had already been given days to clean up after themselves.

  Dr. Razey and I chatted for a few more minutes about my aunt and the upcoming commemoration of the anniversary of the armistice until I saw Sidney’s distinctive carmine-red roadster pull up outside. He stood next to his motorcar, holding the door open for me as rain dripped from the brim of his hat while I thanked the doctor. Seeing Sidney’s cheeky grin as he raised his hand to wave at the physician, I glowered at him.

  “He was nothing but professional,” I snapped at my husband as he joined me inside the Pierce-Arrow.

  “Oh, I’m certain,” he drawled knowingly.

  I rolled my eyes. “What did you discover at the constabulary? Did Inspector Titcomb share anything with you?”

  “He did not.”

&n
bsp; I exhaled a breath of exasperated disappointment. “Well, I wasn’t expecting he would tell you much.”

  “But his constable did.”

  I turned to Sidney in surprise, just in time to see a smug smile curl his lips. “How did you manage that?”

  “When the inspector sent me on my way with a terse, but polite ‘go to hell’ . . .”

  “He didn’t actually say that, did he?”

  “Well, no. But that’s what he meant.” He expertly weaved through a narrow passage between two brick buildings and back out to the road leading to Littlemote. “In any case, I’d noticed how that young constable . . . Jones, I believe was his name. I’d noticed how his eyes lit up when I’d introduced myself. I gathered he was slightly too young to have served. He hadn’t lost that starry-eyed naïveté,” he muttered wryly. “So I decided to avail myself of the deep overhang along the southern side of the building, and no sooner had I lit one of my fags than he came shuffling around the corner.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much. Not before the inspector hollered at him to finish his break. But my cigarette managed to loosen his tongue enough for him to tell me that they managed to track most of Mr. Green’s movements the evening before his death.”

  I turned to him eagerly. “And?”

  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “And it’s not good for Mrs. Green. Their neighbor saw him leave their house around nine thirty, and several more people say they spotted him striding through town toward the road leading to Littlemote at correlating times. He never stopped at a pub or visited another home. At least, none between the Greens’ house and the outskirts of town.”

  I frowned out the rain-splattered window. “Didn’t any of them think it was odd for him to do such a thing?”

  “I asked the very same question, but apparently it wasn’t uncommon to see Mr. Green out walking at night. For that matter, I gather it’s not uncommon to see any of the local veterans doing so.”

  The hollow note in Sidney’s voice reminded me he understood precisely why they did so. There were some nights when I woke to find him wearing a hole in the carpet in our drawing room, or staring broodingly into the darkness. London’s streets were filled with many such night-walkers, trying to outpace whatever demons, whatever nightmares from the war still held them in their grip.