Chapter Four
O ver breakfast, Sir Humphrey offered to take them to Fairfield Grange in the carriage. Constance asked if they could walk instead, since she and Solomon were eager to see what other dwellings might be nearby on the same route.
“How far is it to the village?” she asked, pausing to glance back in that direction.
“Only about a mile.”
At the foot of a gentle incline—at least the path that she could see. It would be hard work pushing a dead person in a wheelbarrow up the slope as far as the lake. But then, it would be hard work from any direction. Bodies were not light. On those grounds alone, no one should even be considering Elizabeth.
“Who lives there?” Solomon asked ten minutes or so later, pointing ahead a few yards and to the left.
Constance could not even see a dwelling of any kind, only the hedge at the side of the road. Solomon, of course, had the height to see over it.
“A local character, you might say,” Sir Humphrey replied with an odd dryness. “Mrs. Phelps. She’s my tenant, with nominal rent, for a tiny farm. She was the village blacksmith’s wife, and when he died, a nephew inherited the smithy and threw her out. She had nowhere to go. So we let her have this pocket of land, and she makes it work. The kind call her eccentric. Others call her mad as a bag of frogs.”
“What do you call her?” Constance asked.
“Madam,” he replied.
“Can we speak to her?”
“That’s rather up to her, but we can see if she’s at home.”
As soon as they turned through a gap in the hedge, it was clear Mrs. Phelps was indeed at home. A large woman of at least fifty years, although her weathered face looked more like sixty, was chopping wood in the yard of a small, neat cottage. She swung her axe with such easy and effective energy that the first thought that struck Constance was that this woman had the strength and the muscles to carry anybody’s dead body anywhere.
Mrs. Phelps ignored their approach until the log was cut into the number of pieces she wanted, then she straightened, scowling.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said to her landlord without noticeable respect, though she managed a curt nod. Although she didn’t appear to be obviously out of breath, she wheezed faintly. “Morning.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Phelps. Just showing my guests around. Going to call at the Grange and stopped to say good morning to you.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously, glowering at Solomon and Constance.
“Curiosity,” Constance said at once. “Sir Humphrey told us you run your farm all by yourself. I run my own business, too, so I was interested.”
Mrs. Phelps let out a cackle. “You don’t look like a farmer to me.”
“Oh, I’m not. Don’t know the first thing about farming. But you clearly do.”
“Ain’t about knowledge, it’s about hard work, morning till night. Even after dark there’s things can be done.”
With a leap of the heart, Constance glimpsed a wheelbarrow propped up by the woodshed.
“You clearly make good use of all your time. Might I ask you something? Do you see much activity after dark along this road?”
“Can’t see over the hedge, and they can’t see me neither. That’s the way I like it.”
“No, you certainly have privacy here,” Constance agreed. Apart from the narrow gap in the hedge. “But you would hear people passing.”
“Well I’m not deaf ,” came the aggressive reply.
“Which is why I think you are a good person to ask,” Constance said. “Did you happen to hear anyone passing—perhaps with a wheelbarrow—last Wednesday night?”
Mrs. Phelps looked at her incredulously. “How am I supposed to remember that?”
“It was the night before they found Miss Niall’s body in the lake.”
She stared at Constance, then deliberately hefted the axe. “I didn’t hear or see nothing.”
“Oh. Then you didn’t see her pass this way, going toward The Willows at about nine o’clock? Or just before?”
“She had her maid with her. Don’t usually when she’s floating about.”
“Floating about?” Constance repeated as though amused. “Did she do a lot of that?”
Mrs. Phelps smiled sourly. “Ask Jim Cranston about that. It’s him found her in the lake like an extra lily.”
“Did you see her in the lake?” Solomon asked suddenly.
“Course I bloody didn’t,” Mrs. Phelps said with contempt. “Got far too much to do on my own land.”
Constance cast Solomon a quelling glance. “But you did notice her going toward The Willows with her maid. Did you notice either of them come back again? It would have been dark, but the maid would have had a lantern.”
“No,” Mrs. Phelps said, lining up another large log. “I got better things to do than watch those that got nothing to do with me. I’m busy. In case you don’t notice.” She nodded at Sir Humphrey, though it was more like a glare, and wielded the axe once more.
“Good day, Mrs. Phelps,” Sir Humphrey said wryly, and led the way back out on to the path. “Well?” he asked as they moved on. “Did you learn anything?”
Constance drew in a breath. “She has a wheelbarrow and didn’t like Miss Niall very much.”
Sir Humphrey stared at her. “She doesn’t like anyone. Surely you don’t think she is the killer?”
“Not without a better motive,” Solomon said.
Sir Humphrey closed his mouth and rubbed his chin. “I do wonder why she did not at least see the maid going home.”
“Probably because she was asleep,” Constance said. “If she works hard all day from dawn until dusk, then whatever she says about working into the night, she must sleep like—er…a log.”
Some hundred yards further along the road, on the right this time, they came to another house. This was a more substantial cottage, with a front gate and a low garden wall with wrought iron railings, around which was entwined a climbing rose. The front garden consisted of a neat lawn with borders of flowers and pots of herbs by the front door. Ivy grew over the walls in a pleasingly rustic manner.
“Dr. Laing’s house,” Sir Humphrey told them before they could ask.
“He’s the doctor who performed the autopsy?” Solomon said. “Could we call on him?”
Without answering, Sir Humphrey opened the gate and gestured for Constance to precede him. However, when the door was answered by a housekeeper, they were told the doctor was out on his calls.
“We’ll try again later,” Sir Humphrey said, turning away with a speed that suggested he really didn’t want to be there. He found the whole business distasteful. In fact, it spoke volumes for his anxiety as well as his affection for his wife that he was prepared to countenance their investigation at all. He certainly hadn’t liked the police poking about, even though he had summoned them for that purpose.
They encountered no further distractions until Fairfield Grange itself. This was a large house, probably about the same size as The Willows, but newer and somehow less imposing.
A morose butler admitted them. It was clear at once that this was a house of deep mourning. The mirrors were covered with black crepe. The servants’ shoes made no sound on the floor, even in the intense silence.
They were led up a dark staircase to a large room also swathed in black crepe.
“Sir Humphrey Maule, sir,” the butler announced. “And Mr. and Mrs. Grey.”
Constance would never get used to that name, she thought as an odd little frisson ran down her spine. No doubt the shiver had more to do with the heavy atmosphere of death and mourning than with her own deception.
“How are you, Niall, old fellow?” Sir Humphrey said, going forward with his hand held out.
Colonel Niall, a fierce-looking man of middle years with military-style whiskers, leapt to his feet as though prepared to be outraged. He swept his gaze over his visitors and beyond—perhaps in search of Elizabeth—and came back to Sir Humphrey slightly mollified. He accepted Maule’s hand, briefly.
“My friends, Mr. and Mrs. Grey,” Sir Humphrey murmured. “They are staying at The Willows for a few days. This is Colonel Niall.”
“How do you do?” said the colonel, flaring his nostrils. “You’ll forgive my lack of hospitality. This is a house of mourning.”
“So we understand,” Solomon said, bowing. “Please accept our sincere condolences on your terrible loss.”
“Thank you.” Colonel Niall waved his hand. “Please, sit down. I’m sure Worcester will bring tea.”
The door opened again and another, much younger man hurried into the room. “Sir Humphrey,” he said almost breathlessly.
Constance had the impression he had bolted here from another part of the house upon hearing who the visitors were. Perhaps he had feared his father’s rudeness, especially if Elizabeth had been present too, for he shook hands warmly with Maule and greeted Constance and Solomon with something approaching relief.
“The colonel’s son, Mr. John Niall,” Sir Humphrey said. “John, my guests, Mr. and Mrs. Grey.”
“Kind of you all to call. Worcester is arranging for tea. I hope you’re well, Sir Humphrey?” John added politely as they all sat.
“Oh, perfectly, apart from the sorrow and anxiety, of course. No point in beating about the bush to friends, so I’ll tell you straight out—that’s why we’ve come. Grey here is something of a solver of puzzles, so I’ve asked him to look into this matter of poor Frances’s death.”
John’s eyebrows flew up in amazement—which was nothing to the reaction of his father, who was turning purple.
“By what right,” the colonel demanded furiously, “do you dare involve strangers—”
“By the right you handed to me when you accused my wife of this unspeakable crime without evidence or reason,” Maule retorted. “To say nothing of my rights as magistrate. I brought Scotland Yard here at your request, and now I bring other good people who might be strangers to you but are my guests!”
The two fierce men glared at each other. John offered a faint, resigned smile. “Thank God,” he murmured. “Tea. Guaranteed to calm the trickiest situation.”
“Would you like me to pour, sir?” Constance offered.
A spasm crossed the colonel’s face. “If you would be so good,” he said with at least an attempt at grace. “In any case, those wretched policemen are useless,” he flung at Sir Humphrey. “They hang around here looking important, asking idiot questions. I’ve told them where to look, but do they?”
“Yes,” said Sir Humphrey. “I had to send them away yesterday with a flea in their collective ears.”
“What is the point,” Solomon asked mildly, “of summoning the police here to find the truth, if you then refuse to answer their questions?”
“Well said,” John murmured.
“Because they’re not asking the right questions!” Colonel Niall exploded.
“You mean they haven’t hanged my wife out of hand yet!” Sir Humphrey growled.
“Investigators,” Solomon said, his soft voice in startling contrast to strident tones of the older men, “detectives, if you will, are useful because they are dispassionate. They look into all possibilities in search of evidence, from which they try to discover the truth. No one wants a medieval-style witch hunt of accusation and counteraccusation, do they?” He glanced from Sir Humphrey to Colonel Niall and hurried on, perhaps in case he was assured that this was exactly what they wanted. “However, may I ask you a few courteous questions?”
“Yes,” said John before his father could open his mouth. “Please do.”
Solomon glanced at father and son. “Did you both know that Miss Niall went to call on Lady Maule last Wednesday evening?”
“Yes!” said the colonel triumphantly.
“But not until the following day,” John said, “when Bingham, her maid, told us.”
“Bingham being the maid who accompanied her?” Constance asked.
John nodded. “Frances’s personal maid.”
“Why do you think she didn’t tell you where she was going?” Solomon asked.
The father and son exchanged looks. John said, “My sister was something of a free spirit. She did not like to be tied down, and my father would certainly have forbidden her from going out on foot, as night was falling. So she simply didn’t tell him. Or me. Worcester knew they had gone, though.”
“But he did not tell the colonel?” Solomon pounced.
John gave a sad little smile. “My sister had all the servants wrapped around her little finger. They would do anything for her.”
“Was this not rather a dangerous thing she asked of them? To keep her expedition in the dark from her family?”
“It wasn’t quite dark when she left,” John said, “and besides, it isn’t dangerous around here if one keeps to the road and the main paths.”
Colonel Niall’s face twisted. “Or at least it wasn’t until that female—”
Sir Humphrey sprang to his feet, his fists clenched.
“Papa!” John said sharply.
The colonel subsided, muttering beneath his breath, and Maule, red-faced and furious, sat down stiffly on the edge of his seat. Had it not been for Solomon and Constance, he would surely have stormed out, never to darken the Niall doorstep again.
“Very well,” Solomon said. “When did Bingham say she came back here?”
“Just before ten,” John replied. “She had left the lantern with Frances while she and Lady Maule walked around the lake, talking.”
“Talking in a friendly way?” Constance asked.
“According to Bingham. She would not otherwise have left her mistress alone there.”
Constance made a note to speak to Bingham herself. And other servants, who frequently had a different view of people from their betters.
“Sadly, I never met Miss Niall,” Constance said. “What was she like?”
“The light of my life and everyone else’s,” Colonel Niall said in a muffled voice. “She lit up the room with her charm and goodness. Everyone loved her.”
Constance watched John rather than the colonel during this accolade. A tiny smile flickered across his lips, a little resigned, a little sardonic. Interesting…
“Did you know Miss Niall had quarreled with Lady Maule?” Solomon asked.
“They had an exchange of views over dinner one night,” John said, again before his father could speak.
“What about?” Solomon asked.
John’s eyes slid away from Sir Humphrey. “The duties of a wife. It was all a little silly, to be honest. Especially since Frances didn’t even believe what she was saying.”
“Of course she did,” Colonel Niall said. “And she was quite right! It is a wife’s duty to obey, defer, and submit to her husband!”
“And Elizabeth disputed that?” Constance asked, uneasy for some reason. The idea of submitting to any man was utterly abhorrent to her, but Elizabeth had taken vows of marriage.
“Not in its entirety,” John said, shifting uncomfortably and setting down his cup and saucer. “She insisted it was also a wife’s duty to tell her husband when he was wrong.”
“She was right,” Sir Humphrey insisted. “They were both right, and from what Elizabeth tells me, that was the conclusion they reached during their talk by the lake. They both regretted their hasty words—and, in fact, Elizabeth had thought no more about them until she received Frances’s note of apology.” He glanced at the colonel. “Her gracious note of apology.”
Colonel Niall sniffed but looked mollified once more.
“It doesn’t sound like much of a motive for murder,” Constance observed.
“And what would you know of such matters, young lady?” Colonel Niall demanded.
“I am hardly an expert in murder, of course, but I do observe human nature,” Constance said before anyone could doubt her respectability. Which amused her on one level.
Solomon regarded the colonel. “Sir, given that we all need the truth about what happened to your daughter, would you grant us permission to speak to your servants, particularly Miss Niall’s maid?”
“No, I would not,” the colonel said wrathfully. “Those policemen have been pestering them already. I won’t have them under suspicion for something they clearly did not do!”
Which was interesting when he obviously had no such compunction about his friend’s wife.
“I have no reason to suspect them,” Solomon said mildly. “My hope is that they might have witnessed something or someone that will shed further light on the matter. We are speaking to as many people as we can from here to The Willows.”
Sir Humphrey looked appalled. He did not have the patience or the stomach for such work.
John said, “It can only help, Papa. I shall supervise such interviews if you wish.”
Abruptly, the colonel seemed to lose all his fight. He made a weak gesture with one hand. “Do as you will. None of it will bring Frances back.”
Constance rose to her feet. It was clearly time to leave him. “No,” she agreed. “I am so sorry, colonel.”
Sir Humphrey was looking relieved as he stood with her. Solomon, as impassive as ever, merely bowed and thanked Colonel Niall for his time. John ushered them out of the room and toward the stairs.
“I’m sorry about my father,” he said awkwardly to Sir Humphrey as they all moved toward the staircase. “He is just lashing out because Lady Maule is the only person he has ever seen quarrel with my sister. I know it was only a minor disagreement, but he seems to have latched on to it.”
Constance latched on to something else—the peculiar wording of John’s apology. Lady Maule is the only person he has ever seen quarrel with my sister . Did that mean she had quarreled with others her father had not witnessed?
“Siblings tend to grow up quarreling constantly,” she said, “and yet are the closest of friends. Was it like that with you and your sister?”
“Not really,” John said. “Frances is—was—six years older than me. I was always a child to her.” He shrugged, leading the way downstairs. “We were not together much. In fact, I was at school in England most of the time she was in India with my father.”
“Still, a brother’s insight can be helpful. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your sister?”
“No,” John said, shaking his head. “The police inspector asked me the same thing.”
“I gather she was a beautiful and fascinating lady,” Constance said.
Before John could respond, Sir Humphrey said brusquely, “Look, I have to get back to The Willows. Would you mind awfully if I abandoned you to find your own way home?”
“Not in the slightest,” Solomon said.
Through the hall window beside the door, an arriving carriage was visible.
“Drat, it’s the vicar,” John said in hunted tones. “He means well, but he always winds my father up with his platitudes.”
“It might be good for him,” Constance said, and John blinked at her in surprise.
“Perhaps,” Solomon said, “I’ll just go and have a word with the vicar myself.”
“I thought you wanted to speak to the servants?” John said with a first hint of irritation.
“I shall join you in the kitchen, if I may, in just a few moments.” Solomon was already following Sir Humphrey out the door, no doubt to obtain an introduction to the vicar. “Constance?”
“Of course.” She smiled at John. “You don’t have to come with me either.”
“No, no, it’s better if I do,” John said hastily, glancing again toward the front door, now closing behind Solomon. A brace of rather pleasing glass lanterns of matching bulbous shape stood on the table there, reminding Constance that the dead woman’s lantern had not been found. Although, if she had brought it back here that evening before she died, would anyone have noticed?
As they walked to the back of the house, John said ruefully, “It’s an excuse to avoid the poor old vicar, to be honest.”
Constance returned to her interrupted question. “Being so beautiful, your sister must have had many admirers.”
“She always seemed to,” John said vaguely. “She never paid much attention to any of them, though. Except…” With his hand on the baize door to the servants’ quarters, he glanced back at the front door.
Constance’s stomach twisted. She halted, staring at him. “Except… Not Sir Humphrey?”
“Didn’t you know?” John said with surprise. “Frances and Sir Humphrey were more or less engaged when my father hauled her off to India with him. She always assumed she would marry him when she came home.”
“Only he was already married to Elizabeth,” Constance said slowly. No wonder the two women hadn’t liked each other.