Chapter Five #3
Fiona cast me a look. “She is. It’s the country squire who had all the imperfections.
” She stopped me as we reached the drive to the house, which I’d been eyeing as we walked along the lane.
It had the look of a cottage, but it was large, sheltered from the lane by a stand of conifers, which was followed by a well-tended garden lining the drive up to the house.
It was a pleasant setting. A large dog with the muddiest white fur I’ve ever seen bounded down that drive toward us. When I tensed, Fiona patted my arm.
“Never fear, it’s only Cloud. He’s harmless. At least to people.”
With his mouth open and tongue lolling, he did give off a very friendly spirit, but that wasn’t my initial concern.
“I’m not so much worried about the dog as the mud.
” The words had barely passed my lips when Fiona held up a hand, palm out.
Still looking delighted to see us, the dog stopped in mid-stride and plopped his furry bottom down about three feet away.
“Brilliant! What a good dog,” I said.
In the space of my next breath, he stood and gave himself a shake. Fiona and I jumped back and missed most, but not all, of the flying mud and water. That’s what I’d been afraid of. Now that Cloud was relatively clean, the fluffy creature waited to escort us up the walk to the manor.
“How are we to present the matter of her husband’s death to Ada?” Fiona asked.
“With all possible care.” I gave Fiona’s arm a tug, and we strolled up the drive.
We informed the maid who answered the door of our wish to see Mrs. Penhollow and were shown into a small, sparsely furnished sitting room near the foyer, where we expected the doctor’s wife to join us.
Instead, after a wait of only a few minutes, the maid returned and led us to a larger room at the back of the house, where we met with Mrs. Penhollow and a young woman, who I suspected was her daughter.
Ada Penhollow had a kind face, pale blue eyes under straight brows, which were pulled together by a frown.
Her brown hair was pulled back in a tidy knot behind her head.
I suspected her of being in the middle of her fifties.
Beatrice Appleton, about twenty-odd years younger and a few inches taller, was a sharper image of her mother.
Whereas Mrs. Penhollow’s shoulders were rounded, Beatrice’s were square, and her figure was more angled, her hair was brightened with copper, and her eyes were a deeper blue.
Fiona performed the introductions—the younger woman was indeed Beatrice Appleton, Mrs. Penhollow’s youngest daughter—and then Mrs. Penhollow invited us to join them in a cozy sitting area. “Will you have tea?” she asked as we all took a seat. At our agreement, she sent the maid to prepare it.
Before the ladies could initiate a polite conversation, Fiona spoke up to break the news to them. “Mrs. Penhollow,” she began, “Mrs. Appleton, I’m afraid we bring you some bad tidings.”
“Dear me, is it the storm?” Mrs. Penhollow began wringing her hands. “Joshua was concerned that it may have caused some damage in the village.”
“We are prepared to help if we are needed,” Beatrice added.
“I don’t know to what extent the village has suffered from the storm,” Fiona replied. “That isn’t why we are here. This news is of a personal nature.”
I released a heavy breath when she paused. Her reticence had me wondering if she would ever come to the point. “It’s about your husband,” I said. “There is no good way to say this …”
“You are speaking as though he has died,” Beatrice said with a chuckle, leaning forward in her seat.
“I’m afraid that is exactly what we are trying to say,” I said. “Please forgive the clumsiness of my efforts. I am deeply sorry for your loss.” I was tempted to continue babbling while the two women merely stared at me, but I thought it best to let them come to understand me at their own pace.
Finally, Mrs. Penhollow placed a hand to her chest. “You are in earnest! Bless me! How can this be? What happened?”
Beatrice reached over to her mother and squeezed her hands. “Are you certain?” she asked me. “Certain that it was he, I mean. He was supposed to be in Norwich today.”
“I recognized him,” Fiona said. “It was without doubt Dr. Penhollow.”
“As to what happened, we cannot yet be sure,” I said. “We have sent one of Lady Fiona’s footmen to find a doctor, who can determine that. We found him in the field between Hadley Grange and the village. There did not seem to be any signs of violence or any visible wounds.”
“Violence?” Beatrice was aghast. “Wounds? Are you suggesting someone murdered him?”
Mrs. Penhollow let out a little squeak and brought her hands to her face. Beatrice left her own seat to draw her mother into a hug.
I cursed myself for such an ungainly delivery. “I’m afraid we don’t know yet. It’s possible he succumbed to a seizure or heart failure or fell victim to some other medical cause. Did your husband have such a medical condition?”
“Nothing like that,” Beatrice said as her mother struggled to compose herself. “To the best of my knowledge, he was perfectly healthy.”
“In that case, we can’t completely rule out the possibility of foul play. We won’t know until a doctor can be brought in to examine him.” I gazed at Beatrice in curiosity. “Can you think of someone who might want to harm him?”
She seemed to reel back. “I doubt you’ll find any shortage of likely suspects,” she said with a heavy dose of irony. “Including myself.”