Chapter Seven
The train station was on the periphery of the village.
Though it appeared to have suffered no damage from the gale, a porter was sweeping water from the wooden platform onto the tracks.
He told us he had arrived at the station at ten o’clock this morning and he’d seen only a handful of travelers since then.
We stepped up to the ticket window to make the same inquiry of the clerk and learned that the train to Norwich had left on time this morning, at eight o’clock, but the clerk was certain he hadn’t seen Dr. Penhollow.
In fact, no one had bought a ticket for that route or boarded the train this morning.
“I’ll be on the next train to Norwich, Lady Fiona. Is there something I can find for you there?”
I hadn’t noticed the man waiting behind us.
We apologized and quickly moved out of his way.
After he purchased his ticket, Fiona made the introductions.
“This is Mr. Smith, our master carpenter and undertaker.” Facing me, Fiona added a great deal of emphasis to the introduction with her eyes and expressions, but then she turned back to the man with a cheerful smile.
“Allow me to present my sister-in-law, Mrs. Hazelton.”
I was quite sure it wasn’t his skill as a carpenter that had Fiona so interested in Mr. Smith, but I was equally confident an undertaker wouldn’t be able to determine a cause of death. At least I didn’t think so.
We greeted one another, and he quickly turned back to Fiona. “I hope the storm didn’t cause any damage at Hadley Grange,” he said.
“Nothing of any consequence. What can you tell me of the village? No one was hurt, I hope?”
“Not that I know of, but there was quite a bit of damage. A tree came through my roof, so I’m off to purchase some materials in Norwich for myself and a few others. No telephone service, you know. Have you need of anything, my lady? I’d be happy to add it to my list.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Smith, but we are in need of nothing. I do hope any further rain holds off until your roof is repaired.”
“As do I, ma’am. As do I.” He touched his hat and made as if to walk away.
Fiona gave me a questioning glance. I supposed it couldn’t hurt to ask. “Mr. Smith, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer a question for me,” I said.
He faced me, a pleasant smile in place. “Of course, madam.”
“It’s a rather unusual question, but I wondered if someone in your profession—your profession as an undertaker, that is—has ever been called on to determine how someone died.”
His expression turned to one of shock. “That is an odd question, ma’am.
I can tell you that I have never been asked to perform such a service.
Most times, we just measure the deceased and build the coffin.
A relative usually handles the laying out, so I’d have no way of knowing what happened.
” He gave me an assessing look. “Why do you ask?”
That was a tricky question, since I wasn’t sure I wanted the villagers to know we suspected foul play in relation to Dr. Penhollow’s death. “Because … my daughter is writing a book.” His expression remained unchanged. “It’s a rather sensational murder mystery,” I added.
“I see.” He frowned in disapproval. “I’m not one for novels myself.” This time he turned his back and walked off toward the platform. Fiona took my arm and rushed me away from the station.
“Why would you think he’d be able to offer any assistance regarding Dr. Penhollow?” I asked as we stepped back in the lane.
She raised her hands helplessly. “Because he deals with dead bodies, I suppose. You may not have noticed, but we are desperate, and I thought it worth a try.”
“Speaking of desperation, where is the police station?” I asked.
Fiona directed me to the building about a quarter of a mile down the lane. It was locked up tight, with a note from Constable Ellis tacked to the door saying he’d return this evening.
We didn’t venture any farther into the village. Both of us were wary of revealing Dr. Penhollow’s death to the whole community while we still couldn’t say how he had died. In the absence of a better idea, we returned to Hadley Grange.
I truly wished we had had a better idea. No sooner had we walked through the door than Aunt Hetty was upon us, wearing a quizzical expression.
“Welcome to the morgue,” she said, as if she’d been waiting in the entry hall just to deliver that line.
Fiona’s butler, Carter, stood beside the door. He was an older man with graying hair and a lined face, which gave no hint at what was going on behind his dark eyes. Half a head shorter than Fiona, he had to reach up to help her out of her coat.
Fiona tutted as she handed her hat to Carter. “Come now, Hetty. One body does not a morgue make.”
“It certainly doesn’t make a conservatory,” Hetty replied. “That’s where he’s at, you know. What happened? Why did your footmen bring him here? And is it really Dr. Penhollow? The children have been giving me such stories that I don’t know if they’re true or simply the next scene from their book.”
I handed my coat over to the waiting Carter and motioned for Hetty to precede us into the drawing room, where it looked like she had been enjoying a cup of tea.
Once we were seated around the tea table, which had been moved closer to the hearth, where a fire blazed, we explained what had happened over the past few hours.
“We hesitate to turn the body over to the family or the undertaker for fear of losing evidence that the police might need,” I said.
“We hope to have a doctor here tonight or, more likely, tomorrow to examine him and determine how he died. With luck, he will then be removed to the undertaker’s care. ”
“It’s unfortunate that the children were with us when we found him,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “Do they seem upset?” she asked Hetty, then glanced at me. “Perhaps we should speak with them.”
“I daresay someone should speak with them,” Hetty said. “But I would not call them upset, just entirely too curious—morbidly so. I’ve had to chase them from the conservatory no less than three times.”
Fiona’s mouth fell open for a moment before she snapped her lips closed. “It’s that story they’re writing,” she said. “It’s given them an unhealthy interest in death and murder. You must speak with them, Frances.”
I slapped a hand on my chest. “Me? Only one of that group is mine. The other two are yours. Why am I elected to this task?”
“Fiona is right,” Hetty said, completely shocking me.
As long as I’ve known her, there’s never been a doubt in my mind that Hetty would take my side in any matter.
Instead, she ignored my question and, with a few words, placed this responsibility onto my shoulders.
“Those children put me in mind of the reporters who dogged you for information about Miss Teskey last year. Do you remember what they were like?”
How could I forget? They had acted like a pack of hounds, picking away at anything that smelled like a story. “The children can’t possibly be that intransigent.”
“Three times I had to send them from the conservatory,” Hetty reminded me, holding up three fingers.
Fiona had poured herself a cup of tea and was slipping a slice of cake onto her plate. “Go talk to them, Frances. They must come to understand that this is not acceptable behavior. They’ll listen to you. After all, you are Georgianna.”
With both of them gazing at me in expectation, I stood with a sigh. Truth be known, I’d almost rather find another dead body. “I must read this story of theirs. Perhaps I can learn something from dear Georgianna.”
When I found the schoolroom and the children’s bed-chambers empty, it took me only a moment to conclude they had snuck off to the conservatory again.
With great frustration and annoyance, I tromped down the stairs and, lucky for the children, felt much better by the time I reached the main floor.
I heard Hetty and Fiona in the drawing room as I whipped past on my way to the south wing of the house, where the conservatory had been added on around fifty years ago by Robert’s grandfather.
The double doors were closed when I arrived, but each door held a glass pane, so I peered inside.
The conservatory was reminiscent of the Crystal Palace, near London, but on a much smaller scale.
It was a structure of iron and glass and ran perpendicular to the south wall of the house, a full two stories tall, with a water tower on one end to supply the little fountains and the streams that ran through the interior landscape.
There were no tropical plantings inside as it was far too cold in the winter.
Neither Robert nor Fiona had a Penchant for gardening, so they didn’t bother heating a room they had no use for—making it quite perfect for its current employment.
The stone paths inside crisscrossed the empty space.
A few steps down one of those paths on the other side of the double doors was a large worktable bearing the body of Dr. Penhollow.
The three children stood plastered against the wall, clearly hesitant to go nearer to the table.
This might not be as difficult as I thought.
I wished I could hear their conversation through the doors, but it looked like I’d have to go in to find out if they were as petrified as they appeared.
All three jumped when I pushed open one of the doors.
As it closed behind me, I stood facing them, arms crossed.
“I have it on good authority that you have already been warned away from this place three times today.” I focused my most severe expression on each of their faces as I gazed at the group of them. “Why are you here yet again?”
The three of them answering me at once sounded like a scurry of squirrels chattering.
I held up my hand to stop them. “Gregory, you are the eldest. I’m confident you can explain what this is all about.”