Chapter Nine #2
We passed several pretty cottages as we progressed from country lane to bustling village.
Once we reached the village proper, the street was lined with one-, two-, and three-story buildings of stone and brick butted up against one another, generally offering businesses on the ground floor—a haberdashery, a chemist’s shop, a draper—with residences above.
The cobblestone street widened as we entered the business area, with paving blocks alongside for those who chose to walk from shop to shop, as many of the villagers were doing.
A little farther up, the street split in two to surround the village green, before reuniting again to turn left and climb the hill to the church.
Evidence of Christmas was everywhere I looked. The windows of the shops were filled with holiday scenes arranged on cotton “snow,” the backdrops painted with frosty snowflakes. Even the lampposts were wound with greenery and holly berries.
Fiona’s carriage waited outside the mercantile building, which she told me also acted as the local post office and telephone exchange.
I had given each of the children a few shillings to spend on whatever they chose, but they were captivated by the display of toys in the shop’s window.
From the squeals of the younger three, I gathered the display included some windup clockwork toys.
“If we wish to find out how the villagers weathered the storm,” Fiona said, recalling my attention, “this is the perfect place to begin.”
As we headed for the shop, I paused. “While we are here, I also hope to gain some sense of how Dr. Penhollow was regarded.”
Fiona gave me a sharp look. “Or if anyone here had a motive to murder him?”
“That too.”
“If you are after information, then we are definitely in the right place. You must speak with the proprietors here, the Digby ladies.”
It took a second or two for me to fully understand her. “Are you saying this business is owned and managed by ladies?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “Dotty Digby and her husband own the mercantile, and in theory, he manages it. But, in fact, he is rarely seen in the establishment and knows nothing about the post or telegrams or the telephone service.”
“So, Mrs. Digby does everything?”
“She used to, but she fell ill earlier this year and decided she could use some help. Now she has the assistance of her extremely competent sister-in-law, Matilda Digby. She used to live with her mother in one of the cottages we passed on our way to the village. The mother died last summer, and Matilda was quite alone. This arrangement works to everyone’s liking, and between the two of them, they know everything that happens around here. ”
That sounded promising. After pausing to round up the children, we entered the shop.
“Good morning, Mrs. Digby,” Fiona called out to the woman standing behind the tall shop counter, sorting receipts.
I recognized the woman from the play. It was she who had tried to move us along when Dr. Penhollow and Robert were chatting.
I would guess her to be in her late fifties or perhaps sixty.
Her dark hair was plaited and heavily streaked with gray.
She wore it wound in a knot behind her head, with shorter frizzy bits around her face.
Her eyelids folded over themselves but smoothed out when she popped her brows up upon seeing Fiona.
“Good day, Lady Fiona,” she said. “A somber day it is, I suppose. You look like someone who has heard the news.” Her eyebrows moved just a bit higher. Perhaps she didn’t know everything, as it certainly seemed to me that she was fishing for more.
“Indeed, we have,” Fiona said, approaching the counter. I followed her, and Hetty ambled over to join us. We were promptly introduced to the proprietress.
After greeting us, Mrs. Digby shook her head. “What a goose I am. Of course you’ve heard about the doctor. You were the ones to find him, I understand.”
Apparently, she did have the whole story. Perhaps she could add to our knowledge. “How did you learn of it?” I asked her.
“Well, the vicar was here afore we even opened this morning, wasn’t he?
Hoping to send a telegram to his wife’s sister to give her the news of her stepfather’s passing.
Of course, I had to disappoint him, because the wires were down.
He looked real upset, he did. Such a good man he is.
I had him pull up a stool.” She pointed at Fiona.
“He sat right there where you’re standing and told me of Joshua Penhollow dying all of a sudden out in a field somewhere near your estate, my lady, with no one there to help him. ”
She drew a breath, but before any of us could speak, she carried on.
“He asked what he could do about notifying his relative, so I told him as long as the trains are running, we still have the Royal Mail, and we’d be delivering our post to the train station at noon, same as usual.
I gave him pencil and paper, and he wrote out the missive right then and there.
His sister-in-law and her husband live in Swaffham, so she’ll still have the news by tomorrow evening.
Next day at the latest. And that’s not too late, he tells me, because they have to wait until Sergeant Hewitt returns or a doctor says the family can have the body.
He was ever so grateful, but then he always is.
A kind man is the vicar.” She bobbed her head, as if agreeing with herself, then leaned across the counter toward the three of us.
“Is it true what he said—the body is at Hadley Grange?”
I felt as if I’d been shaken from a deep slumber. Was it our turn to speak at last? I completely understood why Fiona had suggested that Mrs. Digby was a great source of information.
Fiona gave me a nudge.
“Yes, the body is at Hadley Grange,” I said.
“It was the closest place to take him, and since we don’t know how he died, we thought it best for someone in authority to decide whether there ought to be an autopsy or if the body should be released to the family.
I hope they aren’t too distraught about our decision. ”
“The vicar didn’t mention anything about that,” she replied.
“We certainly don’t mean to make things more difficult for them. I’m sure the family is upset about his passing as it is,” Fiona said.
Mrs. Digby bobbed her head. “The vicar told me Beatrice is caring for her mother as she’s overcome with grief.
Mrs. Penhollow, that is. Everyone knows Beatrice was never fond of him.
” She gave me a quizzical look. “How do you suppose he died? He was clumsy as an ox, you know. Perhaps he fell and hit his head.”
“I’m afraid we simply don’t know,” I said, pleased with her speculation. “He didn’t appear to have a head injury, but I suppose anything is possible.”
Her gaze drifted, then returned to me, even sharper than before. “You don’t believe someone killed him, do you?”
I could have hugged her. “We can’t rule that out. I don’t suppose you could imagine anyone wanting to harm him.”
She held up a finger. “You’d best not be too sure of that.”
“Dotty, dear,” a singsong voice rang out from the far end of the counter.
We all turned our attention to another middle-aged woman, who dangled a delicate sachet between her fingers while Rose and Lissette waited on the other side of the counter from her.
“Do you know how much these sachets are?” The woman looked about Mrs. Digby’s age and wore her chestnut-brown hair in a similar style. She also wore spectacles that made her eyes look remarkably large. “These young ladies are interested in purchasing a few.”
“I don’t think they’ve quite finished their shopping yet,” I said. “Rose, take a look at those handkerchiefs on that shelf against the wall. I think your governess might like them.”
Rose gave me a look of confusion, but Lissette caught on and walked her over to the handkerchiefs. The woman behind the counter joined our little group and held out one of the sachets to Mrs. Digby.
Taking the satin and lace bag, Mrs. Digby tweaked it with her fingers.
“Well, here it is. The tag got caught up with the lace.” Mrs. Digby handed the bag back and introduced us to her sister-in-law, Matilda Digby.
“This is our Tillie. Her eyesight might not be all it should be,” she said, “but I don’t know what I’d do without her.
” After the introduction, she turned to her sister-in-law.
“We were just talking about Dr. Penhollow. These are the ladies who found him.”
“Such a shock for you, I’m sure,” Tillie said. “What do you suppose happened?”
“They don’t know,” Mrs. Digby said before any of us could reply. “I was just telling them that he was not well regarded around these parts.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though I do find it hard to believe anyone I know would go so far as murder.”
Well, that was too bad. I had hoped she’d mention a few suspects. Perhaps she needed a little encouragement. “I’m rather surprised to hear that the villagers took such a dislike to him,” I said, with a glance at Fiona. “You mentioned that, too. But he was a doctor, wasn’t he? Here to help people.”
“He was new to the village,” Fiona ventured.
Mrs. Digby, a true gossip, eagerly took the bait. “Yes, they were newcomers, weren’t they? Just here a few years now.”
“Mother and I moved here from Holt about fifteen years ago,” Tillie Digby said, “and I must say people were a bit standoffish at first with me, too.”
“But you are such a likeable sort, Tillie,” Mrs. Digby said. “It didn’t take long before you were part of the community.”
Tillie blushed demurely. “I like to think I fit in. And Ada Penhollow, she fit right in. A good soul is Ada. Neighborly, helps out at the church, tending the gardens and bringing in flowers for service every Sunday.”
“I expect that’s how the vicar met her daughter,” Mrs. Digby added. “I bet he married Beatrice thinking she’d be just like her mum.”
“What a surprise he got, aye?” Tillie Digby replied.