Chapter Twelve
“What do you suppose the boots signify?” Fiona asked once we were back in the drawing room.
“I don’t know exactly. But for me, they add to the evidence in favor of murder.
” I headed to a desk on the far side of the room.
Taking a seat, I opened the center drawer and withdrew pen and paper.
There was a strong possibility that Dr. Penhollow’s death had nothing to do with foul play, but in my opinion, this was looking more and more like murder.
It was time to add some organization to our efforts.
Fiona took a seat in a nearby chair and leaned her elbows on the desk. “Perhaps Dr. Penhollow simply put on the wrong boots.”
“The man walked for fifteen minutes from his house to the field. I should think he would have noticed immediately that he was wearing boots two sizes too large. But if not, then surely after taking a few steps. They would have been sticking in the mud so badly, he’d have walked right out of them.
Don’t you suppose he would have returned to the house to change them?
” I held up a finger as a thought occurred to me.
“He and Ada lived alone. There were no male servants. One would think the only boots in the house would be hers and his.”
“I can’t argue against that. Ada’s boots would certainly be the smaller of the two. Then how do you imagine he ended up wearing those?”
I gave the matter some thought. “I wonder if he was murdered elsewhere and the killer moved his body to the field. Then the killer put the gum boots on the body—perhaps they were his own—to make it look as though the doctor had walked there under his own power.”
Fiona grimaced. “That would account for the path worn into the field. Or would it? If someone was trying to drop off the doctor’s body, would they walk back and forth across the field or just leave him in the middle of it?”
“Difficult to say. What if Dr. Penhollow walked to the village only to meet his assailant there? Then the killer returned him to the field.” Even as I spoke, I felt this was a dubious theory.
“That would mean the killer had to walk at least ten minutes back to the field while carrying a body. Unlikely, but that could explain the tracks through the field.”
“Ten minutes if the person was walking from the train station,” Fiona said, “longer from the center of the village. But as for being unlikely, if you are correct in assuming Dr. Penhollow was murdered elsewhere, he had to have been carried, or somehow moved, to the field.” She tapped her knuckle against her lips as she pondered.
“Perhaps the killer followed the doctor from the village back to the field and killed him there. But that doesn’t explain the boot dilemma, does it?
Did the doctor stumble to the village in boots that were two sizes too large, or did he walk there in his stocking feet?
I suppose he might have had his own boots on, but if so, why would the killer change them? ”
Good point. “We saw no signs of a struggle in that field. I still wonder if the doctor was even killed there. But let’s suppose the killer brought him there and saw some evidence of his murderous deed on the doctor’s boots.
Blood perhaps? Under the circumstances, it would have been quicker for the killer to switch boots rather than attempt to clean them. ”
“Then we’re looking for a man with large feet tottering around in bloody gum boots that are too small for him,” Fiona mused. “Should be easy to spot.”
“If the killer still has them, I’m certain they’ve been cleaned by now, but they would also be the wrong size.
Much too small.” I twirled the pen between my fingers as I thought.
“I doubt we’ll find him wearing them. Even bringing them home could give rise to some questions.
How would he explain their size to anyone else in his household?
No, unless the killer lives alone, I think he would have disposed of the boots by now. ”
“Along with all the debris from the storm damage,” Fiona said with a shake of her head. “We shall never find them.”
“Particularly since I wouldn’t know where to begin searching for them. But Dr. Penhollow’s death is looking more and more like murder to me. Obviously, we must wait for the doctor’s determination, but in the meantime, it would be good to make a list of possible suspects.”
“If we continue with your premise that he wasn’t killed in that field, anyone might have had the opportunity.”
“Dr. Bertram should be able to give us a better idea of the time of death than my estimate. If so, that should narrow the number of people who could have killed him. And we also have to consider who would have had a motive.”
“Nearly everyone in the village dislikes him,” Fiona said.
“Not liking someone isn’t necessarily a motive for murder.”
“Is being forced to marry someone you don’t love?”
Beatrice had to be considered a suspect, but what about Ada? She had seemed devastated when we told her of her husband’s death. Had that reaction been sincere? I had no idea, but the boots made her an unlikely suspect in my mind.
Though Beatrice had been shocked, she hadn’t seemed at all upset and had as much as told us she ought to be considered a suspect. I only wished I had noted the size of her husband’s feet.
“Do you recall what Beatrice and Ada told us about their morning activities? I should have written it down at the time, but perhaps we can reconstruct it.”
“There’s nothing to reconstruct,” Fiona said. “I don’t believe we inquired about them, just Dr. Penhollow’s activities.” She patted my hand when I groaned. “Don’t fault yourself. Ada was distraught. It wasn’t the time to ask her such things.”
“I suppose not, but we shall have to do so now. As for Dr. Penhollow, his wife said he rose early and left the house on foot at about half past seven.”
“Yes,” she said. “He was meant to catch the eight o’clock train to Norwich.”
“But he never made it to the station.”
“No, but he intended to meet with someone first—perhaps the person who murdered him.”
I strained to recall anything else, but there was nothing. “We don’t know much, do we?”
“Don’t worry, Frances,” Fiona said. “Dr. Bertram is bound to have some information for us soon, and once we know what killed him, we should have a better idea of where to look for the who, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” I said. “You are right.” My words belied the fact that at this point I didn’t share Fiona’s optimism.
We had started dining en famille after George and Robert departed.
Since Dr. Bertram hadn’t completed his work—in fact, he’d barely begun—we had invited him to join us that evening.
The dining room at Hadley Grange was large enough to host a dinner for as many as fifty guests.
Though the table could be reduced in size to suit our small party of nine, the room could not, and our voices echoed off the stone walls, to be lost somewhere up in the coffered ceiling.
Fiona had placed the young doctor at her right hand and separated him from the younger children by seating Lissette and Christine immediately to his right and Hetty and me across from him. The younger children were at the end of the table.
They did not appreciate this maneuver.
The moment Carter and a footman finished serving the first course, the questions began.
“Have you learned how Dr. Penhollow died yet, sir?” Gregory asked, raising his voice to be heard across the table.
Fiona, whose lips had been poised to give voice to a more polite inquiry, snapped them closed. “I don’t believe that is an appropriate subject for the table,” she said.
Gregory frowned. “We talked about it at lunch,” he said reasonably.
“That’s true. We did,” Rose said.
“I don’t like him being here at all,” Christine muttered.
“Dr. Bertram?” Lissette stared at her sister, as if thinking she were daft.
“Dr. Penhollow.” Christine glared back. “It makes me uncomfortable having a dead body in the house.”
Dr. Bertram glanced around Lissette to speak to Christine. “I can certainly understand your discomfort, Miss Granger. I shall work as swiftly as possible to get poor Dr. Penhollow back to his own family.”
Christine gave him a half smile.
“How are you progressing, Doctor?” My question brought a raised eyebrow and a glare from Fiona. I ignored it. Since this was already our topic of conversation, why not ask what we really want to know?
The doctor cast a nervous glance at Fiona, who released a long-suffering sigh. “Go ahead, Dr. Bertram. We are unlikely to have any polite conversation until you have satisfied their morbid curiosity.”
He took a sip of water, then dabbed at his lips with the napkin. “Though I have not ascertained the exact manner of death, I have been able to rule out some obvious causes.”
Lissette was hanging on his every word. “Really?” she said, dragging out the word, a smile playing about her lips. Her obvious adoration seemed to make him uncomfortable, but I would not take her to task in front of the whole table.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. I can say with certainty that he was not shot, stabbed, or beaten with any manner of instrument. Nor was he strangled.”
We all waited patiently.
He glanced around the table, attempting to smile. “Well, at this point, I’m afraid that’s all I know.”
“That’s all?” Gregory looked rather outraged. “You’ve been with him in the conservatory for four hours now.”
“That will do, Gregory,” Fiona chided. She cast a glance at the doctor that indicated she, too, was less than impressed. “I’m sure the doctor is doing his best.”
Dr. Bertram looked chagrined until Christine came to his defense.
“Come now, all of you. Much of what the doctor will be doing is of a more scientific nature—tests that are not suitable for dinner conversation, as Aunt Fiona says. That sort of thing takes time. Give the man a chance. I’m sure he will have some answers for you soon. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
Good heavens, now Bertram was gazing at Christine like a lovestruck boy.
Confused by his silence, she tipped her head. “I say, isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“Yes, exactly.” He shook himself from his trance. “I’ll be happy to discuss the tests I’m doing at another time, but not at the dinner table.”
“Then when?” Grace asked, nearly bouncing in her chair.
“Yes, when can we hear about them?” Gregory said.
“Not today,” Fiona said. Then she muttered, “Never, if I can help it.”
The children’s groans had me stepping in to save her. “You will be going to bed after dinner, assuming you ever eat it.” I gestured to their barely touched plates. “But perhaps the doctor will be good enough to discuss his tests with me tomorrow, and I will share that information with you.”
“But then we can’t ask questions,” Rose said.
“That’s the best I can offer you. Besides, the details you are longing for cannot go into your book, anyway, unless you wish to frighten your governess.
” I noted a hint of stubbornness in Rose’s eyes and rebellion in Gregory’s.
Maybe they did want to frighten the governess.
“Allow me to remind the three of you, this is Rose and Grace’s assignment. ”
“That’s right,” Fiona added. “It’s one thing to help them, Gregory, but you are not to write it for them—or make it too gruesome. And you are not to disturb the doctor while he is working tomorrow, either.”
“Maybe he needs an assistant,” Gregory said.
I did my best to stifle a laugh. “I admire your tenacity, Gregory, but Dr. Bertram has already declined any assistance. He is also likely to think this family is somewhat deranged, considering how we have indulged you with the details of a medical examination for the sake of your book. If you become too demanding, that indulgence will end.”
Three identical scowls appeared at the end of the table. But I was confident the threat of being cut off would stop any defiance.
“Speaking of family,” Dr. Bertram said, cutting into a slice of beef. “You are not related to Dr. Penhollow. How has this responsibility fallen to you ladies?”
“Lady Fiona’s husband is the local magistrate. Since Dr. Penhollow is the coroner, and the sergeant has taken his constables away from the village to help with the roads, we felt it was our duty to act.”
His smooth brow furrowed. “Yes, I understand that. But what of Dr. Penhollow’s family? It would seem that they would be the first to seek justice. I’m surprised they aren’t involved in your investigation.”
“I believe they are still dealing with their grief,” Hetty put in quickly. Bless her for having a ready answer. It was certainly better than the one I had—there was a chance one of them might be the killer.