Chapter Thirteen #2
Since it was a fair day and growing warmer, we went on foot to call on Mrs. Penhollow.
We received an energetic greeting from Dr. Penhollow’s dog when we arrived at the manor house.
The more Hetty flapped her hands at Cloud, the more excited he became.
Bouncing around us, then bounding ahead, he guided us up to the door, which was opened by Beatrice.
“Shoo, now shoo!” Beatrice, too, waved her hands at the dog, dismissing him. “Not you, of course, ladies. Please come inside.” She stepped out of the way to allow us entry, almost letting the dog in, as well. “No, no,” Beatrice told him. “It’s the back door for you. Go around back.”
When the dog took off at a run, Beatrice closed the door and faced Hetty and me. “Maude, our maid, will let him in and give him his meal. He’s actually quite a nice dog, despite being terribly spoiled.”
Hetty smiled. “He seems very intelligent.”
“And friendly,” I added, handing my coat to Beatrice at her request. I noted quite a bit of hair clinging to the hem. Fortunately, the wool was a light cream color, so Cloud’s fur didn’t stand out.
Beatrice added Hetty’s coat to mine and deposited them in the small room just off the foyer, where Fiona and I had waited the last time we called. “He’s rather starved for attention,” she said upon her return. “He’s used to my stepfather doting on him, and now no one really has the time.”
She led us to the drawing room down the hall and had us take seats on the sofa while she settled into a chair on the other side of the tea table. “Maude is preparing the tea tray, so we’ll have refreshments in a moment.”
“Is your mother away from home?” I asked.
“Yes, she and my uncle left for the vicarage a few minutes ago to speak with my husband about funeral arrangements. We’ve had callers come and go all morning to pay their respects, so I stayed here in case there are more. I’ve really nothing to contribute to their discussion.”
“I’d forgotten about your uncle’s arrival. Is he staying here?” As soon as the words were out, I realized the indelicacy of such an arrangement. A new widow sharing a house with her brother-in-law.
“He is lodging at the vicarage,” Beatrice said. “I am keeping Mother company here. I’m sorry you missed her. I assume you have more questions?”
We all glanced up when the maid entered the room, bearing the tea tray. “Ah, but here’s the tea. At least I can offer you refreshment.” The maid placed the tray on the low table, and Beatrice set about preparing the tea.
“We do have a few more questions we hoped to ask your mother, but it’s possible you may be able to answer some of them,” I said.
“Happy to help,” she replied, glancing at me while the tea steeped.
“What brought you over here that morning?” I asked.
“Mother did,” she said. “How do you like your tea?”
“Black will be fine,” I said. I resigned myself to getting no further answers until Beatrice had finished with her hostess duties. When all three of us had full cups in our hands, I addressed her again. “You were saying?”
She furrowed her brow. “Yes, Mother had come to the vicarage to see if we had any damage from the storm. Dr. P had got up early to catch his train. I suppose he woke Mother, and when she couldn’t fall back asleep, she came to see how we weathered the storm.” She shrugged. “Or to find some company.”
Dr. P, is it? I wondered if that was Beatrice’s idea or the doctor’s. “Do you recall what time she arrived?”
Pursing her lips, she considered for a moment.
“Not exactly, but I always rise at eight o’clock, and she arrived soon after that.
I was still at the breakfast table. After stopping to say hello, she went out to the garden and gathered flowers for the church.
The storm had knocked them about, breaking most of the stems, so she ended up bringing in an enormous bundle.
Once I finished breakfast, we both worked at arranging them in vases, then set them along the altar in the church.
“So many people from the village were coming to the vicarage that morning,” she continued, “either needing something or donating something. It was rather busy, but things slowed down about noon. Mother decided she ought to get home, and since most of our callers had left, I walked with her. We arrived at the manor about thirty minutes before you and Lady Fiona arrived.”
“That must mean you used the gravel lane on the far side of the field,” I noted. “Is it not shorter to cut through the field?”
Beatrice nodded. “If you wish to go from Penhollow Manor to the train station, then yes, it is shorter. If your destination is the village, then both routes are about the same, but if you are going to or from the church or the vicarage, following the lane is both shorter and faster.” She grimaced. “And far less muddy.”
That would explain why Ada wasn’t the one to find her husband’s body.
It also sounded as though she had been surrounded by people from half past eight onward, but that still left the early morning unaccounted for.
“Am I right in assuming your mother and stepfather lived here alone?” I asked. “Does the maid live in?”
“Maude lives with her husband and children in a cottage down the lane. She’s here nearly every day, but she was late that day because of the gale.
She arrived about the same time Mother and I did.
” Beatrice lifted her open palms. “Understandable, under the circumstances. She returns to her own home once she’s prepared their dinner. ”
“Of course,” I said. “Then only your mother and stepfather lived in this house?”
“Yes. My sister married three years ago, so once they got me off their hands, it was just the two of them.”
I took a sip of my tea, thinking of all she’d told me. Ada Penhollow had been alone with her husband early that morning. She had had opportunity, but what about means and motive? Before I could formulate any questions, Beatrice cleared her throat. Both Hetty and I glanced up.
“He wasn’t a nice man,” she said.
“Your father?” Hetty asked.
“He was my stepfather. I was too young when my father died to remember him, but I have to believe he was a kinder man than Joshua Penhollow.”
“Your mother must have seen something good in him,” Hetty said. She leaned forward in her seat.
“He was willing to help raise my sister and me. I think that’s what she saw, and she jumped at it.
” Beatrice paused and bit her lip. “That’s not fair.
She always told us he wasn’t as bad as we thought.
She’d tell us to take him his tea and ask about his day or compliment his nog.
” She shuddered. “Are you familiar with Norfolk nog?”
Both Hetty and I replied in the negative.
“It’s a single malt whiskey combined with cream, sugar, and other delightful things and is usually quite delicious.
But Dr. P insisted on distilling his own whiskey, which he never got quite right, and even combined with the cream, it was ghastly.
” She leaned eagerly toward me. “I’m sure he’s made another batch this year, if you’d like to take some home. ”
Again, we replied in the negative. Why did people do that? Try this. It tastes ghastly.
Beatrice drew a deep breath and continued.
“My point is, Mother truly thought we’d like him if only we came to know him better.
I think she’s the sole person who could tolerate him.
I don’t blame her for marrying him, but I’m not sure it was any easier living with him than without him.
Sometimes he was fine, but he could get into such a temper.
” She held up a hand. “Not violent, just unpleasant. Everything had to be his way, and if it wasn’t, he’d start shouting.
And it wasn’t only us. He was like that with his patients, too.
Small wonder hardly anyone in the village wanted him to treat them.
Many wouldn’t give him the time of day, and I don’t blame them.
” She shook her head. “Hard to be nice to a man who can’t seem to help being disagreeable. ”
She made a good point.
“The only person who managed it was my mother,” she added after a brief silence.
If only I could take Beatrice’s word for that. But it was likely others in the village would have an opinion on the relationship between Dr. and Mrs. Penhollow.
“Speaking of his patients,” I said, “did Dr. Penhollow keep any sort of record of them?”
“He did indeed,” she replied. “He was quite meticulous about his records—a schedule of whom he was to see, their particular ailment, what sort of treatment he used and, of course, the charges.”
That could be helpful. “May we see it?”
“I don’t see why not. Do you suppose that will tell you who might have murdered him?
” She clapped a hand over her mouth, then dropped it to her lap.
“I suppose I ought to have asked if you still believed he was murdered. I must seem to you like the most awful of stepdaughters.” She held up a hand before we could protest, though in truth, I was quite relieved that she wasn’t my stepdaughter.
“Again, he wasn’t a nice man, but I ought to feel more obliged to care about his passing. ”
“I imagine we have little control over whom we care about,” Hetty said.
“Quite so,” she said. “Let me fetch that book for you. It’s in his office.”
Through the doorway, I could see her retrace our route toward the front door. Dr. Penhollow’s office must be the room where she’d left our coats, since it was the only room in that direction.
Once she’d left, Hetty set her cup on the table and leaned toward me. “Do you really suppose Ada Penhollow is the sainted woman her daughter makes her out to be?”