Chapter Twenty-two
The police station was still closed by the time we headed back to Hadley Grange. “Do you think we ought to call on the sergeant at home?” I asked George. “It is only three o’clock.”
He tucked my gloved hand into the crook of his arm as we passed the station. “It’s not as though we have a suspect to hand over,” he said. “Let’s give him a chance to settle in.” He held up the market bag. “We can send your notes to his house with a messenger.”
I reluctantly pushed my eagerness aside and told George about my conversation with Nancy Rallison.
“It sounds as though the man the whole village held in such disdain managed to find two women who loved him,” he said.
We had just left the village proper for the dirt lane that led to Hadley Grange by way of the infamous field. Though there were still puddles in the ruts, the road was mostly dry. George wanted to take a look at the place where we had found Dr. Penhollow’s body.
“We only assume that Ada loved him,” I said as we walked along. “She might have married him simply to support her two daughters. But even then, I suppose she would feel some sort of gratitude toward him.”
George looked at me with a bemused smile. “You sound terribly disappointed that Mrs. Penhollow may have felt something for her husband. Why would you suspect otherwise?”
I gave him a long look. “It could be because I don’t think much of the man myself or because she is almost my last suspect for his murder.”
He chuckled. “Not a very good reason, but convenient. What is her motive?”
“I would have said she didn’t have one until Nancy told me how much Dr. Penhollow loved Martha Rallison.”
“Ah, but did Ada Penhollow know about that?”
“That’s the important question,” I said.
“And I don’t have the answer. There was no reason for Dr. Penhollow to tell her.
Martha had died, so even if the two of them had considered running off together at some point, that chance was long gone.
Ada might have had some instinct that he loved someone else, but I doubt very much that she would have had proof. ”
I squeezed George’s hand. “And before you say it, I am well aware that not all women murder their philandering husbands.”
He laughed. “I’d imagine most at least consider it. But as for Ada, what would she have to gain with her husband dead?”
“Nothing, as it happens. That’s why I hadn’t considered her as a suspect previously.
Or at least not for very long. Dr. Penhollow’s brother inherits the house.
I suppose there could be some money involved, but Ada will be moving to the vicarage, so it doesn’t sound as though Dr. Penhollow left his widow well off.
I do wish Sergeant Hewitt had been in his office.
He knows these people better than you and I. Perhaps he could imagine a suspect.”
We had arrived at the field, and George moved carefully through the shin-high wheat. The path of boot prints through the crop had been completely erased over the past two days. Having already searched the field myself, I leaned against a tree off to the side and watched him.
“What of the brother?” George asked.
“He arrived only after we found Dr. Penhollow, so I don’t know how he could have murdered him.
This has been so frustrating. Since Dr. Penhollow was killed by phosphorus, anyone who found or stole those vials could have done it.
But I think someone moved his body to this field.
Someone put the wrong-sized boots on his feet.
According to Dr. Bertram, he would have been very ill before dying, so he wasn’t likely to take a notion to walk to the village, as Ada told us he did. ”
“While wearing the wrong boots,” George agreed, still surveying the field.
We lingered a little longer, but finding nothing but dirt, stones, and winter wheat, George gave up his search.
When we arrived at Hadley Grange fifteen minutes later, Fiona and Robert were coming down the grand staircase. After handing our outerwear off to a footman, we joined them in the drawing room, settled into the chairs by the fire, and told them what we had learned from the Rallisons.
“I don’t know how Charlie could have gotten hold of the phosphorus, so I don’t believe we can consider him a suspect any longer,” I concluded.
“That leaves Ada and Beatrice, and you didn’t feel they were strong suspects, either.” Fiona leaned forward eagerly. “And by the way, you’ll never believe what happened while you were gone.”
“Someone knocked on the door and confessed to the crime?” George said.
Fiona flapped a hand. “No, it had nothing to do with that. It happened when I was belowstairs, consulting with the cook. I heard shouting from inside the larder.”
“A minor revolution among the staff?”
“George, if you don’t stop interrupting, you’ll see a major revolution from your sister,” I warned him.
Fiona shot him a glare and went on with her story. “I knew one of the voices was the housekeeper’s, so I left the cook and went through to the larder, and who do you think I found there?”
None of us said a word.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “It was Ada Penhollow. All in a tizzy. I tell you I thought for a moment she might strike the housekeeper.”
“For goodness’ sake, what was wrong?” I asked.
“You’ll never believe it.”
“Fiona,” George whined.
“She wanted her husband’s nog back.”
I couldn’t say if I believed that or not, since I had no idea what she was talking about. “His what?”
“His Norfolk nog. Apparently, Beatrice had given it to Rose when she called on the Penhollows yesterday, and Ada came here to demand that we return it.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten. Did she want Cloud, as well?” If so, Rose would be brokenhearted.
Fiona drew back. “Now that you mention it, she didn’t say a word about the dog. The housekeeper handed over a jug of nog to her, and off Mrs. Penhollow went without uttering another syllable. It was all very strange.”
“I would say so. Didn’t Beatrice tell us that no one cared for Dr. Penhollow’s nog?”
“She did.” Fiona shrugged. “Perhaps Ada feels differently. Maybe she wants it as a keepsake.”
“Whatever her reason,” Robert said, “it doesn’t really matter, does it? Cook made her own batch of nog, so we still have plenty to enjoy.” He rubbed his hands together. “And I say we make a point of enjoying it this evening.”
“I think you have the right idea,” George said to Robert. “It’s time for the family part of this family holiday to begin.”
Robert frowned. “That’s right. It hasn’t been very festive for anyone, has it? While we were off working to clear the roads, you two and Hetty were investigating a murder. I suppose all the young people were at loose ends.”
“That’s not exactly how it went,” Fiona said.
She and I shared a glance. “The investigation itself was something of a family project, wouldn’t you say, Fi?”
“Everyone had a hand in it,” she agreed. “It’s a shame we weren’t able to determine who our culprit was.”
“Everyone? Even the children?” Robert asked.
“We tried to keep them at arm’s length,” I said, “but they were quite eager for details. They considered the case research for their story.”
“Their story?” Robert stared at me, incredulous.
“They are writing one.” Fiona waved her hand with a flourish. “‘A Christmas Murder.’”
Robert’s eyes looked ready to pop. “What on earth? Hazelton and I are gone for two days, and our children are writing gruesome books about murder?”
“Don’t alarm yourself, dear. They were writing the book before you left. It was an assignment from the girls’ governess, and it’s perfectly proper.” Fiona tossed her head. “At least I think it is. We shall find out tomorrow, when they read it to us.”
Fiona’s explanation did little to calm him. “But why would she ask them to write such a thing? A book about murder?”
Fiona stood and offered her hand to him. “Come and argue with me privately, dear. George and Frances needn’t be burdened with our disagreements.”
“It’s not a disagreement. I just don’t understand.” Nevertheless, Robert gave us both a nod, took Fiona’s hand, and followed her from the room.
George joined me on the sofa. “Is this book as innocent as Fiona seems to believe?”
“The girls were meant to write a Christmas story based on A Christmas Carol. Do you know the book?”
“Of course. I read it years ago, but I don’t recall a murder.”
“The murder is only in their version. Scrooge is murdered, and two investigators named Georgianna and Frank take the case.” I watched George’s face for a reaction. It was no surprise when he started laughing or when he sobered and gave me a look of chagrin.
“I suppose that was Rose’s idea?”
“I never thought to ask, but I assume so. It seems she pays closer attention to our actions than either of us realized.”
“We never actively tried to hide it from her.” Stroking his beard with his fingertips, he frowned. “Do you think we should?”
“Not at this point,” I said. “In fact, we might start explaining our investigations to her. Vetting the details, of course, considering her age. As she gets older, she is bound to realize there might be danger involved, and I want to ensure that she isn’t losing sleep over our occupation.”
“That sounds rather tricky. How do you propose we manage her fears?”
“I don’t think we’ll know until we get there. In the meantime, she invented two sleuths named Georgianna and Frank.” I couldn’t stop my smile from growing. “Do you think that means she’s just a little bit proud of us?”
“It might,” he said. “As long as she doesn’t kill us at the end.”
I let out a tsk, ready to admonish him for such a flippant statement until I saw his honest reaction.
George steepled his fingers and brought them to his lips. His cheeks bloomed with color, and his eyes glistened. I might have teased him if I hadn’t felt exactly the same way.
Because it was Christmas Eve and the children were joining us, Fiona wanted dinner early. We were all assembled by four o’clock. Many of the servants had Christmas off, and an early night gave them a chance to start their travels sooner or enjoy a relaxing evening.