Chapter Two
Two men passed through the front gates of Villa De Lacey on foot and walked toward them. From their lanky, slim frames, Nate could tell they were Otis’s poet companions, who’d shared a cottage with him.
Bridget must have caught sight of them too because she held her free hand up to her forehead and peered into the distance. “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s Rupert and Charlie.”
“They must be looking for Otis.” Nate sighed. The two young men were brothers who always went by their Christian names, possibly to avoid confusion. Nate did not even know their surname.
“Dear me, how are we going to tell them?” Bridget covered her mouth with her hand, and Nate saw tears pool in her lovely eyes.
He moved closer to her and said gently, “I’ll take care of it.”
“You won’t have to tell them anything.” Magistrate Hunt stepped forward. “That’s my job.” He strode toward the men, clearly wanting to stop them from nearing the daffodils and Otis’s corpse. Nate and Bridget followed him.
The two young men stopped as the magistrate approached them, just a few feet away from their dead friend’s concealed body.
They’d been more like Otis’s followers than peers.
He’d been the ringleader, exuding charm and confidence.
Nate preferred these two. They were quiet thinkers, far more serious about their work, he suspected, than Otis had been.
“Gentlemen.” Magistrate Hunt folded his hands together. “I assume you’re here in search of your friend, Mr. George Otis.”
“That’s right,” Rupert, a thin, pale young man with a sharp nose and protruding Adam’s apple, said. “He didn’t come home last night. And he wasn’t at the lake this morning.”
“You had plans to meet at the lake this morning?”
“We take a walk along the lake together every morning. We typically go after breakfast, but since George didn’t come home last night, we thought he might be waiting for us there. When we didn’t find him, we came up here.” Rupert shrugged. “So here we are.”
“When was the last time you saw your friend?” Magistrate Hunt asked.
“Yesterday at supper,” Rupert said. “We worked together on our poetry all afternoon. Then we supped at The Black Horse.”
Magistrate Hunt frowned. “What do you mean by ‘worked together’?”
“We write individually but then read our work aloud to each other, and then we give our opinions, tell each other how to improve, that type of thing.”
“Did Mr. Otis say anything to upset either of you—about your poetry, perhaps?”
“He could be a harsh critic, but that never upset us. We welcomed it.”
“And how did Mr. Otis react to your criticisms of his work?”
“They aren’t criticisms. They are suggestions to make the writing better. Stronger.” Rupert shook his head as if to stave off his frustration. “Look, what’s this all about? Has something happened?”
“You stated Mr. Otis didn’t come home last night? When did he go out?”
“As I said, we supped together at The Black Horse and then stayed to enjoy a few jugs of ale. As the night wore on, the men who had supped at home started piling in, and it grew a little rowdy. George decided to leave, but we stayed.”
“And that was the last time you saw him? Before he left The Black Horse?” Magistrate Hunt asked.
“Correct.” Rupert nodded. “When we got home, he wasn’t in his bed.”
“And that didn’t worry you?” Magistrate Hunt said.
“George is a grown man. He doesn’t have a curfew. We were both exhausted from too much ale and fell to bed right away. When we awoke this morning, George was not in his bed. So, we assumed he’d risen early and gone to the lake. It was not unusual for him to do so.”
Rupert looked from the magistrate to Nate, who stood side by side, blocking the view of Otis’s concealed corpse.
“Look here,” Rupert said, “are you going to tell us why you’re asking all these questions?
” He turned to Bridget without waiting for an answer from the magistrate.
“Miss De Lacey? What’s happened? Is George in trouble? ”
“I’m so sorry.” Bridget bit her trembling lip.
“I’m afraid Mr. Otis is dead,” Magistrate Hunt said.
“Dead!” Rupert exclaimed.
His brother, Charlie, turned a degree paler. Like Rupert, he was exceedingly thin with dark hair and large soulful eyes. Nate wondered if their appetite for poetry substituted for an appetite for food and drink. It certainly hadn’t in Otis’s case.
“How?” Rupert demanded. “How is he dead?”
“He was murdered.” Magistrate Hunt turned and gestured to the wrapped corpse in the daffodils. “It happened last night—or in the early morning hours. We aren’t certain of the time.”
“Murdered!” both men exclaimed in unison. It was the first utterance Nate had heard Charlie make. He was a man of few words, and when he did speak, it was usually in a whisper.
“I don’t believe it.” Rupert started forward, but Magistrate Hunt put out his hand to stop him.
“No one is allowed near the corpse. It’s evidence. There will be an inquisition, and my men must take it to Dr. Elias for further examination.”
“But…” Rupert said. “What you say is not possible. It must be a case of mistaken identity. We knew him best. We should be the ones to identify his body.”
“You don’t want to see him,” Nate said. “That much I promise you.”
“He’s right,” Bridget said, her eyes moist with tears. “It’s too awful. I’m the one who found the body. And I can assure you that it is George.”
“Dear Lord.” Rupert rubbed his face with both hands as if he could wipe away the reality that confronted him. “How is this possible? How is it that he ended up murdered on your property?” He looked accusingly at Nate.
“That’s what we’d like to know.” Nate met Rupert’s accusing stare with one of his own. He wasn’t about to take on any culpability for this murder. He didn’t know why Otis had been on his property late at night, but whatever the reason, it certainly wasn’t his or Bridget’s responsibility.
Nate’s forcefulness seemed to work, and Rupert’s stance slackened. He shook his head, and his face turned scarlet—either with grief or anger.
“I simply don’t understand it,” Bridget said. “Who would want to harm George? Everyone loved him.”
“That’s not true,” Charlie spoke in an even fainter whisper than usual. “There’s that butcher in Braithwaite. He was making threats against George just last night at The Black Horse.”
“Last night?” Magistrate Hunt repeated.
Rupert straightened. “That’s right. Mr. Groby. He was drunk and screaming all sorts. I don’t think anyone took him seriously, though. I know I didn’t.”
“Mr. Groby is a respectable member of our community.” Magistrate Hunt puffed out his chest. “What did Mr. Otis do to provoke him?”
“He was giving Groby’s wife reading lessons—at her request,” Rupert said.
“The butcher was jealous. He ordered his wife to stop the lessons, but she refused. I warned George that it was dangerous to come between a man and his wife, but he wouldn’t listen.
He only saw the good in people. That was his flaw. ”
It’s more like he enjoyed provoking them, Nate thought.
He had seen in Otis what others had not—the man had been conceited.
He’d admired himself in a true Narcissus fashion, and the irony of Otis being murdered in a field of flowers named after the demigod was not lost on Nate.
He had known plenty of men like Otis among his peers in London.
They were irritating to be sure, but that wasn’t a reason to murder someone and cut out his heart.
Jealousy, however, was a more powerful motive.
John Groby was on his third marriage—his first two wives having died in childbirth.
And the current Mrs. Groby was considerably younger than the butcher. She was also a beautiful woman.
“That can’t be right. I’ve never known Mr. Groby to be mean-spirited,” Bridget said. “He was Papa’s friend, and he has always treated me and my aunt with the utmost respect. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’m sure you must be wrong.”
“We’re not wrong,” Rupert said. “We heard him say he would carve George up and feed him to his pigs.”
Nate’s breath caught in his throat, and he heard Bridget gasp audibly.
“When did you hear him say this?” Magistrate Hunt asked.
“Last night at The Black Horse. Everyone heard him.”
Nate glanced at Bridget, who paled considerably. The magistrate had not revealed that Otis’s heart had been cut out, so Rupert had to be telling the truth.
“Carve him up, did you say?” Magistrate Hunt repeated.
“That’s right,” Rupert said.
“And you heard this too?” Magistrate Hunt turned to Charlie.
The young man nodded. “I did.”
“You heard a man threaten to kill your friend, yet you showed no concern when he failed to come home?”
“No one took Groby’s threats seriously. He was badly intoxicated and raging like a bull. We were all laughing at him.”
“So, you didn’t take the butcher at his word, then?”
“Of course not. I never thought Groby would seriously harm George. I imagined that if George continued to spend time with Mrs. Groby, he’d likely receive a beating from Groby. But murder? I never thought he’d actually do such a thing.”
Magistrate Hunt straightened his shoulders. “Well, as you can see, that is exactly what’s happened.” He sighed. “It’s a disturbing turn of events, but I’d say that it looks like we’ve got our man.”
*
“I don’t believe it!” Bridget said. “Mr. Groby has been part of our community since he was a child. He’s a decent man with a kind nature.
Why, I’ve seen him give free scraps of meat to the poor so they can make soup.
And Mrs. Groby has never complained about her husband’s behavior.
They seem perfectly happy together. I had no idea he was capable of—to think he’d even make such a threat, let alone act on it.
” She swallowed, feeling nausea rising in her throat.
“I think we’ve both learned that things aren’t always what they seem,” Nate said dryly.