Page 18 of Marriage and Murder
It was Madeline, who had come as far as the doorway and was standing with her arms wrapped about her, who drew their attention to the carriage clock lying broken on the mantelpiece. “I gather that was found on the floor, not far from Viola’s body.”
Penelope picked up the clock. Standing beside her, Barnaby saw the hands frozen at three-thirty-three, just as Carter had reported.
“The clock was our father’s, and Viola was very proud of it,” Madeline said. “She always kept it correctly set and wound. She checked it every morning without fail.”
Constable Price murmured, “Mrs. Gilroy said the same.”
With Penelope and Stokes, Barnaby scanned the room, taking in the bright chintz in a pattern of roses that covered the sofa and was repeated in the curtains. There was little else to see, and with a nod to Price to lead the way, Stokes followed him into the hall and up the stairs.
Rather more slowly, looking about her with her usual eye for detail, Penelope followed, and Barnaby followed her. After dithering for a moment, Madeline came slowly up the stairs in their wake.
Price led them to what was plainly the main bedroom of the cottage, and it was instantly apparent that the room had been thoroughly ransacked. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and upended and the clothes that had been in them flung about. All the items on the dressing table had been disarranged, but the search had been more careful and methodical there.
Viewing the scene, Penelope stated, “He went first to the dressing table, expecting to find the jewelry there, but then he panicked and searched furiously everywhere.”
From behind them, Madeline said, “That seems odd.” When they turned to look inquiringly at her, she moved forward and past them, going toward the bedside table that stood between the bed and one wall. She stopped before she reached the small table and pointed at a box on the floor. “Viola kept the bracelet in that box.”
A small blue-velvet-covered box, entirely empty, lay open and discarded on the rug.
Madeline pointed to the bedside table drawer, hauled out and flung against the wall. “She kept the box in that drawer.” Madeline tipped her head, regarding the box. “Surely, he would have searched the bedside drawer before the chest of drawers.” She turned to survey the clothes flung about the room. “So why bother with all this”—she flung out her hand—“and the mess elsewhere if he’d already found the jewelry he was after?”
For his part, Barnaby couldn’t think of a good answer.
Finally, Stokes said, “Sometimes, murderers are so angry they act irrationally. He might simply have thoroughly lost his temper.”
None of them, Barnaby suspected, felt entirely happy with that answer, but as there were no other clues waiting in the disarranged room or in the upended upstairs closet, within a few minutes, they were trooping back down the stairs.
“I wonder,” Penelope said as they gathered in the front hall, “whether there’s any way to trace the necklace.” She looked at Stokes. “The bracelet design sounds sufficiently unique that any jeweler who had been asked to duplicate such a piece would surely remember who had commissioned the work. Especially given that it was only done in September.”
Stokes stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Good point. That might well be why he was so keen to take the necklace—and the bracelet, too.” He looked at Madeline, who had followed them downstairs. “Can I trouble you to make a sketch of your sister’s missing bracelet?”
“Of course.” She appeared heartened to have something she could do that might help. “I’ll work on it tonight and have a sketch ready for you in the morning.”
“Thank you. We’ll leave you now, Miss Huntingdon, but if you don’t mind, I would feel considerably happier if you would allow Constable Price to put up here for the next few nights. I’ll have need of his knowledge of the locals and the area. He could return with us to the inn at Tollard Royal, where we’re staying, or remain with you as a guard, but I’m sincerely hoping you’ll agree to the latter. At this point, we can’t be sure that the only thing the murderer wanted was the jewelry. I would prefer not to risk him coming back for another look one night while you are the only one here.”
Madeline’s eyes had widened at Stokes’s words. She glanced at Price, then smiled weakly. “If you don’t mind staying, Constable, I admit I would feel more comfortable with someone else in the house.”
Price’s chest rose, and he saluted. “I’ll be honored to remain on guard, miss.” He looked at Stokes. “Inspector.”
“Excellent. But for now, Price,” Stokes said, “I would like you to take us to speak with the Penroses next door. Once we’refinished there, you can return to Lavender Cottage.” He looked at Madeline. “If that will suit?”
“That plan will suit admirably, Inspector.” Madeleine seemed to have reclaimed a degree of natural confidence. “I need some air, so will be going out for a short walk, but I’ll be back by six if not before.”
Stokes nodded, and Barnaby and Penelope took their leave, then the three of them followed Constable Price down the path, out of the gate, and along the lane to the cottage next door.
CHAPTER 4
Penelope followed Constable Price up the ruler-straight brick-paved path that led to the front door of the uninventively named Penrose Cottage.
The contrast between the front gardens of the neighboring cottages could not have been more marked. Where Lavender Cottage’s garden was whimsical, soft, and fluttery, this garden was bare clipped lawn with a single large beech tree, already mostly leafless, to the right of the path. Despite that, there was not a single leaf to be seen dotting the lawn, and the edges of the path had been recently trimmed with ruthless precision.
No softness,Penelope thought,and little delight.
She halted behind Constable Price when he stopped on the narrow porch and beat a crisprat-a-tat-taton the front door.
As the door opened, the young constable stepped back, and Penelope found herself facing a tallish middle-aged woman in a plain, dark-colored gown. Her graying hair was pulled back so tightly from her angular face that it almost made Penelope wince in sympathy. The woman’s dark eyes and sharp features set in a long face presently wearing a dour expression reminded Penelope of the garden—no softness, little delight.Indeed, everything about the woman screamed neat, no-frills practicality.
The woman’s dark gaze swept over their party, and before any of them could speak, she stated, “I’m Ida Penrose. Who are you?”
