Page 19 of Marriage and Murder
Stokes stepped up beside Penelope. “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.” He proceeded to introduce Penelope and Barnaby, then said, “We would like a word with you, Mrs. Penrose, and also your husband, Arthur, and Jim Swinson, if he’s about.”
“Arthur and Jim are busy in the orchard out back,” Ida flatly stated.
Undeterred, Stokes replied, “In that case, perhaps we can have a word with you first. Inside would be preferable.”
Ida’s gaze went to the lane behind them, then returned to Stokes. “Of course.” She stepped back and waved them in. “I assume this is about that dreadful business with Viola Huntingdon.”
“Indeed,” Stokes replied.
Penelope urged Stokes to lead the way, and after throwing her a curious glance, he obliged, following Mrs. Penrose deeper into the hall. Penelope followed more slowly, using the moment to look about her. Somewhat to her surprise, she found the atmosphere in the cottage oddly stifling, as if the house had been closed up or the owners didn’t appreciate fresh air. As they followed Ida Penrose, with her determined stride and no-nonsense countrywoman’s attitude, into the cottage’s scrupulously neat parlor, Penelope judged the latter cause more likely.
Mrs. Penrose halted before one of the armchairs to one side of the fireplace and waved her visitors to the sofa and matching chair. Penelope claimed a place on the rather hard sofa, and with his customary elegance, Barnaby sat beside her. Stokes tookthe spare armchair, and Constable Price again elected to stand unobtrusively by the door.
After seeing her guests seated, Ida Penrose subsided onto her chair and bluntly stated, “I can’t see how I can help you. We never heard anything from next door on Thursday afternoon.” She eyed them intently. “That’s when she was done for, wasn’t it?”
“We believe so,” Stokes replied, setting his notebook on his knee. “However, we’re here to ask you for your opinion of Miss Huntingdon. Did you get along with her?”
Ida Penrose glanced at Constable Price, then returned her gaze to Stokes. “One doesn’t wish to speak ill of the dead.”
“Naturally not,” Penelope said. “But in this case, we need to learn about the victim in order to understand who might have murdered her, and I’m sure everyone in the village will be keen to see the murderer caught.”
Ida’s dark gaze had settled on Penelope, and Ida appeared to consider her words, then slowly, she inclined her head. “That’s true enough. So, it’s common knowledge that Viola Huntingdon was not an easy woman to like. She always insisted things had to be done the way she thought they ought, and her way was the only way, and she was the judge of it all. As if she was better than most of us villagers.” Ida’s face clouded. “For instance, she liked all those fussy flowers, and we don’t. My Arthur would have a conniption if we had an untidy garden like that. He doesn’t like untidiness.”
Well,Penelope thought,that was the front garden explained.
“But,” Ida went on, “Viola was forever sniping about people who had no pride in their property and how it just showed.” Ida paused, then added, “Mind you, she never said what it showed. She just used the issue to make a point.”
“I see.” Stokes was jotting in his book. “So in the main, your difficulties with Viola Huntingdon were over relatively minor matters—the usual sort of neighborly tensions.”
Ida thought, then allowed, “I suppose they were. Nothing I’d think to murder her for, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Stokes inclined his head in acceptance of the statement. “Purely for our records, where were you on Thursday afternoon?”
Ida paused as if thinking, then replied, “Thursday afternoon, I was here. I was in the kitchen baking scones, then I had Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper around for afternoon tea.” She focused on Stokes. “It was when they were leaving that they saw his lordship coming out from Lavender Cottage.”
His gaze on his writing, Stokes nodded. “Thank you.”
“Returning to the matter of gardens,” Penelope said, “we understand that your man-of-all-work, Jim Swinson, tended Miss Huntingdon’s garden. Did that cause any ructions?”
“Not really.” Ida had the sort of face on which expressions were muted and therefore hard to read. “Jim said it gave him flowers and such to work with. He’s one as likes to work outside, and he helps Arthur in the orchard and fields, so I can understand that it was a bit of something different for him, and he was only over there on his days off from us.”
“Did Jim and Viola Huntingdon get on?” Barnaby asked.
“Not especially,” Ida admitted. “They weren’t what you would call friendly to each other, but you’ll need to speak with Jim about that.”
Stokes asked, “Are you aware of any specific incident between Jim and Viola?”
Ida shook her head. “Not that I ever heard of, but Jim’s not one to say much about others, and Viola would never have said anything about any disagreement to me.”
“Very well. Now”—Stokes raised his head and fixed his gaze on Ida—“was there any specific cause of disagreement between your husband and Viola Huntingdon?”
Ida’s expression hardened, and she glanced, narrow-eyed, at Constable Price. “No doubt you’ve heard”—she swung her gaze back to Stokes—“that there was a disagreement between my Arthur and Viola Huntingdon about the boundary of the orchard. These are old parcels of land, and I don’t know how anyone can know the rights of such things, but Viola insisted that the boundary lay more over our way, which meant that the three most easterly rows of Arthur’s prize apple trees were on her land, not ours.”
Ida shook her head. “They’ve been on about it for months now, and no one knows who has the right of it, but with the season’s apples just in, there was such an argy-bargy outside the church Sunday before last that Reverend Foswell had to step between them and tell them both to go home and cool off. He told them once they’d calmed, they should sit down and sort it out once and for all. Not that they did.” Ida sighed heavily. “All the village is as sick of the to-do as I am.”
Stokes sent a questioning look at Barnaby and Penelope, one Penelope interpreted as wondering if Arthur Penrose or even some other irritated villager had thought to put an end to the dispute in a more direct and permanent fashion.
That was certainly something to ponder.
