Page 20 of Marriage and Murder
Stokes glanced at his notebook, then looked at Ida. “One last question, Mrs. Penrose. Did you see anyone acting suspiciously around Lavender Cottage in the days or even weeks prior to Miss Huntingdon’s death?”
Ida primmed her lips, then volunteered, “Depends on what you call suspicious. Over the past few weeks, I’ve seen some man—gentleman, he looked like—walking over the fields toward Viola’s cottage. He was never close enough that I could see whohe was. There’s a gap in the trees, and when I’m standing at my sink, I can see across the fields a fair way. I couldn’t imagine why a gentleman would be taking the path through the fields, but I saw him clear as day at least three times.” She paused, then added, “I did note that it was always on the afternoons that Pat Gilroy had off.”
Ida focused on Stokes. “I mentioned seeing the bloke one day, and Jim said as he’d seen him, too. No surprise as Jim’s out in the fields more often than not. He might be able to tell you more.”
Stokes nodded. “Thank you. That might be relevant.” He looked up and faintly arched his brows at Barnaby and Penelope, but both shook their heads. They had no further questions for Ida Penrose.
Stokes returned his gaze to Ida. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Penrose. Now, if we go down to the orchard, I take it we’ll find your husband and Jim Swinson there.”
“Like as not,” Ida said, pushing to her feet. “But with the light waning, they’ll be packing up their tools and coming in soon.”
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope rose.
With a smile, Stokes promised, “We won’t keep them long.”
They left Penrose Cottage via the back door and, with Constable Price assisting, followed Mrs. Penrose’s directions to a large, well-established, and healthy-looking orchard. The trees were old, their trunks gnarly, but they were plainly well cared for, pruned, shaped, and nurtured. Although by now all the fruit had been picked and carted away, the scents of ripe plums, apples, and pears still hung in the air.
Walking beside Penelope along the path between the rows of trees, Barnaby noted that their footsteps were deadened by the thick layer of fallen leaves. Consequently, they saw Jim Swinson and Arthur Penrose before the pair, who were busy gathering various tools and placing them in canvas slings, noticed them.
Eventually hearing their approach, the men glanced up, then put down their tools, straightened, and faced them.
Arthur Penrose was a short, slight, wiry man somewhere in his late forties, while Jim Swinson was much younger, perhaps twenty-two or -three, and was taller by a head and more. As broad as he was tall and solid with it, he was a strong, young working countryman. Both men were dressed in typical country worker’s garb of thick canvas trousers, warm shirt, and worn jacket, with heavy well-scuffed boots on their feet.
Constable Price hailed the pair, and when their group halted before the men, Price introduced Stokes, then Stokes introduced Barnaby and Penelope.
Although plainly curious, the men bobbed their heads respectfully and mumbled greetings.
Stokes calmly stated, “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we’re here to investigate Miss Huntingdon’s death, and we’re currently gathering whatever information people have to share about the victim. As you know, she was murdered in her parlor last Thursday afternoon, at some point between twelve and four o’clock.”
Arthur Penrose’s rather shaggy brows rose. “That early, was it?”
“It seems likely,” Stokes said, “that Miss Huntingdon was dead at the time Lord Glossup called at her cottage at four-thirty, and she failed to come to the door.”
“Ah.” Jim Swinson nodded. “You know about his lordship calling, then, and his argument with Miss Huntingdon that morning.”
“Yes. We have heard about that,” Stokes replied. “What we’ve come here to ask is for confirmation, Mr. Penrose, of your ongoing disagreement with Miss Huntingdon over the boundary of your property.”
That was enough to get Arthur Penrose to share his angst in exhaustive detail. “She had no right, I tell you, but she took those apples before we got to them. It had to have been her, because who else could it have been, and smug as a goose, she was, when I asked her about it.”
He carried on at some length, arguing the minutiae of the competing claims, but although the matter plainly exercised his temper and was, to him, a deeply serious issue, Barnaby caught no hint of the sort of deep-seated fury that might prompt a man like Arthur Penrose to murder.
He was irritated and annoyed by Viola and her claim, but moved to murder?
Indeed, as short and slight as Arthur was, it was difficult to see how he could have strangled Viola Huntingdon. Arthur was only slightly taller than Penelope, who was distinctly petite. According to Carter, Viola Huntingdon had been of average height and her murderer taller still.
To strangle Viola, Arthur would have had to stand on a stool, and such a scenario really wouldn’t fly.
While Arthur continued with his plaint, Barnaby shifted his gaze to Jim Swinson. Jim could have committed the crime without the slightest difficulty. Just looking at him was enough to assure the observer that he was strong and able. He was also the type of quiet countryman of few words, stoic in the face of whatever life threw his way, and therefore very difficult to read.
Finally, Arthur wound down, and Stokes asked, “Where were you on Thursday afternoon, Mr. Penrose? We’re asking everyone in the village so that we know who was around about.”
Arthur looked at them, then shifted his gaze beyond them. Then he pointed farther along the row of trees, deeper into the orchard. “I was over thereabouts. Jim and I had got that far with the neatening and pruning.”
Barnaby swung around and surveyed the area, then turned back to Arthur. “So you and Jim were here all that afternoon?”
Arthur and Jim nodded, and Arthur confirmed, “Aye, until about now. We don’t waste daylight when we have a clear day, and Thursday last was clear.”
Stokes regarded the pair. “Were you always within sight of each other? Neither of you left at any time, even for just a few minutes?”
