Page 22 of Marriage and Murder
As they rounded the house and crossed the front lawn, passing under the leafless beech, Penelope juggled the new facts into some semblance of order in her mind. The shadows were lengthening as they passed through the gate and stepped into the lane.
A well-dressed lady garbed all in black had been walking toward the junction, but at the sound of the gate swinging, she halted and whirled, then seeing them, she came striding back.
Their party halted, and Constable Price murmured, “Mrs. Foswell, the minister’s wife.”
“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Foswell called as soon as she was within speaking range. “I’m Mrs. Foswell, and Viola Huntingdon was a dear friend. I’ve just come from the cottage. I thought to call on poor Madeline and ensure she has all she needs, but she appears to be out. That said, I had also hoped to come across you.” She paused, then asked, “You are the investigators sent to find Viola’s murderer?” She immediately answered herself, “Of course you are.” She nodded to Price. “William.”
The young constable knew his role and promptly introduced Stokes, who then did the honors for Barnaby and Penelope.
Mrs. Foswell looked suitably impressed as she exchanged nods. “I’m sure Viola would feel relieved to know her sad death will be investigated by such senior people. Now”—she stood straighter, raising her chin to a commanding angle—“I want to render whatever help I can. This is a small village, and that such an incident could occur within our community is quite shocking. It simply cannot be tolerated.”
Penelope felt Stokes’s elbow nudge into her side. “Thank you, Mrs. Foswell.” Penelope could already see some of what the minister’s wife and Viola Huntingdon had had in common. “Would that everyone was as forthcoming when we seek to investigate a crime. In this instance, at this point, it would be most helpful if you could share your view of the deceased. We’ve been given to understand that Miss Huntingdon wasn’t universally appreciated.”
Mrs. Foswell sighed. “No, indeed. That’s quite true, although it was purely because Viola not just saw but commented on people’s shortcomings. She saw that as her role—to help people face their faults and therefore fix them. She wasn’t one to let what she saw as bad or inadequate behavior slide by unremarked. She had quite high standards, both for herself and for those about her.” Mrs. Foswell’s expression grew resigned. “Sadly, Viola wasn’t the most tactful person in her interactions with others.”
Penelope thought those comments neatly summarized all they’d heard of Viola’s behavior. Tact had definitely been something she’d lacked. Penelope ventured, “We’ve heard that you were Viola’s closest friend. Madeline has told us of the gentleman Viola had written to her about, the one who had recently come into her life. Did Viola mention anything of that man to you?”
Mrs. Foswell’s expression grew faintly hurt. “No. She never mentioned such a person at all.” She drew breath, paused, thensaid, “Frankly, I was surprised to hear of this mystery man. I’ve seen the letter Madeline received, and while I hesitate to suggest such a thing, I have to wonder if, perhaps, the man wasn’t a figment of Viola’s imagination. Something to make herself sound more interesting to her sister, who I believe Viola was just a touch jealous of, and then she further embellished the fiction to make herself seem even more dramatic.” Mrs. Foswell looked meaningfully at Penelope. “If you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I see.” Penelope considered Mrs. Foswell’s suggestion for all of three seconds, but the man seen striding across the fields had been real, and whoever strangled Viola had certainly not been imaginary. “On another point,” Penelope went on, “we’ve heard of Viola’s aquamarine bracelet. Do you recall seeing it?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Foswell proceeded to give a decent description that matched what Madeline had told them. “Viola wore the piece whenever she went anywhere beyond the cottage.”
“Did you see the matching necklace Viola told her sister her admirer had given her?” Penelope asked.
Mrs. Foswell’s features pinched, hurt once again surfacing. “No. I never saw any necklace, just the bracelet.”
Penelope smiled at the older woman. “Thank you for your frankness, Mrs. Foswell. You’ve given us quite a few points to ponder.”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Foswell appeared somewhat mollified. “If there’s anything else I or David—Reverend Foswell—can help with, please do call on us.”
Stokes assured her they would do so, and they parted with good wishes all around.
Stokes commended Constable Price for his assistance that day and dispatched him to stand guard at Lavender Cottage,then with Barnaby and Penelope, turned toward their carriage, still waiting in the lane.
As they walked, Penelope mused, “In actual fact, in one afternoon of investigating, we’ve learned quite a lot.”
“But how it all fits,” Barnaby said, reaching for the carriage door, “and who the man who strangled Viola Huntingdon is remains very much up in the air.”
“I vote,” Stokes said, “that we get ourselves to the comfort of the King John Inn, then after a good dinner to replenish our reserves, we put our heads together and see what we can make of what we’ve learned.”
Madeline stood on the front porch of Glossup Hall and stared at the impressively solid dark-green-painted door.
Lord Glossup’s residence was significantly larger than she’d imagined, a sprawling Elizabethan mansion with two wide wings stretching away on either side of a central block topped with a tower. The redbrick façade faced south and boasted three stories topped by a lead roof edged with a crenelated balustrade beyond which a plethora of tall chimneys with ornate pots reached skyward. The last red rays of the setting sun reflected off the mullioned windows as Madeline glanced back, across the circular forecourt to the mouth of the tree-lined drive she’d taken after following Ashmore’s High Street southward.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and it was getting quite dark. She should have waited until tomorrow, but the need to get her apology to his lordship done and off her chest had compelled her, and she’d set out for the Hall without any real thought for how long it would take to reach the place.
She didn’t think anyone had noticed her arrival. She could leave and return tomorrow, and no one would be the wiser.
But that would mean another night of amorphous guilt weighing on her soul.
She turned back to the door, drew in a deep breath, and lips firming, grasped the bell chain and tugged.
She fidgeted and waited, then the door was opened by a kindly-looking butler.
He smiled at her as if finding unknown ladies on the doorstep was nothing new. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?”
Madeline raised her chin a notch and announced, “My name is Miss Huntingdon, and I would like to speak with Lord Glossup.” After a second, she added, “If that’s possible.”
