Page 3 of Marriage and Murder
Barnaby had no difficulty believing that was what Henry would have done. At base, he was a kind and gentle soul who valued peace and harmony.
“So,” Henry continued, “on my way home, I stopped at Lavender Cottage, dismounted, went up the path, and knocked on her door. I knocked twice and waited, but she didn’t answer. I thought she must have gone out, so I left.” He drew in a long breath, then exhaled and said, “Now, it seems she was probably lying dead in her parlor at that time.”
Barnaby gently inquired, “I take it you were seen walking away from her door?”
Henry nodded. “By two of the village’s biggest gossips. Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper had just left Penrose Cottage, and they both saw me walk out of the Lavender Cottage gate. I nodded to them, then mounted my horse, called Humphrey, and rode on home.”
By her expression, Penelope was cataloguing every fact, moment by moment. “What,” she asked, “do you know of this woman who was killed? What was her name again?”
“Miss Viola Huntingdon. She was strangled, apparently sometime on Thursday afternoon, but her body wasn’t found until the next morning, when her housekeeper—Mrs. Gilroy, who lives elsewhere in the village—arrived to start her day.”
“So that was Friday morning,” Penelope stated.
Henry nodded. “Thursday afternoon is one of Mrs. Gilroy’s half days off. She’s said that Miss Huntingdon was bothered about something and rather distracted, but hale and whole and well when she—Mrs. Gilroy—left the cottage at noon on Thursday. But when Mrs. Gilroy came in on Friday morning, Miss Huntingdon was dead and cold, lying in her parlor.”
Penelope shifted to directly face Henry. “Let me see if I have this correctly. You had an argument with the victim on Thursday morning, and she was found dead, strangled”—exactly as Kitty was; small wonder the situation is haunting poor Henry—“early on Friday morning.”
Glumly, Henry nodded. “That’s right.”
“So what was this accusation?” Penelope asked.
“And,” Barnaby added, “who made it?”
Henry sighed. “It happened after church yesterday. As usual, the congregation gathered to chat on the church lawn, and yesterday morning, the talk was all about the murder. Miss Huntingdon’s sister—another Miss Huntingdon—had comedown from London, and she was there, standing with Mrs. Foswell, the minister’s wife, with the rest of the village scattered about, and I thought I should offer my condolences. Miss Huntingdon hadn’t expected to find her sister dead, and so she wasn’t in mourning clothes but had one of those gauzy veils over her hat, so as I approached, I couldn’t see her face. Perhaps if I had…” Henry grimaced. “Anyway, I walked up and stated my name and said how sorry I was for her loss and held out my hand, and this Miss Huntingdon looked down at my hand, and veil or no veil, I swear she looked at my hand as if it was diseased. Then she said—” Henry broke off and closed his eyes. He was obviously reciting from memory as he went on, “My sister wrote to me about you. She called you ‘her secret admirer, H.’ And I’ve heard you had an argument with her on Thursday morning, and you were seen leaving her cottage on Thursday afternoon, and after that, she was found dead, strangled, just like your late wife.” Henry paused and, his eyes still closed, reported, “Her voice was low and husky as if she’d been crying, and she hauled in a breath that was shaky and sobby and went on”—he opened his eyes and continued—“‘I can only hope that the police get the right man this time!’”
He looked at Penelope and Barnaby, a species of hopelessness in his eyes. “She thinks I killed her sister.”
In a matter-of-fact tone, Barnaby asked, “What did you do?”
“What could I do?” Henry shook his head. “I froze. I was so stunned, I didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. Then I lowered my hand, turned on my heel, and walked away. I could hear the whispers start up behind me, like a swarm of wasps.” He shuddered. “I was so shaken, I drove straight home, then after luncheon, I drove to Salisbury, got on the train, and came here.”
His expression baffled and pleading, Henry looked from Penelope to Barnaby. “I have no idea why anyone would think Miss Huntingdon would label me ‘her secret admirer.’ I barelyknew the woman—well, just to nod to, given she’d lived in the village for the past five years.” Henry’s shoulders sagged. “But the whispers have started up again and…” He shrugged and said nothing more.
Penelope was frowning. “Is there any other man in the village or around about whose name starts withH?”
Henry grimaced. “No. That’s just it. For my sins, I’m the onlyHaround.”
Barnaby snorted. “Being accused of murder because your name begins with a particular letter is absurd.”
“I know, but…” Henry shrugged again. “It’s a small country village, and you know what such places are like. Something like that connects in people’s minds with Kitty being strangled, and they talk, and the more they talk, the more their conjecture starts to sound like fact.” He straightened and looked at Barnaby, then at Penelope. “I’ve heard you work with that Scotland Yard inspector, Stokes. He’s the one who came down to Glossup Hall five years ago and unraveled the truth of Kitty’s murder. He knows all about that, and so I thought, if you could see your way to contacting him…”
Penelope leaned forward and patted Henry’s clasped hands. “Of course! As it happens, we work closely with Stokes on any matter that involves members of the ton, and recently, that remit has been broadened to include whatever cases we think we can help with, and on both counts, this is unquestionably one.”
“Indeed.” With a decisive nod, Barnaby rose and crossed to the bellpull beside the fireplace. “The first thing we need to do is summon Stokes. With any luck, he’ll be tapped on the shoulder for this case, assuming, of course, that the local police force requests Scotland Yard’s assistance.”
“Regardless,” Penelope firmly stated, “I’m sure Stokes will agree that we three should go down to Ashmore and take a good look around.”
Relief suffused Henry’s expression. “Thank you.” To Penelope, he said, “I apologize for pulling you away from the social round.”
“Pfft!” She waved aside the notion. “Now that the majority of the ton have retreated to the country, there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—going on in town that can possibly compete with murder.”
Having tugged the bellpull, smiling reassuringly, Barnaby resumed his seat. “In truth, I rather fancy a nice little jaunt into the country.”
Penelope grinned at Henry. “Don’t worry. We’ll come down and sort this out and discover who really strangled Miss Viola Huntingdon.”
In Ashmore village, wrapped in the peace and quiet of the nave in the church of St. Nicholas, Madeline Huntingdon kept her eyes closed and prayed for fortitude and also courage.
The atmosphere within the thick stone walls was cool, and the chill of the flagstones, even felt through the thin kneeling pad, permeated to her bones.
