Page 64 of Marriage and Murder
Henry and Madeline had followed Mallard and moved to sit in two chairs placed against the wall, a few feet behind Penelope and Barnaby. O’Donnell and Morgan stood at attention behind Monty, their presence within arm’s reach intentionally intimidating, and Constable Price came in last, closed the door, and took up a position with his back to the wall nearby.
The instant the door shut, Monty raised his head, looked at Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope, and blurted, “I didn’t kill her! You have to believe me. It wasn’t me!”
Everyone blinked. Stokes had paused in the act of drawing out his notebook. Smoothly, he continued the action, met Monty’s gaze, set the book on the table, and slowly nodded. “All right. But if you want to convince us and any judge and jury of that, you need to tell us exactly what happened last Thursday—the day Viola Huntingdon was murdered—from the moment you arrived at her cottage.”
Monty was already nodding like a bobble-headed doll. “When I got there?—”
“When exactly was that?” Barnaby asked.
“One-thirty on the dot.” Monty went on, “Viola liked me to arrive at that precise time. Her housekeeper left at noon, and Viola liked to have her luncheon and tidy away and have time to…well, I suppose you would say primp. She expected me at one-thirty, so that’s when I got there.”
“You came across the fields at the rear of the cottage and entered through the kitchen door,” Stokes said.
Monty nodded. “That was what I always did.” His tone almost eager, he explained, “I didn’t really want to be seen by the whole village, and Viola didn’t want the gossips to know, either. I think she feared being made fun of, so me coming and going via the fields and the kitchen door suited us both.”
“Was the rear door unlocked?” Penelope asked.
“Yes,” Monty replied. “It was always unlocked during the day.”
“But Viola trusted you,” Barnaby said, “and she’d given you a key, hadn’t she?”
Monty paused. His gaze darted between Penelope and Barnaby to Madeline, and he patently debated lying, but then, hauling his gaze from Madeline and fixing it on Barnaby, Monty swallowed and nodded. “She gave me a key to the kitchen door a few weeks ago. I’m not sure why. I didn’t ask for it.”
“But it came in handy, didn’t it?” Stokes’s tone was cutting. “It was you who used that key to get into the cottage last night.” When Monty just stared at him, Stokes grunted. “Just answer yes or no. Thanks to Price, nothing came of it, and at this point, it’s no longer important.”
Monty thought, then hung his head. “Yes, it was me.”
“Why?” Barnaby asked.
Monty shifted on the hard chair. When they all simply waited, he eventually offered, “I was hoping to convince her—Madeline—to marry me.”
Mallard growled, “In the age-old way of convincing a woman. You worm!”
No one else said anything, but the weight of condemnation in the atmosphere palpably grew.
Hands gripping tight, Monty seemed to shrink as he whispered, “I was desperate.”
Stokes glanced at Penelope, who was looking daggers at Monty, then he glanced back at Madeline and Henry, equally furious, then returned his gaze to Monty. “We’ll leave that matter for later. For now, tell us exactly what happened—what you saw, heard, and felt—when you opened the kitchen door last Thursday and stepped into Lavender Cottage.”
At first, Monty’s expression grew distant, then his features subtly altered as if remembered terror was slowly sinking its talons into him anew.
Viewing the change, Penelope thought that Johnson had been absolutely correct. Monty was an utter coward. He would never have the backbone to kill anyone.
Monty swallowed and, plainly in the grip of his memories, said, “Viola wasn’t there to meet me. She usually was, and I was a little surprised. I called out, but she didn’t answer. And then I realized how quiet the place was. Unnaturally quiet. Slowly, I walked on toward the dining area. I didn’t know what was going on, but then I reached the dining table and looked into the parlor, and I saw her…”
His recoil, his blatantly genuine revulsion at the remembered sight, put paid to any lingering notion that he might have been Viola’s killer. Not even the best actor on the London stage could manufacture that depth of horror.
Hoarsely, Monty went on, “She was dead. Obviously dead. She was lying there in a heap, her eyes wide open and staring, her tongue…” Monty closed his eyes and visibly shuddered.
In a matter-of-fact tone, Stokes asked, “Did you check for signs of life?”
Vehemently, Monty shook his head. “I couldn’t bring myself to go near her, much less touch her.” He swallowed hard and said, “And it was beyond obvious she was dead.”
“Did you notice the clock lying on the hearth?” Barnaby asked.
Monty opened his eyes, his gaze growing distant once more, and he nodded. “I saw it, but I didn’t touch it.”
“Did you see what time the clock showed?” Stokes asked.
