Page 68 of Marriage and Murder
“An errand?” Penelope managed to mute her surprise. “Did she mention anything about what this errand was?”
“No,” Mrs. Foswell replied, “although I did find the notion puzzling.” She spread her hands. “What errand could she possibly have had in our village, small as it is? And it must have been in the village, as she implied she was expecting a visitor at the cottage, which is why she needed to return there soon.” Mrs. Foswell paused, then added, “Viola could see I was curious, both about the errand and the visitor, and she reached over the gate and squeezed my hand and said she’d visit the next day and explain.”
Mrs. Foswell’s expression grew troubled. “Only, of course, she didn’t, because by then, she was dead.” She looked at Penelope. “Was it her visitor who killed her?”
Penelope shared a swift glance with Madeline, then said, “We don’t believe so, which is why your information has been so helpful. Until speaking with you, we had no idea Viola ran an errand before returning to the cottage.”
Mrs. Foswell’s expression lightened. “In that case, my dears, I’m very pleased to have helped.”
“Now”—Penelope collected Madeline with a glance—“we must get on.”
They rose, and as Mrs. Foswell showed them to the door, she said, “I do hope that you take up this murderer soon so that the villagers can get back to their normal lives. It’s been rather discombobulating not knowing what to think.”
Penelope and Madeline smiled politely and left.
As they walked back onto the lane, Penelope murmured, “If the murderer is who we believe, it will be some time before this village can resume its normal ways.”
Madeline nodded, then with Penelope, paused and turned as the sound of footsteps alerted them to Barnaby and Stokes’s approach.
The men joined them, and at Stokes’s encouraging wave, they walked on a few paces until they were out of sight of the rectory, then halted.
Stokes promptly reported, “Reverend Foswell confirmed that he encountered a man of Pincer’s description along the Tollard Royal-Ashmore road at about two-thirty on the afternoon Viola was murdered.”
“So that part of Pincer’s tale is true,” Penelope said.
“And that,” Barnaby said, “increases the likelihood that everything he told us was the truth. At the very least, we can be certain that he wasn’t anywhere near the cottage at three-thirty-three.”
“There was no way,” Stokes said, “for the murderer to know that Pincer would call and find the body so soon after the event. They’d assumed no one would, probably not until the next morning when Mrs. Gilroy came in.”
Penelope nodded. “The murderer was counting on that so that the time of death would be accepted as three-thirty-three.”
“I can’t see any reason to disagree with Johnson’s assessment of Pincer,” Barnaby stated. “He’s no murderer, which means Viola was killed before one-thirty.”
Penelope sighed. “There’s really only one person who could have done it. Viola spoke with Mrs. Foswell at about twelve-thirty and had returned to the cottage and been killed with the murderer gone by one-thirty.”
“And,” Madeline put in, “Viola told Mrs. Foswell that she had an errand to run before returning to the cottage.”
“Did she, indeed?” Barnaby met Penelope’s eyes. “Let’s pray that your gossips can shed some light on that.”
“I certainly hope so,” Penelope replied.
Stokes looked ahead, up the village’s main street. “We still need more facts to nail down our case.” He glanced at Penelope and Madeline. “While you two consult your remaining gossips, Barnaby and I will circle around and try to find Jim Swinson.”
“Oh,” Madeline said. “I saw Jim and Arthur earlier. They were at the far corner of the orchard, rebuilding part of the wall. If you walk back to the cottage, then along the boundary wall, you’ll find them easily enough.”
Stokes and Barnaby thanked her and strode off for the cottage.
Penelope and Madeline walked more slowly up High Street. Approaching the three-way junction, Penelope debated, “Iris Perkins or Gladys Hooper?” She looked questioningly at Madeline. “Whom should we interview first?”
Madeline nodded to the cottages lining Noade Street, just ahead. “The Perkinses’ cottage is closer. It’s that one, just along Noade Street.”
Penelope looked at the cottage to their left. “Well, then. Let’s try there first.”
Penelope studied the Perkinses’ aptly named Ivy Cottage as she and Madeline walked up the neat stone path. The small stone cottage was almost buried in the creeping embrace of a rampant ivy, with tendrils reaching up to the roof and stretching out across the slopes.
On the veranda, Mrs. Perkins was sitting in a rocking chair with her knitting needles flashing.
Iris Perkins was an older woman with a soft, round figure and a face to match. Her expression was warm and welcoming. “Do come up, Madeline dear. And who’s this?”
