Page 7 of Marriage and Murder
“My memory of the village is that it’s quite tiny,” Barnaby put in. “Who else lives there?”
“It is very small,” Henry agreed, “and as for those who live there, those who had more to do with Viola are Reverend and Mrs. Foswell in the rectory of St. Nicholas’ Church, and Mrs. Iris Perkins and her family, and Gladys Hooper and the Hoopers, and Arthur and Ida Penrose.” He paused then added, “Penrose Cottage is more or less opposite the village pond, and Lavender Cottage is the next house along Green Lane.”
“Did Viola have any staff?” Penelope asked.
“Not live-in,” Henry said. “Mrs. Gilroy—she lives in a cottage along Halfpenny Lane, which is opposite the church—was Viola’s housekeeper. And Jim Swinson, who lives nearby and works several days for Arthur Penrose, did Viola’s garden on his days off from the Penroses.”
“Did Viola have a particular friend in the village?” Penelope asked.
“That,” Henry stated, “would be Mrs. Foswell—they were as thick as thieves—and I believe Viola was also on friendly terms with Iris Perkins and Gladys Hooper. I’ve never heard of any difficulty between Viola and Mrs. Gilroy, either.”
“What about the neighbors?” Stokes asked. “The Penroses.”
“Ah,” Henry replied. “Relationships there were a trifle strained—something to do with a boundary dispute. But other than arguing back and forth, I haven’t heard that either party has been moved to any more definite action. There haven’t been any threats uttered, as far as I know.” Henry paused, then sighed and went on, “One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead, and this isn’t really all that ill, but amongst the villagers, Viola had a reputation of being a stickler. It might have had something to do with being a minister’s daughter—I did mention that, didn’t I? That her father had been the minister at St. Edmund’s Church in Salisbury until his death about five years ago?”
“No,” Stokes said, busily jotting, “but you have now, so please continue.”
“Yes, well, Viola had standards, and she expected everyone else to live up to them. I’ve heard that she could be quite…insistent. And stubborn with it. Yet all that could simply have been an entrenched belief that she knew best. I never heard any malicious word or deed attributed to her.”
Barnaby offered, “Could she be described as an inveterate do-gooder? One who was determined to do good even if the party involved didn’t want her advice, much less to follow it?”
“Yes!” Henry nodded. “That’s Viola to a T. And as you can imagine, such an attitude didn’t always endear her to others.”
“So there might well be other sources of tension between the victim and various villagers,” Stokes said.
“I suppose so,” Henry replied, “but I’m afraid I know little of such matters.”
“All right.” Stokes looked at Henry. “Now, tell me what interactions you’ve had recently with the victim.”
Henry grimaced. “Generally speaking, until this past Thursday, we haven’t had any particular interactions at all. Just nodding politely when we pass in the lane and at church—that sort of thing.”
“But on Thursday…” Penelope prompted.
Henry drew in a breath and, with his hands pressed together, described to Stokes the Thursday-morning exchange in Green Lane, more or less exactly as he had to Penelope and Barnaby.
“So you remained mounted the entire time and rode on to where?” Stokes asked.
“I often ride toward Tollard Royal. It’s a pleasant run, and I own several farms that way. I stopped and chatted with two of my tenant farmers, then fetched up at the King John Inn in Tollard Royal for lunch—the food’s excellent and the ale quite palatable.”
Stokes nodded. “I remember it. That’s the inn you recommended I stay at when I was last down that way.”
“Yes, well, the innkeeper and staff know me well, so they can vouch for me being there,” Henry said. “I was a bit late and left about three and rode directly south to visit the last of my farms. It must have been about four when I left there and rode west to Green Lane. I rode along it until I came to Lavender Cottage. By then, I’d calmed down and felt I should apologize and perhaps offer to replace any of the lavenders in the hedge if they died. So I stopped at the cottage.”
“What time was that?” Stokes asked.
“About four-thirty. The light was waning, but there was still enough to see by.”
“Where did you leave your horse?” Barnaby asked.
“And the dog?” Penelope put in.
“I left Stiller, my horse, tied to the hedge by the gate,” Henry replied. “And I told Humphrey, my hound, to wait with him, which he did.”
Stokes looked at Barnaby and faintly grinned. “That’s hardly the actions of a man trying to hide his presence while he murders the occupant.” Stokes looked at Henry. “I take it the villagers would recognize your horse and dog?”
Henry nodded. “I ride Stiller every day, and I often take Humphrey along as well, so I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”
“What happened when you called at the cottage?” Stokes asked.
