Page 13 of Marriage and Murder
“Good-oh. Well, as I was about to say,” Carter went on, “based on my examination of the body, Miss Huntingdon was killed—strangled—sometime between noon and four o’clock on Thursday afternoon.”
Stokes prompted, “Mallard mentioned a broken clock.”
Carter nodded. “The carriage clock, which had fallen from the mantelpiece and broken and, apparently, stopped, showing the time as three-thirty-three. By all accounts, the clock should have been correct as to the time it displayed, so the implication is that the murder was committed at three-thirty-three that afternoon, which falls within the window defined by physiological criteria.”
“Was Miss Huntingdon strangled by someone facing her?” Barnaby asked.
“Indeed, she was.” Carter held up his hands, fingers splayed to either side and thumbs touching. “Like this.”
“So,” Stokes said, “it’s likely she knew her murderer.”
Carter agreed. “I would say so. There was nothing to suggest that she’d fled the clutches of a stranger, and I suspect that, with a lady of her age and type, there would have been signs of flight and struggle if she hadn’t known the person. She allowed her murderer to get close, face to face, and there was very little by way of her fighting back.”
“Would you say the murderer was taller than she was?” Penelope asked.
“Most definitely,” Carter replied. “The deceased was of average height.” Carter looked at Penelope. “Several inches taller than you, Mrs. Adair, and the angle of the pressure exerted by the murderer’s thumbs strongly suggests that the murderer was at least a few inches taller than that.”
Carter continued, “I would say you’re looking for a man of at least average height, possibly taller. One reasonably strong, but a man with decent, average strength would, I believe, in this case, have been able to do the deed. Miss Huntingdon was a well-fleshed woman, but she was one of those very soft creatures, if you know what I mean. Very little muscle to speak of.”
“Could the murderer be a woman?” Barnaby asked.
Carter waggled his head. “Hard to say, and I certainly can’t say with absolute certainty, but in my view, a female as murderer is less likely. Not many women would be sufficiently tall and also sufficiently strong to exert the necessary pressure at that elevated angle.” He paused, then added, “Based on what I saw at the scene, the attack was swift and over very quickly, again, in my opinion, arguing against a female. Whoever killed ourvictim did so in such a quick and forceful fashion that there was little resistance. For instance, the deceased had frizzy hair that she wore up in a neat bun. Despite the ordeal, very few strands of her hair had come loose. Also, I found no other wounds or even bruises on the body. And sadly, she was a nail-biter with nails bitten down to the quick, so even if she’d scratched at her attacker, I doubt she would have left any mark on him.”
They were silent for a moment, digesting all that, then Penelope asked, “Was there anything else about the body or clothing that struck you as unexpected or odd?”
“Well, not about the clothing itself, but there was a very light dusting of white powder on the upper bodice of her gown. It’s difficult to be certain with such a small amount, but I believe the powder is flour. Much as if the victim had eaten a floury bun and hadn’t noticed that some flour had fallen down her front.”
Stokes was deep in his note taking. “Who found the body?”
“The housekeeper, a Mrs. Gilroy. That was on the morning after the death. She doesn’t live in and comes in most mornings from her cottage in the village.”
When they didn’t ask anything else, Carter straightened in his chair and said, “Something that might help you with your investigation—the constable who was summoned is a local lad, Constable William Price.” Carter smiled self-deprecatingly. “He’s my sister’s boy and, if I do say so myself, observant and keen to be of help. You’ll find him waiting at the cottage. I asked him to remain there and make sure that nothing was moved until you arrived and had a chance to examine the scene.”
“Thank you!” Stokes uttered in sincerely heartfelt tones. He nodded to Carter. “For that alone, I’ll keep an eye out for your nephew. He sounds like just the observant sort we’ll need to pave our way.”
Carter beamed. “It’s a very small village—not even a village shop. Just a few cottages gathered around the village pond.”
Stokes glanced inquiringly at Barnaby and Penelope, but there was nothing more they could think of to ask, and when appealed to, Carter confessed he had nothing more to tell them, and so, more cordially than with Mallard, they took their leave of the man and, with their brains now churning with assorted facts, headed outside.
CHAPTER 3
If Penelope had been ready to stretch her legs when they reached Salisbury, she was even more eager to quit the carriage when, some twenty miles farther on, it rolled into the tiny village—barely more than a hamlet—of Ashmore.
They’d elected not to stop at Tollard Royal on their way through in order to have as much time as possible before sunset to view Lavender Cottage and, they hoped, conduct their first interviews.
The carriage slowed to negotiate a left turn, and as it swung around, Penelope looked out to see a shallow pond in the center of a small expanse of green. “Henry said the Penroses’ cottage, the one next to Lavender Cottage, was opposite the pond, so we must be close.”
Stokes grunted and opened his eyes. “Good.” He looked out of the carriage on the opposite side, then said, “There it is. I can see the lavender hedge.”
Sure enough, the carriage slowed again, then rocked to a halt.
Stokes leaned forward, opened the door, and climbed out. Barnaby followed, and Penelope gripped the hand he offeredand descended the carriage steps to the packed-earth surface of the narrow lane.
She paused to shake out her skirts, then straightened and looked around. The grassy area surrounding the roughly circular pond appeared to be the village green, but in such a small village in the middle of the afternoon, there was no one out strolling. The pond and green filled a triangular space south of the junction where Green Lane, on which Penrose Cottage and Lavender Cottage stood, met the larger north-south road. The signpost at the junction labeled the road heading north as Noade Street, while south of the junction lay High Street.
With his hand at her waist, Barnaby urged Penelope toward the cottage, and she readily turned and walked to the gate. There, she paused to take in her first view of the victim’s home. Behind the chest-high lavender hedge and beyond a bountiful cottage garden currently in autumnal decline sat a neat redbrick cottage typical of the area, with a lead roof and two medium-tall chimneys. The white-painted front door stood squarely in the middle of the front façade, flanked by twin bow windows with leaded panes. The window placements were echoed by dormer windows on the upper floor. Penelope suspected the cottage would prove to be one of the common two-up, two-down variety, yet the overall impact was of a residence of quiet prosperity.
Eager to investigate further, she glanced at Stokes, who had also halted by the gate.
