Page 2 of Marriage and Murder
In the front hall, Hettie and the boys turned for the kitchen, and Barnaby arched a brow at Mostyn. “The drawing room?”
“Indeed, sir.” Mostyn hurried to open the door.
Penelope glided in, and Barnaby followed.
Henry Glossup—Lord Glossup—was sitting on one of the pair of long sofas, staring at his tightly clasped hands, which hung between his spread knees. At the sound of their footsteps, Henry looked up, and from the frantic expression in his eyes and the set of his features, Barnaby knew Mostyn had read the man aright. Henry Glossup was in a state.
Exactly what sort of state and in relation to what subject were intriguing questions.
“Henry!” Penelope swept forward, offering her hands, and Henry rose and grasped them.
He half bowed over Penelope’s fingers, then, raising his head, nodded to Barnaby. “Barnaby. Penelope.” He returned his gaze to Penelope’s face, then glanced at Barnaby. “I’m here because I need your help.”
A little over forty years old, Henry was tallish and solid, yet overall, rather lean, with broad shoulders and long rider’s legs. In character, he was reserved, a trifle reticent, not one to put himself forward, yet for all that, in his own domain, he was aman of quiet command. With straightish dark-brown hair and pale, chiseled features, Henry possessed a certain gravitas, a cloak of trenchant respectability and adherence to the country gentleman’s views of the way things ought to be that hung about him, as inescapably a part of him as his well-cut, expensive, but well-worn conservative attire.
Henry was the sort of landowner who spent most of his days on his land, overseeing and caring for his acres in a way not all landholders did. His tenant farmers loved him for it, but in many ways, it kept him out of society. Barnaby had always felt that, in Henry’s case, that was largely by choice and design rather than any accidental outcome.
Her expression one of open concern, Penelope waved Henry back to the sofa, drew in her skirts, and sat beside him, angling so she could keep his face in view. “Tell us what’s happened.”
Barnaby moved to sit on the sofa opposite. “And of course, we’ll be happy to help in any way we can.”
Henry was the older brother of James Glossup, who was a longtime close friend of Barnaby’s and now married to Henrietta Cynster, a connection of Penelope’s. Barnaby had known Henry for many years, having spent school holidays at Glossup Hall with James. Penelope’s acquaintance with Henry was more recent, yet Barnaby felt confident she shared his view that whatever was troubling Henry, the man’s honesty and integrity could be relied on absolutely.
Henry Glossup was simply that sort of man.
Barnaby and Penelope’s welcome and willingness to help plainly reassured Henry. He drew a deep breath, then said, “I’ve been accused of murder—again!”
Penelope blinked and glanced at Barnaby. Both knew the story surrounding the murder of Henry’s late wife, Kitty. Her lover, Ambrose Calvin, had strangled her, but of course, as the cuckolded husband, Henry had come under suspicion atthe time. Neither Barnaby nor Penelope had been present at the house party during which the murder occurred, but their knowledge of the crime stemmed from Penelope’s sister, Portia, who had been there, along with her now-husband, Simon Cynster, as well as Charlie Hastings and James Glossup, all three of whom were close friends of Barnaby’s.
Indeed, Barnaby and Penelope’s understanding of the facts of that case was as detailed as if they had been there, and to cap it all, the lead investigator had been a then-recently-promoted Inspector Basil Stokes. The Glossup Hall murder had been one of Stokes’s first cases as a Scotland Yard inspector.
Seeing the surprise in their faces, Henry went on, “It happened on the lawn after church yesterday morning. I was accused—to my face and in front of the entire congregation—of strangling a village spinster, essentially because Kitty had been strangled five years ago, and of course, village gossip being what it is, the current whispers are that I must have been guilty of Kitty’s murder all along and somehow got away with it, and”—his expression one of frustrated agitation, he flung up his hands—“apparently, I’ve now murdered another woman in the same fashion!”
His brown gaze haunted, clearly rattled, Henry stated, “I didn’t know what to do. It’s as if Kitty and that damned Ambrose have come back to haunt me—to taunt me. It’s been five years, and I’d thought it was finally all in the past, but this murder has brought the whole business back into people’s minds.” He looked at Barnaby. “I didn’t know who else to appeal to—who else might be able to help. So after lunch yesterday, I drove to Salisbury, took the train to town, stayed at White’s overnight, and came here first thing this morning.” He glanced at Penelope. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Penelope trenchantly assured him.
“We don’t mind in the least,” Barnaby added. “We’re always available to help friends, and of course, we’ll assist in whatever way we can to sort out this matter—whatever it is.”
“Exactly!” Penelope’s expression was calming and supportive. “Now, for us to properly grasp the situation, you need to start at the beginning, Henry, and tell us everything you know.”
Henry glanced at Barnaby, read his encouraging look, then blew out a breath and paused to order his thoughts. After several seconds, he began, “I suppose it all started last week. There’s...there was a woman who lived in the village—a gentry lady, a spinster—at Lavender Cottage.”
“Ashmore village?” Barnaby asked.
“Yes. Lavender Cottage is one of those on Green Lane, north of the pond. Next door to the Penroses, who are more or less opposite the pond.”
Barnaby nodded his understanding. He knew the village reasonably well and could vaguely recall the cottages mentioned.
Henry went on, “Miss Huntingdon—Viola Huntingdon—bought the cottage nearly five years ago. I know it was a bit after Kitty died. Anyway, Viola is—was—a fusspot, a stickler for this and that, always harping on about this person or that doing something of which she disapproved. All minor matters—nothing meaningful. You know the type. Usually, I give Viola a wide berth, but last Thursday morning, I was riding past her cottage, heading out on Green Lane for a ride eastward over the weald, when Humphrey, my hound, who was with me, decided to…well, cock a leg against the hedge bordering the lane.
“Unfortunately, he chose Viola’s lavender hedge, and she happened to be walking up from the pond, and she saw him and set up a screech! She came running up, and of course, she couldn’t catch Humphrey, but I’d paused and circled back, and she ranted and railed at me about how people should controltheir animals and not allow them to damage other people’s property. She went on and on and threatened to have me up before the magistrate if her hedge withered and died.” Henry shook his head. “As I’m the local magistrate—which she was well aware of—I’m not sure how she thought that would work. However, there were others about, and they were listening, and I made a few comments back, like dogs being dogs, after all. But when Viola threatened to take a gun to Humphrey—and I know she has a shotgun and can and does use it—I saw red.” Henry grimaced and rather glumly confessed, “I told her that if she pointed a gun at one of my animals, I would ensure she never did so again.”
Bleakly, Henry looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “I never said anything about killing her! I meant having the magistrate—me—order her gun to be taken away from her. That’s what I was threatening her with—not death!”
Penelope grimaced. “But the local rumor mill isn’t that discriminating, I assume?”
“No.” Henry deflated, shoulders drooping. “They’re taking it to mean something I never intended.” He paused, then, voice lowering, went on, “But worse, later in the afternoon, I’d calmed down, and I decided I should apologize. Offer to replace the bit of hedge if it died—something like that.”
