Page 4 of Marriage and Murder
She was a minister’s daughter, and praying was in large part second nature. In her current emotionally troubled state, she’d come to the church to find the solace necessary to commune with the Almighty and, hopefully, find some degree of calm and reclaim at least a small measure of her customary rationality.
Since the moment she’d arrived in the village and discovered her sister had been cruelly slain, she’d been surrounded by well-meaning people whose smothering sympathy had only intensified her geysering emotions. Worse, those sympathizers’ frequently misguided albeit well-intentioned advice had left heradrift on a turbulent sea of impulse and compulsion, driven by a host of feelings of which she’d previously had little experience—vengeance, a thirst for justice, and an overwhelming desire to see the villain responsible pay.
Part of that drive came from a sense of guilt, misplaced though that assuredly was. Viola wouldn’t have welcomed Madeline interfering in her life decisions, any more than Madeline would have welcomed Viola meddling in hers. Despite being sisters and, in general terms, quite close, they had always been different people, and they’d had the sense to honor the other’s life choices.
But now, Viola was dead, murdered, and Madeline needed to dry her tears, get her feet on firm ground, and proceed in her usual calm, sensible, logical fashion.
In her heart, she’d vowed to Viola that she would see her killer brought to justice, and in the peace of the church, that sentiment grew more solid in her mind.
Thatwas her way forward.
Ever since their father had died five years ago and she and Viola had gone their separate ways, Madeline had always stood ready to help and defend her less wise and definitely less worldly older sister, even though, being the older sister, Viola had always felt that shoe ought to have been on the other foot.
Their father had been something of a closet investor with a particular fascination with the burgeoning railways, and despite having no other income beyond what he received as a cleric, he had built a significant nest egg he’d bequeathed to his daughters.
On leaving the vicarage in Salisbury, Viola had chosen to use her half of their inheritance to buy Lavender Cottage in the village of Ashmore, located just over the border in Dorset, twenty or so miles from Salisbury. Madeline had always thought that the tiny village—with its commensurately tiny community—suited Viola in the sense that it afforded her the opportunity to be a big fish in a small pond.
Being of a different, far more adventurous bent, Madeline had taken her portion and bought a small house in a respectable part of London. She lived on the upper floor and rented the two lower floors to academics and otherwise spent her time following—quite successfully, as it had transpired—in their father’s footsteps.
Over the past nearly five years, Madeline’s life and Viola’s life had been poles apart, yet they’d remained close. Madeline had visited Viola at least three times each year, remaining for several weeks on each occasion. In return, Viola had visited Madeline in London—rather trepidatiously, it had to be said—once every year.
Their lives had settled into comfortable patterns. The very last thing Madeline had expected was to have to bury Viola.
Anger at Viola’s murderer surged anew. Viola might have been a trifle annoying at times, but she’d always tried to do the right, proper, and Christian thing, and she’d harbored not a single malicious bone in her body.
Viola had been harmless, supremely so, and none of her very human failings could possibly have justified her murder. Yet someone had placed their hands about Viola’s throat and squeezed the life from her.
For Madeline, being able to think that thought without more than an emotional wobble was reassuring. Yesterday, when she’d sat through the service in the church and, afterward, been offered so many condolences from various villagers, some of whom she knew were not entirely sincere, she’d been in such an emotionally overwrought state that she’d barely recognized herself. Level-headed was her normal condition, and being so far removed from that had been thoroughly disconcerting.
That was her only excuse for what had occurred when Lord Glossup—owner of nearby Glossup Hall—had approached to offer his condolences. Her grief—and yes, her anger at whoever had killed her really quite helpless sister—had surged and drowned what had remained of her good sense, and she’d lashed out.
She’d accused his lordship of being Viola’s “secret admirer,H”—the gentleman Viola had recently written about in such glowing terms to Madeline. She’d heard about the argument his lordship had had with Viola on the morning of her death and had proceeded to connect that with him being seen leaving her cottage later that day at a time at which she was now believed to have been dead. Madeline had then gone one step further and drawn a direct line between the murder of his lordship’s late wife, who had also been strangled, and Viola’s murder and had capped her implied accusation with the hope that, this time, the police would arrest the right man for the crime.
The memory of her outburst sent shame coursing through Madeline. The accusation had been fueled by the whispers poured into her ears since she’d arrived on Saturday to find Viola’s body being taken from the cottage, yet as soon as the words had left her lips, she’d started to doubt their accuracy.
What she could not doubt was the emotion she’d seen—as plain as day and impossible to mistake—in his lordship’s brown eyes and in the lines of his face. There’d been real sympathy—honest and sincere—in his gaze as he’d approached, and that emotion had resonated in the simple, gently spoken words of condolence he’d uttered. But then she’d coldly flung his words back at him, and the look in his face, in his eyes, as her rejection had struck him…
Hurt. A wounded look. The sense of a cut that had struck deep, far deeper than she’d expected.
With her eyes still closed, Madeline shifted on the cold, hard floor. She couldn’t get the image of his lordship’s stunned face out of her mind. In and of itself, his expression was a powerful counteraccusation that in uttering the words she had, she’d been wildly wrong.
Later, troubled by the incident, she’d sought counsel of Reverend Foswell, the minister of St. Nicholas’ Church, the village church Viola had attended and where Madeline was currently praying. From the reverend and his wife, who had been Viola’s closest village friend, Madeline had learned the truth of his lordship’s wife’s murder. Yes, Catherine Glossup had been strangled, but by her lover. The case had been investigated by Scotland Yard, and while in small country villages, there were always rumors and questions as to whether the distant police force in London hadn’t simply covered up matters for the local lordly landowner, Madeline had lived in London for years and was not so quick to condemn all police as corrupt or fools.
What truly weighed on Madeline now was the likely reality that by uttering her accusation as she had—in full view and hearing of the majority of the villagers—she’d cruelly stoked the fires of village gossip in a way that would result in a repeat of a horrendous period in his lordship’s life.
Her words had been unwise. She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, much less to cause harm to one who was—she suspected—still emotionally vulnerable over the matter of his wife’s death. That must have been a terrible time in his life, and her unjust words would have brought it all back.
She’d been wrong. She’d falsely accused an innocent bystander, and she would have to apologize.
Immediately she formed that intention, the turbulence inside her settled and calmed.
The fog that had clouded her brain since she’d seen Viola’s body taken away thinned and lifted, and Madeline was suddenlyperfectly certain that in apologizing to Lord Glossup, she would be taking her first definite step toward claiming control of this unprecedented situation rather than being a victim of its vicissitudes.
That’s what I need to do. Take charge.
She drew in what felt like her first clear breath since that dreadful moment on Saturday, then she opened her eyes and looked at the altar, at the stained glass window behind it. After a moment, she smiled softly and whispered a last prayer for their late father, then she rose, stepped out of the pew, and turned up the nave toward the church’s open door.
She raised her head, looked toward the door, and paused. There was a man standing just inside the doorway, patently waiting for her. Because of the brightness outside and the dimness within the church, she couldn’t yet see well enough to determine who he was, but he was tallish and had dark hair, and for an instant, she wondered if she would be able to make her apology immediately and ease the weight from her soul. But as she walked forward in hope, she realized that the man’s stance, his posture, wasn’t that of Lord Glossup.
