Page 72 of Marriage and Murder
“Yes, they are.” Gladys went on, “I’ve known both since childhood. Ida always had her eye on Arthur, even when we were just girls. There was no one else for her, ever. It had to be Arthur. Just as well that he went along with it is all I will say. Ida was single-minded and utterly blinkered about getting him to the altar. Mind you, she’s been devoted to him ever since, so it’s not as if he didn’t get a good bargain there. Only thing was they never had any children, but that happens, doesn’t it?”
Penelope tipped her head and, as innocently as she was able, asked, “In your opinion, who would you say is the leader, as it were, in that household?”
“Ida, definitely,” Gladys stated. “She’s the one as handles almost everything except what Arthur loves doing—the growing and pruning and such. It’s Ida who sells the fruit and grain and manages the money. But you have to hand it to her, she always makes it seem that it’s Arthur who does it all. She’ll never hear of anyone talking him down. He’s her man, and you could say that he’s her everything.”
Penelope drew in a slow breath, then nodded to Gladys. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”
She and Madeline rose, and Madeline offered her thanks as well, and they headed for the door.
In the doorway, Penelope stopped and looked back at Gladys. “One last question. What did Ida serve for afternoon tea?”
Gladys beamed. “Scones. Freshly baked. She makes the best scones hereabouts.”
Penelope smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you.”
She led the way off the porch and on down the path.
Madeline caught up and fell in beside her.
As they walked—increasingly briskly—toward Lavender Cottage, Penelope felt her confidence rise. “Now to put together everything we’ve learned and see whether we have enough to arrest our murderer.”
CHAPTER 12
Barnaby, Stokes, and Henry, as well as O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price, were waiting impatiently at Lavender Cottage when Penelope and Madeline arrived.
The group gathered about the small dining table, and before any of the men could voice a question, Penelope fixed her gaze on Barnaby and Stokes and demanded, “What did you learn?”
Stokes met Barnaby’s questioning glance and nodded for him to oblige.
After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, for the benefit of Henry and the other men, Barnaby reported, “Reverend Foswell confirms he encountered Monty on the Tollard Royal-Ashmore lane at about two-thirty. Consequently, Monty’s story, including him finding Viola dead at one-thirty, appears sound. Next, while walking along the stone wall that forms the boundary between Lavender and Penrose Cottages, Stokes and I came upon an old stile providing a ready route between the two kitchen gardens, and notably, the stile is screened by bushes and trees from general view. In softer ground before the stile, we found imprints of a shoe, not a man’s boot, going both ways—to Lavender Cottage and back to Penrose Cottage.”
“Ah.” Penelope nodded. “I was wondering how she managed to get back and forth so quickly and without being seen by anyone.”
Henry added, “I’ve been out with Morgan and O’Donnell and took measurements of the shoe print. Highly unlikely to be a man’s.”
Penelope looked eagerly at Barnaby, and he went on, “Stokes and I questioned Jim Swinson about whether he recalled Viola having anything in her hand when she was upbraiding Henry over his dog, and Jim recalled her holding something like a letter. More, after Henry rode off, Jim saw Viola put the letter into her tapestry bag, and given Ida was standing beside Jim at the time, he believes she saw that as well.”
“That explains why the bag was searched and who by.” Penelope slotted that puzzle piece into the picture of the murder that was forming in her mind.
“Also,” Stokes said, glancing at Morgan and Price, who were standing by the wall, “Morgan and Price spoke with Mrs. Gilroy, and she says she left a pork pie for Viola’s lunch that day.” Stokes looked at Penelope. “Any chance of a dusting of flour off a pork pie?”
Penelope smiled. “None.”
“You might get a flake or two of pastry,” Madeline said, “but nothing that could be confused with a dusting of flour.”
“Ergo,” Penelope concluded, “the dusting of flour came from the murderer.”
“One more point,” Stokes said. “Morgan and Price thought to confirm that in finding the body, Mrs. Gilroy hadn’t touched the clock. She didn’t, and she didn’t see what time it was showing, either. She says she screeched, then pulled the pot off the stove and ran next door via the front gate and the lane. Apparently, she didn’t know about the stile and didn’t use it.”
“So the shoe prints aren’t hers,” Penelope stated.
“No,” Stokes agreed. “But regarding the clock, after Mrs. Gilroy left the cottage, other than Price, no one came into the parlor until Carter, who moved the clock when he examined the scene. Since then, the clock’s been sitting on the mantelpiece, untouched and unnoticed by anyone but us.”
Price cleared his throat and offered, “I’ve asked around the village, and no one has been gossiping about the exact time of death, just that it was sometime in the afternoon between Mrs. Gilroy leaving and Miss Viola going up to and returning from the church and his lordship calling at four-thirty. That’s all anyone knows. Seems no one’s heard about the broken clock or what time the hands showed.”
Stokes looked quietly delighted.
“Good work.” Barnaby nodded at Price. “A solid bit of thinking. If no other villagers are aware of it, it seems likely that only the murderer knows what time was shown on the broken clock.” Barnaby looked at Stokes and returned his smile. “That’s one card we can keep up our sleeve—one we definitely won’t play.”
