Page 75 of Marriage and Murder
Stunned, Jim Swinson, too, felt moved to prompt, “Mrs. P?”
Both patently expected Ida to laugh and refute the allegation.
After an excruciating wait, a frown slowly formed on her face.
She’s working out how to manage this,Penelope thought.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ida eventually said. “It’s nonsensical to think I killed Viola. Why would I?” She raised her head, almost tossing it as she tipped her chin high. “She was a nuisance, nothing more.”
“Except,” Stokes countered, “that she’d commenced legal proceedings to reclaim the land lost from her property due to an illegal shifting of the boundary”—he glanced toward the stone wall at the side of the orchard—“between your husband’s land and hers.”
Ida’s arms, still crossed, fractionally tightened. “I don’t know anything about that. What proceedings?”
“The ones outlined in the solicitor’s letter Viola delivered into your hands on Thursday last week, a few hours before she was killed,” Stokes replied.
Ida’s tone grew a touch belligerent. “I don’t know anything about any letter.”
One of Stokes’s black brows arched. “Don’t you? That’s odd, because we have a witness who saw Viola come to your door at about twelve-thirty on the day she was killed, and this witness heard Viola ask to speak with Arthur, and when you replied that he was out in the fields, Viola handed you the letter togive to him. The letter was addressed to Arthur as owner of this property. That letter was seen in your hands.”
Stokes shifted his gaze to Arthur Penrose. “Mr. Penrose, have you received the letter—a solicitor’s letter informing you of the pending legal action over the boundary—that Viola gave your wife to deliver to you?”
Ida’s face might, just might, have paled a fraction.
Now worried and anxious as well as confused, Arthur replied, “No.” He turned to Ida and, in a pleading tone, prompted, “Ida?”
Ida’s shoulders rose in a slight hunch. Without taking her eyes from Stokes, refusing to look at her husband, she shook her head. “It was all just rubbish about taking you to court. You didn’t need to see it. I burned it.”
“But…” Arthur looked faintly appalled. “It was a legal paper. And addressed to me.”
Still without looking his way, Ida shook her head and repeated, “You didn’t need to see it. I took care of it.”
Barnaby shifted, drawing Ida’s gaze. “Did you ‘take care’ of the letter you took from Viola’s tapestry bag, the one informing Lord Glossup of the legal action? Did you burn that, too?”
Ida looked daggers at him, then sullenly repeated, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but you do.” Stokes reclaimed her attention. “Let’s go through what really happened, shall we? After Viola left the letter with you and went home, you opened the letter and read it—of course you did—and you saw red.”
Penelope took a half step forward. “You realized how serious the matter was and that Viola stood an excellent chance of taking away a good third of the orchard.” Penelope chanced her hand at guessing Ida’s principal motive. “A good third of the orchard Arthur doted on, that was his pride and joy. And you weren’t going to stand for that, were you? You’ve always been the one to make sure this place runs smoothly, that Arthur’s life runsas perfectly as possible for him, and that he has everything he wants—all that makes him happy. That’s been your purpose through all the years of your marriage—to keep Arthur happy.”
The look Ida bent on Penelope suggested that Ida thought all Penelope had said hadn’t needed to be stated. “Of course I want Arthur to be happy. He’s my husband, isn’t he? That’s what good wives do—make all the problems in married life go away.”
Her expression serious and understanding, even commiserating, Penelope nodded. “And that’s why you had to take care of this for him. Why you had to stop Viola’s action from going ahead in the only way possible.”
Ida opened her lips—apparently to agree—but caught herself and stopped, then with a glare for Penelope, Ida slammed her lips shut.
“So,” Stokes smoothly continued, “you burned the letter intended for Arthur, and then?—”
“You finished the scone dough you were halfway through making,” Penelope said, “put the dough in your cool box—which is what one does to get the fluffiest scones—and dusted off your hands and went to deal with Viola.”
From Ida’s shocked stare, it was plain to all that Penelope’s guess was entirely correct.
After shooting Penelope a faintly astonished look, Stokes carried on, “You left your cottage by the kitchen door, went to the stile between the properties, and climbed over it, leaving a shoe print in the soft ground. You went to Lavender Cottage’s kitchen door and knocked, and when Viola answered, you said you wanted to talk, and she let you in.”
Barnaby took over. “She led you through the kitchen, past the dining table, and into the parlor.”
Stokes picked up the tale. “We have no idea what words were exchanged, but when Viola refused to halt the legal action, youstepped toward her, fastened your hands about her throat, and squeezed until she was dead.”
“Incidentally,” Penelope chimed in, “while doing that, you left a light dusting of flour on Viola’s bodice. When one works with flour, as when making scones, flour invariably gets into one’s cuffs, and unless one is careful to shake it out, it tends to leave a telltale trail.”
