Page 17 of Unbroken
“Not really—that is, she was here several times, whenever it was David’s turn to host that stupid society of theirs.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I mean—that is, it wasn’t stupid.”
“Those we love often have interests incomprehensible to us,” Mortimer reassured her. “What society was that?”
“The Widdershins Horticultural Society.” Her gaze went to the portrait. “David was wild about gardening. The rose he’s holding—he bred it himself. I couldn’t tell you what’s special about it, but he called it the Julia, after me.” A sniffle escaped her. “I don’t even like flowers! They make me sneeze terribly. I should tell the servants to stop bringing them inside, but…” She stared at the outsized flowers in something like despair.
Sebastian winced. “I’m sorry to cause you pain, Mrs. Siewert. It’s just that Mrs. Tubbs’s brother-in-law is an acquaintance of ours, and if it is true her accident was anything but?—”
“David’s might have been as well.” She took out a black handkerchief and delicately dabbed at her eyes. Grief, or allergies? “Did his killer desecrate his grave as well? I wish I’d paid more attention to what David said about the society. There was always some sort of argument going on between the members—disputes over the best methods of hybridizing plants, or cultivating orchids, or God only knows what.” A tiny, wistful smile touched her lips. “I know the WHS—that’s what they call their society—won a gold medal for their display at the Massachusetts Horticultural Society’s Midwinter Flower Show. David was so happy…well, for a little while, anyway.”
“I see. Were any of the arguments between members serious?” Mortimer inquired.
“I don’t think so. Though, as I said, I didn’t pay the best attention.” She wiped her eyes again. “We hosted a society dinner in late April, so I at least remember the names of all the members who attended. Shall I write them down for you?”
“That would be very helpful.”
She withdrew to a small desk, where she inscribed the list on a sheet of thick stationery watermarked with a floral design. “Here.”
In a neat, elegant hand she had written:
Widdershins Horticultural Society
Mrs. Penelope Tubbs
Mr. David Siewert
Mrs. Olivia Norris
Mrs. Emily Rice
Mr. Ian Fuller
Mr. Daniel Rulkowski
“Thank you.” Sebastian carefully tucked the paper into his inner coat pocket. “Is there anything else you can think of?”
“No.” She gazed at the nearest vase stuffed with enormous flowers. “Is this the sort of thing that might come to the courts?”
“Probably not,” Mortimer said delicately.
“I see.” The widow wiped her eyes again. “If you learn anything unpleasant, I don’t wish to know of it. My husband died in a tragic accident as far as I’m concerned.”
They took their leave of the grieving woman. When they returned to the museum, Sebastian went straight to Ves to tell him what they’d learned.
Ves stood at one of his numerous worktables, carefully sponging a stain from the edges of a book. When Sebastian entered, he looked up. “Mr. Tubbs sent word around shortly after you left,” he said. “Penelope is dead.”
CHAPTER 9
Since Sebastian was leaving for Ipswich in the morning, they decided to inspect Siewert’s grave that night. Irene drove them to the cemetery, parking a short distance from the low stone wall, out of sight of any casual passers-by.
The cemetery always struck Sebastian as having a decidedly different feel at night. He’d been here many times during the day: visiting first his father’s grave, then his mother’s urn. In the daylight, it had always felt like a peaceful spot, the low hill overlooking much of the Cranch Valley, with birds singing from the eaves of the Draakenwood.
At night, though, the shadows seemed to gather. Though crickets filled the air with their stridulations, they fell quiet at so much as a footstep, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than it should. As if the insects weren’t the only ones listening to the intruders.
They scrambled over the wall, Noct lifting Irene so she didn’t have to climb. Ahead, the rows of headstones unrolled toward the peak of the hill, which was crowned by the mausoleums belonging to the old families who had helped found Widdershins. Centuries of burials crept down from those initial interments. Many families still had active plots, which meant headstones so worn they could no longer be read stood side-by-side with the new markers of their many-times-great-grandchildren.
It would be a nightmare to search.
“Do you sense anything, Sebastian?” Irene asked, no doubt thinking the same thing.
