A Silent Stabbing Page 4

  “Mr. Ripley . . . Keenan . . . please.” Mr. Evers wrinkled his brow in apology and wrung his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Based on last year’s harvest, I simply don’t see how you’ll be able to make your payments. You’re mortgaged twice over.”

  “What farm isn’t nowadays?” Keenan snapped. “Last year’s harvest was smaller, I’ll grant you that. It’s taken this long since the war to bring production back up to what it was. It’s not as though I qualified for help from the Land Girls while I was away fighting, not for perry cider. And now, with so many men off to try their luck in the cities, I hadn’t enough help last year even if the harvest had been bigger. But I’ve got three workers lined up. If you’ll only trust me and give me the time . . .” He left off, panting and heaving as if he’d run a mile.

  Eva’s heart went out to him. The unfairness of it stung; her own father had taken loans against the farm during the war. What if the bank suddenly said pay up or get out? She wished to intervene, to back up Keenan’s promises of a good harvest, but what did she know of pears? Or brewing? She only knew she didn’t want to see yet another farmer in Gloucestershire forced to sell or worse, foreclosed on, as so many had since the war ended.

  Before she knew it, Lady Phoebe had disappeared from her side. Panic rippled through Eva as her lady eased her way through the crowd until she stood before the arguing men. Eva hurriedly pushed her way through as well, earning more than one grunt of annoyance from onlookers.

  “Mr. Ripley, Mr. Evers, perhaps my grandfather can be of assistance. I know for a fact he would not like to see any of Little Barlow’s citizens put out of business.”

  Before either man could reply, the American spoke up, conveying not the slightest hint of deference. “What can your grandfather do about the situation, miss? Mr. Ripley’s brother wants to sell his portion of the land, and I intend to buy it. As half owner, I’ve got the right to put pressure on this Mr. Ripley to pay his bills or sell his half to me.”

  Lady Phoebe shook her head and scowled. “What do you want an orchard for? You don’t strike me as the farming type.”

  “Farming? Bah. With the stream and the pond, and the views of your quaint countryside hereabouts, it’ll make a grand spot for a resort. Hunting, fishing, golf . . . You can be assured I’ll fill that resort with money-spending Americans.” He addressed his next comment to the gaping villagers, as if to appeal to their better sense. “Business will boom. This lonely little do-nothing backwater will be the better for it, you’ll see.”

  * * *

  Phoebe had never felt so tempted to shake another individual as she did this impertinent American businessman. How dare he invade Little Barlow with his vulgar plans and ill-gotten gains—or so she assumed they were—and claim he could improve life for any of them? What could he possibly know about their lives? Or this village? Or the fact that Keenan Ripley’s great-grandfather had planted that pear orchard as a legacy to the generations that would follow him, as a way to ensure their livelihood and their independence?

  And when she thought of Stephen Ripley skulking back to Little Barlow after so many years away, not caring a whit about the village or his brother, returning only in the hopes of profiting at his brother’s expense . . . why, what wouldn’t she like to say to him? She was quite certain that when she informed Grampapa of this development, he would seek a new head gardener immediately.

  Unflinching, she stared straight into the American’s shrewd little eyes with their nondistinct, muddy color. “Perhaps we don’t wish Little Barlow to be any better than it is right now. Perhaps we like it the way it is.”

  “Spoken like a sentimental woman with little business sense.”

  Eva leapt forward, half in front of Phoebe, so that Phoebe had to take a half step back. “You will not speak to the Earl of Wroxly’s granddaughter that way.”

  From the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw more than a few villagers nodding in agreement. The American had the audacity to laugh.

  “Yes, yes, very well. If you’ll excuse me.” He started to go, but Phoebe sidestepped to block his way.

  “We already have a hotel here,” she persisted. “We don’t need another.”

  “The Calcott Inn?” The developer laughed. “That stodgy old pile of stones? I’m staying there, and let me tell you, you most certainly do need another hotel. A real one, not a convalescent home for widows and little old men.”

  “Oh!” Phoebe had more to say, but a village man stepped up beside her and bellowed at the American.

  “I’ve been listening to all of this, and there’s one thing I’d like to know.” Joe Murdock, the proprietor of the Houndstooth Inn, had been serving Little Barlow’s male population their ale, cider, and whiskey for nearly his entire life, as had his father, and his grandfather before that.

  The American eyed Mr. Murdock up and down, taking in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his plaid waistcoat, and his comfortably worn-out boots. “And what might that be?”

  “If you close down Keenan’s orchards and his brewery, where am I supposed to get my perry?”

  The crowd’s agreement came verbally, rising swiftly in volume. A new tension gripped the villagers as the full implications of this potential land sale hit them. Perry was a favored drink here in Little Barlow, as it was everywhere in Gloucestershire.

  The American gave Mr. Murdock a blank stare. “What the devil is perry?”

  “It’s a kind of cider, and it’s what’s made from my pears.” Keenan Ripley spoke as if to an idiot. “We send a portion of the harvest to a brewery in Gloucester, but the rest I bottle here and sell to the village.”

  “Is that all?” The American shrugged and addressed the crowd. “I’ll make sure we find the best . . . what was it? Ah, yes. Perry. We’ll find the best perry in England for your little hamlet. I’ll even cover the difference in cost, if there is any.”

  “Keenan’s perry is the best in England,” someone called out. Several others voiced their emphatic agreement. That tension Phoebe had noticed in the villagers thickened considerably, and she began to fear its results. She nudged Eva, who looked as worried as Phoebe herself felt.

  “Let’s move away,” Eva said before Phoebe had the chance to suggest the very same thing. Other women, too, began crossing to the opposite side of High Road. Several called after their men, but to no avail, for not one of them budged from the line of defense they had formed. The American no longer looked at all sure of himself.

  He attempted a nonchalant smile. “If you’ll all step aside please, I’ll be on my way.” No one moved. Two men, fellow farmers, flanked Mr. Ripley, their arms crossed, their feet spread wide in a show of solidarity.

  Phoebe nudged Eva again. “Perhaps you should alert Miles.”

  Eva took a step and stopped, then pointed down the pavement. “I don’t have to. Here he is.”

  Police Constable Miles Brannock strode toward them, coming from Little Barlow’s tiny, two-man police station, which was part of the Greater Gloucestershire Constabulary. Phoebe was relieved Isaac Perkins hadn’t felt it necessary to accompany him, for the often whiskey-tippling chief inspector tended to make matters worse, rather than better. Constable Brannock reached them and paused, his gaze fixed on the unrest across High Road.

  “Lady Phoebe, Eva. What’s this about?” He spoke with the lightest of brogues, revealing his Irish origins.

  It was Eva who replied, for she and the constable had an easygoing rapport; had, in fact, been stepping out together this past year and a half. “Keenan Ripley’s brother and some American businessman are trying to force Keenan to sell out.”

  “What?” Constable Brannock’s powerful reply echoed the indignation of the villagers. “Who is this tosser, and what’s he want the orchard for?”

  Phoebe winced slightly at the epithet Constable Brannock used to describe the American, but she couldn’t argue with his assessment. “He wants to build a resort here. For Americans. Rich ones, apparently.”

  Eva nodded her consensus
as the constable’s expression darkened to clash with his auburn hair—or, what could be seen of it beneath his high-domed helmet. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?” He started off across the road, but Eva stopped him.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He removed his nightstick from his belt and used it to gesture at the crowd. “First, I’m going to break this up before someone gets hurt, and before I have to arrest anyone. Then I’m going to try to persuade this gannet to take his greedy ambitions somewhere else.”

  Renewed shouting prompted the constable to a run. He arrived a moment too late. Keenan Ripley surged forward, drew back his fist, and drove it into the American’s jaw. The resulting crack made Phoebe wince. With a cry, the American fell over backward, landing on the pavement on his backside. Phoebe gasped, and Eva started forward, instinct propelling her, no doubt, to assist her beau. Phoebe grasped her wrist just before Eva moved out of reach.

  “Don’t,” she warned, “or you could make matters worse. The constable can handle it.”

  Eva nodded and a portion of the urgency drained from her posture. “You’re right, my lady. And it looks like it’s over, for now.”

  Indeed, as one villager helped the American to his feet, two more gripped Keenan’s arms to prevent him from attacking again. Constable Brannock positioned himself between them, his arms outstretched as if to mark off two distinct territories. The hand holding the nightstick extended toward Mr. Ripley.

  “That will be quite enough, Keenan. As for the rest of you, I’d advise you to disperse and get on with your business. There’s nothing more to be seen here.”

  “Judging by how hesitant everyone is to move, I’d say they’re hoping for more to see,” Phoebe whispered to Eva. Yet gradually, the villagers eased away.

  The constable slowly lowered his arms. “Keenan Ripley, you know better than this.”

  “He’s—” Mr. Ripley began, but the constable cut him off.

  “I heard. That doesn’t give you the right to take a swing at him.”

  “Officer, I’m pressing charges.” Despite his commanding tone, the American took a backward step away from Mr. Ripley. “That man assaulted me and I want him arrested.”

  “You oily wanker—”

  “Keenan, that’s enough.” Constable Brannock’s sigh carried across the road almost as clearly as the angry shouts had done. “I don’t like to do it, but I’ve got to arrest you.”

  “Oh, dear,” Eva murmured. “I was afraid of that. But what choice does Miles have?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll ask Grampapa to pay Mr. Ripley’s bond. He won’t have to spend a night in that jail cell.” Phoebe linked her arm through Eva’s. “Come, let’s finish up for now at the church, collect Julia and Hetta, and go home. I intend to speak to my grandfather about our new head gardener.”

  On the way back to the church, Eva mused, “I’d like to know what Stephen has to say about all of this.”

  “Surely none of it will be to our liking. But I’ll tell you this: the consequences of his actions won’t be to his liking, either. Not once I’ve spoken to Grampapa.”

  * * *

  Phoebe broached the subject with her grandfather that evening. Early the next morning, they made their way, arm in arm, across the tiered gardens, bright with late season mums and roses and flame-like celosia, and through the gate in the privet hedge that separated the formal gardens from the service grounds. An autumn sharpness tinged the air and a bright golden hue tipped the ends of the leaves overhead. Soon, green and gold would turn to fiery reds and russets, and fall would burst forth in earnest. Phoebe was grateful for the sun’s lingering warmth.

  Their destination lay beyond the hothouses with their bright white framework that stood rather like rib cages against the sky. There, another hedge, this one of yew, once again shielded the pleasure gardens from the working areas. Phoebe kept having to slow her pace to avoid overtaxing Grampapa. Ever the gentleman, he had gallantly offered his arm to her, yet it was she who steadied them over the graveled path.

  “Thank you for posting Keenan Ripley’s bail last night, Grampapa. But was I right to bring the matter to you?” She had fretted over the decision and wondered if she should leave the Ripley brothers to solve their own dilemma. Goodness knew, plenty of families bickered over land and inheritances. Julia had inadvertently entered just such a feud last spring, one that had yet to be resolved. Members of Julia’s deceased husband’s family, the Townsends, continued to squabble over the terms of his will, while Julia’s pregnancy left much in question. A lot depended on whether she gave birth to a boy or a girl.

  Phoebe had been forced to become involved in that dispute, but she had lain awake last night wondering if she was overstepping her bounds by intervening this time. The Ripleys were not her family. She barely knew either man, really.

  But of course, matters were more far reaching than that. The servants were hurt and confused by Mr. Peele’s sudden departure, and the change in circumstances had left dear Mr. Giles more disoriented than usual. That certainly was her business. As was Stephen Ripley depriving William of his proper breakfast before starting work. Grampapa hadn’t approved of that one bit.

  “We’ll talk to the man and hear his side of things,” her grandfather replied. “There is always more than one side to everything.”

  They arrived at the yew hedge, gracefully carved into vertical, undulating waves of green, to find it deserted, at least the side on which they stood. Though growth since the last trimming was minimal, the smooth, rounded contours of the nearly solid wall of foliage were marred by errant leaves that dared to poke beyond the rest as if stretching forward to catch the attention of passersby. This didn’t surprise her, however. It would certainly take more than a day, or even two, to complete such a task.

  “They must be working on the other side. Let’s walk around,” Grampapa suggested. Phoebe pricked her ears to listen for the telltale snip-snip of the clippers, as well as bits of conversation between Mr. Ripley and William. She heard only the morning song of birds and the rustling of the breeze. They reached the end of the hedge and walked around.

  “Where are they?” Phoebe peered along the hedge, some two dozen yards long, cast into deep emerald by the angle of the sun. The gardener’s cart, hitched to its pony, stood about halfway down, partly filled with foliage cuttings. The long handle of a rake also stuck out of the cart’s barrow. The blond-maned pony stood placidly in his harness enjoying whatever treats Mr. Ripley had stuffed into its feed bag. Phoebe could see where a long section at the farther end of the hedge had already been trimmed back into a perfectly even, gently waving plane, but she detected no sign of Mr. Ripley or William.

  Then, in the deep green shadow of the lawn, a darker shadow stood out....

  “Is that his ladder lying on the ground?” Grampapa frowned into the distance. As Phoebe’s eyes adjusted, she indeed made out the lines of a stepladder. Grampapa started forward. “Come, my dear. I fear Mr. Ripley has had an accident.”

  They hurried along. The closer they got, the clearer it became that Mr. Ripley’s ladder wasn’t the only object lying on the ground. A few feet from it, right where he would have landed had the ladder fallen and tossed him from its rungs, lay a figure clad in work denims and a flannel shirt. A pair of spectacles glinted up at her from beyond the tip of a nose, as if trying to crawl back up where they belonged. A brown tweed flat cap lay upside down inches from a wheat-blond head.

  “It’s Stephen Ripley.” Alarm sent Phoebe hurrying ahead of her grandfather. “Mr. Ripley, are you all right?” She wondered where William was, and then answered her own question. Gone for help, of course. But then, why hadn’t they passed him on their way here from the house?

  The pony snorted and continued munching. Behind Phoebe, Grampapa’s lumbering footsteps thudded through the grass. “Is he terribly hurt?”

  Mr. Ripley lay unmoving, but, oddly, holding his hedge clippers.

  “I don’t know. Mr. Ripley! Mr. Ripley?�
�� Phoebe started to crouch beside him, but something held her upright. She was about to call out his name again, until she realized he wasn’t holding the clippers at all. The clippers were turned the wrong way around, the handles facing out and the sharp ends sunk—

  Her hand went to her mouth. The clippers had been plunged into his torso. A pool of blood seeped out from under him to weave lurid, spidery patterns in the grass. A frigid numbness swept through Phoebe, and the world around her darkened and blurred.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Drink this, my lady.” In the drawing room, Eva crouched at Lady Phoebe’s feet and pressed a cordial glass to her lips. Once again, she berated herself for not accompanying Lady Phoebe and her grandfather on their errand to speak with Stephen Ripley.

  Poor Stephen Ripley. Only an hour ago Eva would not have believed she would attach that term to a man she so disliked. But she certainly hadn’t wished ill on him—at least not such a permanent sort of ill. She had only wished fairness to prevail, for Keenan to be allowed to keep his orchard and William to eat his breakfast.

  But this—this—wasn’t fair. Death never was.

  Lady Phoebe took the leaded crystal glass from Eva and obediently sipped her sherry. She regarded Eva with solemn eyes. “Do you think it could have been an accident, Eva? Could he have fallen in such a way that the clippers . . .” She trailed off with a shake of her head. “How could they have flipped around and, and done that?”

  “That’s for the authorities to decide, my lady.” By authorities, she meant Miles Brannock. Chief Inspector Perkins would make his observations, take his notes, but in the end he would most likely reach the wrong conclusion. He always did. And Miles always corrected that conclusion—with Eva’s and Lady Phoebe’s help.

  “Does Julia know yet?”