A Silent Stabbing Page 6

  Apparently, Lady Phoebe entertained few such qualms. Very casually, she strolled into the parlor doorway. “Yes, Mr. Ripley. I’m sorry we barged in as we did, but we have some news. Sad news, I’m afraid.”

  Keenan’s expression went from guarded to astonished as his eyes opened wide and his eyebrows surged upward. Eva couldn’t help but notice the circles of fatigue beneath them or that he bore a pallor this morning. A result of his late night of drinking?

  A muscle flexed in Keenan’s jaw, a sure sign of his continuing perplexity at finding his home occupied. “Lady Phoebe, er, good morning. Is . . . is there something I can do for you? Is everything all right up at the Hall? Er . . . please . . . sit.” He gestured to the seating arrangement, then hurriedly went to clear away the teacups and plate. With a jarring clatter he piled the china on a side table. “Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything?”

  Clearly he was unused to visitors of the Renshaws’ social standing, so much so that accusing Lady Phoebe of trespassing simply didn’t occur to him. As Eva followed her mistress into the parlor, she cast Keenan a sympathetic look, which he returned with a quizzical tilt of his head that conveyed his mystification. This helped strengthen her opinion that he knew nothing yet of his brother’s death.

  “We have some distressing news,” Eva told him gently, believing it would be more easily accepted coming from her. At a nod from Lady Phoebe, who appeared to have read her mind, she gestured for him to take a seat on the settee. She eased herself down beside him. “It’s about your brother.”

  He smirked. “What could be more distressing than Stephen trying to sell the orchard out from under me? Destroying everything our family has worked so hard for these several generations?”

  “Keenan, this morning, Lady Phoebe and her grandfather went out to speak with Stephen about a couple of matters and . . .” Eva drew a breath. “Keenan, Stephen is dead.”

  He frowned as if not comprehending her meaning. He paused for two ticks of the mantel clock. “What?”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, Mr. Ripley.” Lady Phoebe held out her hands as if to offer a physical serving of sympathy. “My grandfather and I found him.”

  “Found him where?” Keenan raked a hand into his hair and kept it there, fingers tangled in the auburn curls. His eyes took on a glazed look of confusion. “Found him how?”

  “Beside his ladder,” Lady Phoebe said. “He—”

  “He fell?”

  “No, Keenan. It appears as if the ladder had been pushed.” When Eva hesitated, Keenan turned ruddy with anger.

  “Pushed or no, men don’t die from such a height unless he was up on a roof and fell onto the pavement.” He turned an accusing glare on Lady Phoebe. “Was he on the roof of Foxwood Hall?”

  “Keenan, please. We’re trying to tell you what happened.” Eva placed a hand on his forearm. He jerked it away. “Stephen didn’t die from the fall. He was attacked. Pushed over on the ladder, and then stabbed.” Her voice became a murmur filled with apology and regret. “With his hedge clippers, I’m very sorry to say.”

  “His hedge clippers.” Both of Keenan’s hands slid through his hair now, gripping as if to prevent his skull from shattering. “Who would do such a thing? Although, the why of it . . .” He let go a harsh laugh, stared grimly down at his feet, and shook his head.

  “Keenan,” Eva said firmly to reclaim his attention, “that isn’t all. You need to be ready for when the chief inspector arrives.”

  He raised his face. “Perkins?”

  “Yes,” Lady Phoebe said. “He spoke of you this morning, about the argument you had with the American businessman yesterday. How you struck him. And he—”

  “Thinks I killed my brother?” Keenan heaved to his feet, his eyes sparking. “And he’s coming for me?”

  “He’s coming to question you,” Lady Phoebe replied. “And you must be ready. You know how he tends to jump to conclusions.”

  “God’s teeth.” Keenan began to pace, his work boots raising ominous drumbeats.

  Eva stood. “Keenan, did you have a visitor this morning? Someone who can verify that you were here at the time of . . . of your brother’s death?”

  He shot her a wary glance. “No. No one was here.”

  “But . . .” Eva pointed at the now empty table before the settee. “There were two teacups here.”

  He glanced over at the china piled on the side table. “They’re both mine. One is from last night.” He shrugged. “I’m not the best housekeeper.”

  Eva and Lady Phoebe exchanged a glance, the knowledge that Keenan hadn’t been drinking merely tea last night mirrored in their gazes. The traces of whiskey they’d found in the kitchen said otherwise.

  “Mr. Ripley, now isn’t the time to protect someone’s reputation,” said Lady Phoebe. “If you had a visitor here this morning, you must reveal who it was.”

  Eva gritted her teeth as fresh worry spread through her. Lady Phoebe had deduced this visitor must have been a woman, and Eva believed she was right. Once more, images of Keenan and Alice in St. George’s basement flashed in her mind. Their laughter and Alice’s flirting tones echoed in her ears. It had been as if no time had passed since their last meeting: not the war, not Alice’s marriage, not her moving away and having children.

  No, Eva was overreacting. Surely Alice wouldn’t put eight years of marriage and her three young children at risk of such a scandal. Certain matters between men and women had changed since the war, but not everything, and not in small villages like Little Barlow. Breakfasting with a man in his home would set rumors ablaze, and Alice knew that as well as Eva did.

  Truly, it could have been anyone here earlier—and that someone could clear Keenan of possible charges. She added her voice to Lady Phoebe’s. “Keenan, your life could be at stake.”

  “I haven’t done anything.” His profile turned steely. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  No, nothing except the identity of the person who drank from that second teacup, and who brought Keenan scones and jam this morning. She had a fleeting notion of asking her mother if she had baked scones today. But of course she had. She baked scones almost every morning. So did a lot of other people in this village. It proved nothing either way.

  The rumble of a second motorcar forestalled further discussion. Lady Phoebe moved to the window. “It’s the chief inspector and Constable Brannock.”

  Keenan calmly opened the door. Chief Inspector Perkins stopped in midstep on the threshold, peered inside, and pointed an accusing finger at Lady Phoebe. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see you here. But if I encounter you again where you shouldn’t be, I’ll arrest you for interfering in police business.” Lady Phoebe started to protest, but Mr. Perkins made a chopping gesture for silence. “Leave this instant, and take your minion with you.”

  A spurt of anger sent a reprimand to the tip of Eva’s tongue. Not only did she take issue with being called anyone’s minion, but she didn’t at all like the man’s insolent tone as he addressed her lady. But nothing would be gained by aggravating the chief inspector.

  A whistled tune carried from outside. Miles came up behind his supervisor and, as if he simply didn’t see him, walked into him with a force that sent Chief Inspector Perkins stumbling into the house. He whirled about to hurl a mild oath at his constable.

  “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you there.” The look on Miles’s face assured Eva he had heard Mr. Perkins’s comment about Lady Phoebe’s minion. “I was fishing my tablet and pencil out of my pocket.”

  The chief inspector blew out a breath, pointed again at Lady Phoebe, and motioned her out the door. Still, Lady Phoebe didn’t move.

  “We’ll go presently, Chief Inspector. But first, may I at least ask if William, our gardener’s assistant, has been found?”

  “He has not, my lady. Now, if you wouldn’t mind.” Biting sarcasm accompanied what should have been his polite request. This time Eva and Lady Phoebe didn’t hesitate to comply.

  * * *

&nbs
p; Back in the Vauxhall, Phoebe noticed how Eva’s hands lay relaxed in her lap rather than clamped on the edges of the seat. Yet her features were tense with concentration. Whatever was on Eva’s mind distracted her from even her ever-present fear of riding in motorcars. “You’re awfully quiet,” Phoebe said. “I hope the inspector’s rudeness didn’t hurt your feelings.”

  “No, my lady. Not that I enjoy being called names, but coming from that man, it’s no great matter.”

  “Then what is it?” Phoebe turned the motorcar away from Foxwood Hall and headed to a farm on the very outskirts of the village precincts.

  “I was just thinking about who might have been with Keenan this morning.”

  “Any guesses?”

  Eva looked about to speak, but instead she pinched her lips together. Phoebe darted her gaze back and forth between the road and Eva’s profile, wondering what was bothering her lady’s maid and friend. She gathered breath to ask, but changed her mind. If something was troubling Eva, she would talk about it in her own good time.

  They drove out to William’s parents’ home, hoping for some news of the boy. William’s father worked as a laborer on one of Foxwood Hall’s tenant farms, and elsewhere when he could find extra work. As Phoebe drove up to the tiny, single-story cottage, her heart went out to the Gaff family. “He has a brother and sister still living at home. Goodness, Eva, this is little more than a shack.”

  “It’s quite small, I’ll give you that, my lady. It looks well cared for, though.”

  That much seemed true. They stepped out of the motorcar, and Phoebe went to knock at the front door. No one answered, but she didn’t take the liberty of entering uninvited. Instead, she walked the few short steps to the corner of the cottage and called out if anyone was home.

  A moment later two young children came running around from the back garden, followed by a woman with a petite, angular figure. As she approached, she dried chapped hands on her apron and attempted to tuck stray, damp strands of hair beneath a battered sun hat. She was perspiring and a bit out of breath. Phoebe guessed she had been doing the laundry.

  “Yes?” She eyed Phoebe’s silk shirtwaist, pleated wool skirt, and cashmere cardigan in puzzlement. Then she must have recognized her visitor, for she had a similar reaction to Keenan Ripley’s when he discovered the Earl of Wroxly’s granddaughter in his house. Mrs. Gaff hastily invited them inside, attempted to further improve her appearance with a pat here, a smoothing of her faded cotton dress there, and nervously offered tea and cake. Phoebe assured her she and Eva would not be staying long. The woman compressed her lips in an attempt to conceal her relief.

  Taking in the cramped interior of the house, Phoebe saw that it was well scrubbed and tidy, but lacking in many everyday comforts and conveniences. She made a mental note to include the Gaff family in the charitable deliveries for the RCVF. She knew that Mr. Gaff had, in fact, fought in the war, as had William’s older brother, and though they had both escaped serious injury, Phoebe saw no harm in sending a little assistance their way.

  “We’ve only come by to see if your son, William, might be at home,” she said to the woman.

  “William?” Mrs. Gaff regarded both Phoebe and Eva from beneath her fair eyebrows. “Why, no. It wouldn’t be like him to come by other than on Sunday afternoon. His duties at Foxwood Hall keep him much too busy.” A wary look claimed her features. “Do you mean to say no one knows where my William is? Has he gone missing?”

  Phoebe cast a quick glance at Eva. “No, er, not exactly, Mrs. Gaff.”

  “Is he in some sort of trouble?” Gone was her accommodating manner, replaced by a simmering anger that sent the two younger children scurrying outside. Phoebe guessed that, innocent or not, William had more to fear from his mother than he ever would from the police.

  “Mrs. Gaff, something terrible happened at Foxwood Hall this morning. A man, our new head gardener, has died, and we believe William might have seen what happened. We’re afraid he’s hiding somewhere out of fear.”

  The woman seemed to have heard only one detail. “Died how?”

  “Intentionally, I’m afraid. Someone took his life. He began as head gardener only yesterday, and today . . .” Phoebe held out her hands. “Are you sure William hasn’t been by? He didn’t contact you between yesterday and today?”

  “Contact me how, my lady?” The woman gestured at the walls of her one-room kitchen and parlor. “We’ve no telephone, as you can see. He hasn’t been by, and since Sunday we’ve heard nothing of him until just now. But when I do see him, he’ll like as not get himself a good cuff on the head for running off and worrying you and me both.”

  “Please don’t do that, Mrs. Gaff. I’m sure there’s a good explanation for William not having been found yet. As I said, he was probably frightened by what he witnessed.”

  The woman sniffed. “Be that as it may.”

  “Perhaps your husband might know more,” Eva suggested.

  The woman hesitated, her eyes shifting away momentarily. Then, steadily enough, she said, “If he knew anything about William, he’d have told me. If you wish to come back later tonight and ask him yourself, you’re welcome to do that.”

  Back at home, Phoebe and Eva returned to the yew hedge. At their approach, a brown rabbit hopped out of their path and scrambled for cover. Even from a distance, they could see the body had been removed, and with it all traces of the crime. The cart, pony, and gardening implements were gone, too. Someone had rinsed away the bloodstains, although when Phoebe bent down and looked carefully, she could make out a congealed residue clinging to the roots of the grass. Also bearing witness to Stephen Ripley’s death were the indentations in the lawn where he and the ladder had lain.

  “I’m very worried about Keenan, my lady,” Eva confided. “For all we know, he’s already been arrested, for the second time in as many days. What judge or jury will believe in his innocence, especially if he won’t help himself?”

  Phoebe hesitated before replying. “If we could only find William. He might be able to tell us who did it.”

  “Are we sure he didn’t do it, my lady?”

  Phoebe walked closer to the incriminating shadows in the grass and leaned down to examine them. “He’s so young. Surely Mr. Ripley could have defended himself against a boy.”

  “He’s not that much of a boy, really. Not much younger than you, my lady. And he’s no weakling. If he caught Stephen by surprise by pushing over the ladder, he could well have retrieved the clippers and . . . you know the rest.”

  “But why? Because Mr. Ripley didn’t allow him to finish his breakfast yesterday?”

  “Perhaps there was more to it. We won’t know until we find William.”

  “Unless we find him.” At a puzzled glance from Eva, she explained, “I hope nothing has happened to him. I just wish his mother had been more help.”

  “Should we go back tonight to question his father?”

  Phoebe contemplated the possibility, then shook her head. “I think his mother was telling the truth. Or, if she wasn’t, then neither she nor her husband will be inclined to enlighten us.”

  Eva sighed. “From what I understand, Ezra Gaff spends nearly his every waking hour working. I dearly hate to add to his burdens unless we have to.” She fell quiet a moment, and then startled Phoebe by blurting, “The Haverleigh path.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The path that leads through the woods to the Haverleigh School, my lady. Whoever murdered Stephen might have come and gone by that path without being seen. Remember how your sister’s classmate, Jane, used that path to sneak back and forth to the school, with none of us the wiser until I happened to be out by the kitchen garden and saw her.”

  “Why, you’re right.” She thought back to the summer before last, when a death at the Haverleigh School had temporarily closed the premises. Several of the students had stayed here at Foxwood Hall, and Jane Timmons used the wooded path to sneak back and forth to visit one of the staff at the school. Phoebe pe
ered into the distance. From here the entrance to the path was invisible, but she knew from experience exactly where it lay. “We like to believe we’re secure here, but anyone can enter the grounds from just about any direction. But as you said, the path makes for a discreet entrance and exit.”

  “Yes, and the Ripley orchard isn’t far from the school,” Eva murmured. In the next instant she looked as if she’d like to recall the words.

  “So are several other farms,” Phoebe reminded her. She returned to perusing their surroundings, not quite sure what she was looking for. “When Grampapa and I came out this morning, the cart and pony were here.” She indicated the spot by walking several paces from the hedge and holding out her arms to simulate the size of the dray. “Cuttings littered the bottom of the cart, and there were a couple of rakes.”

  “Nothing unusual so far.”

  “No.” She turned to regard the spot where Stephen Ripley had lain. “His spectacles had slid off his nose, and his flat cap had fallen just there.” She pointed at the ground. “A tweed cap, if I remember correctly.”

  Eva looked sharply at her. “Tweed? What color?”

  “A typical brown, I believe. Why?”

  Eva’s bottom lip slipped between her teeth and her brows gathered. “Stephen wore a plaid flat cap yesterday when he came into the servants’ hall looking for William.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. But we could ask the others who were at breakfast yesterday. Vernon might remember. Connie too. She has a sharp eye for details.”

  “I suppose he could have more than one.”

  Eva shook her head. “Unlikely, really. Working men, especially single ones, don’t accessorize the way women do, nor do they spend their money on unnecessary items. He might own a flat cap, a derby for church, and perhaps a knitted winter hat, but it would be most unusual for a laborer to own more than one of each sort.”

  Phoebe considered a moment. “There is one way to find out, or at least to narrow down the possibilities.”