C
HAPTER
8
E
va didn't enjoy riding in motorcars. Never had. They were jarring and drafty and moved at alarming speeds. But today she barely noticed as Phoebe steered her two-seater Vauxhall around the last curve to her parents' farm at a speed that normally would have had her cowering into her coat collar. She had other things on her mind, namely, her father's likely reply to the question she intended to ask him. Or confront him with, if the truth be told.
Apprehension overshadowed even her relief at climbing out of the Vauxhall, only to increase when the front door opened on her mother's quizzical surprise. “Why, Evie, we didn't expect you today.” Mum's surprise quickly turned to alarm. “And Lady Phoebe, too. How . . . er . . . lovely.” With only a shawl tossed over her dress, she hurried across the threshold, but a quick word from Phoebe stopped her short on the stoop.
“Mrs. Huntford, don't you dare come out in this bitter cold. We're coming in presently.” And with that she and Eva hurried into the house and went directly to the fireplace to warm themselves. After trading pleasantries with Eva's parents, Phoebe followed a jittery Mum into the kitchen, leaving Eva alone with her father.
“Dad, there's a reason I'm here today.”
“Any reason's a good one if it means we get to see our girl. And that Lady Phoebeâquite the young woman she's becoming.” He waved a finger at her. “I see your influence on her, Evie, and she's the better for it.”
“Thank you, Dad. But I need to ask you a question. It's about what happened, and you might notâ”
“Ask, Evie, and stop beating about the bush.”
“All right, then. Had the Marquess of Allerton owed you money?”
Sitting in his favorite easy chair, Dad crossed his feet, then uncrossed them, and tugged at his beard. “Why would a marquess owe money to the likes of me?”
“You know very well why.” She sat at the end of the lumpy settee closest to his chair. “There must be some link between all of us who received those ghastly surprises in our boxes. I can think of no other rational possibility.”
“You mean to say, someone might have been paying off the marquess's debts?” Skepticism oozed from both his tone and his expression. “Devil of a payment, that.”
“Yes, but when you think about it, why does someone commit murder? Jealousy, revenge, and money top the list, don't they?”
“Perhaps . . . But the box was for you, Evie, not me. Did the marquess owe
you
money?”
His attempt to turn the question around left her uneasy. From where she sat in the front parlor, she could peer into the kitchen, where Mum was nervously pouring a cup of tea for Phoebe. Eva could understand how having a Renshaw in her kitchen might throw off her mother's equilibrium, but was there more to it? Had Mum overheard Eva's question? In an attempt to set her at ease, Phoebe, bless her heart, chattered nonstop about her grandfather's plans for the spring planting at the home farm and asked Mum her opinion on different grades of seed.
Eva drew a breath and turned back to her father. “The marquess did not owe me money, Dad. But someone knew I would be coming here on Boxing Day, just as he or she knew where the others would be going as well. So I'll ask you again. Did the marquess owe you money? He was furloughed for several weeks last summer. Perhaps you helped provision his estate during that time?”
Her father's forehead puckered. He tugged again at his beard.
“I've guessed it, Dad, haven't I?”
“All right, Evie, yes. He purchased several sides of beef while on furlough. What of it? Plenty of noblemen fell into arrears during the war. The toffs are pressured to keep up appearances no matter what. He'd have paid me sooner or later. He promised.”
“Why was that so hard to admit? Did you tell the inspector?”
“It's none of his business.”
“Then you lied by omission! Don't you realize how that looks?”
“Shh!” Her father darted a look into the kitchen and gestured for Evie to lower her voice. He whispered his next words. “I do not need your mum scolding me for extending credit during the war years. The man was a soldier, Evie, a commanding officer, risking life and limb for those of us left behind. I couldn't very well tell him no when he placed his order, now could I?” Rising, he went to the fireplace and took his pipe from the mantel. He didn't reach for his tobacco pouch, but instead tapped the bowl against his palm as he regarded Eva. “Why are you so interested anyway? What are you and her ladyship up to?”
“We are up to finding justice for George Vernon.”
Dad shook his head slowly, now tapping the pipe's mouthpiece against his lips. “What if he's guilty, Evie?”
“You know him. Do you believe he could have committed a crime like that?”
A heavy pause ensued before he answered. “Do you believe I could have?”
“No, Dad, of course I don't,” Eva said without hesitation.
She and Phoebe left soon after, retracing their way along the same road. With a grind Phoebe shifted gears, and the Vauxhall jerked twice as it slowed. A moment later they passed through the old medieval walls of Little Barlow. Cobbles lined the curving main road, which, when combined with the frigid air inside the motorcar, made Eva's teeth clatter until she feared they'd crack. To either side stood a few cottages and side streets, then rows of attached shops, followed by more cottages, the village church, the livery, and the Houndstooth Inn, all fashioned from the Cotswolds' distinctive, honey-colored stone. Thanks to the generosity of Lord Wroxly, the roads and structures had all once been kept in almost pristine condition. But the war years had created a shortage of men available to do maintenance of that sort, and an air of neglect had settled over the village along with a layer of grit only partially hidden now by the snow.
Phoebe brought the Vauxhall to a stop outside the haberdashery. The tailor shop, which doubled as a seamstress shop for ladies, was two doors down on the other side of the post office. Cloaked villagers, their chins tucked into their mufflers, hurried along the sidewalk, though many took the time to call out their greetings of “Morning, my lady,” when they recognized the motorcar. A cart jostled its way around them, and a lorry rumbled by. Phoebe waved and called out her acknowledgments, addressing each passerby by name.
She set the break. “I think we should split up. You go into the haberdashery and I'll go down to the tailor.”
“I don't think that would be a good idea, my lady.”
Phoebe buttoned up her fur-trimmed coat and tightened her muffler around her neck. “There is no reason why we shouldn't. Entering a shop alone isn't anything new for me, and I have the legitimate reason of wishing to speak with Mrs. Garth. She was so helpful in facilitating our medical supply donations for the army, and I've a new idea I'd like to discuss with her. At the same time, I can also speak to her husband under the pretext of checking on some items Grampapa ordered for Fox. Meanwhile, you pretend to be shopping for buttons and ribbons and the like for my sisters and me. In fact, please do so and charge it to our account.”
Eva didn't like it, but she couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation why. It simply felt like a dereliction of her duties to allow Phoebe to question a man alone. Of course, Mrs. Garth would be there, and even if
Mr.
Garth did have something to hide, he wouldn't dare be anything but polite to Lord Wroxly's granddaughter. “Very well, but we must be very discreet,” she warned.
“It's not as though I intend blurting the question as to whether Lord Allerton owed the Garths' money.” She tugged her velvet hat lower over her ears and reached for door handle. “Don't worry. I'll ease into the matter by showing my concern over his having received that gruesome gift.” She opened her door and stepped out.
Eva did the same, sliding on a patch of ice and only just managing to catch her balance by gripping the Vauxhall's door handle. The sooner this was over and they could go home, the better. She watched Phoebe make her way down to the tailor's shop; then she stepped inside Myron Henderson's haberdashery. Myron Junior, that was. His father had died of the influenza that raced through England that autumn, only a month before his son returned to the village. Her own mother had somehow survived it, although she had still to fully recover from its ravages. Most hadn't been so lucky. She had not seen Myron Junior since his return, as his uncle had manned the shop after the elder Myron passed. Myon Junior had only recently taken over.
Coming in from the overcast day outside, she blinked at the kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that filled her gaze everywhere she looked. As always when she entered this shop, delight trilled inside her, as if she were a child in a room full of sweets. Perhaps, to a lady's maid who was always in need of a button, a bit of lace, or some lovely silk thread to hem a gown or fix a sash, a haberdashery was a sweet shop of sorts.
The shop was presently empty, Mr. Henderson the younger being nowhere in sight. She walked to the wall of shelves holding bolts of cloth like a library of colorful tomes and traced a gloved finger along a row of fabrics. The sea green satin would look lovely on Julia, and the black and cream striped would make a smart summer motoring outfit for Phoebe, and for Amelia . . .
“Why, Miss Huntford, forgive me. I didn't hear anyone come in.” Myron Henderson ducked his head as he stepped out from behind the curtains separating the shop from the back room. Eva tried not to show her surprise. He looked . . . different from what she remembered.
“Mr. Henderson, how very good to see you again.”
In the time it took him to approach the counter, her surprise melted into sympathy. A once vigorous young man, he now walked with the aid of a cane, and an odd squeak accompanied each uneven step. His short-cropped hair had receded, and though he was about her age, like many a soldier he had returned much older, at least in experience. Despite his kindly smile, his eyes were shadowed, no doubt obscuring the sights they had witnessed on the battlefield. Sights Eva's brother had witnessed as well, but hadn't survived.
She went closer, until only the counter separated them. “How are you?” She immediately questioned the wisdom of asking. Under the circumstances, was that prying? Did his conditionâhis limpâspeak of struggles better left undiscussed? She had heard of his capture last winter. Had the Germans tortured him?
She wanted to bite her tongue.
“I'm much better, thank you,” he said easily enough. “Looking forward to resuming a normal life again. And you? Your family?”
“Oh, we're all fine. . . .” How dear of him to ask, she thought.
“I heard about Danny. I'm so sorry.”
“Yes, thank you. I'm very sorry about your father.”
Silence fell, though oddly not an uncomfortable one. For several seconds they seemed joined in their reflections, their losses shared and jointly commiserated.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” he asked at length. “If I don't have what you need, I can surely order it. Now that the war is over, England's young ladies may have their hearts' desires again.” Having set aside his cane, he leaned his palms on the countertop and bent forward to speak on a more even level with her. So calm, so patient. She could hardly imagine this solicitous man charging on a battlefield, aiming bullets and bayonet into the bodies of other men.
A chill swept through her, and she shook the image away. “I need to replenish my supply of buttons and thread. Perhaps some ribbon. New shears, too, now I think of it. And I'm looking at some of your lovely fabrics.”
“Perhaps something for Lord Wroxly or Lord Foxwood as well? Some rather dapper shirt studs have recently come in. Nothing too fussy. Very modern.”
She smiled. “I'll leave that to Lord Wroxly's valet.” She hesitated, then went to the bin holding glass containers filled with buttons, separated by color and size. She only now remembered she had come here for reasons other than replenishing her sewing basket. “How was your holiday, Mr. Henderson? Or need I ask? I believe you and I were both treated to a most unsavory shock on Boxing Day.”
“Indeed. Who would ever suspect such a thing in our lovely village? And poor Lord Allerton. Good heavens.”
Yes, good heavens. He had just given her the lead she needed. “Did you know him? Did he shop here?”
“I saw him upon occasion before the war, yes. Sometimes he came in himself, or he would send his valet, Mr. Hensley.”
“Did Nickâer, Mr. Hensleyâshop here for the marquess? I hadn't realized that.” She assumed an expression of concern. “I do hope Lord Allerton's death hasn't left you short, then.”
“Short?”
“Yes, you know. Unpaid bills.” She held her breath as she awaited his reply.
“Ah. No, I don't believe so. At least, my father's records don't indicate any debts owed by Lord Allerton. Did you know I served under him in the Royal Fusiliers, Third Battalion.”
“Then Lord Allerton was your commanding officer?”
“Not my immediate commander, but part of the chain of command, yes. And a fine officer he was, Miss Huntford.”
“You thought well of him.”
“Indeed, I had no reason to think otherwise. He won a D.S.O., you know.” At her blank look, he added, “Distinguished Service Order award. They don't give those away for nothing.”
“No, I don't suppose they do.”
“A funny thing, war. Officers, foot soldiersâon the battlefield and in the trenches we were all brothers. It's hard to explain to those who weren't there. But there were moments when neither military rank nor social position made a difference. Life and death has a way of making equals out of men as nothing else can. Officer, soldierâthe bombs and bullets treat us all the same in the end.”