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WITH AN AUDIBLE SNIFF, Wadsworth eased the car to a stop on the village high street, right in front of a small tearoom. Shropshire’s, he invariably pointed out, carried a scandalous reputation and ladies of Rosemary’s stature and breeding ought not to frequent such establishments.
Vera, as she always did, pointed out that Mrs. Shropshire’s blood ran as blue as anyone could ask, and what was the crime in opting to operate an eating establishment? It was, as both young women knew, Mrs. Shropshire’s utter disdain for the bounds of society, and possibly her penchant for attending the occasional party wearing trousers in place of ladylike attire, that offended the upright soul. However, since the tearoom had become something of a fixture over the previous twenty years, she opined, it might be time for him to come down from his high horse.
This was a conversation that had been repeated many times over.
“Please return for us in two hours, Wadsworth.” Rosemary let off from biting her tongue to issue the order gently. “We shall be waiting near that new dress shop on the next corner.”
Vera grinned. “Make sure there is plenty of room in the boot!”
“Yes, Miss Blackburn,” Wadsworth replied, his face blank but his eyes twinkling. He leaned over towards Vera, winked, and said in a low voice, “Miss, I trust you will see to it that madam buys something for herself as well.”
“I have every intention of doing so,” Vera said, “whether she agrees or not.”
Rosemary swatted her friend on the arm. “We will shop, but first I must satisfy my craving for one of Mrs. Shropshire’s famous sandwiches.” Rosemary’s stomach rumbled as the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air.
She preceded Vera inside, and, inhaling the familiar scents, recalled the many meals she had taken at the little tearoom over the years. As a testament to how long it had been since the last time, Rosemary recognized none of the workers and few of the patrons. She and Vera circled around a large pillar standing in the middle of the space, hoping to secure their favorite hidden table, only to find that a familiar face already occupied it.
“Frederick!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Shouldn’t you be at the house, sleeping off your hangover beneath your bed covers or commanding Mother’s staff to fetch you tea?” Thankfully, he smelled as though he’d bathed, and was no longer wearing the same wrinkled suit from the previous evening.
Her brother leaned back in his chair and grinned. “The best cure for a night of excess is a helping of Mrs. Shropshire’s fish and chips. All that grease soaks up what’s left of the booze.”
“Frederick Woolridge, you dirty little rat! Did I hear you call my food greasy?” A grumpy voice caused Rosemary to spin on her heel and come face to face with the Mrs. in question.
She rushed forward to embrace the wrinkled old woman glaring at Frederick with mock indignation in her eyes. “Mrs. Shropshire, how good to see you,” Rosemary said sincerely.
“If you were about to say it’s been too long, you would be right, girl.” An arthritic finger wagged at Rosemary. “Your rascal of a brother keeps insisting you are quite fine and that you have not, in fact, been avoiding us, but I have wondered whether he’s always had brown eyes or if he’s just full to the brim with cow manure. As for you, Miss Vera. If this is how frequently you visit home, you have been neglecting not only me but your dear, sweet mother as well.”
Vera raised an eyebrow. “You must be the only person in Pardington who might call my mother a ‘dear, sweet’ anything, Mrs. Shropshire.”
“You always were a disrespectful little imp. Now, come here and let me look at you.” Vera preened beneath Mrs. Shropshire’s gaze and did a little twirl that lifted her skirt. “Too much leg, if you ask me. Not that you would listen to the opinions of a tired old woman, anyway. Quite lovely legs, I will admit, but that does not mean you have to flaunt them in front of those of us who have only the ravages of time beneath our skirts. Downright cruel, that’s what it is.”
Rosemary and Vera locked eyes and giggled. The grins on their faces would have confused the casual onlooker, incongruous with the conversation as they were. Mrs. Shropshire’s tongue was as sharp as the knives she used to carve her meats, and she had a history of using it to razz the young crowd. She also kept a pocket stocked with butterscotch sweets and slipped them to children when their parents weren’t looking.
Once, during their disenchanted youth, Vera had drunk enough to get sloshed and then sicked up in the alley behind the tearoom. Mrs. Shropshire had found her, helped clean her up, and forced her to eat some of the aforementioned hangover-curing fish and chips. She’d let Vera off just that once, threatening to call Mrs. Blackburn if she ever so much as caught a whiff of alcohol on the girl’s breath again.
Rosemary, possessed of a nature far less wild, had never required a similar threat. She had spent many an afternoon telling Mrs. Shropshire all her secrets and being doted upon in a way she rarely experienced at home. The old woman’s bark was worse than her bite, and now that she had dispensed with the ribbing, the smile on her face telegraphed just how thrilled she was to have the three of them all back under her roof.
“Now, tell me, darlings, what have you come home for? Sick of London, are you? Planning on settling back into village life?”
“Actually,” Frederick cut in, thoroughly enjoying himself, “Rosie and Vera are trying to solve a mystery. You’ve surely heard about the events last night at Barton Manor?”
Mrs. Shropshire’s grin turned upside down. “Naturally. You know how fast word travels in these parts.” She surveyed Rosemary, who waited for another onslaught of warnings against involving herself in a murder investigation.
Instead, the woman sat down with a grunt and pinned Rosemary with a look. “Tell me everything, and don’t leave out a single detail.”
Unable and unwilling to argue, Rosemary gave her the short version. “Someone shot Ernest Cuthburt, and I, along with Grace Barton, found the body in Mr. Barton’s study. There is some speculation regarding whether Mr. Barton himself was the intended victim, and right now, poor Grace and our dear Freddie are on the inspector’s list of suspects.”
Mrs. Shropshire’s eyebrows raised clear to her hairline. “Hogwash. Utter hogwash. Surely you don’t believe Miss Grace capable of murder?” That Frederick might have been behind the caper was too ridiculous to address.
“Of course not,” Rosemary replied. “There are several others who would have had the opportunity, and now we’re trying to discern motives for each one. Do you happen to know anything about Marjorie Ainsworth or Herbert Lock?”
She, Vera, and Frederick leaned in while Mrs. Shropshire eased back in her chair and smiled a conspiratorial smile. "Whether it has anything to do with the murder, I couldn't say, but those two scalawags are up to no good. They have had tea together at least twice this week, and they spent the entire time huddled against one another, talking in hushed voices."
“How interesting.” Vera voiced Rosemary’s thoughts out loud. “Based on the conversation we witnessed between them, there was no love lost. In fact, Marjorie was pushing Herbert toward Grace, and it was clear as day she wanted Teddy for herself.”
Mrs. Shropshire grimaced. “If there was a romance between them, I’ll serve shoe pie for supper. Sheer greed, it looked like to me.”
“Why am I not surprised that even given the hushed voices, you still managed to overhear their conversation?” Vera grinned at Mrs. Shropshire with a mixture of amusement and admiration.
The older woman winked at Vera. “Old buildings have funny echoes, my girl. ’Tis no fault of mine if voices carry to my poor, innocent ears. Mr. Lock and Miss Ainsworth spoke at length about money, and Marjorie went on at him about getting her funds back. It seems she had trusted a sum of money to Mr. Lock and had seen neither hide nor hair of a profit.”
Rosemary tapped her fingers on the edge of the table while the implications chased circles in her head. If Marjorie got her hands on even a portion of Teddy’s fortune and Herbert his own on Grace’s, it would set the two of them up for life.
Rosemary voiced her theory to the table. “Even so, it doesn’t wash.”
“What’s on your mind, Rosie?” Frederick asked.
She chewed on her lip for almost a full minute before responding. “The timing is all wrong. I can’t see a viable motive for killing Mr. Cuthburt or even making an attempt on Mr. Barton. Not for that pair, anyway. Surely, they would want him alive until after the matches were final. His death would put the kibosh on the whole scheme.”
“I agree.” Vera nodded.
“Who else is on the suspect list, sister dear?” Frederick inquired.
“It isn’t a terribly long one, according to Max. The only guests who were still present—at least, that we know of—were our family members, all of whom we can rule out, plus a handful of others. Marjorie and Herbert, the Bartons, of course, and Arthur Abbot.”
Mrs. Shropshire frowned. “Arthur Abbot. The name is familiar, but I can’t put it to a face.”
“A chronic bore about the same age as Mr. Barton and Mr. Cuthburt, I expect,” Rosemary explained. “Went on and on about some piece of artwork he thought was the gnat’s whistle. Unfortunately, Vera took the brunt of it.”
“I certainly did.” Vera shuddered and took a sip of tea. “If he hadn’t been such a flat tire, I’d have thought him a poor little bunny. I expect his portion of the business has to do with keeping records or some such drudgery. Probably knows his onions, but I spent most of the time watching the large, rather disturbing mole above his left eyebrow dance around while he spoke.” She shuddered again at the memory.
A wave of recognition swept across Mrs. Shropshire’s face. “Ah. That one has been in here a few times. Bought a house in the village recently, from what I’ve gathered. Seems a decent enough chap, speaks highly of his late wife.”
“Ever notice anything odd about him?” Rosemary asked. “Excepting the infamous mole?”
“Nothing leaps to mind. Came over polite and mannerly, unlike you lot of hooligans, who have kept me from my work long enough,” Mrs. Shropshire said, rising with more agility than a woman her age ought to possess. “I expect I shall pay close attention the next time I see the man, and I also expect you to come around and pry for details.”
Once they had piled back into the car, Frederick snorted. “My money is on Mr. Barton himself if you want to know the truth. He throws the party as a smoke screen, providing the good inspector with a plethora of suspects, and makes it look as though he were the real target. It’s a brilliant plan if I do say so myself.”
“You could be right, Freddie, you could be right,” Rosemary mused. “Except, he never left the ballroom during the time of the murder. Perhaps it was Mrs. Barton, sick and tired of her husband turning even their wedding anniversary into an excuse to conduct business. You know we heard them arguing earlier. It seems Mrs. Barton thinks her husband is having an affair with another woman. Though, who she thinks would take a second look at that man is a mystery. Mr. Cuthburt and Mr. Abbot were both partners of Mr. Barton, he had some arrangement with Herbert Lock, and then there is the conversation Vera witnessed between him and Marjorie. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings any to see that man taken down a notch or two.”
Vera had listened to Rosemary and Frederick’s conversation quietly. “I believe you are not alone in that opinion. We forget one vital clue, though. The letter. The mysterious letter that disappeared so very conveniently and which may not even exist. Could Grace have misread, or is she hiding something?”
Frederick’s forehead drew together, and he said thoughtfully, “If she refuses to talk with you, why not try to appeal to her brother? You know, we pay far more attention to the goings-on in our sisters’ lives than we’d like them to realize. Teddy comes across as the protective type, and based on the way he was looking at you, Rosie, I think he would be more than happy to answer any questions you might be inclined to ask.”
Rosemary mimicked the expression on Frederick’s face. “I take it you do not subscribe to Mother’s theory that Teddy is the most dangerous of the Bartons? Or doesn’t your protective nature extend to your sister spending time with a possible patricidal maniac?”
“I have no intention of leaving you—either of you—alone with any of those people. Trust me, I have a plan.”
