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ROSEMARY FROZE, WISHING she could open the door and jump out, but unwilling to leave Vera in the hands of a madman and knowing she probably wouldn’t be fast enough to dodge a bullet, anyway. What she wished even harder was that she’d been able to alert Max to her plan. Now, with her own life in jeopardy, she regretted having acted with such haste. That she’d been right about Arthur Abbot provided little comfort.
He spun into the lane leading to the chapel and revved the engine before coming to a stop at the entrance of the cemetery that butted up against the southernmost edge of Barton Manor’s grounds. Before Rosemary or Vera could do anything other than lock panicked eyes, he had yanked open the rear door and ordered them out of the vehicle.
“Move. Now.” His voice was far calmer than his demeanor, his shaking hands speaking volumes about his mental state.
“Mr. Abbot, Arthur, please. You don’t have to do this.” Struggling to keep her breathing under control, Rosemary had little hope of help arriving in time, if ever, to save them. It was one thing to take self-defense training, quite another to be thrust into the position of needing to use it. Half the lessons had gone out of her head and the other half she couldn’t use because Abbot had a gun.
Arthur met Rosemary’s plea with a sneer. “Don’t I? You keep poking your nose into everything. I thought framing your brother would keep you busy. Women are supposed to do what they’re told and not try to think for themselves. Not clever enough, though. I sprang your little trap.”
“Why...” Vera took offense but bit off the scathing retort before making matters worse. “How did you figure it out?”
That’s right, Vera, keep him talking, Rosemary thought to herself, taking the moment of reprieve when Abbot shifted his gaze towards her friend to search for anything—a weapon, or even a large stone—that might get them out of this predicament.
Mrs. Woolridge had been right; Mr. Abbot wanted to talk. He wanted his story told, and since he meant to kill them anyway, it didn’t matter what he let slip.
“I knew you would be trouble as soon as I realized you were chummy with that Inspector Whittington. Did some checking up on you, didn’t I?”
If only something would distract his attention, Rosemary thought she might be able to save Vera. Her own life mattered little compared to that of the precious one in danger now because of her.
Meanwhile, Abbot’s diatribe continued. “You’d be surprised by what I found. I know your husband used to be a private eye, and I know you set that party at the Blackburn house as a trap. I overheard that idiot brother of yours when you thought my attention was on Edgar. It wasn’t.” The more he worked himself up, the shakier became the hand holding the gun.
Nothing in her training had prepared Rosemary for dealing with a man like Arthur. Hard-nosed attackers, yes. Nervous men with pistols and nothing to lose, no.
Breathe and wait for an opening. That’s what Andrew would do.
“I didn't miss Herbert’s little slip-up either. He knew about the second set of books. He could have told the police about it, and I’d have been up on charges within a fortnight. But instead, I killed him. And then I followed you. All the way to London.” Caught up in his tale, Abbot’s eyes turned misty, and the grip on the gun loosened slightly.
Rosemary noticed. She prodded him. “When we were following Grace?”
“Yes. You were so concerned with not being spotted by Miss Barton you didn’t notice you were being followed. Almost solved my little problem on the way back, but you were too quick for me. Another second, and I’d have hit you with the car. Slipped up there, right enough. Women playing at being detectives, I ask you.”
“What about you?” Vera might have been acting tough, but her fingers trembled. “You think you’re so clever, but you will not get away with this. Before you kill us, don’t you want to know how we saw the problem with your alibi for Mr. Cuthburt’s murder?”
That was brilliant Rosemary thought, stall until we figure a way out of this.
Abbot continued as if he hadn’t heard Vera’s question. “I waited for you, you know, and when you got home, I saw that maid bring you an umbrella—you must pay her rather well with your dead husband’s money—and so I recognized her when she appeared later with a note supposedly written by Mr. Barton. You managed to get his signature just right, I’ll give you that.”
“But why?” Rosemary still didn’t know the answer to that question, and if she couldn’t figure out a way to disarm the man, she’d go to her grave never understanding. The thought bothered her almost as much as dying did. “Why did you kill Mr. Cuthburt? You were friends and business associates.”
“Business associates, yes. Friends, never. That man was responsible for killing my wife. He was a war profiteer, you know, would have done anything to make a few quid. It’s not all about commodities and the black market. Cuthburt preferred to make his money in the back alleys of London. He owned a theater there, under an alias, of course, selling spirits at a ridiculous markup for those who could still afford to imbibe.”
Rosemary hoped Abbot would get caught up in the story and forget about the gun. While she listened, she watched closely.
“That was on the face of it,” Abbot said. “In the back, he provided a place for his real customers—the crooks and the cons who managed the organized crime syndicates of London. Isabella worked there as a cocktail waitress. We didn’t have a lot of money. We were only starting out, but I begged her to give it up. She refused, saying she wanted more for us, a better life. One night after her shift, she disappeared. They found her body, bloodied and bruised, in an alley not far from the theater. Of course, Cuthburt never accepted responsibility, and I’ve spent these last years making a name for myself, getting close to Cuthburt so that when the time came, I could ruin him.”
“Ruin him? You’ve done more than ruin him, Arthur. The man is dead, and so is another young man who had his whole life ahead of him. Surely your wife was avenged after the first death.”
“I didn’t intend to kill Cuthburt!” Abbot boomed, becoming more agitated and less careful with the weapon he held in his hand. “I wanted him broke, behind bars, with his reputation in the privy. I wanted him to suffer. Instead, he went quickly, unlike my poor Isabella.”
Keenly agitated, Abbot appeared ready to cry but shook his head to clear the notion, and continued to rant. “I didn't mean to kill him. But he—he practically goaded me into it. I watched him sneak up to Edgar’s study, so I followed him. He was rooting around in the desk, and when I confronted him, he said he had finally figured out what I’d been up to.”
“Which was what, exactly?”
“Why, framing him for something that might actually stick this time. Oh, Cuthburt had vowed to clean up his act. He’d only agreed to work for Edgar if he promised to legitimize Barton & Co. once and for all. So, I had to help him along. Let’s just say, if the police had found my copy of the books, Ernest would have been ruined. If Herbert Lock had just minded his own business, he’d still be alive.”
Rosemary shivered, sensing Arthur Abbot’s patience was nearing its conclusion and wished she had gone back inside for her coat after all.
“Now, which one of you would like to go first?” Abbot said, waving the gun between Rosemary and Vera as though playing a game of Eeny meeny miny mo. “I choose...you.” He pointed the gun at Vera. “So your friend can watch you die knowing she could have spared you if she’d simply minded her own business.”
In a final effort to stall, Vera said, “Don’t you want to know how we solved the mystery?”
The man paused, his curiosity and hubris getting the best of him. “How?”
“Your mistake was in attempting to frame Frederick,” Vera explained. “You told the police you were near the entrance hall when you were supposed to be with your physician instead.”
“Max Whittington will put it together,” Rosemary said. “You can kill us, but he will solve the case and come after you.” Her faith in the inspector was unfailing.
“Not if I take care of him first. Who else knows? Your father? The butler? Well, he won’t be talking.”
“What have you done to Wadsworth?”
“Little tap on the head. He’s probably not dead. Yet.”
Red rage roared up inside Rosemary like a thundercloud, and she felt adrenaline pulse through her veins as she shoved Vera unceremoniously to the side, ducked, spun, and aimed the pointed end of her heel at Abbot’s weapon hand. A shot rang out, and for a long moment, Rosemary felt her heart breaking into a million pieces.
Then, almost in slow motion, Abbot’s eyes widened in shock as blood seeped from the wound in his chest, spreading to turn his shirt from bright white to scarlet red. He stumbled back and then fell to the ground and stilled.
“Rosemary!” She heard Max’s voice from the other side of the car and squinted in the blinding glow of the headlights. Relief flooded her heart as she scrambled to gather Vera into her arms. Max circled to where Abbot lay and checked his pulse to make sure he was indeed dead.
“Did you have to ruin my new frock?” Vera complained. “There’s a run in my stocking.”
There was blood on her knee as well, but the injury was minor.
His voice ragged with emotion, Max returned to where Rosemary cradled Vera. Whatever else he might have wanted to say, all he could manage was, “Rosemary. I ... are you hurt?”
“A bruise or two. Nothing worse.”
“How did you know where to find us?” Rosemary asked. “Did your housekeeper tell you I called?”
“No, but I'd only just walked into the station when the third of a series of irate phone calls from a woman named Mrs. Shropshire came through. She claimed you were supposed to get in touch with her, and that she had been unable to get through to Woolridge House. I went there, and the maid said you were at Barton Manor, but when I saw a light near the church, my instincts brought me here.”
Rosemary helped Vera to stand and limp to the car. “Are we free to go? It’s Wadsworth, you see. I need to get home and see if Mr. Abbot has killed him.”
“Go. I’ll see to things here and come along to take down your statement as soon as I can. We will talk about your utter lack of concern for your own safety at a later date.”
Threat or promise, Rosemary could not tell and decided it didn’t matter. What she did know was that if she ever needed him, Max would be there. The thought provided comfort and also provoked a feeling Rosemary wasn’t capable of dealing with quite yet. Eventually, she would have to, but for now, she allowed herself to be escorted back to Woolridge House and her warm, safe bed.
