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SOMETIME DURING THE early hours of the morning—or, at least, what seemed the early hours but was coming on for noon—Rosemary awoke with a hammer in her head and her stomach tied in knots. Silently, she cursed her friends for pressing too many cocktails into her hand the night before. She moaned and tried with little success to wrench the covers free from Vera’s grip.
The ringing in her ears gave way to the shrill tones of a whistle, and for a moment, Rosemary thought her head might fall off. Immediately following came the thought that losing her head might not be a bad thing. Vera stirred, shoved the sleep mask off her eyes, and turned towards Rosemary with an equally confused expression on her face. “What on earth is that noise?” she asked sleepily.
“Police whistle. More than one, I think. Or we’re having a simultaneous auditory hallucination,” Rosemary replied, peeling herself off the bed and crossing to the window that looked out over her front doorstep. “Probably an accident around the corner. I can’t see from here.” She flopped back down onto the bed and closed her eyes.
“Rosie, come on. We’re not going to get back to sleep with this racket, and we have to catch a train in a few hours anyway. Besides, I’m curious, and I know you are, too.” Vera jumped off the bed with more vigor than she ought to have had, considering how much she’d had to drink the previous evening.
Rosemary opened her eyes and glared at her friend, but allowed herself to be pulled into a standing position. She dressed quickly, as did Vera, and they headed downstairs. There, they found a disheveled-looking Frederick accompanied by Desmond, who looked fresh as a daisy, peeking through the windows in an attempt to discern the origin of the unrelenting ringing.
“I see I was the only frugal drinker last evening,” Desmond commented with a glint in his eye.
“Shut up, Des,” Frederick fired back after taking a sip of black coffee with his eyes closed against the pounding in his head.
Rosemary strode towards the front door. “I’m going to go for a short walk around the block. Anyone care to accompany me?” Of course, everyone did, and the foursome trooped out to the footway to investigate the disturbance.
As she rounded the corner, Rosemary’s eyes widened at the sight of two police vehicles parked in front of Dr. Redberry’s office entrance. She saw Abigail standing near the gate, breathed a sigh of relief, and then put a hand to her head as another whistle blast sounded. Vera and the men, feigning politeness, hung back a short distance away and looked on with concern.
By the look on Abigail’s face, something terrible had happened, and Rosemary’s heart leaped into her throat. Before she had a chance to make her inquiry, a constable exited the office and said to the officer still stationed outside, “The medical examiner will be along shortly, along with the inspector.”
All Rosemary could think about was how Abigail would survive the loss of her husband. She knew the experience firsthand and had nearly lost herself when Andrew passed away. The horror of it came crashing back, and she instinctively reached out to take Abigail’s hand, her face filled with empathy for the woman. “Oh, Abigail,” she cried.
“It’s not Martin,” Abigail said, having watched the cycle of emotions and understanding the conclusion to which Rosemary had jumped. “It’s one of his patients. They’re interviewing Martin now. Do you think we should call our solicitor?”
Abigail looked past Rosemary to Vera and the men, her eyes wide with worry. Her hands were shaking, but otherwise, she appeared steady. Rosemary judged that Abigail was running on adrenaline, given the circumstances, and would eventually and inevitably crash once the excitement had died down.
“I think,” Rosemary said slowly, “it would be best to let events play out until a determination is made. Do they seem to think the circumstances around the death are suspicious? What happened, exactly?”
Abigail sighed. “He died in the chair. They suspect from an overdose of nitrous oxide.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Martin mentioned they were having problems with the valves, and that he had to take precautions to ensure the dosage was correct. I think they’re considering it an accident at this point; however, mightn’t it be prudent to hedge our bets?”
“Perhaps,” Rosemary agreed, choosing her next words carefully, “though in my experience, calling for a solicitor too early tends to make one look guilty in the eyes of the police. For now, I would advise waiting for a beat to see how things develop. Speak to Martin, and then make that decision together.”
“Thank you for the advice, Rosemary,” Abigail said sincerely. “It must be comforting in times like these to have experience in such matters.”
Rosemary smiled tightly. “Yes, in a way it is, I suppose.” She fetched her friends, and at Abigail’s request, invited them to stand and wait until Martin had finished giving his statement.
When Maximilian Whittington pulled up in front of Dr. Redberry’s office, he was both irritated and secretly pleased that he recognized three out of the five people draped over the fence. If his heart settled into an uneven rhythm, it was only because he feared he might once again find himself having to defend Frederick Woolridge’s innocence—it had nothing whatsoever to do with how beautiful Rosemary looked in her summer dress, her face flushed with the heat of the sun.
He’d been close friends with her husband, Andrew Lillywhite, since their days on the police force, before Andrew had fallen in love and decided he preferred private investigation to traditional police work. Max had known Andrew better than almost anyone; he’d respected him, and that meant that he had no intention of acting upon the flood of longing he felt when he recognized Rosemary’s golden hair.
Or when her face lit up the moment she caught sight of him. “Max! Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Abigail, you’re in good hands, dear. Inspector Whittington is the best we have. He’ll make sure to take good care of Martin, won’t you, Max?” Her eyelashes fluttered, and whether her intent had been to dazzle him or not, he found himself nodding in agreement.
“I take it you are the wife of Dr. Redberry?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from Rosemary’s face with an effort.
Abigail nervously dipped her head. “Yes, I’m Abigail Redberry. Pleased to meet you.”
“And you,” Max replied. “Now, please excuse me while I consult with my constables. I’ll return to ask for your statement when I’ve finished speaking to your husband.”
“Of course, of course. You must do your job. Please excuse me; this has come as quite a shock. Martin is good at his work. We don’t usually have dead men in the house. As you can imagine, it’s quite unnerving.” Abigail wrung her hands, and her eyes widened until she looked stunned with shock yet again.
“We’ll stay here with you, won’t we?” Rosemary directed the last towards her friends, who were all as interested in the outcome as she was.
“Why don’t we go around the corner and take a rest on your front doorstep, Abigail?” she asked as the medical examiner’s vehicle arrived. The last thing Abigail needed to see was the body being carted out of the house. Gently, Rosemary guided her neighbor around the corner and out of sight of the more grisly details.
On their way past the lower-level window that allowed a bit of light into Martin’s office, Rosemary kicked a few stray cigarette butts out of the way and made a mental note to ask Helen to do the Redberrys a favor and sweep the footway free of debris. It irked her that people cared so little about the aesthetics of the neighborhood, but there wasn’t time to stew about that while she carried on down the block.
