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DR. REDBERRY, HIS WIFE, and his office were quiet the next day, causing Rosemary to spend an inordinate amount of time agonizing over whether she ought to go over and check on the couple.
Somewhere around the middle of the day, Vera had enough and snapped, “If you want to go over there, then go. If not, stop worrying about it and relax.”
Frederick opined—and Vera had begun to agree—that putting off their trip might have been unnecessary.
The men spent the day lounging around, eating, and meandering down by the riverbanks, while Vera finally persuaded Rosemary to spend some money at the stores. An inordinate amount of money, to her mind, though she supposed any sum was worth the smile on Vera’s face. What was more, her cases were packed and ready to go, and she’d managed to find a bathing costume that was both stylish and modest enough to suit her tastes.
Eventually, Rosemary pushed her concerns to the back of her mind, and even enjoyed another evening with Vera, her brother, and Desmond. They had reached a sort of understanding, with Frederick and Desmond allowing themselves to be led around by the women, their protests delivered only half-heartedly.
Breakfast the next day started as a gay affair, with talk of the forthcoming holiday dominating the conversation.
“I hear the ruins are rather beautiful and worth a day of foot travel,” Rosemary said, her brow furrowed. “I do hope we’ve packed appropriate shoes, Vera.”
Frederick snorted and answered for her. “I would hazard a guess that Vera has packed enough shoes to outfit everyone who ever lived in those ruins. Stop worrying, Rosemary. They do have shops on the island. If you’ve forgotten anything important, you’ll have no trouble finding suitable replacements.”
“He’s right, Rosie. I’ve thought of everything, you rest assured.”
Wadsworth, with his usual pomp and circumstance, entered the room with his hands full, “Your newspapers, my lady. I believe you’ll want to take a look at the cover of The Herald.” He bowed and made his exit after depositing the items on the dining room table.
“Rosie, does your butler always have a stick up his rear end?” Frederick asked while Rosemary picked up the paper and began to read. His infantile question went unanswered as she took in a sharp breath.
Killer dentist on Park Road—Dr. Martin Redberry suspected of murdering patient. The article went on to state that the death had not yet been officially ruled an accident, and to speculate that since the man died in the chair and the investigation wasn't moving forward, Martin had perpetrated the perfect crime.
The hush that fell over the table wasn’t broken until Desmond cleared his throat. “Is it possible there’s some truth to the article? How well do you know Abigail Redberry, Rose? Well enough to be absolutely positive neither she nor her husband could kill?”
Before Rosemary could formulate a response, Frederick offered his opinion with another wave of his toast. “Anyone will kill for the right reasons. Straight down to the most mild-mannered person, everyone has a breaking point.”
“You might drive me to mine,” Rosemary warned, “if you don’t stop spreading jam everywhere.” Frederick flashed a cheeky grin, but one that carried no true repentance.
Rosemary sat back down, hard, on her chair. “No matter whether it’s true, this article is enough to ruin Martin’s reputation and, indeed, his entire career. Nobody likes dentists as it is,” she said.
“Who is this reporter?” Vera asked, “And where did he get his information? That’s what I would like to know. Max seems certain the overdose was accidental.”
“Nathan Grint is his name,” Rosemary replied, checking the byline.
Frederick sat back in his chair and smiled until Rosemary cast him a disapproving glance. “What, exactly, are you so happy about?” she asked, irritated.
“I’m not happy, exactly, but I do believe I’m the one who expressed doubt regarding Martin’s innocence. And here I am, vindicated.”
“You aren’t vindicated yet, brother dear,” Rosemary retorted. “Just because this reporter has his hackles up doesn’t mean it was murder, or if it was, there’s no proof Martin is the one who killed Mr. Segal. Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proved guilty’? I seem to remember that you relied on that adage when it was your neck being measured for the noose.”
Frederick ignored the chastisement. “Who else might have done it, then? Who else would have had the opportunity, I ask you?”
Forehead wrinkling, Rosemary chose not to answer but pulled her eyebrows together as she thought back to Martin’s behavior at the play and after the police and the medical examiner had left.
“Personally, I think if anyone in that house is a killer, it would have to be Abigail,” Desmond interjected, causing Rosemary to stare at him with a look of wide-eyed horror.
“And why on earth would you think that?” she asked, incredulous. “What possible motive could she have?”
Desmond winked. “Just a hunch, I suppose. That woman is hiding something—mark my words.”
“You two are both way off,” Vera said, siding with Rosemary. “If the police truly believe Mr. Segal was murdered, don’t you think Max would have said as much to Rosie? He’d have been here warning her to keep her nose out of the case.”
“He did say he expected the inquest to come back with a ruling of death by misadventure,” Rosemary said, declining to mention that Max had done just that. “I can’t picture either of the Redberrys as cold-blooded killers.”
Laying claim to the last piece of toast, Frederick chose preserves over butter and slathered on a thick layer. He took a bite, then scattered crumbs everywhere when he used the toast to gesture. “How well do you know Martin and Abigail, really? Well enough to be certain of their motives?”
Folding the paper while she thought the question through, Rosemary finally sighed. “Probably not, which is all the more reason to have a conversation with Martin and see if I can get a better sense of him.”
