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Monday

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Isabella emerged from the maze and saw Flick taking photographs of a spiraling topiary. The head gardener stood beyond the half-wall, on a lower path as he raked the pristine lawn.

Flick let the camera dangle from a strap around her neck then bent to the tote at her feet and withdrew a notebook. A quick notation, then the notebook returned to the tote, and she came to meet Isabella. “How did your wander through the maze go?”

“I found the way on my own, starting left, as you said.” She nodded in the direction of the gardener. Since Flick was now closer, she lowered her voice. “Have you ever seen the gardener without a tool?”

Flick laughed. “It is his job. Did you start the illustration of the garden?”

“It’s very rough. I’ll create a much better illustration for printing later.”

“Nothing elaborate. Details can be lost.”

“Yes. I’ve done several illustrations from the dig on Crete for my brother-in-law. I finished the last few before I came up. Three illustrations per article, for ten articles. Fortunately, I started them in Crete. You may have seen them. They’re not in an academic journal. All Britain, I think he said.”

“Your brother-in-law. That’s the professor, isn’t it? Prof. Tarrant of St. George’s University in London. I’ll have to look for his articles. How long will they run? Ten articles?” Even as she accepted the sketch, her focus remained on the head gardener. “Garden tools. I’d didn’t realize—,” she murmured.

“What is it?” Isabella glanced at the old gardener. How could he find anything to rake up? The lawn looked pristine to her.

“Garden tools have metal heads, don’t they? The rake. The spade. The mattock. The hoe.”

Isabella hadn’t wanted to remember the gory damage to George Webberly’s head. She did now as well as a tool creating that damage.

At her gasp, Flick looked at her. “My apologies. Let’s look at what you’ve drawn. This is the maze.”

“Very rough.”

She turned the sketchbook to horizontal, back to vertical. “This is good. Rough, as you say, but very good. Boxwoods for the maze walls, the fountain. You should have MacAlphin describe the fountain for you.”

“He’s the head gardener.”

“And knows everyone who would have access to garden tools.”

They shared a look.

“Horizontal or vertical for the garden plan?” Flick asked.

Isabella told her then waited while she examined the formal garden with its arched beddings. “I don’t know what will be planted in the center beds. Flowers to give color but which ones? Annuals? Perennials? The sides have room for border plantings. Have you ever seen what was planted there?”

“Only autumn colors, gradually removed as the garden turned to winter. Another reason to talk with MacAlphin. He’ll give you the plan for this year, I imagine, and may even escort you through the greenhouse. This will be quite a bit of work for you. I didn’t realize. Did I mention compensation? How much did Prof. Tarrant pay you?”

“He didn’t pay me; the magazine did. He just funneled the money to me.” She named the sum. “That’s for three illustrations. That’s not how your contract with Modern Woman runs, is it? You’re freelance, paid by them on delivery. Why don’t we divide by three then take off about fifteen percent? Does that sound reasonable? Can you pay me on delivery? That’s how I worked for the professor.”

“I can and will. That amount sounds right. Since I’m bringing illustrations as well as photographs, Owl might weasel out more money for me. Alicia Osterley, I mean. You remember, my friend at Modern Woman?”

“I remember that we talked about her. I met her at Christmastide, at Emberley.” Again Isabella didn’t say what she’d thought of the young woman. Surrounded by strangers, her employer demanding one thing after another, Miss Osterley might not have been at her best. She had definitely been awed by Lottie Crittenden and the whole Malvaise family. Isabella turned to recite her day. “I saw your brother in passing, hurrying from the church to the teaching hall.”

“At chapel?”

“At half-past noon. I had tucked into the alcove of the side door, eating my apple.”

“What on earth was he doing there?”

“Meeting Miles Farrell.”

“The medic?” In her surprise, Flick stopped walking, then she skipped a step to resume her place beside Isabella. “I know he’s not a medic anymore, but that’s how Chauncey refers to him. What did Chauncey say?”

“He barely had time to acknowledge me. I think he must have been late. Mr. Farrell talked a few minutes.”

“Why was Chauncey meeting him?”

She hesitated, but Flick had turned her head, her eyebrows arched as she waited for an answer. “I gathered the impression that Mr. Farrell was counseling your brother. Does your brother have many nightmares about the war? My husband,” she rushed to add, “still has them, and he’s been demobbed for over a year. I believe it’s a common ailment. Part of shell shock.”

“Ailment? I would describe it more as a debilitating malaise. Early on, he had more than nightmares. Couldn’t eat, didn’t even want to climb out of bed in the early days. Least little noise from the street, and the shakes would seize him for hours. And the nightmares. He refused to mention anything to our father who was in the Boer War. Father never talked of his service. Chauncey had to talk with me. That was the only way he could get back to sleep. Talk and talk and talk, never about his experiences, from the time he woke until morning tea. We mostly reminisced about our childhood. Then he stretched out on the sofa while I had to head to work. I had regular work as a mannequin then. I’m very happy to be rid of that job. Time eased Chauncey’s nightmares. I had hoped they’d vanished entirely. If he’s talking with Miles Farrell, that can only be good. Last night, in the wee hours, I heard one of our fishermen calling out.”

“That would have to be Mr. Elwen.” Isabella thought she remembered that his room was across from Flick’s. “I didn’t realize that nightmares still haunted him.”

“How could they not? I read the reports of battle. I’ve heard descriptions. I had a friend who worked at a field hospital, and he said—. Well, no one needs to hear that. Doubtless, my imagination is far below reality. Please, let’s talk of something else.” They had reached the graveled parking beside the church. “How was your time with the privileged heir of Emberley?”

“He surprised me by being amiable. And very forthcoming, especially in our forenoon hour. Apparently, the boys’ dormitory is rife with speculation about George Webberly’s death. I imagine they’re finding it difficult to concentrate on their studies. My father—he was a don at a public school in the Lake District—.”

“Really? You’ve been in England for several years then?”

“We came over before the war.” She didn’t want to talk of that. She wanted to pursue what Edward Malvaise had shared.

Yet that was not to be. A dark automobile pulled in, the wheels crunching loudly over the gravel and drowning normal conversation. Three men sat in the auto. Was that—? Before Isabella decided, the driver had parked beside Flick’s green Calcott and killed the motor.

The automobile’s doors opened, and the three men emerged. The burly driver spoke over the hood to his passenger, a tall man without a hat. The wind caught in his dark hair. The sun lighted his face, burnished as her husband’s still was from years in the Mediterranean sun.

Flick had lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the weak sunlight that reflected off the automobiles. “Who is that? The tall one? I’ve seen him in London.”

“That,” Isabella said with an inner glow of satisfaction, “is Detective Inspector Michael Wainwright and his sergeant Mr. Callaway. Scotland Yard has sent their best.”

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

The man she’d seen last Friday evening at the Fitzwilliam Victoria was a detective inspector? With Scotland Yard. And there Flick had been, dining with Alan Rettleston, who liked to walk the edge of respectability and brazen his way out of any trouble.

Flick’s steps slowed while Isabella’s had increased, rapidly crossing to meet the men when they were only a few steps from their auto. She stopped, wondering how Isabella knew men from the Metropolitan Police Force.

The third man, exiting the back seat, wore a navy uniform. The local constable, she guessed.

As she watched Isabella shake hands, Flick remembered the scandal at Christmastide, murder at Emberley and the public arrest of a financier’s wife. Owl had talked about it once then refused, even after the arrest in London and reports of the guilty plea died from the newspapers.

Isabella must have met the men there, at the same time that she picked up her portrait commission from the dowager Malvaise.

It was a small world. Made smaller by Flick’s own near meeting with this detective inspector only three evenings ago.

Isabella led the three men to her. The burly sergeant looked at her with open curiosity. The constable was preparing to use his notebook. The detective inspector—Yes, it was him!—had moderated his smile, congenial rather than broad.

Ah, yes, I’m a suspect now.

Flick had hoped to see him again, to meet him and see if attraction sparked.

The detective inspector had the looks and slow movements that she liked. Dark hair without a pomade, sharp dark eyes, a lean tanned face with its long nose. A decided chin above his firm mouth. From her surreptitious spying last Friday, she knew his movements were measured, not quick and flighty; decisive and confident, rather than jerky. He hadn’t worn flashy tie pins with his tuxedo, and its shiny fabric gleamed with age. A detective’s salary likely didn’t stretch to flash or a pristine new tuxedo.

His grey flannel coat was good, his shirt points crisp although he and his sergeant must have driven from London today. Hours in the auto. She knew too well what that was like.

They had reached her. Flick lowered her tote to the ground. Deciding to imitate Isabella’s American welcome, she stuck out her hand.

“Flick.” Isabella gave a chuckle. “Or should I say Miss Felicity Sherborne? May I introduce Michael Wainwright, a detective inspector with Scotland Yard? Although we met only in January, I feel as if I’ve known him for years. He commanded my husband’s unit. And this is his sergeant, Trevor Callaway, epitome of the cheerful policeman.”

“Now, Mrs. Tarrant,” the sergeant said, “you’re taking away my thunder, and we’ve barely started this case. Next thing, you’ll be telling us how you must be a suspect.”

The detective inspector said nothing, merely shook her hand then fell back a step, hands behind his back. At rest, she remembered from Chauncey’s descriptions of military stances, before actual service in the war killed his enthusiasm.

“But I am a suspect!” Isabella cried. “I found the body. Rather, we did. Along with Flick’s brother, who is a master here.”

“I’ll not believe you did the deed,” the sergeant protested. “Not with those lily-white hands.”

“These, sergeant,” she waved her cold-tipped fingers in the air, “are well smudged from my pencil.”

The detective inspector continued silent, his gaze flashing around their group. When the banter ended, he fixed on her. The amber lights in his dark eyes surprised her. “Miss Sherborne. Constable Amsley here gave us to understand that you have photos of the scene. You did not leave them with Mr. Nigel Roberts. I believe you developed them at his shop.”

None of that was either question or command, merely statement, but his keen gaze pricked her conscience. She didn’t claim a mistrust of Mr. Roberts. That sounded defensive, the impression she did not want to give. Instead, she bent and searched her tote. “Heavens, yes. I have the photographs here, safe with me. As well as the negatives. All the negatives,” she thought it wise to add. She straightened and handed over the courier envelope. The inspector took it from her, but he didn’t unwrap the string and look inside. “I printed the photographs at Mr. Roberts’ shop. I developed the negatives in the dark room I created out of a closet in my room at the pub. Will you want to examine that?”

“We need all of the negatives, for a proper sequence of evidence.”

“Flick said that exact thing,” Isabella exclaimed.

“Why did you believe it necessary to take photos?” Callaway asked.

Flick wondered how many suspects were fooled into thinking they were safe when that sergeant asked his questions so soft and gentle. She glanced briefly at Isabella who was friends with Scotland Yard’s best. Flick would use that to her advantage. “We didn’t quite trust the investigative skills of the local constable. My apologies, Constable. I am certain you are a fine fellow.”

The constable grinned. “At drunks and burglary, Miss, not murder. I agree with you there.”

Isabella chimed in. “Flick had her camera. We had a long, long time before her brother returned from notifying the headmaster and the constable. I can’t take credit for the idea, but I thought it best, especially when we realized they would remove the body before anyone from Scotland Yard came—if they were intelligent enough to call Scotland Yard. And they were. Flick made good use of the time.”

“Did you, Mrs. Tarrant? Make good use of your time?”

The sergeant’s question sounded so odd that Flick gave him a quizzical look, but the answer came from his superior.

“A map of the murder scene? Or your impression of it, the position of the body?” which was another odd question.

“I didn’t look,” Isabella said baldly. “Once we spotted Mr. Webberly and realized—what had happened, I didn’t look. I held the blanket while Flick—.”

“The blanket?”

“We covered Mr. Webberly with a picnic blanket. I held it while Flick took photos, then we draped it back over him.”

It was Isabella’s explanation, but all three men looked at Flick.

“Mr. Webberly’s state didn’t bother you, Miss Sherborne? You are enured to such scenes?”

“No, Inspector, I am not enured. The photographs bothered me much more than I realized. I had trouble sleeping last night. I expect I will again today, after spending the morning working on the prints. I don’t—I take photos of orchids and topiaries. I’m not a newshound. But these photos, they seemed a necessity.”

“And necessity drives,” Isabella said while the sergeant nodded and the inspector stared at the courier envelope. “Will that be all, gentlemen?” she asked, and Flick thanked God that Isabella wanted this meeting over. “I’m cold. We were heading back to the pub.”

“We can find you at the Hook and Line this evening? We will have more questions about yesterday, I’m afraid.”

“We gave statements to the constable after Sir Robert Goodkind interrogated us.”

“Flick, it was hardly an interrogation.”

She didn’t choose to apologize. She watched the inspector.

He gave a small smile, directed to Isabella although he turned the last of it on Flick. “I know you would rather commit yesterday to the past, over and done with, but I don’t let other people run my investigations. The constable took quite a number of preliminary statements yesterday. The sergeant and I must repeat all of them. I’ll let you ladies return to the pub and warm yourselves by the fire and sip a hot toddy. We have a crime scene and evidence,” he lifted the courier envelope, “to review. Until the evening, Mrs. Tarrant, Miss Sherborne.”

The sergeant touched a finger to his hat. Constable Amsley nodded. Then the three men strode past, the constable giving directions as he hastened to keep up with the other men’s longer strides.

Flick refused to watch them enter the Crossing, but something in her drove her to glance at the men as she stowed her tote in the back floorboard.

They had stopped at the first steps descending to the formal garden. The headmaster had met them. Standing just in view, as if he’d come from the Prior’s House, was Gilchrist.

Flick slid behind the steering wheel. Neither woman spoke until the auto exited the gates and turned onto the narrow road. Only then did she clear her throat. “Are they always like that?”

“Like what?”

An artist saw in minute detail what people wanted to hide. She tried to keep her face composed, her voice steady—but her fingers trembled where they gripped the steering wheel. “Like that. They started friendly. That sergeant teased you. Then their questions became probing.”

“They do have an investigation, Flick. We are suspects. At this point, everyone is. We know we didn’t do it. You need to get over your fear of being a suspect and decide to help. I thought that was the reason you took the photos, to help the investigation.”

“I did. I do want to.” Yet an unknown fear clutched her throat, like a wild animal in the fanged clutch of a wolf.

“You’re not used to being in a murder investigation.”

“Of course not.”

“Few people are. This is my third.”

“Third?” She glanced over before she could stop herself and quickly looked back at the road. The days had started lengthening, but twilight still came rapidly in late February. She couldn’t see Isabella’s face. She watched the passing trees, the macadam stretching before the Calcott’s hood. Then she remembered everything she knew of Isabella and her husband and their backgrounds and felt foolish. “Oh, you mean the murder at Emberley and the one at the archaeological dig. Were you a suspect in those investigations?”

“Yes and no,” and as Isabella explained, they reached the village.

Flick left her auto standing in the courtyard and followed Isabella into the pub.

Isabella was obviously not a suspect in the minds of the inspector and the sergeant. And she was Flick’s alibi for the time of the murder.

Yet that wolf still had her by the throat, waiting to bite down.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

As he led the way to the path behind the maze, the headmaster introduced himself as Dean Filmer and talked rapidly—nervously, Michael judged—about Greavley Abbey’s history and the school. When they arrived at the river path, he refused to trod a step off the grassy verge that surrounded the maze, the ground associated with the woods contaminated in his mind. “The constable accompanies you. Surely you no longer need my guidance. Our games master has attempted to intercept any boys wandering into the woods. He has directed them to use the road if they wish to walk along the river. MacAlphin has also placed one of his older men at the approach from the river. The site should be as the constable left it.”

“The path goes to the river?”

“Intersects with the river path,” the constable hastened to say. “Many people use that path rather than the road. It’s quicker.”

“To where does it lead?”

“To the village, at the Hook and Line, then it broadens out, becomes part of the village green. `T’other way it just meanders, connecting all the farms.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Filmer said, as if he were in charge. “I have traversed these paths myself but not in recent days. Last summer, I would think was the last time, walking to the pub on a fine moonlit evening. One has to return, you know. I usually drive.”

“Are there other pubs in the village?”

Again Filmer answered. “Not in Upper Wellsford. Lower Wellsford has several uncouth establishments. If you have no more need of my guidance—.” With the words he turned away.

“In your statement,” Michael said, which stopped the dean’s retreat, “you said that you did not see George Webberly on Sunday.”

“I rarely see any of the teaching masters after the Sunday service. They have their appointed rotation of duties given to them after the Saturday games. One tries to be fair. My secretary, Mr. Dunley, will have a copy of the rotation through February. After four o’clock on Saturday, unless a master has a Sunday duty, they are free until morning chapel on Monday.”

“Webberly was free?” He waited until Filmer bent enough to give a nod. “And he did not attend the Sunday service?”

“As I said.”

“Did you observe any other teaching masters absent from the service?”

“Mr. Alexander, the games master, was absent, but he had injured his knee during the final match on Saturday. He does not habitually attend since he is agnostic. Everyone assigned a duty was present. As I said, my secretary will have the roster for the month.”

“Is it possible for any one to leave the service?”

The dean sighed heavily. “A few masters have a smoke outside during the service, but they return to finish their duty.”

“Would you know if any one of them absented himself for longer? Or returned mere minutes before the end of the service?”

Filmer frowned, obviously perturbed by the continued questions. “My attention is on the sermon. The beadle will know that answer.”

“The beadle?” Callaway asked. He hadn’t taken any notes, but at that he flipped open his notebook. “Now who would that be?”

“The man would be on the roster.”

“You don’t remember.”

“I believe Master Sherborne served as beadle, but I would not swear to it. I do know the boys were well behaved. Sherborne can quell outbreaks with a glare. He’s turned into a good master.”

“You sound surprised.”

“We are fortunate in his employment. He intended for the church, you know. The war derailed that.”

“You are surprised Mr. Sherborne became a good master. Why is that?”

“Webberly wasn’t. Alexander had a few problems at the beginning. Mr. Farrell settled in quickly, but some of the boys didn’t want to interact with an Irishman. They had to be spoken to. I believe they knew of family members harmed by Free Staters. They questioned if Mr. Farrell had participated in the conflict there. He reassured them that he had only recently been demobbed and that he had served as a medic during the late war. One does not expect political unrest to reach into the forms.”

He wondered the reason that Filmer told so much about this man Farrell and avoided Webberly and Alexander. “How would you describe Webberly as a master?”

“Late with starting classes. Late with marking translations. Often absent or neglectful when he monitors the boys at their conning information and practice drills. He knew his subject—he was our Latin master—but he didn’t use the prescribed translation. He claimed that answers to the documents used previous to his arrival had been handed down from the older boys. He wanted all new texts to assess what the boys had actually learned, an investment of money that I deemed excessive. Webberly implied that the previous Latin master had not realized the fault and advanced boys not capable of a higher level.”

“That had to cause dissension with the former Latin master. If that person is still employed.”

“Westbrook Neville now has the sole responsibility of letters.”

A neat sidestep about dissension. “Did arguments occur between Webberly and any other master?” Michael pressed.

Filmer didn’t want to answer. His mouth primmed, like an old prune. His gaze darted away. He crossed his arms. Callaway kept his pencil poised. Constable Amsley stood at rest, but his whole attention was on the dean.

“Dean Filmer? Would you answer my question?”

“Arguments occurred, in the common room and in planning sessions in my office.”

“What stance did you take?”

“We will not demote any boy approved for a higher form. Webberly did not like that stance. Master Neville approved. That increased the dissension in the common room.”

“Have any other teaching masters had arguments with Webberly?”

“None have come to my attention.”

Which didn’t mean that no arguments had occurred. “I would like to interview this Westbrook Neville.” Michael addressed Callaway, who would already have noted the name. He knew his sergeant. He said it mainly for Dean Filmer, so the headmaster would not interfere.

“Greavley Abbey School is at the service of Scotland Yard. Now, Inspector, Mr. Webberly must be quickly replaced. I have many letters to compose to teaching agencies. You must excuse me.” Dean Filmer strode away, the sleeves of his black gown and the ends of his colors flapping in the rising breeze.

“He avoided answering your questions.” The constable looked concerned. “Sir, you should have pressed him to answer.”

“Callaway will have noted the questions Filmer avoided.”

And the ones that he pretended to answer but didn’t,” his sergeant added. He flipped his notebook closed and stored his pencil. “That Webberly sounds like a right piece of work. Think we’ll find evidence of more arguments between him and this Neville and other masters?”

Michael shrugged. “What I think is that this Neville and Webberly may have come to blows, and that’s how Filmer became involved. He would have avoided any involvement unless pressed into action.”

“I didn’t think the upper crust resorted to blows.” The constable sounded unsure. Michael hoped the young man had realized those first statements didn’t contain enough information.

“Masters of the cut direct,” Callaway said, repeating something Michael had said a couple of months ago. “You going to contact your War Office source for information about this Irishman Farrell?”

“If necessary. I’ll ask about this man Alexander and Mr. Sherborne at the same time. I want to wait, to see if any other veterans’ names arise.”

Callaway grunted. “Where’s this crime scene, Amsley?”

Deep under the trees, the dried grass and vines along the path were trampled, no doubt by Amsley, Sir Robert Goodkind, the doctor, and the ambulance men.

After a close inspection of the ground, marked unnecessarily by a handkerchief tied to a stiff bramble cane, Callaway straightened. “Blood stains not washed by the rain. Soaked into the ground. So much that last night’s rain didn’t wash it all away. Can’t see the patches along the path that you noted, Constable.”

He had gone past them and pointed at a couple of areas. “Rain got rid of it, sir. Made like a trail, getting fainter and fainter, heading for the river. It was quite clear yesterday.”

“Webberly? Staggering after he got hit?”

“Stay here, Constable. Callaway, with me.”

They walked the path to the river and stood on the bank, looking at the longer trail that the path intersected, studying along the riverbanks. Sweeps of grass just above the waterline gave evidence of the rain-swollen river, abated now. Farther along, toward the village, a man stood on the bank, a fishing line trailing into the water.

“That river’s convenient. Whatever got used,” Callaway said heavily, “it’ll be at the bottom of the river. Reckon the murder was planned?”

“Premeditated?” Michael clenched the fists he’d shoved into his overcoat pockets. “Fits. A meeting in the woods, far enough in that no one can see. A weapon at hand, easily disposed of. No one to see Webberly go into the woods and not come out. No one to see our murderer, either. Nothing that points to the murderer, Callaway.”

“We may need luck, boss.”