The nursing home van collected Mildred, Myrtle, and Mabel at half past two. Minnie sent them off with a shopping bag filled with treats she and Susan had baked especially for them. I hoped fervently that the homemade cookies and cakes would make life a little less bleak for them at Newhaven.
Bree and I offered to clear the table, but Minnie declined.
“A fine hostess I’d be if I made my guests of honor clean up after themselves,” she scolded. “Susan will tidy up when she comes home.” She squinted skyward. “It’s time for you to take that daughter of yours back to the White Hart. The house will block the sun in a little while, and it’ll get chilly out here. You don’t want Bess to come down with the sniffles.”
Minnie insisted on accompanying us to the front door, pausing only to present us with a goody bag she took from the kitchen counter. When we reached the foyer, she nodded at the bag.
“You’ll find some of my Melting Moments in there,” she said, smiling slyly at me. “I saw your face fall when you thought we’d eaten the lot.”
“I’ve never been much of a poker player,” I admitted sheepishly. “Are you sure you don’t want us to stay with you until Susan comes home?”
“There’s no need,” she assured me. “I’ve said all I have to say. What you do with it is up to you.” She shook a gnarled finger at us. “You can’t say you weren’t warned!”
She caressed Bess’s silky curls and chucked Moo under the chin, then opened the door. Bree led the way to the Rover. We loaded it in silence while Minnie watched from the doorway. She gave us a cheerful wave as we drove away and we waved back, but I was still worried about leaving her on her own. To my relief, we passed Susan’s boxy blue sedan heading into the terraces as we were heading out.
As we turned onto the main road, Bree burst out laughing.
“Farewell to the Sunnyside Gang,” she said. “Farewell to Minnie’s house of horrors.” She shook her head, still grinning. “What a big bucket of nonsense. If you ask me, Minnie and her cronies have been skipping their meds.”
“I take it you have doubts about their veracity,” I said drily.
“I’d have doubts about anyone who was crackbrained enough to believe in curses and ghosts,” Bree scoffed.
I thought of the blue journal and suppressed a smile.
“Besides,” she continued, “their stories were as full of holes as a cheese grater.”
“Show me the holes,” I said.
“Ted Fletcher was a professional cowman,” Bree stated. “He wouldn’t let a girl he adored come anywhere near a slurry pit. Can you picture him and Annabelle enjoying a romantic picnic next to a poo pond? It’s ludicrous.”
“And Jim?” I asked.
“Gamekeepers have accidents,” Bree said simply. “A knife slips, a shotgun goes off prematurely, a branch falls after a windstorm. . . . I have a lot less trouble believing that Jim Salford slipped on a mossy rock and fell into the river than I have believing that Annabelle shoved him.”
“William Walker?” I prompted, reassured by her certainty.
“If Annabelle didn’t know a spanner from a hammer,” Bree argued, “how could she sabotage the heater in William Walker’s greenhouse?”
“What about the look of relief Florence saw on Annabelle’s face after Edwin’s fatal fall?” I asked.
“Alzheimer’s is a bloody awful disease,” said Bree. “I’d be heartbroken if someone I loved suffered from it. If an accident put an end to the suffering, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I felt a tiny flicker of relief mixed in with my grief and horror. I might not admit it, even to myself, but I’d probably feel it.”
“The drugged nurse?” I pressed.
“Mabel’s cousin Florence didn’t actually see Annabelle slip the sleeping tablets into the nurse’s coffee,” Bree reminded me. “It’s much more likely that the nurse gave them to Edwin to help him sleep.”
“So the nurse nodded off without Annabelle’s assistance,” I said.
“Nurses who work night shifts have been known to fall asleep on duty,” said Bree. “It’s a shame, but it happens.”
I fell silent for a moment, then said, “Wait a minute. You skipped over Zach Trotter. How do you explain his disappearance?”
“Here’s how I see it,” Bree said, pursing her lips judiciously. “Zach comes home drunk for the hundredth time, falls down the stairs, cracks his head open, and bleeds all over the rag rug Annabelle made by hand for her foyer. It’s the last straw. She kicks him out of the house in the middle of the night and tells him never to darken her doorway again. When asked, she says he left her. She’d rather be pitied as an abandoned wife than reviled as a termagant.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “But why did she bury the rug?”
“She didn’t want to put it out with the trash, where everyone could see it,” Bree said without hesitation. “She was ashamed of her ratbag husband’s bloodstains.”
“Answer one more question and you win a prize,” I said. “If Annabelle’s innocent on all counts, why on earth did she tell me she killed Zach?”
“No idea,” said Bree. “Maybe she’s skipping her meds, too.”
Bree had come up with a reassuring number of ifs and maybes, but I was no more convinced by them than I had been by Hayley Calthorp’s assertions. The only way to prove our case one way or the other seemed to involve trespass as well as the wanton destruction of private property.
I wondered if it was time to purchase a spade.
—
After a snack and a diaper change, Bess took Bree for a romp in the walled garden. I touched base with Amelia, who assured me that Stanley was eating his cat food with carefree abandon and that all was well at the cottage. I strongly suspected her of supplementing Stanley’s diet with delicate slices of salmon and chunks of smoked trout, as she had in the past, but I didn’t object. With Bill away, Stanley needed his comfort food.
I could hear Bill easily when I called him. He gave the steam train in Ravenglass a stellar review, but Will and Rob were too busy rock hunting to share their opinions with me. I told him that Bree, Bess, and I had spent the day learning about Old Cowerton’s history. I didn’t specify the exact period of history, or the nature of the lessons, but I didn’t lie.
When Bree left the suite for a swim and another Mariana massage, Bess was content to play with Moo in the playpen. I lit the hearth’s gas fire and pulled the blue journal from my shoulder bag. It was time to touch base with Aunt Dimity.
“Dimity?” I said as I settled back in an armchair. “It’s been a strange day.”
The curving lines of royal-blue ink appeared instantly on the page, as if Aunt Dimity had been waiting for me to check in.
Good afternoon, Lori. You seem to be having nothing but strange days lately.
“This one was stranger than most,” I said.
Did you and Bree go to Dovecote?
“Oh, yes,” I said. “We saw the infamous rosebushes and we attended a tea party held in our honor by none other than Minnie Jessop. . . .” I told Aunt Dimity about Susan Jessop, Sunnyside, Minnie’s spy ring, and the cronies, and I summarized the Sunnyside Gang’s tragic tales concerning Zach Trotter, Ted Fletcher, Jim Salford, William Walker May, and Edwin Craven. “You can forget all about Annabelle murdering one man,” I concluded. “At last count, she may have killed five.”
Tell me more about the Sunnyside Gang.
“They’re nosy old biddies,” I said, “but some of my best friends are nosy old biddies. I hope to live long enough to become one myself.”
A noble aspiration.
“I expected Minnie Jessop to be a hateful hag with a viper’s tongue,” I went on, “and in some ways she was. But she also let Bess bang dents in her saucepans. She baked extra goodies for her friends to bring back to the nursing home. She noticed my disappointment over the Melting Moments, and she made sure I had some to take with me. She was even nice to Moo. She wasn’t exactly complimentary about Hayley Calthorp, but the only time she was nasty was when she talked about Annabelle.”
It’s hardly surprising that she would focus her wrath on a woman she believes to be a mass murderess. What does Bree think of the gang’s tales?
“She described them as a big bucket of nonsense,” I replied.
But you’re not quite as ready to dismiss them?
I lifted my gaze to stare into the fire, then lowered it to the journal.
“In Finch,” I said, “we love to gossip. But there’s a level of gossip to which we will not sink. There’s a sort of integrity that governs the tidbits we pass along. It keeps situations from getting out of hand. It keeps people from getting hurt. It’s a self-imposed check on gossip’s wilder—and crueler—excesses.”
A self-imposed check you failed to detect in the Sunnyside Gang.
“They accused Annabelle of the most heinous crimes,” I said. “They told the police to go after her. They tried their best to scare off any man who took a fancy to her. They held a tea party for the sole purpose of undermining our friendship with her. Why would they persecute Annabelle then and now if they didn’t truly believe that she was guilty?”
Allow me to remind you that these are the same women who truly believe in the widow’s curse.
“They may give lip service to the widow’s curse,” I said, “but they paint a picture of Annabelle as an upwardly mobile serial killer—a social climber who used murder to get ahead.” I shrugged. “Who’s to say she isn’t?”
Hayley Calthorp’s gran, for one. I might also point out that there were no eyewitnesses to any of the deaths attributed to Annabelle.
“The lack of eyewitnesses cuts both ways,” I insisted. “No one saw her commit the murders, but no one can swear that she didn’t commit them, either. The only thing I know for sure is that four men who knew Annabelle lie dead and buried in St. Leonard’s churchyard. Four men, Dimity! That’s a high rate of mysterious deaths for one small town, isn’t it? It’s also possible that Zach Trotter is pushing up rosebushes because of her. Their ghosts may not have chased Annabelle away from Craven Manor, but guilt might have.”
Then go there.
“Go where?” I said blankly.
Go to St. Leonard’s, of course. If the men were buried there, the church is bound to have records of their funerals. Find out if the dates fall within the parameters set by Minnie and her chums. There must be a local newspaper. Dig into the archives for stories about the men’s deaths. The library may hold records of the coroner’s inquests. The Old Cowerton constabulary will certainly have case files. You’ve heard nothing but rumors since you arrived in Old Cowerton, my dear. It’s time for you to gather facts.
Having spent part of my youth working among rare books, I was unfazed by the prospect of burrowing through dusty files.
“Research, not rumors,” I said thoughtfully. “Seems obvious, now that you’ve spelled it out. Why didn’t I think of it?”
I’m sure you would have.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “And thanks for the game plan. I’d rather dig through archives than dig up rosebushes.”
A prudent preference, as the former is less likely to get you arrested than the latter.
“I’ll go to St. Leonard’s tomorrow,” I said. “Bree can look after Bess while I tackle—” I broke off at the sound of a gentle knock on the hallway door, then whispered, “Gotta go, Dimity. I’ll let you know what I find.”
I’m sure you’ll find something!
I stashed the journal in my shoulder bag and ran to open the door. Francesco stood in the hallway, clutching a small cream-colored envelope.
“Hello, Francesco,” I said. “We spent the day with Minnie Jessop. She and her friends told us about the others.”
“I’m so sorry, madam,” Francesco said, his brow furrowing. “I hope it did not upset you.”
“As a matter of fact, it did,” I said, “but I’m sometimes too impressionable for my own good.”
“So are we all, madam.” He handed the envelope to me. “A message for you, delivered by hand to the front desk not ten minutes ago. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “We’ll order dinner as soon as Bree—” I broke off again as I spotted Bree sauntering unhurriedly up the corridor, clad in the hotel’s robe and floppy slippers.
“You look relaxed,” I commented when she was within earshot.
“You really must let Mariana work her magic on you before we leave, Lori,” she said. “I feel like a bowl of melted ice cream. Hi, Francesco,” she went on, stopping beside him. “Did Lori tell you that we know about the others?”
“She did, madam,” he replied mournfully. “I hope Mrs. Jessop’s stories did not disturb you.”
“Do I look disturbed?” Bree asked with a drowsy titter.
“Not at all,” he said, smiling down at her. He assured us that dinner would be served at our convenience, bowed to each of us, and strode down the corridor toward the lobby.
Bree followed me into the sitting room, gazing curiously at the envelope.
“Fan mail?” she asked, sprawling lazily on the sofa.
“I’ll let you know,” I replied. I opened the envelope and withdrew a handwritten note.
“If it’s an invitation to another Sunnyside tea party, I’m in,” Bree said languidly. “Minnie’s plum cake was superb.”
“It’s an invitation,” I said, “but it isn’t from Minnie Jessop.”
I passed the note to Bree and waited for her reaction.
“Good grief,” she said, sitting bolt upright. “We’ve been summoned to Craven Manor!”