Thursday
Almost a work-week in the country. Four long days so far, with very little result to show for it. The sun was bright in the sky, almost a rebuke to the testimony Dev gave concerning the three deaths.
Not that he had much to say, or much to offer in evidence. The jury, after somewhat rambling instruction by the presiding magistrate, ruled the women’s deaths accidental. Ainsley’s was death by misadventure, the specifics of which were not examined.
“Water under the bridge, eh? Let sleeping dogs lie. These people have had enough grief, don’t you think? Sir Hugh wants to bury his wife tomorrow,” the man said to Dev as he pulled him aside afterward and patted him on the shoulder. In his private opinion, Ainsley was a possible suicide to avoid going back to the front.
Logically, that made no sense at all. If the lieutenant was afraid of death, why would he kill himself? And how he managed to get buried didn’t seem to concern the magistrate one whit. The coroner Dev dealt with earlier in the week had gone to France for a long-planned holiday, and this local squire was his substitute. There were other cases set for the day, and it was obvious the man was anxious to dispense with them all and get back to his horses and hounds.
Dev was used to a more professional approach and chafed at the outcome. Cassidy wouldn’t like it either, but then Cassidy wasn’t here. Where in hell was he? Where was Waring?
The horse breeder was the first person to come into the conservatory after Mrs. Lewis and the maids. Coming in to check on his handiwork? Where had he been when Juliet fell down the stairs? He left the house early Wednesday morning before her body had been discovered.
But he had not returned on the six o’clock train, or any one thereafter, so Dev couldn’t get answers.
He walked over to the small contingent from Fernald Hall lingering outside Broughton Magna’s Women’s Institute building where the inquests were held. All were servants—the Dunns, the kitchen maid who discovered Juliet’s body, Mrs. Lewis, Mr. Trim. Sir Hugh, his mother, Pamela’s maid Murray, Simon Davies, and Jim Musgrave were present for the Pamela portion of the testimony but left immediately after.
He half-expected to see Lady Adelaide here, even though she was not asked to testify. He’d like her opinion on the findings, not that it would change a thing. He’d been at war with himself and the facts of this case since he’d rolled up in Sir Hugh’s Bentley Monday morning. He couldn’t prove murder occurred, but knew it to be true, nevertheless.
At least the Fernalds were happy with the verdicts. There was no scandal attached. All three deaths were accidental tragedies. Dev supposed they’d even convince themselves eventually that Ainsley was cleaning his gun in the foundation hole on the way to the train station when it went off, causing debris to collapse on him.
“Inspector!” Mrs. Lewis smiled up at him. “Thank you for everything.”
“It’s I who should thank you all. You made my sergeant’s and my stay here as pleasant as it could be under the circumstances.”
“It will be nice to get back to normal,” the housekeeper said. “If that’s possible.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Ruthie,” Mr. Trim warned.
“I’ll speak my mind, Amos.” She stepped away from the group. “It seems too easy, doesn’t it? The mistress would never have taken something she shouldn’t, even if she was—” The woman’s cheeks turned bright red. “Um, distracted with the house party.”
“That’s not what you meant to say, Mrs. Lewis,” Dev said quietly.
She angled her head. “Not in front of them. I can’t.”
“Very well. Let me walk you back to the house.” Dev extended an arm. His briefcase with the inconclusive reports was in the other, a nuisance to carry.
“You all go on ahead,” Mrs. Lewis said, and she waited for them to do so.
It was at least a two-mile tramp through back-country lanes. Dev got a ride into Broughton Magna but didn’t mind the walk back if he could get new information. He hoped Mrs. Lewis was up to it; she wasn’t a young woman.
He waited until the figures ahead disappeared behind a curve in the road. “Now then, what did you wish to tell me?”
“I couldn’t before. I kept hoping you’d find someone. The person responsible, that is.”
“Sorry I couldn’t oblige,” Dev said ruefully.
She bit a lip. “There was a medical exam on Lady Fernald, wasn’t there?”
“There was.”
“Then you know. About the baby.”
Dev stopped walking. “And you did, as well. Who else knew?”
“I don’t know. Murray, probably. She had to have. The woman never said a word, of course. Wouldn’t stand for gossip about the mistress, and right she was. Most maids nowadays aren’t so discreet. Going into service isn’t what it once was.”
It was very true women had more employment options since the war. Even Scotland Yard employed females now.
“How did you find out?”
“Lady Fernald didn’t tell me, of course, but I remember when she was sick carrying John. There were things she ate that made it worse. Clement, the old chef, was still here then, and she asked him not to cook them. She asked the same of me a few months ago.”
“She didn’t explain why.”
“Oh, no. Just gave orders. With a smile—it wasn’t her way to be high-handed. I wondered. And I watched. She wasn’t showing yet but would have soon.”
They continued on the lane, Mrs. Lewis no longer clutching his arm. Dev parsed his words carefully. “Do you think it’s possible that Lady Fernald decided to end her life?” Or the baby’s, but he didn’t add that.
“Never,” she said decisively. “Sir Hugh loved her, and I think they had an understanding.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She colored up again. “You know. He would have accepted the child as his own. And who’s to say it wasn’t? Just because he can’t walk doesn’t mean he can’t father a child. Lady Fernald had her own rooms upstairs, but they still shared his bed lots of nights. Ask Musgrave.”
“I’m afraid I’m done asking questions, Mrs. Lewis. With the inquests over, I’m expected back at the Yard on Monday. And I cannot impose on the Fernalds any longer. I plan to leave right after the funeral tomorrow. Bob’s already gone.” Eager to get back to his wife and baby daughter. Dev imagined his parents would be happy enough to see him, but that wasn’t the same, was it?
“I just feel it wasn’t an accident, Mr. Hunter. I can’t explain why.”
“I understand completely. What about Miss Barlow?” The toxicology report revealed no trace of poison or alcohol. Juliet died of a broken neck, but one could not guarantee that result when one pushed someone down the stairs. She could just as easily have broken an arm or been merely badly bruised. It was not an efficacious form of murder, he thought grimly.
“I don’t know. It’s all so very disturbing, isn’t it?”
It was indeed. Dev couldn’t think of a time in his career when he was less satisfied by an inquest.
Perhaps he should speak to Murray one more time. The maid was tight as an oyster when he questioned her before. Loyalty was a prized commodity, but it impeded police work.
But, when they finally got back to Fernald Hall, Murray was gone. No one found it unusual; after all, the lady she’d attended as a lady’s maid was dead, and there was no point in her moping around trying to make work for herself today and crying tomorrow at the funeral. She had already boxed up Pamela’s clothes for charity and removed all traces of her in her bedroom as requested by the other Lady Fernald. There were to be no shrines.
Sir Hugh did not know where Murray was headed; he’d paid her wages and a generous bonus, along with giving the woman a glowing reference. Dev wished someone might have mentioned Murray’s intention to leave earlier, but he had no authority to hold her here anyway.
As frustrated as he’d ever been, he didn’t expect his usual meditation or prayer would center him. The thought of hanging around Fernald Hall for the rest of the day was anathema. What would he do with himself but face his own recriminations?
There was only one place he could think of that might suit and soothe him.
It probably wasn’t wise. In fact, Dev knew it wasn’t.
No. He’d invaded Lady Adelaide’s privacy yesterday and would have to be satisfied seeing her tomorrow at the funeral before he went back to London. Black didn’t suit her—she was much too fair and lively.
Lovely, too.
Lord, he was as hopeless as the Jordan twins.