“I’m not a child, Mother.”
“If you’ll just excuse me,” I said, realizing the only way to extricate myself from the conversation was the direct approach. “I have a matter I need to discuss with Mrs. Busby.”
They continued their hushed argument as I moved away from them, looking for Mrs. Busby. I really had no direct business with her, but I knew that even Mrs. Hodges could not disapprove of my leaving them to talk to the vicar’s wife.
I noticed her at one of the tables in the corner. She sat speaking to Inspector Wilson, of the local police.
“How’s the tea, Mrs. Ames?”
I turned to see the vicar approaching me with two full cups balanced on saucers. One for him and one for his wife.
“Very good,” I told him. “Quite strong.”
He smiled. “Oh, good. Last year they let Mrs. Hodges make the tea. Horrible, watery stuff.” He shuddered. “Uncharitable of me to say so, perhaps, but I do need a good strong cup of tea in the afternoon.”
I nodded my agreement. “I seem to tire much more easily these days.”
“And all the days to come, I’m afraid. Parenthood is not for the faint of heart.”
I smiled. “No, I don’t imagine it is.”
“For all that, it’s life’s greatest blessing. You’re going to enjoy it immensely.” Unlike his wife, the vicar was able to speak about children without sadness eclipsing his expression. I wondered if the faith incumbent in his profession had made it easier for him to accept a child’s death, somehow. Or perhaps it had just made it easier for him to hide his sorrow behind that constantly cheery expression.
“I’m very much looking forward to it,” I told him.
“I imagine you are. I think you—and Mr. Ames—will make wonderful parents.” I couldn’t help but wonder if the good vicar had fibbed just a bit on this last pronouncement. I knew a good many in the village had their doubts about Milo’s suitability for fatherhood.
Happily, I didn’t share their misgivings. Whatever his faults, I was certain Milo was going to be an excellent father. His own father’s lack of interest in Milo’s life would be the impetus for his involvement as a parent.
As for myself, in some ways, it was still strange to me to think that I would soon be a mother. Though I felt I had grown close to my baby in the time we had had together thus far, I still had my share of worries about motherhood. My own mother—both my parents, in fact—had always been somewhat distant, and I didn’t want to be that way with my own child. I hoped I could manage it all.
“Thank you,” I said to the vicar. “I certainly hope so.”
He must have sensed the hint of worry in my tone, for he smiled kindly. “It all seems rather terrifying at first, I know. After all, life is so precious, and it’s a great responsibility to have it in one’s charge. But as soon as you hold your child in your arms for the first time, it will come naturally. There’s nothing like it in the world.” He looked down at his hands and the teacups he still held in them. “Well, I suppose I had better deliver Mrs. Busby’s tea while it’s still hot. She is a stickler about her tea.”
I smiled. “Yes, of course. I’ll come by and speak to her later. I wanted to tell her again how very well everything has turned out.”
“That will mean a great deal. She takes pride in the festival. It’s important to her.”
“Her devotion to its success is always apparent.”
He went off with his teacups, and I moved toward Milo, who I saw had just finished his conversation with the victorious Mr. Yates. His eyes scanned the gathering until they alighted on me, and he smiled. I was caught for a moment in the warmth of his gaze, the intimate connection we had across a space crowded with people.
Suddenly, there was the noise of some disturbance at one edge of the tent.
“Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames!” I heard a voice calling from outside. Milo and I both turned to see Peter, one of the stable boys, hurrying from the direction of the boundary line between Thornecrest and Bedford Priory, his eyes wide, his face white.
Milo moved toward him, and I quickly followed. We stepped out of the tent and reached him at nearly the same time.
“What is it?” Milo asked in a low voice. I glanced back at the tea tent. Conversation continued much as normal. Aside from a few people at the edge of the tent, who briefly looked up at Peter’s arrival, it appeared we hadn’t drawn much notice. Shouting was not unusual at the festival, after all.
There was definitely something unusual happening, however. Peter looked sick with fright or fear or some other dreadful emotion.
The boy was out of breath. He bent over, trying to suck in air, muttering something incoherent.
I stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Slow down, dear,” I told him gently. “Take a breath.”
He drew in a ragged gasp, then another. “He … ground … need … help.”
“What is it?” Milo asked again, his voice calm but insistent. “Is it one of the horses?”
Peter shook his head, drawing in another deep breath. “It’s Bertie,” he gasped at last. “He’s fallen … off his horse … I … I think he’s dead.”
10
MILO FOLLOWED PETER off to the field in the direction of Thornecrest, and I went in search of the doctor. We hadn’t called attention to the accident, not wanting to cause a stir amongst the festivalgoers. Besides, I still harbored hope that Peter was simply mistaken, that Bertie might have been unconscious and hurt. He had fallen from a horse that day I had spoken to him in the stables; perhaps another accident had occurred and he would be all right.
At last I located Dr. Jordan and told him what had happened. He hurried off, and I went back to the tea tent, looking out toward the fields but unable to see anything. I hoped that Milo and Peter would appear suddenly, helping a bruised but alive Bertie back so he could be properly tended to.
I saw Peter a few minutes later. He was walking a bit slower, and Milo wasn’t with him.
I had hoped for the best, but as he drew nearer and I saw his face, I knew it was to be the worst instead.
“Mr. Ames said for you to send the police,” he said in a low voice when he reached me.
“The police?” I repeated, though I knew with certainty what that meant.
Peter nodded, confirming it with his next words. “Bertie’s dead.” He was pale but composed. “A levelheaded lad,” Milo had often called him; it was proving to be true.
I let out a breath, the shock of it hitting me, though I had half expected to hear the news. Poor Bertie. What a horrible thing to have happened.
A part of me wanted to go to the scene, but I knew that Milo would chide me for making the trek across the field in my condition. Besides, I had seen enough death as of late to last me a lifetime. The mysteries in which we had been involved in the past two years had had their share of distressing events, and I knew firsthand the impact of discovering a dead body.
I went with Peter toward the table where Inspector Wilson still sat with Mrs. Busby. He was a tall, thin man with silver-flecked hair and a thin mustache. I didn’t know him well, and I hoped that he would be ready to take charge of the crisis.