“Lady Alma was upset, yes.”
“I believe she and Bertie were close.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, a reaction that hovered somewhere on the strange border between amusement and disapproval. “It wasn’t so much Bertie she was upset about.”
I hesitated, confused, and then understood his meaning. “The horse, Medusa.”
He nodded. “Oh, she was sorry Bertie was dead. But she was distraught about the horse, or as distraught as Lady Alma will allow herself to be. One never sees much emotion from her unless it’s related to the horses. Wouldn’t let any of the grooms near it. She wanted me to look at the blasted thing’s leg. Me, a medical doctor. With a dead body lying there in the field.”
So Lady Alma had appeared more concerned about the horse than she had about Bertie, had she? This was an interesting bit of information.
Granted, Lady Alma had never much lived by the normal rules of society, and one could not expect her to react accordingly. Bertie might have been like a favorite nephew to her, but she called her horses her children.
Dr. Jordan shook his head and then rose to his feet.
“I suppose that is all for now, Mrs. Ames. But just ring me up if you need me to come by. Otherwise, I’ll stop in in a week or so to check on your progress.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jordan.”
He reached the door but stopped and turned to give me one last glance. “I know you’ve been privy to investigations into untimely deaths in the past, but I do hope you won’t get involved in anything too … arduous over the next few days.”
I smiled, dismissing his kindly warning. “Of course not, doctor. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
12
AFTER THE DOCTOR had gone, I went directly to Bedford Priory. I wanted to have a word with Lady Alma.
I was quite disappointed when I was told she had gone out riding and was not expected back for the better part of the morning. It was like her, of course, to escape tragedy on the back of a horse. I would just have to speak with her later.
I left my card for her and, returning to where Markham waited with the car, decided to proceed to the vicarage. Ostensibly, I was going to check on Marena. I wanted to offer my condolences. Of course, a part of me also wanted to see what Mr. and Mrs. Busby might have to say about the matter of Bertie’s death. After all, the vicar and his wife were likely to have excellent insight.
Whatever Milo said, I knew I was not going to be able to rest until the matter was resolved. Though I had been exhausted the night before, I had had a difficult time falling asleep, a fact I would never have admitted to Dr. Jordan. Tossing and turning beside Milo, who slept as soundly as ever, I had gone over and over in my mind who, aside from Darien, might have had reason to kill Bertie.
There was Marena, of course. They had parted ways, but Bertie seemed to be standing in the way of her happiness with Darien. Might they have had a quarrel and she, in a fit of passion, hit him with that rock?
But no. She had been so devastated when she learned of his death. Surely she couldn’t have been feigning her sorrow. In my heart, however, I knew the truth. Almost anyone was capable of hiding what they had done.
Though it was an uncomfortable thought, I also considered the vicar and Mrs. Busby. I couldn’t picture either of them resorting to such a thing. Besides, it would have been almost impossible for Mrs. Busby to get across the field in her chair.
The vicar was another story. It was entirely possible that he might have followed Bertie and quarreled with him, hitting him over the head. Indeed, I remembered that he had not been at Mrs. Busby’s side in the tea tent when I had first entered it. And there had been the matter of the tense conversation I had witnessed between him and Bertie and the envelope that had passed between them. What had been in it? Had they continued their discussion in the privacy of the field where the vicar had resorted to violence?
I shook off the thought. It was dreadful of me to even think such things about a man of the cloth. There must be some other answer.
I had to think that Bertie’s comment about knowing a secret had been unrelated to the interaction with the vicar. It must have been something else he had seen or overheard that had put him in danger.
I arrived at the vicarage, and the maid showed me into the parlor. A few moments later she wheeled Mrs. Busby into the room. I smiled, perhaps a bit too brightly, trying to hide my guilt for wondering, however fleetingly, if she or her husband might have killed Bertie Phipps.
“Hello, Amory dear. I’m glad to see you.” Her voice was pleasant, but she looked tired.
“I’ve come to see how Marena is doing. I know yesterday was a great shock.”
“Yes indeed.” She shook her head sadly. “She’s taken it very badly, I’m afraid. I wonder if you would speak with her. I think it would do her good.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “I’ll be only too happy to do what I can.”
“Sometimes it’s better, I think, to have someone a bit more distant to give advice. Perhaps that’s one reason a vicar, in general, is so comforting in times of crisis. There is a different perspective one gains from talking to someone outside the sphere of family. But in Marena’s case, of course, the vicar and I are very much like family to her.”
“Family is often the strongest source of comfort.” I couldn’t help but think about Marena’s mother. I didn’t mention Mrs. Hodges, though it seemed that Mrs. Busby noticed the omission.
“Her mother was here, but I told her perhaps it would be best if she came back later. Marena was in such a state. I don’t think it would have helped to see her. Mrs. Hodges isn’t … precisely a sympathetic person.” This bit of understatement was said with apparent sincerity and none of the usual malicious pleasure that edged the tones of village gossips. I could sense, however, that she wanted to discuss it.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Mrs. Hodges has never seemed to me to be exceptionally … maternal.”
She shook her head sadly. “She brought a basket of some of her honey and preserves for Marena. Her attempt at offering some comfort, I suppose. But she’s not a warm woman. Even the way she spoke about Bertie’s death was so very … casual. I knew it would have hurt Marena to hear it. ‘I’m told she broke things off with him,’ she said, ‘so I don’t know why she should appear so distressed.’ As though the young man’s death meant nothing. Why, even after what happened here, I am quite broken up about it. We’d known Bertie since he was a child, you know.”
That phrase caught my attention. “What do you mean? What happened here?”
She blinked, as though suddenly realizing what she had said. “Oh, nothing. That is, I didn’t mean to…” She sighed. “Well, we had a bit of unpleasantness with Bertie. I didn’t intend to bring that up. I wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, not for all the world.”
“To be honest, I had heard a bit of gossip,” I said lightly. “That is, someone mentioned that some items had gone missing from the vicarage and that Bertie was suspected.”
Mrs. Busby flushed. “Whoever told you that?”
“I … heard it from one of my servants. You know how gossip spreads.”
She sighed. “Yes, it’s true. I’m afraid Mr. Busby found Bertie in his study one day. He didn’t think much of it, but later he noticed some things had gone missing.”