“What sort of things?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” she said vaguely. “A few silver trinkets, I believe. The lock was broken on his desk, though there was nothing there but documents.”
I was intrigued by this bit of information. Bertie had been rifling through the vicar’s documents, had he? Was it possible he had learned something there that someone might not have wanted him to know?
“Were there any documents missing?” I asked casually.
“Oh, as to that, I couldn’t say. I’m not even sure Mr. Busby could. He keeps everything, you know. He always means to put his records in order, but he’s so very busy.”
“Yes, of course.”
The maid tapped at the door just then and came in with the tea tray.
“Did you bring something up to Miss Marena?” Mrs. Busby asked her.
“Yes, ma’am, but she wouldn’t eat it.”
Mrs. Busby sighed. “All right. We’ll try again later.”
The maid went out, and Mrs. Busby picked up the teapot, pouring for the both of us. “I knew it was a lost cause. She hasn’t touched a bite and has been crying on and off since it happened. Poor dear. It was terribly upsetting for her, and then Inspector Wilson came here and made things worse.”
“Inspector Wilson came here?” I asked. “What did he want?”
“He was asking questions about when she had last seen Bertie at the festival. I don’t think he realized, you see, that there had been a falling-out between them. I suppose he thought they had been enjoying the festival together and assumed Bertie might have told her that he meant to ride Lady Alma’s horse.”
Mrs. Busby didn’t know, then, that Bertie had been murdered. The inquest was tomorrow, so it would only be a matter of time before word spread across the village.
I realized, however, that my time for questioning people was limited. I would have to see what I could find out before the true manner of Bertie’s death was made public and the suspects were more on their guard.
We drank our tea then and chatted of other things, though I had a difficult time making polite conversation when there was murder on my mind.
“Would you like to talk to Marena now?” she asked after a few moments.
“Yes, if you think she’ll see me.”
“I’m sure she will. Just go up the stairs at the end of the hall, dear. Her door is the first on the right.”
I followed her directions, wondering as I went what I would say to Marena. It was a complicated situation. To be honest, I found it a bit surprising that she was as broken up as she was. After all, she had ended things with Bertie and seemed to be infatuated with Darien. That was not to say, of course, that she didn’t still care for Bertie. But to take to her room and not eat seemed a bit of an extreme show of grief for losing a man one no longer loved. But perhaps she had decided that she loved him after all, now that it was too late.
I tapped softly at the door to which Mrs. Busby had directed me. “Marena, it’s Amory Ames. May I come in?”
There was a long moment of silence in which I wondered if she was sleeping or declining to answer, and then there followed the sound of footsteps. The door opened. Marena greeted me, her face streaked with tears. “Oh, Mrs. Ames,” she said. She looked out at me with red eyes. She had clearly been crying a great deal.
“Hello, dear. How are you?”
The tears welled in her eyes at the question. Perhaps it was silly of me to have asked it, but wasn’t all expression of condolence rather useless when it came down to it? Still, one must observe the niceties, even when they were inadequate.
“Not very well,” she said, dabbing at the tears with a handkerchief. She was keeping herself together, but just barely.
I thought somehow that Darien was unlikely to remain first in her heart now that Bertie had left a hole there. I had had my suspicions about her as a potential suspect, but it seemed to me that she was genuinely grieving. The sadness radiated from her.
“I loved him, you know,” she said. “We didn’t always get along. We … we had an argument and parted ways. And then I met Darien, and I got carried away, perhaps. Darien is so handsome and charming. But there is some part of me that is always going to love Bertie. We understood each other. We were meant to be together, and now…” She stopped, drawing in a deep breath to keep back a sob. “So I’m not at all well, as I’m sure you can see. I just can’t believe that he’s dead.”
“Yes, I know it’s been a great shock.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been dreadfully rude.” She stepped aside from the door, pulling it open. “Do you … do you want to come in?”
“If I won’t be intruding.”
“No. I … I suppose I could use some company.”
I followed her into the room. It was a small and plain but cheerfully furnished space with lace curtains, a floral bedspread, and a vase of flowers on the table before the window. There was a single wooden chair near a small desk, which had a few papers scattered across the top, and she offered it to me. She quickly tidied the papers and put them in a drawer and then went to sit on the edge of her bed.
“I haven’t felt like seeing anyone,” she said. “It’s just that I need some time to think.”
I nodded. That was certainly understandable.
“Bertie was always so very … alive. So strong and healthy. It seems impossible to me that he’s just … gone.”
“Did you see Bertie at the festival?” I asked gently, hoping to carefully edge my way into asking useful questions. If Marena thought this odd, she didn’t show it.
“No. After I spoke with you, I was busy helping Aunt Elaine. It wasn’t until I saw people talking excitedly that I realized something dreadful had happened. Then I heard what they were saying.” Her voice caught.
I felt a pang of sympathy for her, learning about his death that way.
“I was cruel to him that day at the inn,” she said softly. “I should have explained things better, should have…”
I reached out to pat her hand. “You shouldn’t think about that now, dear. It’s not going to do any good.”
“I know, but I can’t help thinking…” She looked up at me, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Will you … will you tell Darien? I can’t bear to see him.”
“He’s supposed to come to Thornecrest tomorrow. I’ll let him know that you’re in need of some time.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“Thank you, no. I suppose this is something I shall just have to face alone.”
I said my goodbyes and left the vicarage a short time later. A part of me was unsettled. Why had Bertie broken into the vicar’s desk drawers, if indeed he had done so? Had he found something in the documents, the secret he had been debating whether or not to reveal? Was Marena’s grief truly genuine? Did Inspector Wilson believe that she, or one of the Busbys, was guilty of the crime?
Unfortunately, I was leaving the vicarage with more questions than answers.
* * *
“LADY ALMA IS in the drawing room, madam,” Grimes said when I arrived home. “She’s been here a quarter of an hour.”