I waited. “Confess” was such a strong word. I wondered momentarily if she might have had something to do with Bertie’s death. But the two of them had been strangers. Hadn’t they? I realized that I knew very little of Imogen’s background. She worked in London and had holidayed in Brighton, but that was the extent of my knowledge of her past.
In the time all of this passed through my mind, Imogen had summoned the courage to come out with her admission. “I told the police that I saw Darien leaving the scene of the murder.”
I stilled. So Imogen had been the witness that Inspector Wilson had mentioned.
“I see,” I said noncommittally. I had found, in the past, that it was better to say as little as possible. People with something on their mind generally filled the silence, and there was often useful information to be gleaned.
“You’re going to think I did it to be spiteful,” she went on. “But I didn’t. It’s the truth. I saw him walking across that field where … where they found the … body later.”
“Did you speak to him?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t see me, and I didn’t want to talk to him. Not then. I was still so confused about everything. And then I heard that a body had been found and that it was murder. And I knew … I knew I had to tell the police what I had seen. I didn’t mean to hurt Darien. But I had to tell the truth.”
I studied her, trying to gauge her sincerity. It was one thing to say one loved a young man and quite another to implicate him in a murder. Telling the truth to the police had been the right thing to do, of course, but I didn’t think she should be surprised by the results.
“You were angry with him,” I pointed out, waiting to see what effect the words would have.
She flushed, looking very pretty in the gloaming. “Of course I was. Wouldn’t you be if someone had done such a thing to you? But I didn’t lie about it.” Her eyes met mine and held. “I didn’t.”
I didn’t know what to think. I had believed Darien when he proclaimed his innocence, but it seemed to me that Imogen was just as sincere. Which of them was lying? Or was there some way that they might both be telling the truth?
I supposed only time would tell.
Time, and some well-placed questions.
15
AFTER A BIT of crying on her part and a bit of ineffectual soothing on mine, Imogen and I parted ways. I had told her we would see what we could do for Darien, though by “we,” I meant myself, as Milo clearly had no intention of getting involved.
It was nearly dark by the time I returned to Thornecrest. I entered the house the way I had left it, through the morning room doors. I walked quietly through the hallway and up the stairs to our bedroom. My anger had cooled, but I was still not much in the mood for Milo.
Winnelda found me instead. She had an uncanny knack for seeking me out at a moment’s notice. Perhaps that was the mark of a good lady’s maid.
“Where have you been, madam?” she asked worriedly, eyeing the bits of wet grass clinging to my discarded shoes.
“Out for a walk.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.” I suppose there was an edge to my tone that discouraged further questions on that score, for she let the matter drop.
“Will you be dressing for dinner?” she asked.
“No, I think not. Perhaps you can just bring me up a tray with a bit of something?”
I knew that “a bit of something” would likely turn into a tray heaped with all manner of food, but I hadn’t the energy to argue with her.
To my relief, she returned a short time later with a small bowl of soup, bread and butter, and a pot of tea. It was just the right thing after a long day, and I was touched at Winnelda’s thoughtfulness. Though normally chattiness personified, she seemed to sense that I needed time alone and left me to eat my dinner in silence.
I had bathed, dressed in my nightclothes, was already in bed when Milo at last made his appearance in our bedroom.
I briefly considered feigning sleep, but I knew that was childish and might also prove a boring ruse to maintain should Milo stay awake for any length of time. So, instead, I waited to see what he would say. If, however, I expected contrition on his part, I was to be disappointed. He didn’t even ask me where I had been for the past two hours. Instead, he went to the bathroom to wash up and then changed for bed himself.
There was a heavy silence in the room. I was reminded of the troubled times in our marriage, when we had been virtual strangers to each other’s thoughts. At least it didn’t appear that Milo intended to sleep in the adjoining bedroom as he had for the rockiest year of our union, for at last he came and got into bed beside me.
“I have to go back to London tomorrow,” he said as he leaned back against his pillows.
“All right.”
“I shall perhaps have to stay overnight.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I could sense his eyes on me, but I didn’t look at him. At last he leaned over and switched off the light.
There was silence, except for the rustle of bedclothes and the slightest creak of the springs as Milo settled himself beside me.
I resisted the urge to sigh loudly. I didn’t like us being at odds. I wanted to discuss things with him, to be the team we had learned to be over the course of several other investigations. It seemed strange that this one, which ought to matter most to him, was the one he had set himself against.
The baby kicked hard, and I gasped in surprise and shifted uncomfortably in the bed, trying to find a better position.
“Are you all right?” Milo asked into the darkness.
“Yes. I just can’t seem to get comfortable.”
“I’ll fetch you some extra pillows, shall I?”
He got up without waiting for my answer and moved with ease across the dark bedroom. I heard the door to the adjoining room open, and a moment later he returned with pillows.
“Thank you,” I said as he helped to arrange them around me in a passably comfortable configuration. I hadn’t anticipated all the little ways in which pregnancy would change my life, least of all the ways in which I walked and slept.
Milo slid back into bed, and we settled again into the quiet darkness.
“I meant it, Amory,” he said at last.
“Meant what?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well what he was talking about. Pillows or no, he had not softened his stance.
“We’re not going to get involved with Darien’s case,” he said, his tone lacking the edge it had held earlier, despite the words. “He’ll be condemned or go free based on the evidence, not on whatever sort of information we can dredge up about alternate suspects.”
I was not going to argue with him; it would be useless.
“If that’s the way you feel,” I said at last.
“It is.”
There was silence for a moment.
“I know I can’t keep you from going around asking questions, as you’re bound to do while I’m gone, but I’m asking you not to muddy the waters. Let the police do their job.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I wouldn’t make any promises I didn’t intend to keep.
When I didn’t reply, he let out the sigh I had been so valiantly holding in. “If you’re determined to go about nosing into village business, I don’t want to hear about it.”