“Yes,” the inspector said. “And we predicted that she’d catch on to what we were doing and she’d flee. We were ready for her.”
They all looked at Puck, who had an expression of horror on her face. Maybe her mother wasn’t a murderer, but she was certainly an accessory.
“Mind if we borrow your lights?” the inspector asked. “We need to retrieve the remains.” He looked at Sara, Jack and Kate in a way that said what he was thinking: He should arrest them for concealing evidence. Should bring charges against them. Should lock them up.
Kate gave him a big-eyed, pleading look. Jack turned as belligerent as his father often was. The infamous Wyatt temper was ready to show its ugly face. Sara did her best to smile as from one writer to another—then she handed him a business card. “It’s from my agent,” she said brightly. “He said to call him anytime. He’d love to hear your account of this.” She waved her hand about.
The inspector looked at the card and took a full minute to consider. Finally, he walked past them and left the chapel.
Sara’s legs gave way in relief and she fell against Jack. He helped her to a bench. Kate sat beside her, Jack on the other side. They held hands.
“Do you think English prisons serve afternoon tea?” Jack asked.
“With scones and clotted cream?” Kate asked.
“I never, ever, never want to know,” Sara whispered.
Byon placed himself in front of them, his hands on his plump hips. “You are not going to give that man the rights to this story! I am going to put this on the stage. No two-penny paperback novelist is going to overshadow my work. I—” He broke off because Sara, Jack and Kate were laughing.
“Extreme competition,” Jack said.
Sara grinned. “I haven’t even told my agent about the inspector.”
“You may have to promise him a book just to get him to help keep us out of jail,” Jack said. “Especially if he’s like you and thinks prison gives writers time to work.”
The others were leaving the chapel. They knew when they were being excluded, and those three were as solid as an oak tree trunk.
“Your agent can deal with the inspector,” Kate said. “Blood and Crumpets. That’s a nice title.”
“Diamonds and Tea,” Sara said.
“Puck Finds the Dead Man,” Jack said.
They broke into more laughter, falling on each other. They were alone in the chapel.
Twenty-Six
THREE DAYS LATER
“I don’t like it,” Jack said. “It’s all too pretty. What’s that thing critics say and Sara complains about?”
They were alone in the small drawing room, and Kate had a glass of white wine. “That’s a long list but in this case, I think you mean that the book’s ending was tied up with a bow.”
“Right,” Jack said. “Critics of romances want...?” He looked at her.
“Death of the hero or some such,” Kate said. “They call it ‘keeping it real.’ Critics love misery.”
He was swirling single malt scotch around in a Waterford crystal glass. “I still don’t like it. There are holes in this story.”
“The murderer was caught. She even confessed. I can’t imagine what you don’t like.”
He sat down beside her, staring at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
“I feel bad about Mr. Howland, if that’s what you mean. He didn’t seem like he wanted to die.”
“I agree. He and I had a good time that night and...” Jack took a drink of his whiskey.
“Mrs. Aiken said she didn’t have anything to do with his death,” Kate said softly.
“And we trust the word of a woman who cold-bloodedly killed a man?”
They sat side by side in silence. The last few days had been traumatic.
When the police got Mrs. Aiken to the station and began questioning her, she stayed true to her nature. She crossed her arms over her chest and said she’d done what she had to. There was no other choice.
“He was going to charge Master Nicky with attempted murder.” She seemed to believe that anyone would have done the same thing.
“So you shot him,” the inspector said.
She shrugged.
“Would you answer that question aloud?”
“Yes! Is that what you want to hear? I shot him and good riddance. He was a thief and he got above himself. Somebody was going to get rid of him someday.”
“Might as well be you. Is that it?”
Again, she shrugged. Then she leaned forward. “The real criminal is whoever killed dear young Nicky. That’s who you should hang.”
“Can’t execute a bottle of rum, now can we?” the inspector said. “So let’s start at the beginning. Where did you get the gun?”
After hours of interrogation, the inspector went to Oxley Manor and told Sara as much as he could. He couldn’t give details but she knew them. Nicky raped Diana, then threatened her with one of his father’s pistols. When Sean defended her, Nicky shot him. The wound hadn’t been life-threatening, but Nicky was scared of the consequences. As he always did, he went running to the person who was the closest he’d ever had to a mother: Mrs. Aiken. And, as she always did, she took care of the problem.
When Mrs. Aiken got to the stables, Sean was wrapping gauze around his midsection. The bleeding had stopped, but he knew there was a bullet inside. If he hadn’t been waiting for Nadine, he would have driven himself to the hospital. But he was determined to wait for her no matter what. Blood and a bullet weren’t going to make him desert her.
Mrs. Aiken showed up in a rage. How dare he say anything bad about darling Nicky?
Sean, weak from blood loss, calmly told her he was going to file a police report. “Your precious Nicky won’t get away with this.”
Just as calmly, Mrs. Aiken picked up Bertram’s gun and shot Sean in the head. She told the inspector she was very annoyed that she was left with a dead body to deal with.
She took off her apron, wrapped it around the gun and hid it between the bales of hay. “How was I to know that slut would find it?” she asked the inspector. “What was she doing sneaking around in the middle of the night? You should question her.”
Mrs. Aiken dragged the body into one of the horse stalls and the poor animal was crazed at the smell of blood. “I was hoping he’d trample that ungrateful wretch. It would have solved everything!”