Rules of Murder (10 page)

“Yes. Absolutely perfect,” she said. “Look at the sweet little gardens they all have. And what a lovely old church.”

“That’s Holy Trinity. Actually, it’s The Church of the Holy Trinity and All Angels, if you want its full title. It’s mostly Norman still, but you can see a little of the Georgian and Victorian, too. Not enough to spoil it, though.”

“I hope you’ll take me there sometime.”

“I expect we’ll all be going there soon enough.”

“Oh.” She looked a bit flustered. “Oh yes, of course.”

He hated to remind her of that, of the funeral and what had led up to it. He hated to remind himself, but there it was.

“Look here,” he said, taking her face in both his hands so he could look into her clear periwinkle eyes. “I don’t want you to worry about all this. Just—” His voice caught. What was it about her that made him so quickly feel he could trust her? “Just stay close.”

She melted into his arms, soft and warm, yet strong and lithe and altogether right. He stood there just holding her, being held by her. With his cheek against her fragrant hair and her head nestled on his shoulder, he pressed her close, letting some of the tightness in his lungs disperse into the grass-scented air.

After a time, he turned her face up to him again.

“Look here,” he repeated, making his expression stern. “I don’t want you to think I’m always such a ninny as this.”

He loved the understanding warmth in her eyes and the little tremor in her smile. Maybe what he felt was too new and untried to be real, but the fresh possibility of it was a sweet, dizzying distraction from all the unpleasantness of the last few hours.

“It won’t do to get off track at this point,” he said. “I mean to find out what’s happened here. To Lincoln and to Constance. After that, we can carry on learning how perfect we are for each other.”

“Do you know what I like best about you?” she asked, taking his hand and swinging it between them in a lazy arc as they began walking back toward the house. “You’re so shy and unsure of yourself.”

He smiled in spite of himself and held her hand more tightly. It was insane, but it was the most wonderful, intoxicating insanity he’d ever felt.

“You don’t . . . you don’t have someone waiting for you, do you? I mean, somewhere in the wilds of America?”

Her only answer was a careless shrug. Maddening.

He stood still where he was, forcing her to stop alongside him. “Well, do you or don’t you?”

She grinned. “Nobody.”

“No?”

“Absolutely no one.” She nestled close to him. “And if I did, I don’t think I’d want it to be anyone but you.”

She lowered her lashes and then looked up again, coy and challenging, and he pulled her even closer. He could feel her heartbeat and the rapid catches of her breath as he held her against him. Or was that his own heart and breath? No, he wouldn’t kiss her. Now was hardly the time to fall in love. There were serious matters to be seen to. Still, he let himself drink in the moment just awhile longer. Then he released her.

“We ought to be getting back, I expect. Mrs. Devon will be waiting tea.”

“All right.”

He offered her his arm again and then spun her back toward him. “Look here.”

That same coy look was on her face. And blast it if there wasn’t a knowing little smirk keeping it company.

“Look here,” he said again. “I said we ought to go back, and I meant just that. I can’t waste all my time swanning about with strange girls, no matter how perfectly charming they may be. Now mind.”

She shook her head. “You’re wonderful. I’ve never been scolded in such a complimentary way. And I promise I won’t waste any more of your time.” She backed toward the house, pulling him by both hands and still smiling up at him. “Hurry. We don’t want to keep Mrs. Devon waiting.”

“Hold on. Hold on.” He pulled back the other way. “I absolutely demand that you waste
some
of my time. At least a little of it.”

“I don’t plan for the time we spend together to be wasted at all. I’m going to help you solve this case.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek, then turned and scampered into the house.

What could he do but dash after her?

D
rew and his stepfather were sharing the newspaper the next morning over an early breakfast when Denny came out onto the terrace.

“Chief Inspector Birdsong to see you, sir.”

Mason looked up from the financial section. “Show him into my study, Dennison. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’d rather we talked right here, Mr. Parker,” Birdsong said as he strode out to them. “You and Mr. Farthering will want to hear what I’ve found out.”

Drew straightened in his chair and abandoned the society page. “I daresay we will. Do take a seat, Inspector. Would you care for some breakfast? Tea?”

Denny relieved the inspector of his hat and returned to the house, discreetly closing the terrace doors behind him.

Birdsong accepted a cup of tea and sat down. “I’ve just spoken to Dr. Wallace. He’s completed the autopsy on Mrs. Parker.”

He leaned forward to peer at Mason.

“Yes?” Mason prompted.

“He found traces of Veronol in the bottle we took from Mrs. Parker’s bedside table.”

Mason nodded. “Yes. And?”

“There was Veronol in your wife’s body as well, but not enough to kill her.”

“What?”

Mason looked helplessly at Drew.

“Then what did kill her?” Drew asked.

“Wallace isn’t certain,” Birdsong said. “All he can say is that something made her stop breathing.”

“But wouldn’t the Veronol account for that?”

“Not according to the doctor. He said what she had taken could have done no more than put her into a deep sleep. Different folk react in different ways, of course, but you said she’d taken this many times before.”

“Yes,” Mason breathed.

“And never had a problem?” Birdsong pressed.

“No.”

Drew narrowed his eyes. “She couldn’t have just had some natural breathing difficulty, could she?”

“Not according to Dr. Wallace.”

“And there was nothing else in her system?”

“A little alcohol. I understand you brought her that, didn’t you?”

“I brought her one drink, yes. She sent me for it.”

“I see.”

“I have no idea what else she drank that night. I somehow doubt that stinger was the only one she’d had.”

Birdsong’s expression remained bland, benignly attentive. “Did you happen to notice what she had that night, Mr. Parker?”

“No. I was mostly in my study, though. I couldn’t say for
certain what she drank. She liked a drink now and again, no denying that, but she was never vulgar about it.”

“No, sir. Of course not. I’m sorry to have disturbed you so early. Dr. Wallace has released the body. Marks & Blackistone’s will see to everything for you now. I hope that meets with your approval.”

Mason sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Very kind of you, Inspector, I’m sure.”

An hour later, when Mason had long since shut himself up in his study and Drew was still mulling over recent events and tea, Nick came and sat down at the table with a plate of eggs and toast.

“Morning, old man. How are things today?”

Drew smiled, only half listening. “Tolerable, I suppose.”

“I heard old Birdsong was in again. Any news?”

“Dr. Wallace has done with the autopsy on Constance and released the body. I expect we’ll have the funeral tomorrow.”

“Anything I can take care of for you?”

“I’ll talk to Mason about what he wants. I’m sure there are all sorts of arrangements to be made, but I don’t know what they are yet.”

“What did the doctor find?”

“Nothing, really.”

“He doesn’t know what caused her death?” Nick asked.

“No, except that she stopped breathing. And, yes, I know Father Knox says there aren’t supposed to be any unknown poisons in the case.”

Nick put down his fork. “Really, Drew, I wouldn’t have dreamed of mentioning it, you know. I try to not always be an idiot.”

“I know, old man. It’s a deuced puzzle, though. And hang me if I know where this piece fits. Or if it even goes into the same puzzle as the rest. Still, something killed her, and it wasn’t the Veronol. And there were no other drugs found nearby. Nothing peculiar in her bloodstream, either. I’d say that pretty much puts the suicide theory to bed.”

“And she hadn’t had any tea or anything to eat before she slept?”

“Not according to Beryl. She sometimes would have some chamomile of an evening, but she didn’t that night. Nothing anyone knows of after that stinger I brought her at the party. And I made that myself.”

“I suppose Birdsong was on you about that.”

“Not as such, no, but I could hear his little brain ticking along behind that beetle brow.”

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it but for us to figure out what’s been going on.”

“Yes, and we’ll have a bit of company, as well.”

“Company?”

“The charming Miss Parker has announced her intention of joining the investigation.”

Nick’s face lit. “Has she? Oh, jolly nice.”

Drew scowled. “No, it is
not
jolly nice. I shall never find out anything if she’s along.”

“Be fair. She doesn’t seem the sort of girl to be squeamish or go chattering on about hats or operas or anything.”

Drew stared into his cup. “It’s not that.”

“What then?”

“It’s . . . well, it’s just not the type of thing a girl ought to be involved in. Man’s work and all.”

Nick laughed. “You can’t fool me, you know.”

“What?” Drew protested.

“You just don’t want to be distracted.”

Drew put his head in his hands. “Is it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How can I concentrate on this case when she’s all I can think of? When one pert look turns my spine to blackberry jam?”

“Blackberry?”

Drew looked up. “Oh, yes, I’m certain it’s blackberry. I don’t like blackberry.”

“She
is
most awfully pretty.”

“Yes, and knows it, worse luck, but I’ve been around beautiful girls before. Remember Elsie Martinson?”

“Do I remember Elsie. You had it bad, and I thought Bunny was going to blow his brains out over her.”

“When he could remember her name was Elsie and not Eleanor or Myrtle.” Drew shook his head. “Poor Bunny. Good thing he got distracted by that new Lagonda he bought right after. But Elsie was a stunner, no question. Still, it was hard to stay keen on her once you’d known her awhile. She liked to pull the wings off fellows just to amuse herself. I shouldn’t be surprised to find she had a complete set of old beaux in a glass case, pinned through the heart onto corkboard and properly labeled as to date and place collected.”

“Bah. Miss Parker’s nothing like that.”

“I know. That’s precisely what makes it so hard for me to keep my mind on the task at hand.”

Nick snickered. “I have a feeling that if she wants in on the game, she’ll be in on the game.”

Drew groaned and buried his head in his hands once more.

The day of the funeral was clear and warm, a fresh June day with no hint of rain.

Standing at the graveside, surrounded by black-clad mourners, Drew listened to the vicar’s words—God’s words, he’d always been taught—and wondered if Constance was standing before Him now. Or, having hardly given Him a thought during her life, was she forever separated from His presence?

Drew didn’t know.

He breathed out a sigh, glad that burden was not his. He had only to account for his own soul.

And what of his own soul? Could it stand before a holy God and not be found wanting? It was an old-fashioned notion, to be sure. One that he had been taught he was too sophisticated and erudite to believe. And yet, even as many of the professors scoffed at the idea, there was still that inescapable infusion of belief all through Oxford.
Dominus illuminatio mea
ran the school motto.
The Lord is my light
.

There was a God of some sort, surely. Someone had made the world and all that inhabited it. But how did one reach Him? And what did He really want?

The vicar spoke on, intoning the familiar funeral words, “‘In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life . . .’”

He glanced at Madeline as she stood next to her uncle, clinging to Mason’s arm in gentle comfort. She nodded now and again, eyes closed, a look of sweet peace on her angelic face. She had that sure and certain hope and found no fear in death. What would Constance have thought had she known death would come for her as she slept?

Madeline walked with her uncle back to where the cars were parked. He opened the door for her, but she urged him inside first.

“I’ll be right back.”

Drew was still standing beside the grave, his hands behind his back, his face devoid of emotion. He didn’t look at her when she came up to him. He kept his eyes on the freshly turned earth.

“I don’t suppose I ever understood her. I’m sure she never understood me.”

She pressed his hand. It felt oddly cold there on that warm morning, but it responded to her consolation, returning the squeeze.

“She was scandalized by my being friends with Nick. Even when I was very young.” He surprised her with a smile. “I remember once, I must have been seven or eight then, she was complaining to my father about him. She said there had to be at least one little boy of a better class for me to play with. My father laughed and said perhaps Henry or George or John would ask me round to play. ‘They’re a bit older than the boy,’ he said, ‘but very well connected. I think even you’d be pleased.’ She was eager to meet the family until he told her their surname was Windsor.”

Madeline smiled too, just a gentle little smile that wasn’t inappropriate for the circumstances. “Perhaps King George’s sons would have been too much of a step down for you.”

“I would have striven to be gracious to them nonetheless,” he said, tucking her arm under his.

“Grace is a lovely thing.”

Again he surprised her. There was something in his face that responded to that word just now.
Grace.

He was quick to look away. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

When she was sure he wasn’t going to say anything more, she squeezed his hand again. “Uncle Mason is waiting for us.”

The day after the funeral, following an early breakfast, Drew and Nick sped up to Chelsea to take a look at Lincoln’s flat. Just as quickly, they were on their way back to Farthering Place.