The Scarlet Wench (19 page)

  “Yes. When the registrar came to me that first day, I couldn’t think of any reason not to give Sean dual citizenship because Paul truly is Sean’s father. Was.”

  “Sperm donor, at least. Yankee, I think you’re well and truly suckered then.” Val grabbed another tissue and handed it to Nora, who laughed instead.

  “I hate that the Pembrokes blame me for keeping Paul from them, when he’s the one who never wanted to go down to Cornwall.”

  Val shrugged. “Maybe they don’t know that and it’s time you told them.”

  “And they were in mourning for their only child. They were just as upset as I was that day. I’ve been horrid to them.”

  “Don’t go all gooey on me. I’m the one who had to keep that woman away from you when she launched herself at you. You could have been united in your grief.”

  Val made good sense, but in Nora’s mind an image flashed of Rupert lunging for Grayson out of desperation and grief. Muriel must have been feeling those same emotions. “Maybe I’ve done them a disservice. I didn’t even try to get to know them.”

  Val snuggled down and turned out the light at her side of the bed. “You’ll have plenty of time to rectify that once you tell them, whether you want to or not.” She sat up suddenly and turned her light back on. “Is there any chance they might have found out about Sean and want some kind of joint custody?”

  Nora shuddered. “I hadn’t put that into words, but I guess that’s been at the heart of my fear since I heard from the solicitor.”

  Val patted her and turned the light out a second time. In the dark, her voice was grim. “If they do, they’ll have one hell of a fight on their hands.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“You know that’s the kind of observation that shocks people.”

Ruth: Act
I
, Scene 1

Friday, 13th April

9:25 AM

Declan watched Nora fuss over Sean at breakfast. Her nervousness showed in her over-attentiveness and chatter; that would be due to a combination of Sean’s impending departure and her first rehearsal with the cast. The long table had adjourned to their rooms to prepare for a run-through that would now include Nora. He still wasn’t happy about the idea, but at least it seemed everyone stayed put last night and there had been no further incidents. They’d eaten quickly and quietly this morning, leaving Simon and Maeve to clear the table in their wake. Agnes had surprised them by showing up in wellies and a mac after getting a lift from her neighbor. They’d enjoyed a full English breakfast. She’d taken the news of Gemma’s death with a firm set to her lips but refrained from any comment other than “poor lassie.”

  Last night, Declan had dozed lightly, one ear peeled for footsteps or noises, until finally he fell into a deep sleep just after dawn for a solid two hours. On his way down to breakfast, he met Poppy Braeburn at the head of the stairs, coming out of her own room. Insinuating herself with Grayson, but not quite there yet. It was early days, and perhaps even the director had a sense of propriety. Declan wondered, as he finished his toast, how long it would take Grayson to tire of the young woman and hoped she wasn’t another Maggie Denton in the making. Poppy didn’t appear worldly to Declan, and if she was as besotted as Nora claimed, it could turn ugly quickly. He’d keep an eye on her as things progressed.

  “ … and don’t forget his favorite bunny when you put him down for a nap. I’ve written out a few things for you, Val.” Nora turned to the baby. “You’ll have such a good time with Auntie Val, right?”

  Sean hit his keys on the tray of his high chair several times in response.

  Val laughed. “Nora, you don’t really think he understands what you’re saying?” She smirked at Declan.

  Nora narrowed her eyes. “Of course he does.”

  “Watch.” Val leaned into the baby and said in the same sing-song voice: “And you’ll adore eating beetroot and spinach, won’t you, Sean?”

  The baby banged his plastic keys even more enthusiastically. Everyone laughed.

  “You’re incorrigible.” Nora turned back to the baby. “Don’t forget, Auntie Val adores being up in the middle of the night.”

  Declan softened his heart, knowing that sending Sean away was rough on Nora. “Are you two always like this?” He moved his glance between the two women. His mobile rang before either could answer. When he saw who was calling, he excused himself and left the dining room.

  “Morning, Higgins.” Declan walked out the front door. The sun was shining off glistening puddles on the road, and there was thick mud in places around the bases of shrubs and trees.

  “Trust there were no further incidents last night or I would have heard from you.”

  “All quiet. Let’s hope it’s not the calm before another storm.”

  “Should have those statements ready to be signed later today or early tomorrow. Fancy attending the postmortem? I could send someone around to fetch you.”

  “Not necessary. I have my own car.” Declan hesitated. Nora would be busy getting Sean and Val off and then involved in those dratted rehearsals all day. He’d ask Burt Marsh to keep an eye on her. At the postmortem, he might glean some small information to point him in the right direction. Afterwards, he would debrief Nora, too. He grinned. He had to admit, he liked having her on his side. “What time and where?”

*

9:45 AM

Fiona Church checked her makeup and then her watch. Plenty of time before the first rehearsal with Nora. This would be an interesting and long day. She had no idea how much acting experience Nora had and how she would fit in. They had worked out their cues and entrances, too, and now they had to incorporate a last-minute newcomer. Only one long day to do that, yet Grayson had pushed back their start time to
10:30
. He seemed to be in slow motion today.

  She thought she’d go crazy if she didn’t get out of here soon. When they came to Bowness on their recce trip, she’d found the area lovely. The idea of spending time at the lakeside had been appealing. Those three days with Gray and Gemma in tow had convinced her she could work with her former lover. That tart was exactly whom he deserved, and despite Gemma’s overt jealousy, Fiona didn’t have any personal animus against the woman; she just enjoyed getting her worked up. Not that it mattered anymore.

  But it had all turned sour quickly, hadn’t it? As much as she had tried to play the good sport, Gemma had stamped on her nerves in close quarters. Fiona needed to get away from here, and soon. She’d thought the play would be cancelled. According to her contract, they’d all receive some small compensation, and she certainly didn’t owe Gray a damn thing. But there was no point in getting a reputation for being difficult to work with, so she kept quiet during last night’s argument until bloody Nora Tierney had stepped up.

*

9:56 AM

Lydia Denton smoothed her hair and sprayed a stray curl into place. It was thinning on top, more than she liked to admit, but that was one of the things about aging: You couldn’t control all of its effects on you. She consoled herself with the thought that at least her sweet Maggie would never know about the ravages of age, frozen as she was at the height of her youth and beauty.

  She snapped the cap back on the can and she returned to the bedroom, watching Rupert. She saw his profile, still so strong and handsome, and her heart flipped. They’d had their heartache but had wisely turned to each other, and their love had seen them through. She’d tucked her pain away in a corner of her heart and tried to go on. Perhaps now Rupert would, too, after his outburst at Grayson Lange.

  He stood staring out of one of the large windows in their room that overlooked the front of the lodge. She put an arm around his waist, and he tucked her under his shoulder. Across the road, she could see a handful of walkers venturing along the quay. One stout woman walked a Scottie dog sporting a tartan vest. She wished she and Rupert could be among them in the fresh air.

  “Once we’re released, we should take a walk, don’t you think,
dear?” She leaned into him. “I was watching Burt Marsh gobble up breakfast. He’s our age, and I don’t know how he manages on his own. I worry about that, Rupert. What if I go first and you’re alone? How would you manage?”

  “Hush. All this mess has given you morbid thoughts.” Rupert kissed the top of her head. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we Lydie, letting this travesty continue?”

  “I checked our contracts. Fiona was right; we have no real choice. We’ll get through it.” She turned to face her husband and made him look at her. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything, dear.”

  “Once we leave Ramsey Lodge, I never want to see or be in the same room with Grayson Lange again.”

*

9:59 AM

With breakfast cleaned up, Simon grabbed Agnes and hugged her. “Thanks for showing up this morning.” Her arrival just as he and Maeve struggled into the kitchen early this morning had given him a momentary sense of relief. Agnes was filled with news of the flood.

  “BBC Weather says some roads up to Carlisle are still closed, and the trains north are cancelled until tomorrow.”

  “I’m just glad to have you back.” It was more than her cooking he’d missed; it was the sense of normalcy her presence brought.

  Agnes smiled her delight. “Put fruit, milk and butter on that, dear.” Maeve had started a shopping list. “We don’t know yet if the food truck can get through for the big provisions. Have you heard from Callie?”

  “She called to say Darby was fine and being spoiled by her entire family,” Simon said. “Their road should reopen tomorrow.”

  “Good thing, ‘cause those sheets need changing.” Agnes’ grey curls bobbed with her pronouncement. “I don’t even want to know who slept where.”

  She gave Maeve a meaningful look, and Simon knew she’d be updated the minute he left the room.

  Agnes pointed a finger at him. “I told Nora and now I’m telling you: Those theatre folks are manky, ye ken?”

  “Then stay out of their way today, Agnes. Nora needs all the support she can get.” Simon left the women sorting out menu ideas to tackle his list of phone calls, including someone to repair the generator. Nora and her list-making had certainly rubbed off on him. He had to admit, he’d felt a sense of relief that the play was going on. Maybe all was not lost. He smiled, thinking of Provence. He and Maeve had certainly earned time away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“This situation is absolutely impossible, and you know it.”

Ruth: Act
II
, Scene 2

10:02 AM

Grayson Lange rattled his painkillers around the bottle and shook two out, then put one back. He poured a glass of water and downed it quickly. The arm ached despite the rain passing. He’d have to start tapering off on the pills. They fogged his mind too much, and he’d rather have a drink at night. Mixing the two wasn’t good. You might not remember your actions the next morning, and who knew what he could get up to in that state? He’d find himself married one of these days if he wasn’t careful.

  It was really amazing how much he could accomplish, despite the cast on his arm. Having it above his elbow would have hampered his movements, but having it only on his lower arm made him feel more clumsy than helpless.

  He took care not to bump it, and he used the sling and didn’t wave the bloody thing around—no sense letting people see how much mobility he had. It certainly hadn’t hurt to have Gemma fuss over him, and Poppy seemed willing to take her place.

  Poppy didn’t simper too much; he couldn’t abide a woman who played at being coy. A few pounds to fill out her figure and a bit of coaching. Yes, Poppy might work out, at least for a while.

  He checked the bedside clock and wandered out onto the balcony. The water glistened in the weak sunlight, and if he didn’t look down at the muddy roadway, it was difficult to tell there had been such heavy rains. It was a pretty area, he’d give it that much. No wonder Wordsworth and Coleridge and that lot had been drawn here.

  But he was already itching to get back to town. The lights and frenetic activity of bigger towns appealed to him. He almost missed the bustle and traffic of London and his riverside house west of town in Chiswick, down the road from Hugh Grant’s family home and in the same neighborhood where Colin Firth walked his dog. Who knew he’d miss home so much?

  As he felt the first tendril of a buzz kick in from the pill, Grayson flexed his fingers the way the emergency doctor had instructed. He looked forward to this rehearsal. Thank God Nora Tierney had volunteered. He’d soon see if she could act or would ruin the play; Elvira was the pivotal role. People liked to make issues more difficult than they were, but with a firm plan and dogged determination, you could make things happen. And he considered himself a man of action.

*

10:12 AM

Nora opened the French doors of her room onto the small garden. Blooms from a cherry tree were strewn around the wet slates and stuck to the glass-topped table. Val pulled up in the van, and Declan carried out Sean’s portable cot-playpen. He went back for the buggy base, dumped the changing bag and clothing sack inside it and then rolled it out. Val helped him stow that, too, while Nora carried Sean out and buckled him into his car seat. If Val got on the road now, Sean would take a nap, giving Val an easier ride for part of the way.

  “Did you get the cooler with his formula?” Nora bent back into the car as Declan dashed back inside. She handed Sean his stuffed bunny and tied his plastic keys with a ribbon to his car seat. She kissed him one last time. Best not to make a big deal out of this for his sake.

  “You know they sell baby food in Oxford.” Val took the cooler from Declan.

  “This way you won’t have to run to the shops right away.” Nora looked at the backseat, where Sean banged his feet on this car seat.

  Val laughed. “I think we’re being told off, dithering here. You’ve already kissed him, hugged him, checked his luggage twice—we’re good, Yankee.” She gave Nora a hug.

  Nora tried to keep her chin from wobbling. Today was Friday; she’d be in Oxford Tuesday afternoon. “All set.” Declan put an arm around her shoulder as Val buckled herself in and tooted as she drove away.

  “He’ll be fine. Val’s a safe driver.” Declan turned her toward her room. “You have a rehearsal in a few minutes, and I have a postmortem to attend.”

  Nora closed the doors and locked them. “Thanks for your faith in me, Declan.”

  “I’m just worried about you.” He kissed her lightly. “Don’t get me started again. Just do your job and be safe. Keep your wits about you and your eyes open. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

*

10:33 AM

Nora clutched her copy of the play. Everyone else was off book, but for this first rehearsal she was allowed to consult hers. Declan winked and gave her a thumbs up as he went upstairs. Grayson Lange discussed the day’s schedule.

  “We’ll do a full run-through before lunch so Nora gets her entrances and exits down. Nora, you come in and out of those French doors to the patio quite a bit. Keep your copy out there
tomorrow night. I know we’re expecting a lot of you to step in with only two rehearsals. If you feel you need more, we’ll work with you again tomorrow after breakfast.”

  Nora nodded, feeling a flush start up her neck. Her eyes roamed the gathering before her, and she took in all the attitudes and emotions she could feel coming at her: reluctance from the Dentons, indifference from Fiona, annoyance from Poppy.

  She gave them a brittle smile. Elvira didn’t appear until page
26
. That would give her time to calm down and study her lines again. Poppy had brought down the dove-grey gown she would wear. She didn’t fill it out as well as Gemma had, but its flowing looseness fitted her well enough. It helped that Gemma hadn’t been tall, and with the right shoes, Poppy could leave the hemline alone.

  Grayson continued. “After lunch, we’ll do full dress rehearsal for Poppy to make any costume adjustments, and with props, Burt.”

  Hearing his name, Burt turned from the fireplace where he was fiddling with a vase. It crashed to the hearth in pieces.

“Burt—” Grayson’s tone was one of tolerant exasperation.

  The older man bent down and scooped up the pieces. “Meant to do that for the climax.” He slotted the pieces together, and in a moment, the vase stood whole again, its Chinoiserie pattern covering the faux cracks.

  “It’s Friday the
13
th, you know.” Helen’s pronouncement had heads swiveling in her direction.

  “Mum!” Grayson exploded.

  The reaction was immediate.

  “Mum?”

  “She’s your mother?”

  “Helen’s your mum? What gives?”

  Poppy stalked off the stage and sat down in a chair, arms folded.

  Fiona looked at Grayson, head on one side. “You bring your current lover, your former lover, your dead lover’s parents all together, and now we find out you have your mum in the cast? I’d say you were a man of hidden depths, Grayson, if I didn’t know better.” She joined Poppy in a chair.

  “Well played, Fiona.” Helen rose from her perch on the sofa and smoothed out her skirt. “That’s the first time my son has been cleverly put in his place, and it’s about time someone did.”

*

11:27 AM

Declan paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the voices from the drawing room. The doors were pulled together, but an opening of about six inches let him hear the rehearsal in progress.

  “Let her have a nice cry. It’ll do her good.”

  Was that Nora? She sounded so blasé. Grayson had the next line.

  “You’re utterly heartless!”

  “Heartless!” Fiona sputtered.

  Grayson broke character. “Fiona, I thought I told you it works better if you spring up from the sofa on that line. Take it again from Elvira’s line.”

  Declan peeked through the gap. Nora’s haughty expression shocked him. In less than an hour she’d taken on the cloak of Elvira, the selfish and petulant first wife of Grayson’s character. She might just pull this off. He felt a thrill of pride and great admiration that she’d put her distress in parting from Sean aside and thrown herself into the role.

  Sneaking across the hall to the door, Declan retrieved his car and set off for Westmorland General Hospital in Kendal to meet DS Higgins for the postmortem. His GPS sent him southeast to Kendal, onto Burton Road.

  He followed signs for the mortuary and drove around the main building to the rear entrance on the ground floor, where he found Higgins waiting for him. At least it wasn’t in the basement. As they walked together, Higgins brought him up to date.

  “We’ve done checks on the major players.” Higgins smiled at his pun. “Nothing on Fiona Church or the Dentons—just the death of their daughter, classified as ‘accidental overdose.’ Two endorsements for Grayson Lange for speeding in his fancy car. Poppy Braeburn’s parents have a history of camping in unauthorized areas plus a few hits for cannabis possession, but she seems clean.” He rang the morgue bell and a buzzer let them in. They stopped inside the door. “A shoplifting hit as a teen on Gemma Hartwell, her stage name, you know. She was born Bernice Sipling, known as Bunny. We’ve traced her mother down in Bristol, and the locals went to notify her this morning.”

  Declan curled his fists. What had he hoped for? A cast member to have a history of sociopathic behavior or a previous arrest on suspicion of murder? Hardly likely. He thought of parents calling their little girl “Bunny” and winced for the mother.

  “Won’t have those statements till tomorrow; skeleton staff.” Higgins guided Declan down the hall. “But then I hardly think your lot are going anywhere.”

  “No, they’ve decided to go on with the play.” Declan explained about Nora stepping in and watched the sergeant’s eyebrows rise.

  “Oh. I expect they’d like this wrapped up so they can leave Ramsey Lodge right after the last performance.”

  “I expect the innocent ones would.” Declan steeled himself for the postmortem, searching his blazer pocket for the strong peppermints he used to combat the scent of death during the procedure. None. He’d hardly expected to be involved in a murder investigation on holiday. He’d been lucky he’d even brought this jacket and smarter trousers, hoping for that candlelit dinner with Nora. So much for romance. He’d have to get through it today and hope the odors from Gemma’s corpse didn’t turn his stomach after that large breakfast he’d wolfed down.

  Instead, as they approached the active room, the scent that reached him was of something else entirely: garlic, oregano, tomatoes—wine? Higgins inhaled deeply.

  “Milo’s Crock-Pot; smells like spag bol today.”

  Declan stopped short. “He cooks here?”

  Higgins smiled. “Oh, yes, he’ll feed his entire department later on, once the autopsies are done. Quite the cook.”

  The two detectives donned paper gowns and masks. Higgins pushed the swinging door into the postmortem suite. Another body awaited Milo on a trolley against the wall, its toe tag identifier swaying in the strong ventilation. Declan stepped around it and followed Higgins into the heart of the room. The room smelled of frequent washings with chemical disinfectants.

  Milo Foreman stood at the side of the metal table, talking quietly into the voice recorder hanging over the well lit, brutally corrupted body of Gemma Hartwell. She was spread out over a body block, and a Y-incision had been completed under her breasts and down to her pubis, the reds, blues, grays and yellows of the interior of her body a stark contrast to her pale, mottled skin and curly, blonde hair.

  Declan noted the skin around her mouth and nose had darkened. Milo’s diener weighed a block of slimy sausage-like intestines and called out the number to the pathologist.

  “Detectives, welcome. I took the liberty of starting without you.” Milo’s eyes crinkled over his mask; he wiped his gloved hands on the apron covering his scrubs. “The hands didn’t show any tissue under her nails. The rest of the external exam was unremarkable barring the darker areas on her face. No evidence of serious drug use. There’s a tattoo of a tiny rabbit on her back, just below her waist.”

  “Her childhood nickname was Bunny,” Higgins said.

  “Poor thing.” Milo looked down in respect for a moment and carried on. “The hyoid bone was intact, no evidence of any crush injury.” He put a hand out, and in a well-choreographed dance, the diener handed him a clipboard. “Blood levels show a fair amount of alcohol and a large dose of zolpidem tartrate—that’s a sleeping pill to you gents—so she was in a deep sleep at the time of her death.” He flipped a page. “Also, low oxygen but high carbon dioxide levels support asphyxia.”

  “Anything else?” Declan was itching to get back to watch over Nora.

  “Ah, yes. The pillow showed traces of lipstick which match the victim’s in color. I found a small cotton fiber in her nose; expect it to be a match to the pillowcase. There were two greyish-white hairs on the obverse of the pillow.” He looked up at Declan. “I’ve rushed a lot of this for you, but the analysis of those will take a while.”

  Declan felt his pulse quicken. “White hairs that might be the killer’s?”

  Milo shrugged. “Or of anyone who leaned over the bed around that day or night. You know what the psych boys would say?”

  Higgins shrugged; Declan answered. “Smothering instead of strangulation is less hands on, may indicate the killer didn’t want to see her face as she died.”

  “Very good.” Milo beamed. “Now, can I interest you gents in staying for lunch? Only one more to go today.” He gestured to the body on the hall trolley.