The Murders at Clarion Castle, page 9
He had asked for coffee, which Clegg, the footman, had just gone into the kitchen to fetch.
Despite the array of tempting dishes, Harry found himself picking at his food, his mind trying to sift through the interviews they’d completed. He had to admit it: he was tired. Yesterday had been a long, long day.
Across the table, Nigel looked equally worn as he mechanically buttered a piece of toast.
"What are we going to do about Evie?" Nigel asked suddenly, his voice low enough that Clegg, now bringing Harry’s pot of coffee, couldn't hear.
Harry waited until Clegg had retreated to a discreet distance before answering. "I'm hoping Alice will turn up something in the neighbourhood. Or Katherine will coax something helpful out of someone who knows the local gossip."
"The listening post changes everything," Nigel murmured. "If Vernon passed on information about its existence to the Germans, Siegfried's bound to know."
Harry nodded grimly. “And to be around here. Maybe to blow it up."
Nigel took a sip of tea. "How do we proceed?”
"We go back to yesterday's witnesses, and probe a little harder. At the end of the day we check in with our reinforcements. Alice should already be walking on the Pilgrim Way by now."
"And Blake and Katherine?"
"Should be here late morning," Harry replied, checking his watch. "Blake's arranged for credentials as a newspaper reporter here to cover—"
The door to the dining room swung open, and Bradford Walker strode in, his pale eyes sharp in the morning light.
"Gentlemen," Walker said, taking a seat without invitation. "I trust you slept well?"
Harry met the steel magnate's gaze. "As well as could be expected, Mr Walker."
"Excellent. Then I'll trouble you for a progress report." Walker helped himself to tea from the silver pot. "I presume you've made an arrest?"
"Not yet," Harry replied carefully. "We don't have enough evidence to charge anyone, though there are certain lines of inquiry that show promise."
Walker's teacup clattered against its saucer. "Don't give me that old claptrap, Jenkins. What have you got?"
Harry maintained his composure, sipping his coffee before responding. "I'm not at liberty to incriminate anyone without sufficient evidence, Mr Walker. It wouldn't be fair."
"Fair?" Walker's tone sharpened. "You know what's not fair? Having a murder in my home practically on the eve of the most important meeting of the war effort—for me at least. The Prime Minister arrives tomorrow, and you're wasting my time by talking about fairness?"
"There could be something far more dangerous at play if we arrest the wrong person and let the real murderer go free," Harry countered.
Walker's eyes narrowed. "Who would you arrest, if you had to choose right now?"
"I won't arrest anyone without proper evidence," Harry replied firmly. "That's not how justice works, even in wartime."
Walker leaned forward, his voice dropping. "With Churchill practically on his way, we are cutting it rather fine, wouldn't you say? What makes you think you can solve this in time?"
Once again, Harry couldn't commit or reveal what he knew. He played his best card. "I'm optimistic because two of our best people are arriving at the castle today. They'll take undercover roles and learn what they can."
"Undercover?" Walker's eyebrow arched impossibly higher. "What sort of undercover?"
"My colleague Blake Collins will be playing the role of a newspaper reporter, here to cover architectural features of the castle for a historical piece. And Katherine Chapman will be posing as a rare book librarian, cataloguing your collection."
Walker's face darkened. "Absolutely not. I won't have spies wandering about my home when the Prime Minister is here."
"They'll be discreet," Harry assured him. "And may well help us resolve this matter before any... unpleasantness occurs."
After a long moment, Walker gave a reluctant nod. "Very well. But they have to be out of the way when the PM arrives."
Chapter nineteen
Alice
After her first five miles on the trail, Alice Greenleaf reached a hilltop and stopped to rest.
She adjusted her modest cloche hat against the August sun, grateful for the wide brim that shielded her face. She leaned on her walking staff—a practical hazel switch that doubled as both support and protection—taking in the rolling Kent countryside spread out before her.
The Pilgrim's Way stretched like a pale ribbon through the landscape, winding through fields golden with ripening wheat and disappearing into a patch of woodlands surrounding another hill. Here and there she'd passed hedgerows thick with blackberry brambles, their fruits still more red than black, though Alice spotted a few early ripeners that tempted her botanical instincts. Elder trees heavy with dark berries stood sentinel at intervals, their medicinal bounty nearly ready for harvesting.
She smiled at the thought of the elderberry syrup she'd be making come September—excellent for winter coughs and colds. The herbalist in her couldn't help but notice the plantain and yarrow growing at path's edge, useful for poultices and staunching blood.
True, she was here on a different mission entirely. But old habits die hard.
She set off again, taking brisk strides in the new walking shoes she'd bought for the purpose, all the while wishing she could be riding her bicycle instead.
But bicycles weren’t the way of the pilgrim.
Soon she reached the small wooded section, where the slope went up again and the temperature dropped immediately. Sunlight filtered through oak and beech leaves, creating dappled patterns on the path. Wild woodruff grew in patches where light penetrated the canopy, and the subtle scent of its dried leaves reminded Alice of the sachets she made to ward off moths.
Emerging from the woods, she caught her first glimpse of Clarion in the near distance. The village nestled in a gentle hollow, its church spire piercing the sky, its medieval square surrounded by timber-framed buildings in warm Kentish colours. Beyond it, barely visible, rose the more substantial silhouette of Clarion Castle.
Alice straightened her simple linen cloak and checked her small pack. Her disguise was deliberately unassuming—a middle-aged woman of no particular note, seeking spiritual renewal on the ancient pilgrim's path to Canterbury. Her Oxford education and herbalist knowledge were carefully tucked away beneath this humble exterior.
As she approached the village, she rehearsed her story once more. The war had taken her brother (true enough, though it was the previous war, and it had been her fiancée, not her brother), and she had promised their elderly mother to make the pilgrimage to pray for his soul. The part about her mother, of course, had been entirely fabricated. Still, with the recent news of British troops fighting in North Africa, it would seem to be an appropriate time to fulfil this long-delayed promise.
The cobbled streets of Clarion were quieter than they would have been in peacetime. A few locals moved about their business, eyeing her with the natural suspicion reserved for strangers in wartime. The central square featured a small stone monument, surrounded by a plaza and several shops. Alice saw a bakery, a greengrocer, a pub called The White Horse, and a tea shop that bore the sign "Clarion Tea Rooms."
She headed for the tea shop, knowing that such establishments, like Evie’s Cozy Cup, were reservoirs of local gossip. A bell tinkled as she entered, and several heads turned to examine the newcomer. The proprietress, a stout woman with greying hair pinned severely atop her head, approached with a businesslike smile.
"Good afternoon. Will you be wanting tea?"
"Yes, please," Alice replied, adopting a slight West Country accent. "And perhaps a scone if you have any. I've been walking since sunrise."
"Pilgrim, are you?" the woman asked, gesturing to a small table by the window. "Don't get many these days."
"Yes," Alice nodded, settling gratefully into the chair. "Promised my mother I'd make the journey to Canterbury. For my brother's soul."
The woman's face softened slightly. "Lost him, did you? The war?"
"North Africa," Alice said simply, letting the woman draw her own conclusions about which conflict she meant.
"God rest him." The woman crossed herself. "I'm Mrs Gibbs. I'll fetch your tea."
As Mrs Gibbs bustled away, Alice surveyed the room. Two elderly women sat in the corner, heads bent in conversation. A middle-aged man in a farmer's cap nursed a cup by the counter. At a table near the back, a young woman with a fretful baby attempted to soothe the child while hastily drinking her tea.
Mrs Gibbs returned with a teapot, cup, and a scone with clotted cream. "There we are. Don't get many walking the old path now. Too busy with the war effort, I suppose."
"Have there been any others recently?" Alice asked casually, pouring her tea. "I'd hoped to find companions for the journey."
Mrs Gibbs considered this as she arranged Alice's plate. "There was a gentleman about two weeks back. Foreign accent—said he was Swiss. Neutral country, he said." Her tone suggested scepticism.
Alice made a noncommittal sound of interest while spreading cream on her scone. "Was he alone?"
"Far as I know. Asked a lot of questions about the castle, he did." Mrs Gibbs lowered her voice. "Mr Walker doesn't like strangers poking about, especially now."
"The castle is nearby, then?" Alice asked, feigning ignorance.
"Just up the hill. Can't miss it." Mrs Gibbs gestured vaguely. "Important government business goes on there, they say."
Then, as if sensing she'd said too much, Mrs Gibbs straightened. "Will you be staying in the village tonight? The White Horse has rooms."
"I had hoped to continue on a bit further before dark," Alice replied. "Is there accommodation on the path ahead?"
Before Mrs Gibbs could answer, the bell tinkled again, and a tall man in gamekeeper's attire entered. The atmosphere in the tea room subtly shifted, conversations quieting.
"Afternoon, Tom," Mrs Gibbs called. "The usual?"
The gamekeeper nodded, his eyes falling on Alice. His weathered face betrayed nothing as he approached her table.
"You're walking the path?" he asked without preamble.
"To Canterbury," Alice confirmed. "I'm a pilgrim."
"Pilgrims usually travel in groups," he observed, his voice neutral but his eyes sharp.
"Times being what they are," Alice replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "Not many making the journey these days."
He studied her for a moment longer. "Keep to the marked path, mind. Some of the surrounding land is private. Mr Walker doesn't like trespassers."
"I'll be careful," Alice promised.
The gamekeeper nodded curtly and moved to the counter, where Mrs Gibbs handed him a wrapped package. He exchanged a few quiet words with her before departing.
"Don't mind Tom," Mrs Gibbs said, returning to Alice's table. "He takes his job seriously. Manor lands begin just beyond the village."
Alice finished her tea, paying careful attention to the snippets of conversation around her. The young mother with the fussing baby caught her eye.
"Is your little one unwell?" Alice asked gently.
The woman looked up, surprise crossing her tired face. "Just colicky. Nothing serious."
"I know a remedy for that," Alice said before she could stop herself. "Fennel tea, very weak. Just a few drops for the baby."
The woman's eyes widened. "Are you a nurse?"
"I know a bit about herbs," Alice answered, mentally chiding herself for the slip. "My mother taught me."
"You should speak with our vicar’s wife,” said one of the elderly women, who had been listening. "She's a dab hand at herbs and such. Always wantin’ to help folks.”
“Like that poor woman in Blair Cottage,” said her companion. “Though she didn’t get very far with that, now, did she?”
"Hush, Edith," the other elderly woman scolded. "That's not our business."
Alice's interest was immediately piqued. "Someone's ill?"
Edith leaned forward, clearly pleased to have an audience. "Young woman, taken ill just when she arrived with her parents. Fever, they say."
"The vicar's wife wanted to bring meals," the other woman added reluctantly. “But the parents said they could manage. So did her husband.”
“The daughter’s married?”
“Oh, aye, and the man's very protective," Edith continued. “Comes in from time to time to see her. Foreign gentleman, I believe. Belgian, he told the vicar."
Alice felt her pulse quicken. A sick woman. A protective foreign husband. Arrived recently. With parents.
"How terrible," Alice said, careful to keep her voice measured. "Is there a doctor in the village?"
"Dr Parsons comes twice a week from Canterbury," Mrs Gibbs supplied. "But I heard the husband refused his services. Said his wife had a delicate constitution and he knew best how to treat her."
Alice finished her scone and paid for her tea. "I should continue on my way if I'm to reach shelter before dark. Is there a place to stay near this Blair Cottage?"
"The Shepherd's Rest is a mile or so beyond," Mrs Gibbs replied. "Just a simple inn, but clean enough."
Alice thanked her and gathered her things. As she stepped back onto Clarion's main street, her mind was already forming a plan. The sick woman in Blair Cottage might have nothing to do with their case—or she might be Evie.
Either way, Alice Greenleaf intended to find out.
Chapter twenty
Katherine
Clarion Castle was every bit as grand as Katherine had imagined it would be. Exactly the kind of place where an emergency meant running out of sherry before the servants’ bell was fixed.
A stiffly polite butler had shown her into the drawing room, which was very nearly the size of Dorothy and Tom’s entire cottage, and almost oppressively rich and luxurious. The tall sash windows were framed in heavy, lined curtains made of burgundy velvet. The walls were covered in dark red damask wallpaper, and edged with ornate plasterwork and decorative cornices. A grand chandelier of crystal and brass hung as a centrepiece in the middle of the high ceiling.
Katherine felt rather like Jane Eyre entering Thornfield Hall for the first time. Worse, actually. She hadn’t yet spoken a single word to any of the household besides the butler, and already her insides felt cold and shaking. What on earth had she been thinking, coming here? She had wanted to help Blake and of course she wanted to find Evie. But she wasn’t an actress, much less a detective. And she didn’t even remember her own mother and father or a single day of all the years she’d spent in school.
How could she expect to fool an entire household into believing that she was some sort of expert in rare books?
The furniture was comfortable, at least. She was sitting on a tufted armchair in dark green brocade that had been placed in front of the carved marble fireplace. From above the mantle, a portrait of a heavyset man in the garb of the 16th century glowered down at her. A long-dead Walker ancestor? Or just a historical figure whom Katherine’s brain had helpfully erased from her memories? Either way, he didn’t appear to think that she belonged here, either.
“Katherine Chapman?”
Katherine stood up to greet the woman who had just entered the room and was coming briskly towards her.
“Yes.” She was slightly surprised to hear that her voice sounded steady, despite the nervous squirming inside her.
“I’m Millicent Hartley, Mr Walker’s secretary,” the woman said.
She was a slim, sharp-featured woman of about thirty-five with wire-rimmed spectacles that magnified her sharp hazel-green eyes. Everything about her appearance was both elegant and immaculately tidy, from her smoothly combed hair to the crisp bow on her silk blouse and the string of pearls around her neck. Her copper-coloured hair was pulled into a severe bun so tight that Katherine almost felt the prickle of a headache just looking at her.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Katherine said.
Millicent didn’t actually reply with, I assure you, the pleasure is all yours. But her sniff and her disapproving look made it clear that she agreed with the scowling subject of the mantlepiece portrait when it came to whether or not Katherine should be here.
“Mr Walker really should have told me earlier that he had hired you to catalogue the books in the library,” she said. She had a brisk, clipped way of speaking, as though she was trying to be as efficient as possible even with her words. “I would have been far better prepared for your coming.”
Katherine met Millicent’s disapproving look with a calm smile. She might have only faulty patches of memory up until the past year, but she had dealt with her fair share of irate doctors at St Thomas’s. Wartime conditions in London, with Hitler’s planes raining bombs down night after night, had meant that everyone’s tempers ran high.
So she said, still smiling, “I quite understand. Mr Walker applied to our firm, requesting the service of a librarian.”
Millicent had already been supplied with a card from an entirely fictional antique book auditor’s firm with an address in London. There was always a chance, of course, that she or someone else here at Clarion Castle might make inquiries and find out that no such firm existed. But in addition to straining everyone’s nerves, the confusion wrought by the Blitz meant that inquiries would be difficult. Countless numbers of businesses had been bombed and then had to relocate from their original address.
“I had tentatively scheduled him for next month,” Katherine went on. Had she read somewhere that if you were going to lie, you ought to do it with confidence? Even if not, it seemed like sound advice. “But as it happened, I was able to finish the last cataloguing job I had taken sooner than anticipated, so I was able to come earlier. Mr Walker quite understood that our services are in high demand and that if he did not take advantage of this gap in my schedule, I couldn’t guarantee when I might be able to do the job as he asked.”
Millicent gave a grudging nod of acknowledgment. “Then I suppose you had better come with me to the library,” she said, gesturing towards a door that opened from the back of the drawing room.
