He was a professional, wasn’t he? Thirty-four years old, tested by war and villains and the vicissitudes of twentieth-century living. He knew his place, even if Lady Adelaide didn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Monday

  The invitation had just tumbled out last night. No, it was worse than that—Addie had practically ordered Mr. Hunter to come and stay for the week. She didn’t know why, but she was convinced that Mr. McGrath had put something down in writing before he’d walked to the village with Fitz, and somehow Mr. Hunter would get to the bottom of it. Woman’s intuition? She’d never believed in that before.

  But then she hadn’t believed in ghosts either.

  “If only you could read. And talk,” she said, scratching that special spot on the dog’s flank that always made his rear hind leg flap back and forth. “You were there when he wrote it, weren’t you? And good for you for making Mrs. Franklin sneeze. She’s a hypochondriac. Like The Imaginary Invalid. Molière, you know. I read it at school. With pimply Pandora, though I never would have brought attention to all those pustules. I tried to be a good friend. I wonder how many of my beaux she slept with.”

  There really hadn’t been that many. Despite being a marquess’ daughter, or perhaps because of it, few young men had pursued her. When the war broke out ten years ago, those who had shown some interest were invariably killed in action, like two of Barbara’s fiancés. Lady Broughton had been in despair, dreaming of orange blossoms and wedding breakfasts that were not to be. Like so many of her contemporaries, Addie had been on the shelf before Rupert flew in in his Avro and swept her away.

  Barbara. She should call her. Offer support for her recovery. She hadn’t slept with Rupert given the chance. Addie knew next to nothing about drugs and their negative effects—she’d been healthy all her life, but she could ask Dr. Bergman the best way for her to help. With the exception of the sleeping powders she used after Rupert’s death, she’d never taken anything stronger than an aspirin for a headache or a spoonful of honey for a cough.

  Yes, she should call Barbara. Invite her down too to be a demi-duenna, in case Addie decided to fall victim to Mr. Hunter’s liquid brown eyes and disgrace herself further. Knowing Barbara, she’d probably try to push them together instead. Lock them in the conservatory or cellar or something and let them out at Christmas.

  It had even occurred to Addie to invite the original attendees of her ill-fated house party to spend the night tomorrow after Kathleen’s funeral. Somehow she felt their presence was required, although it was likely one of them was guilty of committing the murder. But with the Hallidays off to who-knows-where (suspicious, that), Ernest Shipman presumably still inspecting a Swiss bank vault, and Sir David comforting his children, she’d have to take a couple of leaves out of the table.

  It would be enough to have Barbara, accompanied by Gerald Dumont, if Barbara couldn’t do without him. He’d been nice enough—good-looking, attentive, well-spoken, and well-dressed. If Barbara really was going to marry him, it behooved Addie to get to know him better.

  She placed the trunk call to London, spoke briefly to Barbara’s maid, and then waited what seemed like eons. Addie had to remind herself that just because she’d been up at the first blush of dawn in nervous anticipation of Mr. Hunter’s arrival, Barbara had no reason to follow suit.

  “Do you know what time it is?” came the croak at the other end of the line.

  “I do!” Addie said brightly. “How are you? I mean, really, how are you?”

  “If you’ve called to lecture me, don’t waste your breath. Mama and Papa have me on short rations, and I cannot turn around without the private nurse they hired reporting on it and spinning me in the opposite direction. I may as well be in jail.”

  “I’m sure they mean well,” Addie said, feeling somewhat relieved that she was being looked after at home instead of being locked away in some grim sanitarium.

  “They just don’t want the scandal. It would be bad for the business. Even Gerald has given me hell.”

  Addie was surprised to hear it. “Has he? That’s good! That means he must care for you a great deal.” Or worry about his meal ticket. As far as Addie knew, he had no employment, but didn’t strike her as the kind of man born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

  Like Lucas. Well, she chewed on a spoon from the same set, and still tried to contribute to society in a positive way. They both did. Lucas was a renowned sportsman and supported local charities. He was not a “shallow little shit.”

  “Between the four of them, I’d like to run off to a desert island. Life is such a bore at the moment.” Addie could hear her friend light up a cigarette and exhale.

  Another bad habit to break.

  “Listen, I’m calling to invite you to stay here for a few days. To make up for the house-party-from-hell. Kathleen’s funeral is tomorrow. Were you planning on going?” As far as Addie knew, it would be a relatively small, private affair. She’d received a written invitation, but she didn’t think Sir David would object if she brought Barbara. She and Kathleen had run in the same circles in London.

  There was a lengthy silence. “I don’t want to. But Eloise wrote. However did she get mixed up in planning Kath’s funeral?”

  “She was just being neighborly, I imagine. Poor Sir David has his hands full with the boys. You know how strongly Eloise feels about her Christian duty.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it. She’s an interfering old bitch.”

  “Babs!”

  “Oh, don’t sound so shocked. You know my penchant for telling the truth no one wants to hear. I love you, but you’re a babe in the woods when it comes to people.”

  “You’ll make me sorry I asked you to come down,” Addie said, keeping her temper. Was she really so naïve?

  Yes, she was.

  “Oh, I promise to behave. I’ll have no choice. Fraulein Schober will be attached to me like a limpet. Barnacle, more like. Or those things on trees that look like mushrooms but are not.”

  “Who?”

  “My minder. Someone forgot to tell her the Germans lost the war. She’s a brute and a bully.”

  “She sounds dreadful. Must she come?”

  Barbara laughed mirthlessly. “They won’t let me go to the loo without her. I might get up to my old tricks.”

  Addie paused. Maybe inviting her was a bad idea, more than she could handle as a friend. Even with Dr. Bergman handy, Addie might fail in her well-intentioned support. “You don’t want to, do you?”

  “I don’t know what I want, Addie, and that’s the truth. It’s all impossible now anyway.” Her world-weary sigh blew across the miles.

  “Maybe not. It’s always darkest before dawn, you know,” she said, echoing Mr. Rivers and feeling silly for doing so. “When you get here, we’ll have a nice long chat, just like old times.”

  “Whoopee.”

  “Don’t be so enthusiastic. Do you want to bring Gerald?”

  “If he’ll come. He’s around here somewhere, but we’re on the outs.” Barbara had a penthouse flat all to herself on Park Lane, courtesy of her father’s generosity.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. He’s welcome if you want him. Do you think you can manage to get here on the two o’clock train? I’ll have my driver meet it.”

  “That won’t give me much time to pack. But we’re about the same size—I’ll raid your closet if I need anything. But no bloody black for me, thanks very much.”

  Addie’s non-mourning wear was hanging neatly in her dressing room, awaiting the February day when she could put her blacks aside for good. It had felt wonderful wearing those colored frocks in London, even if she was sure she’d scandalized Lucas. But as a marquess’ daughter—more to the point, Lady Broughton’s daughter—she knew she had to abide by the conventions, no matter how dreary they made her feel.

  Gosh, she was rivalling Eloise for who was the goodest of the goodies. If her current predicament ever ended, it was past time to kick up her highest heels.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Addie had sent Mr. Hunter straight to the vicarage and Reverend Rivers, with a side stop at the post office to corroborate his story. She had apologized too—not for pushing him away before he had a chance to get settled in his room upstairs, but for practically passing out toward the end of their dinner Saturday night. He looked as embarrassed as she felt as she stumbled over her words, and assured her he hadn’t given her erratic behavior a moment’s consideration.

  Which was a lie. He must be gathering up quite a list of her oddities; he had that little notebook, after all. If only they had met under less bizarre circumstances, Mr. Hunter might not think she was deranged. It was all Rupert’s fault, of course, but Addie tried to block him from her head the second the first syllable of his name popped up.

  She wasn’t quite successful. If Ru**** was tasked to accomplish some kind of mission, perhaps he was far away in Egypt, investigating poor Lord Carnarvon’s curse for disturbing King Tut’s tomb last year. Several people associated with the dig had died. Even the earl’s pet bird was eaten by a snake, and rumor had it his faithful dog dropped dead at Highclere Castle about the time Carnarvon did in Egypt. It was all very supernatural, not that Addie had reason to take such things seriously pre-Rupert.

  Oops. There he was, both syllables, bouncing about in her head again. As long as he wasn’t bouncing around in her bedroom.

  When she had spoken to Mr. McGrath’s daughter last night—who had received no letter—she’d promised to go to the cottage and pack up his things. Addie could have sent a maid, but she felt she owed it to the family to do it herself. She had time to kill before Barbara arrived, told Forbes where she was heading, and set out.

  Addie didn’t have proper boxes or shipping materials, but at least she could make a preliminary sorting of the old man’s belongings. Mrs. Robertson had laughed ruefully and said she didn’t want her father’s clothes. Mr. McGrath was not known for his fashion sense, and almost everything he’d owned had been hole-infested from his decades of laboring in the gardens.

  Addie took Fitz with her, hoping the dog might dig up evidence somehow. But Fitz was no bloodhound. As soon as he got to the cottage, he returned to his cool burrow under the lilac bush and left Addie to go in the kitchen door and get started.

  While Mr. McGrath’s clothing might have been on the disreputable side, he’d kept his little cottage spotless. He wouldn’t have liked the footprints and crooked pictures the Cirencester police had left behind. They had dusted for fingerprints, and Addie’s first order of business was to wipe away the sticky powder from places like the sugar canister and a chipped commemorative teacup celebrating King Edward VII’s coronation. Most of the kitchen equipment belonged to the cottage, and she didn’t think Mr. McGrath’s daughters would value a battered eggbeater.

  She took the homely pictures off the walls of the little parlor, the Toby jug, the framed photographs, and transferware platter off the mantel. Mr. McGrath’s pipe still rested on its ashtray, causing her a pang. Addie put everything together on a gateleg table. There were a few dusty books on a shelf, which disintegrated in her hands. Mr. McGrath was not illiterate, but had been orphaned and left school at a very early age to live (and work) with his only living grandparent, a Scottish gardener employed by Rupert’s grandmother. Despite over six decades living in the Cotswolds, he’d never lost his Scottish burr. He’d been pleased as punch that his older daughter had married a Scotsman.

  She looked around the tidy parlor. Where might he have written a letter? There was no desk or secretary. When she and Lucas had been children, they’d experimented with “secret” messages, revealed by lemon juice or pencil rubbings. There was no pad of paper with impressions, or blotter that could be read backwards in a mirror, unless the police had carried off such things.

  Addie climbed the steep narrow stairs, wondering how Mr. McGrath had done the same several times a day at his age. He’d certainly slowed down over the past few years, but never complained. For the millionth time since he’d been killed, she wished he had retired to Scotland to be with his family.

  One small bedroom was nearly empty, its bed stripped, its cupboard bare. This is where his daughters had grown up, but there was no trace of the girls they had been. Across the hall, the scent of cherry tobacco was strong.

  Addie hesitated. Mr. McGrath had died here. A prickle of unease crept up her neck, but she took a few steps into the room. This bed was stripped too, the sheets gathered up for evidence. A Bible was on a bedside table, and she gathered it to her chest. There was a large, poorly executed watercolor of mountains and lakes that must have held some sentimental value. She’d have to get someone taller than she was to take it down.

  The chest of drawers held very little of interest, except for a bundle of letters from his daughters and grandchildren, tied with a frayed green ribbon. Addie tucked those on top of the Bible and opened the closet under the eaves. Ancient muddy boots, the stitching coming undone, very worn tweeds. In their condition, they weren’t really fit to even donate to the church.

  It was odd what one left behind to be discovered after a sudden death. Addie was grateful Barbara’s joke of a dildo would not be found if she fell down the stairs here. But it was clear to her after viewing Mr. McGrath’s spartan cottage that she simply had too much.

  Not that she wanted to join the Communist Party of Great Britain. If her mother objected to Cee’s vegetarian interests, Addie could only imagine her mother’s horror if she betrayed her class in such a fashion. But really, there had to be a happy medium somewhere.

  She trod the stairs carefully, holding on to the rope railing and Bible with equal fervor. Returning to the parlor, she set everything down with the rest of the items. The table wasn’t even half-covered.

  Still, Mr. McGrath had seemed happy enough with what little he had. Addie envied him.

  She flinched at the hand on her shoulder. “Don’t cry, my dear. The old fellow wouldn’t want you to. He was fond of you, you know.”

  Ugh. Rupert. “Where have you been?” She blew her nose on the monogrammed handkerchief the undertaker had tucked into his breast pocket.

  “Here and there. I thought you didn’t want me underfoot.”

  “I can’t seem to keep you from turning up when it’s most inconvenient.”

  “Ah, yes. You have company again. All the more reason for me to come and help if I can.”

  “Help! You’ve been nothing but a hindrance,” Addie said.

  “I did wash all those dishes. To be fair, Hunter cleared the table after he put you to bed. His stacking and rinsing methods leave something to be desired.” He tucked the snotty handkerchief back in his pocket where it became miraculously pristine again. “You never could hold your liquor, my poor darling.”

  Addie stamped her foot, narrowly missing his. “I am not your poor darling!”

  “No, nobody’s darling, nobody’s sweetheart. And that’s a bit of a waste in my opinion. I’ve given it some thought, and I’m prepared to let you have your bit of fun.”

  “Let me! You have nothing to say in the matter! I’m a thirty-one-year-old widow. If I want to have my ‘bit of fun,’ as you put it, nothing could stop me!”

  Rupert gave her a thoughtful look. “Except perhaps your mama. She has such high standards for you, and I know you don’t wish to disappoint her.”

  What he said was the truth, so Addie couldn’t argue. “I need to go home. Mr. Hunter should be back by now.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take one more look around the cottage?” He examined his fingernails in a faux show of disinterest.

  “Why? Do you know something I don’t?”

  “I might. Call it man’s intuition.”

  “Rupert!”

  “All right, all right. The police were a trifle careless, no doubt because Hunter wasn’t supervising.”

  “Where am I supposed to be looking? And what am I looking for?”

  “The Bible, my dear. Where else?”

  Addie tripped over a rag rug and picked up the Bible. Bits of paper had been slipped between the pages, presumably marking favorite passages. Several of them had cramped, struck-out writing on it, and were virtually impossible to read.

  “They’re a whatchamacallit,” Rupert said unhelpfully. “Like in the olden days, when they wrote over something that was already written upon to save paper or postage.”

  “Palimpsest,” Addie replied. “Why do I know that? You went to university.”

  “Where I barely picked up a book, to my current regret. I have the strongest feeling Mr. M. marked a few passages the day he died.”

  Addie studied the strip of paper, flipping it around until something came into focus. “I Corinthians 10:13.” She found the verse and read it aloud. “‘There hath no temptation taken you but such is common to man. But God is faithful, and will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.’ Goodness. What could have tempted him?”

  “I think you need to check the sixth chapter of I Corinthians, verse eighteen. Just a hunch,” he said with modesty.

  “Actually, it’s on the back side of the paper in my hand, if my glasses are on straight. ‘Flee fornication!’ Rupert! He saw Kathleen and whoever she was with! Whomever? Whatever! It’s a clue!”

  “I believe you’re right. But we knew this anyway, didn’t we?”

  Addie nodded. “It’s even more important to find his letter now.”

 

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