The strangled servant, p.10
The Strangled Servant, page 10
“But….?” Poppy said.
“It is the reason I came. I wished to tell you the news myself.”
“Yes?”
“The body found in the carriage is not Miss Pendle.”
“What?” Poppy said. She was playacting now.
“Oh my lord,” her aunt said, “What do you mean it’s not Mary?”
“It’s not her. The woman’s body was identified as Margaret, her maid.”
A muffled sound came from the kitchen.
“Saints preserve us,” Aunt Rachel murmured.
“But that means…Mary isn’t dead,” Poppy said.
“Exactly.”
“Oh, my god!” Aunt Rachel rose. “Poppy, do you realize what this means? You’re innocent, girl, you’re clear! No more suspicion! My god, wait until your uncle hears of this.” She ran from the room.
Poppy and Henry shared a look. They had only moments to themselves. Henry spoke quickly. “I know keeping all this a secret must have been a trying time for you.”
“I am just glad it is in the open now. Do people know?” she asked.
“I have spoken with certain people of the village. But I will make it public as well. I trust it will be common knowledge by tomorrow, it if is not already.”
Poppy sat back. She exhaled, the first sign of relief lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you.”
He said, “Do you understand what this means?”
“I think so. What with Margaret found, Mary is still missing, and soon whoever killed the poor girl will hear of it. Unless it was a madman.”
He shook away that assertion. “It means if they were still after Mary, they will be looking for her too. So we have to find her first.”
“We?”
“I could use your help. I know I asked before, but as her closest friend, you would know her places of refuge. Where would she likely go? Who would she have sought shelter from? Who would she go to for help?”
“Me, I would think.”
“Aside from you.”
“Besides Tom or the Potters…wait, have you asked Tom? He might know.”
“I have spoken with him.”
“Hmmm.” She thought. What of the mysterious Mr. E? Mary’s intended husband? She knew so little of him. What did the E stand for?
“You seem distracted. What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.”
At that moment, they were interrupted by Reverend Greene entering the room. “Is it true? Mary has been found?”
Henry said, “No. Miss Pendle is still missing. The body has been identified as her maid, Margaret.”
“Oh, Poppy,” her uncle breathed. He crossed the room and put a hand on her shoulder. “Our prayers have been answered. Now everyone will know your innocence.”
Henry looked mildly disturbed by this. Poppy wondered why. She said, “I am relieved.”
Henry rose. “We will begin a search party soon, before nightfall. If you can think of anything, anywhere she might go, please contact me. I must take my leave. I will be sure to call again, to discuss any new developments.”
Mr. Greene said, “Oh yes, please do. We will want to know how the search goes for Mary, the poor girl.”
Henry bowed and left. Aunt Rachel came to Poppy, all smiles. “Well did you hear that? Innocent! I always knew the Lord would smile on you.”
“Rachel?” her uncle said.
“It’s true. Mark my words if that man isn’t here again by sundown or earlier, on some other pretext.”
“My love, what do you mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “How can you be so blind, Reginald? He didn’t come here to tell us the news.” She beamed at her niece. “He came here to see Poppy.”
Chapter Thirteen
Poppy smiled thinly. “How droll you are, Aunt. What a notion.”
But her aunt paid her no mind. Instead she leaned and peered through the window, hoping for visitors.
Poppy craved news and hated sitting at home. She read books, sketched pictures of flowers with her pencils and did her needlepoint, which she hated. What was needle and thread compared to murder and corpses?
At one point her uncle came in from visiting the sick in town, and after he hung up his coat on the wall hooks at the entrance, he joined her and her aunt in the sitting room. Aunt Rachel looked up from her needlepoint and called, “Reginald, what news from the village?”
He said, “Nothing more than we know already. This murder of Mary is the most exciting thing they’ve had to talk about for ages. All anyone wants to hear about is Poppy and whether she killed her poor friend. I am sick of it.”
He came into the room and stopped short. “Oh. Forgive me, Poppy. I should not have spoken—”
“Please do not trouble yourself, Uncle,” she said, “I am fine.”
She lied. Although she dared not admit it to her aunt and uncle, Poppy was thankful that her injured foot prevented her from attending church. It was really the only reason her uncle would excuse her. But as she sat at home, her foot propped up on a pillow on the pale green sofa, she put down her book. She couldn’t help but feel conflicted.
Her last words to Mary were ones of hate. She had never actually meant to say she would kill her, but the words had slipped out. And now the entire town had heard them, repeated and exaggerated again and again from countless gossiping tongues. She hated the very thought that the town would use Mary’s and her argument as a conversation piece.
She glared at her book. It was a book of Fordyce’s Sermons for young women, produced more than ten years ago. How this man had any notion of producing rules for women to follow was beyond her. What she wouldn’t give for a book of verse or a novel! But her uncle expressly forbade such literature, believing them to be objects of fancy that would serve a woman ill, by which he meant that a woman such as herself would get fanciful ideas and only end up in trouble.
Poppy looked out the window. The sun shone on her aunt’s flowers outside and there were chickens to be fed out back, but she couldn’t even do that chore. Thanks to her foot, she felt like a prisoner in her own home. She didn’t need a book to get in trouble, she’d managed that all on her own. She felt so restless, she desperately wanted to get out on her own, even if it was just to take a turn around the garden. Her foot twitched and it hurt. “Ow,” she said aloud.
After church on Sunday, the door to the house opened, and inside flew Aunt Rachel, her face flushed from the warm spring weather outside. “Poppy!” she exclaimed, setting down her white embroidered cloth reticule. She took a seat across from her on the wide sofa and said, “You’ll never believe what happened.” She shook her head. “That constable has done you a great thing. A great thing, mark my words.”
“What happened? Is he all right?”
“Never mind that, he’s fine. He did you a service at church.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well. Once church was almost ended, Reginald asked if anyone had any words or messages they would like to share with the congregation. That constable of yours got up and said that he’d had a message to tell.”
“He did?”
“Oh yes. Everyone was listening. You could hear a pin drop. Even John Elstree’s boy, Timothy, you know, the one who has always got that terrible cough. Even he was holding his breath.”
“What did the constable say?”
“That he’d surveyed the body and the circumstances of Mary’s accident and that the result was foul play, but there is no way you or any other young lady could have done it. And that the girl in the carriage isn’t Mary! It’s her servant girl. You realize what this means?” Aunt Rachel perched on the cushion with bated breath.
“That Mary is still alive. She’s missing.” Poppy said. “We knew that already, he told us.”
Aunt Rachel interrupted, “That’s not the point. It means you are in the clear and everyone knows it. There’s no doubt, not after what he said. Some nasty folk might hold a grudge, but that’s just because they love a bit of gossip and more than a few dislike your uncle, so they might be quite happy to see a bit of foul news came his way. I recall seeing those pickled expressions on the faces of—”
“Aunt Rachel, what did he say? The constable mentioned me by name?” Poppy asked.
“Oh yes. He started off very generally minded at first but then he said he was aware there was some confusion about how you might have been involved, and that him along with the doctor agree there’s no way you could have done it. You’re innocent, my dear, and now everyone knows it,” Aunt Rachel grinned, rubbing her hands together.
“Thank God.”
“You watch your tongue, my girl. No sense in taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“I wasn’t, I was being thankful,” Poppy said.
“All the same, best not mention his name except in prayer. Just because the constable says you’re innocent doesn’t mean people won’t be looking at you with an eye to disapprove. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now we can start preparing,” Aunt Rachel shot her feet. “Betsey!” she called.
“What do you mean? Preparing for what?”
“Visitors of course. Everyone will want to come here and offer their… well. Their opinions about you and the whole horrid situation. Now fix your hair and straighten your dress, we want you looking smart for when the first group arrives.”
At first, Poppy felt relieved she could now re-enter society, but soon came to regret it.
“Mark my words, if that’s not Mrs. Ramsey coming down the walk. Betsey!” she called. “Betsey! Heat some water, quick!”
Poppy made to rise when her aunt said, “Oh no. Don’t move a muscle, dear, it’s you she’s come to see.”
Poppy looked caught.
Her aunt said, “Don’t look so surprised. Get comfortable, Poppy, it’s going to be a long afternoon.”
And it was. Neighbor after neighbor came to hear the news repeated. Many gathered in the small dining room, where the volume of voices soon grew to a low rumble.
All women, no men, came to share the news. The search for Mary had begun. All the visitors affirmed they alone knew Poppy was innocent, of course. They knew she was Mary’s dearest and truest friend.
At these words, Poppy gripped the side of her seat. Their fight was duly ignored and not mentioned. She was the girl of the hour. Everyone was her friend. Some had even brought cake.
Poppy sat through it all, smiling politely and accepting their false assurances for what they were. She maintained a smooth grace, ignoring the fact that a number of these townspeople had refused to look at her when she’d last ventured in public, and a number had ignored her entirely while in church.
So much for friendship, she thought. She missed Tom. And to her surprise, Mary. She disliked all this attention, and wished she could subtly move away from it all. Let Tom and Mary take center stage. She preferred the shadows.
Much to her surprise, Constable Dyngley showed up again. He had taken a place by her left side and was talking when the door opened, and a familiar face popped his head into the sitting room. At the first sight of his artfully disheveled hair, Poppy’s heart stopped. “Tom,” she said.
All the voices quieted. She and Tom were the center of attention. Everyone else was forgotten. The man she’d fallen in love with now stood in the doorway. From the shine of his polished boots to the curl of his hair, he looked every inch the gentleman.
Poppy didn’t care. He only had eyes for her. “Poppy!” he said.
He crossed the room, took her hand, an unexpected familiar gesture, and kissed it.
Two ladies exchanged looks while others pretended to look away. All watched as Tom put on a show. “Oh Poppy. How can you ever forgive me? I doubted you.”
She felt tears come to her eyes. It was true and she knew it.
“My dearest friend, forgive me. I am nothing. I was weak. Oh Poppy, will you, can you ever forgive me? Say you will.” He knelt by her, closer than what was proper, unless they were family or a courting couple.
A sense of unease filled her. In the shadow of Mary and Tom, she’d come to grow up preferring to be eclipsed by her friends’ outgoing personalities. She had already forgiven Tom, a thousand times, but at that moment, she could not shake the feeling he was acting.
He knew she disliked public displays of affection, and yet here he was, putting her at the center of it. Mary was a better foil for him, not her. She preferred to be a backdrop in their drama.
“It is nothing Tom, what is that between friends?” she smiled.
“We are more than that, I hope,” he said.
Three of the visiting ladies exchanged glances at this. Constable Dyngley uttered a sound of disgust.
Poppy looked down at her hand, which he still held. She tugged it away slightly and placed it in her lap.
“Miss Morton, you look as if you need a change of climate. Let me escort you to the door for some air,” Constable Dyngley said, holding out his hand.
“Oh no, my good man, you will be too rough with her. Let me,” Tom said.
Three of the visiting ladies exchanged glances at this. Poppy’s cheeks turned pink. What was he doing saying such things?
“But Poppy, what has happened? You have hurt yourself,” Tom said, noticing her foot for the first time.
“Oh. I was walking in the woods and stumbled upon—a sharp rock,” she said. “It is nothing, the doctor said I’ll be fine in a day or so.”
“Hmm,” Tom said. “Would that I had known sooner I would never have left your side. Isn’t that right, ladies?”
A chorus of replies agreed. He rewarded them with a smile.
“You see, Poppy? We are all friends here.”
Except they weren’t and she knew it. One of the ladies took that opportunity to ask, “Was it very bad?”
“What do you mean?”
“What Mary said to you the night before she died.”
“We don’t know that she is dead. She’s somewhere. She might be alive. It’s her maid who was found.”
“But you don’t know if Mary is alive or dead. Do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Poppy is innocent, we all know that. If she did know where Mary was, do you think she’d be here?” Tom shot the girl a look.
The girl said, “But she might be lying somewhere…”
Poppy blinked back tears. “I…” the very thought filled her with dread. She didn’t know how much more of this she could stand.
“How could you say such a thing? Can’t you see my Poppy’s been through enough?” Tom said.
“I heard Mary went back to London,” another girl said.
“No, the Potters would have said,” said another.
“I heard she has a lover,” a lone voice added.
“Hush,” Tom turned to Poppy. “Some people will just believe anything they hear.” He patted her hand.
She removed her hand from his, disliking his familiarity. It was forward, and in public, too. She shifted uncomfortably and said, “It is nothing. I am just concerned for Mary. Wherever she might have gone, I hope she is safe.”
Murmurs of agreement answered this. More than one lady fanned herself, for the room, however airy, was now cramped with Tom, Poppy, Aunt Rachel, and six visitors. It had now become uncomfortably warm.
“Why aren’t you with the search party?” Constable Dyngley asked Tom.
His smile hardened a fraction. “I might ask you the same thing. I daresay there are enough men out there looking for her. Mr. Potter is very determined and even my old school fellow Neville has joined the search. I wished to visit Poppy first, before I hunted for Mary. I dread finding her. I am afraid I shall find her dead, and I could not stand the sight of her if I did. I think my heart would stop.”
One girl sat next to him exhaled. She practically hung on his every word.
Constable Dyngley rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, I must get back to the others.”
“Oh please, don’t go,” Poppy said.
“I’m afraid I must. You don’t need me.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Tom said.
The men faced each other, and for a second, Poppy wondered if they might fight. Then a heartbeat passed, and Dyngley bowed curtly to her and left without a word. He quit the room and the front door slammed shut. The ladies present laughed nervously.
“That constable, he’s a dreary fellow,” Tom remarked. “He is bungling this search, mark my words. I offered my assistance but the man wanted to lead the expedition. I told him I knew every inch of these woods, but he said it was no trouble. Now I find he was spending his time here. Not so devoted to his search as I thought.”
“I am sure he just wished to pay his respects,” Poppy said.
“Was he very wicked to you?” Martha asked.
“Eh?” Poppy said.
“The constable. Oh, he’s handsome,” another girl said. “Don’t say you haven’t noticed.”
“Why no, I….” Poppy looked away.
“But he’s so attractive! I would love to be questioned by him, but upon my word I don’t know how I could keep a straight face. He’s so serious.” She laughed, and the others joined in.
Poppy smiled thinly.
“Do you think he fancies coming here?” one girl asked. “I heard he comes here often.”
“He tells us the latest in the search for Mary. That’s all,” Poppy said. Seeing their looks, she added, “You cannot be so droll as to think he has any other reason for coming.”
Tom laughed, “No indeed. You may not be a beauty, but the goodness of your heart outshines us all.”
Two of the girls exchanged glances and the ladies all smiled. Poppy’s was bittersweet.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day was a quiet one. Poppy half-wondered if perhaps the earth knew that they were mourning the departed, and so the tree branches swayed and the skies turned dark overhead with unshed tears. The sky was that dingy white grey before a storm, and being the month of March, the ground was damp from springtime showers.
