The strangled servant, p.3
The Strangled Servant, page 3
Poppy bit her lip. She had not thought of that.
“And there’s the doctor’s bill you’ll have to pay, too. Miss Pendle was covered with glass and blood when Poppy had finished with her.” Mr. Jenkins smirked.
“I say,” Mr. Greene said, glaring at the deputy.
Constable Dyngley cleared his throat. “Yes, well. The news of the girls’ disagreement is already well known. I gather their exchange was quite public. I must take action before the villagers decide on their own version of events.”
Her uncle pushed his spectacles up higher on his nose. “Very well. But you’ll not question her alone. Not without myself present, or her aunt.”
“I am content with that.”
Poppy came back and sat beside her uncle on the pale green sofa, facing the constable. Mr. Jenkins’ piggish eyes rested on her as he stood by. She tried not to squirm beneath his gaze.
An uncomfortable silence settled upon the group, heavy as any London fog. Poppy felt numb and didn’t know what to do.
“Betsey, on second thought, make up the fire, please,” her uncle said.
The girl set to work. Soon the room brightened considerably, but the tension remained.
The moment Betsey left, Poppy asked, “What happened?”
Mr. Jenkins crossed his arms. “We’ll be asking the questions.”
Her uncle’s voice was hard. “Look here. You’re acting as though Poppy is a criminal. I will not have her treated so here in my house. If you cannot be civil, then I must ask you to leave.”
Mr. Jenkins looked defiant, but the constable muttered, “Go. Wait for me outside.”
“In the rain?”
Constable Dyngley’s expression was answer enough. Mr. Jenkins stalked out, glaring at the reverend and Poppy before he left. The front door opened and banged shut.
“That man is impertinent,” her uncle said.
“That man is my deputy,” Constable Dyngley grunted.
Poppy set aside the twisted handkerchief before she tore it to ribbons. “What did you wish to ask me?”
Constable Dyngley cleared his throat. “I would like you to account for your whereabouts yesterday evening.”
She paused.
Her uncle said, “Go on, child. You have nothing to hide.”
She took a deep breath. “We were at the public assembly, at the dance. I was with Mary and Tom.”
“Tom…?”
“Thomas Maddox. We are all friends.” She cursed her blushing cheeks. “We’ve known each other since we were children, Tom and I.”
“It’s true,” her uncle said.
“We were at the dance, and everything was fine. Tom and Mary disappeared for a while, and then…” She didn’t want to think about what had happened next. It was too painful, raw, and far too public. She met the constable’s watchful gaze. “We had a disagreement.”
“Ah.” He sat back on the settee.
“It’s why we came home so early.”
“What was the nature of your disagreement?” Constable Dyngley asked gently.
Poppy eyed the constable. His face was handsome, all strong angles and dark eyes that shone. He looked trustworthy.
She said, “It was stupid. It all seems so petty now. How did she die?”
The constable glanced at her uncle before saying, “It was an accident. Her carriage overturned, the horses became spooked by the storm perhaps. She did not survive.”
His voice sounded quiet in the still of the room. The rain outside had stopped its fury and lessened to a light tapping against the windowpanes.
“What did you do after the fight?” he asked her.
“My aunt and uncle took me home, and I went to bed. Why?”
Her uncle asked, “What of Mary’s family? Have you told the Potters?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here? You already said it was a carriage accident.”
“The first few moments and recollections are often the most important. The problem, Miss Morton, is that we knew about your argument with Miss Pendle before we came here. A large number of the town’s residents witnessed your exchange.” The constable said. “Miss Pendle became injured from the broken doors and she went home. But after that, no one seems to have seen her.”
Poppy tensed.
“That, with the discovery of your friend’s body by what appears to be a carriage accident, makes you our primary suspect.”
“Me? But I didn’t do anything.”
“No, Constable, you are mistaken. This cannot be,” her uncle said.
“It is true, Mr. Greene. Half the town witnessed the fight between the two girls. It gives Miss Morton a motive for wishing to harm the girl.”
“An argument does not make my niece a killer!”
“No, but she is implicated. And there is evidence found at the scene which suggests your niece was present, sir.”
“What evidence? Show me,” her uncle said.
“I regret I cannot. I do not have it with me.”
“At least tell us what this evidence is, or who is saying these things against her.”
Poppy bristled at the men talking about her as if she wasn’t present. “Who?”
“Not who, but what, Miss Morton. Tell me, did you wear a light purple shawl to the dance?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And where is it now?”
“In my room.”
“Would you fetch it for me, please?”
“Of course.” She hurried and dashed up the stairs and turned left, down the shadowy corridor to her room, approaching the chair by her writing desk. The shawl he spoke of was a fine lavender wool, a gift from Mary with her initials embroidered in gold thread in one of the corners. But where was it? She searched along the floor, on the chair, on the desk, on her bed, even under it.
She returned to the drawing-room in a daze. “It’s missing. My shawl is gone.”
“Where did you put it?” her uncle asked.
“I was sure I left it on the back of my chair last night when we returned home. But I looked, and now it’s gone.”
The constable frowned. “I thought as much.” He rose, signaling an end to their unhappy meeting. He addressed her uncle, “Thank you for your time.”
Her uncle fetched the man’s hat and cloak. Alone for the moment, the constable gave Poppy a long glance, his dark eyes watching her. He left a minute later.
While her uncle returned to his room to sleep, Poppy sat awake, staring out her bedroom window. Her best friend was dead. Was it all her fault?
Chapter Three
Armed with good breeding and a firm resolve, Poppy and her uncle called at the Potters, who could not believe the news.
Mrs. Potter, a large woman with red cheeks and an ample bosom, greeted Mr. Greene with a smile but withered at the sight of Poppy. Ushered into their small drawing-room, Mrs. Potter informed them she was miserable. “How could this happen to our dear niece? Our Mary? And that dreary constable and his man, calling here in the middle of the night!”
She sat down and conveniently forgot to offer them tea. Mrs. Potter blew her nose into a thin white handkerchief and narrowed her eyes at Poppy. “And how are you taking the news? Your great friend, gone.”
Poppy sniffed. A part of her couldn’t believe it was true, and she said so.
“Nor can I,” Mrs. Potter wiped her nose. “It is too cruel to think she’s been taken from us.”
“But what I cannot understand is why she was out there in the first place. What was she doing outside in the middle of the night? She hated the rain.”
Mrs. Potter scratched at her frilly white mob cap. “I can only think it must have had something to do with the words you girls said at the assembly rooms.”
“You think so?” Poppy’s voice was small.
“Yes, I do. And it weren’t no kind words you said to her either. It’s enough to make any girl want to run away. You frightened her terribly.”
Poppy was taken aback. Mary’s insults felt branded into her skull.
“Mrs. Potter…” her uncle began.
“It’s no good protecting her. She’s no angel, even living under your roof, Mr. Greene. The whole town heard them fighting.”
“I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”
Their hostess rose indignantly. “You’re saying it was a misunderstanding that killed my niece? Cause it weren’t that, she died of a broken heart. She told me herself.”
“What?”
“Aye, she comes crying her eyes out and says to me, ‘Aunt Dorothy, I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t be friends with a girl like Poppy. She’s so unfeeling, she’s not the girl I thought she was.’ Or somelike.”
“I’m sorry…” Poppy started.
“You’re sorry? Is that all you have to say?” Mrs. Potter’s voice was icy.
“Mrs. Potter, please,” her uncle rose to his feet. “I understand your displeasure, but I am sure that what the girls said had nothing to do with Mary’s death.”
She snapped, “And I’m supposed to accept that? What am I going to tell Mary’s mother? My dearest girl is dead because of your ward. But just because Poppy here says she’s sorry, that’s supposed to make it all better?”
His tone was solemn. “We came here to visit and offer comfort, not to be attacked. We will leave.”
“That’s not going to bring back my girl.” Mrs. Potter’s mob cap trembled beneath her frizzy hair. “Perhaps you’d better go.”
Poppy got to her feet as Mrs. Potter glared at her. “And you, you look all meek, but I know better. Mary is dead, and if you hadn’t said those horrible words to her last night she might still be alive.”
Poppy stared at her. This, from the woman she had known for years as a kindly neighbor.
“This is all your fault, and that’s the Lord’s truth.” The older woman crossed herself. “Enough. Get out, the both of you. I can’t stand the sight of you.”
Poppy followed her uncle outside, hot tears dripping down her cheeks. “I don’t understand. It’s like she’s a different person. I thought she liked me. Mary and I spent hours in her kitchen.”
“People can change sometimes after the death of a loved one. She’s mourning,” her uncle offered her his arm as they walked down the dirt path from the Potters’ house, but Poppy instead reached for the handkerchief tucked away in her slim cloth reticule. As her fingers touched the delicate embroidered cloth, she started. That handkerchief was not her own.
“What is it, Poppy?” her uncle asked.
“She hates me.”
“She’s grieving. People can be unkind when their loved ones die. It doesn’t excuse her behavior toward you, but it is understandable.”
“But what if other people believe it? What if others think I had something to do with Mary’s death?”
His bright blue eyes smiled at her. “Mary’s accident is a sad event, but it in no way implicates you. Everyone knows you as my niece. You are a good girl. You have had a respectable upbringing in my household. No one in their right mind would believe you were a murderer.”
The next morning Poppy, her Aunt Rachel, and Betsey walked out to the center of town. Hertford could not boast a twelfth-century cathedral like St. Albans, and it was not so grand as Hatfield, with its majestic deer park and medieval royal connections. But the neighboring villages of Tewin, Hertford Heath, Bengeo, and Ware gathered together like old friends and met at Hertford, for that was the beating heart of them all.
Poppy couldn’t say which feature of the market town she loved the most. It might be the trio of black bulls that grazed in the field nearby, the wild egrets and white-billed coots that inhabited the stream on the walk into town, or the grounds of Hertford Castle, where she might spy the family of ducks that had no cares for polite society and crashed into the pond with incredibly loud splashes.
But such peaceful pastoral pleasures eluded her that day, and the ladies beat a hasty retreat from the marketplace, not uttering a word until they were safely behind the closed doors of the parsonage.
Aunt Rachel strode into the blue sitting room and threw her bonnet to the floor. “The village has gone completely mad. Never have I met such uncharitable characters in all my life.”
Uncle Reginald looked up from his newspaper. “What happened?”
“We went to the butcher’s, and Stephen Hatchett refused to serve me. Made me wait until he’d served all the other women first, and then he said he was all out of beef when I know he had some fillets in the back. I demanded he sell them to me, and do you know what he said?”
“No.”
“He looks straight at me and says, ‘I don’t serve killers or the folks that house ’em.’ Can you believe it? I told him that the only killer here is him for ruining his own business. Well, that ended it, so now we have no beef, and we’ll have to go to the next town for our meat. All because he is a stubborn prig of a man.” She sat on a hard wooden chair with a squeak and spared a thought for Poppy, who loitered in the doorway. “Don’t worry, dear. This will pass.”
Poppy hid her expression by fiddling with the tangled strings of her bonnet.
Her aunt continued, “You should have heard the things they were saying, Reginald. Horrible. Acting like Poppy did the poor girl in herself. Uncharitable if you ask me.”
“Rachel, please. This will pass like you said. It gives them something to talk about.”
“I’m not so sure. This wasn’t idle gossip. This was mean. Spiteful.”
“At least they are talking. Tell me when they stop talking and then we’ll worry.”
“Why is that?” Betsey called from the dining room.
“Because then they will have closed their hearts to us. And smoothing away sand is easier than chipping away stone.”
Her aunt huffed. “Fine words, but that doesn’t change the fact they are behaving beastly toward us. Laura Carter actually asked if I knew Poppy was planning to kill Mary.”
“I trust you answered her sensibly.”
“Of course, but it doesn’t stop them. The rumors get worse with every word.”
Poppy fled upstairs to her room. But even in the quiet of her bedroom, the air was stifling. She couldn’t breathe.
She removed her bonnet and coat and put on a white apron over her sky-blue housedress. She slipped outside, seeking the privacy of their small vegetable garden behind the house.
The sun blinded her. In her haste to be outside, she had forgotten her bonnet. But no matter. At least here she was alone, away from gossip. She bent to her knees, pulling up weeds from around the potatoes. It gave her a small amount of satisfaction, doing something productive.
Gardeners couldn’t be killers, could they?
She heard a man’s footsteps behind her. No doubt it was Tom. Finally, he had come to see her, she was sure of it. He would tell her he was so sorry about everything that had happened and say it would be okay. She turned around.
“Miss Morton.” The constable held up a hand in greeting. “Constable Dyngley.”
She shielded her eyes from the sun. “Oh, hello.” Her heart beat rapidly. “Constable, I did not expect you.”
“I would have called at the house, but I saw you leave and turn in this direction. May I join you?”
She gestured to the nearest spot of green grass beside her. He sat, and she noticed he was all long limbs, with a slim, muscular body that hinted at a wiry strength.
She continued her weeding. The sun beat down on her hair, but she didn’t mind. It gave her something to think about, rather than Mary’s cold corpse.
He watched her for a time. “I did not know you were a gardener.”
“I’m not, but I need something to do. I think it was a colonel who said, ‘Give me some useful employment or I will go mad.’”
He smiled. “And are all clergyman’s nieces such fans of novels?”
“When we can be. When not suffering through more of Fordyce’s sermons.”
He laughed, and she turned away. She shouldn’t be smiling at all.
“Constable, the butcher refused to serve my aunt today.”
“Oh? And what has that to do with me?”
“It’s all my fault.”
“Why is that? Did you insult him on his cut of lamb?” He grinned.
“He thinks I killed Mary.”
His smile faltered. “Did you?”
She glared at him.
“Peace, Miss Morton. No woman of quality could have done such a thing.” His dark eyes were kind.
She blushed. “I thank you, but what do you mean? Have you ruled me out as a suspect?”
“I have not decided yet. I must investigate everyone, including you.”
She looked away.
“Miss Morton, Miss Pendle’s injuries were of such a nature that I confess, I came here with a mind to ask you as her friend, to come with me and view her body. If you could but help me identify her, it would be useful. You would know if anything on her person had been disturbed.” He tore a piece of grass from the earth and flung it away. “Will you help me? I know you are just a woman, but you are at the heart of this ghastly business. It seems only right I should include you in the affairs, rather than keep you in the dark.” His hands were still, waiting.
“No,” she told him.
“No? But I thought…”
She bristled at his casual dismissal of her sex and sat on the grass beside him. “You ask my assistance, yet all the while I continue to be suspected by everyone and my family suffers the scorn and condemnation of our peers, all because of a rumor. This is no proper work for a woman, you said so yourself.”
He removed his charcoal gray hat and ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. “I admit it, but I cannot find Mary’s mother to ask her herself. The closest thing is Mr. and Mrs. Potter, but they nearly had a fit when I asked them to view the body. Mrs. Potter started crying and nearly fainted. If I hadn’t left, I think Mr. Potter would have tried to throw me out.”
She smiled at the thought. Mr. Potter had lived a sedentary life for as long as she had known him. Now in his seventies, in her mind, he was bordering on infirm. “Why me?”
“The young ladies I know tire of sitting indoors all day and wasting their hours embroidering. I thought perhaps this might serve as a diversion and make use of your knowledge of Mary.”
