“What did Miss Morton do?”

  “She was in such a temper. She cursed like a mad woman. It was quite the scandal. I tell you, clergyman’s niece or not, how she can show her face around town I don’t know. The girl has no decency. She ought to give herself up. She’s not welcome around here, I can tell you that.”

  “What then? Did she come after Mary?”

  “No, not then. Later.”

  “What? You saw her?”

  “She tried to corner Mary as she left, but she wasn’t having it, which I completely understand. No girl wants to be friends with someone so jealous. A horrible girl, Poppy. And poor Mary in tears and everything.” She shook her head. “Such a scandal.”

  Henry couldn’t figure out which she enjoyed more, talking of the scandal or disliking Poppy.

  He didn’t care for this woman at all, and couldn’t wait to leave, but made himself stay for more. The slightest hint, an improper word, the wrong gesture could betray a person. He sat poised in his seat.

  “So you took Miss Pendle home?”

  “What? No, we didn’t go home until later. Poor Tom tried to console Mary, but she was too heartbroken, she wouldn’t speak to him either, poor girl. She left and when we got home, the carriage was gone! Who’s going to pay for a new one? That’s what I want to know.”

  “But you have your carriage back. It was returned to you.”

  “But it’s damaged, that’s what. You should’ve seen the state it was returned in.”

  “A mess,” Mr. Potter said.

  “Aye, that’s right, George. A mess,” Mrs. Potter said.

  “Did Miss Pendle say she was going?”

  “No, but she could only have gone home, there was nowhere else for her to go. She left. Can’t say I blame her. Would you want to stay when someone had just acted so beastly toward you? And in public?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly.” She looked at him. “When are you taking her away? Will she be put away?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Poppy. Mary’s killer. How are you letting her walk free?”

  “We don’t know she did it,” her husband said.

  “For goodness sake, George, be quiet. Who else would wish Mary harm? We all saw them on Friday. Only one around here with a dislike of Mary is Poppy, and that’s that.”

  “Why are you so certain she is behind this?” Henry asked.

  She looked at him as if he were stupid. “Because I did hear one thing. We all did,” she said, a smile growing on her face, “Poppy told her she’d kill her.”

  Chapter Eight

  Henry couldn’t believe it. Poppy, a murderer? He’d sooner believe his hair would turn green. But a threat was just as good as committing a crime in some people’s minds, especially in a small town like this with little to do.

  He looked at Mrs. Potter. “What would you say their relationship was?”

  “Her and Poppy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mary always treated her kindly. Poppy had all sorts of rough, country ways, and Mary did her best to improve her.” She fanned herself and idly scratched her chin.

  Rough country ways, indeed, Henry thought.

  “Much good it did her.” Mrs. Potter continued, “I always knew she had a bad heart, that Poppy. I never liked seeing the girls together. No good will come of it, didn’t I say that George?”

  Her husband grunted as he focused his attention to the newspaper.

  “Mrs. Potter, may I see Miss Pendle’s room?”

  Mrs. Potter froze. “What?”

  “Her room. She may have left some clue as to her last thoughts before she left.”

  “Uhh, no.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “No. You see, she never brought much with her when she came to stay anyway and really it’s the servant’s room. There’s nothing of Mary’s in it.”

  He leaned forward, interested. “You mean she brought nothing with her this trip?”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s… What it is, you see, we moved Mary’s things into our room. But it’s nothing that would interest you, it’s just some dresses and petticoats.”

  “Surely I can have a quick look? I won’t disturb anything.”

  She held a hand to her matronly chest. “And have a man paw through my niece’s things? God rest her soul, she didn’t die just to have that. No, absolutely not.”

  “For shame,” her husband said.

  “For shame, indeed,” she chorused, fixing Henry with an evil eye.

  Henry sat up straight. She’d caught him there. Now it would only seem improper were he to push the issue.

  “It is out of the question. And besides, we’re flat out since our servant ran off.”

  “One of your servants left you? Without a reference?”

  “Yes, and may she rot. I’d never have thought she would be so irresponsible, but you know how these young girls are…”

  “When did she run away?” Henry asked.

  “The night of the dance. She was meant to come with us and instead when we returned she’d gone. All of her things too, so I know she didn’t mean to come back.”

  “Of course. What maid would that be?”

  “Margaret. But you can’t talk to her, she’s—”

  Dead, Henry thought.

  “Long gone. She’s been with us for years, and was very devoted to Mary.”

  “How good to have such devoted servants,” Henry said. “And you had no notion of her leaving?”

  “None at all. She didn’t say a word. And I pride myself, we treat all our servants like family. If one of them had an issue, we would sort it, wouldn’t we George?”

  “Like family,” he said, turning a page in his paper.

  Henry took his leave, much to Mrs. Potter’s relief. As he made his goodbyes, he surveyed the room for a few seconds more. He walked down the steps of the Potter household with consternation in his heart.

  At that moment, he knew three things. First, Mrs. Potter had lied to him. That much was clear. Second, he thought Mrs. Potter knew exactly where her maid was going that night, or she would have mentioned it days earlier and caused a fuss. And third, unless he was mistaken, there were two sets of embroidery in that room, but only one woman.

  Who did the second set of embroidery belong to?

  Chapter Nine

  Poppy was dissatisfied. She disliked her plain looks, her aunt’s desperate hopes for her future, the inevitable disappointment that was to follow, and for liking the constable against her better judgement. He was so charming, and he didn’t seem to mind her speaking her opinion. She almost felt his equal.

  But these were silly thoughts, and she felt guilty for not thinking of poor Tom and Mary instead. What had been an inseparable friendship had now been irrevocably broken. Mary had seen to that.

  Later that day her uncle received a letter. Her aunt asked, “Who is it from?”

  “The Bertrams.” But as he read on, his face clouded.

  “Oh, good. It has been a few weeks since we’ve been invited to dinner,” Aunt Rachel said.

  Her uncle crumpled the letter in his hand and dropped it to the floor.

  “What is it? No invitation?”

  “It is nothing. Nothing of consequence.”

  Her aunt exchanged a look with her uncle. “Poppy, I wonder if you might pick some flowers from the garden for the table. They’ll look so pretty in here.”

  “A fine idea,” her uncle said.

  Poppy rose and quit the room, exiting to the hallway. She took an apron that hung on a wooden peg by the entrance and began to put it on when she heard her uncle say, “Thomas Bertram invites us to dinner.”

  “How wonderful! What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I shall not respond.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “They intimated in their letter that they did not have sufficient space for all of our family to attend, only yourself and I.”

  “What?”

  “They mean to exclude Poppy. They do not wish to be seen entertaining her,” he practically spat.

  Poppy let out a little breath and leaned a hand against the wall. It was her fault Mary had gone. And now thanks to her, her family was bearing the brunt of their neighbors’ displeasure. She opened the door without a sound and went to pick some flowers.

  Days passed, and it was another week before the family received any more invitations to dinner. What had become a weekly occasion and expectation was now a stirring reminder of Poppy’s uncertain status in the town.

  Poppy weeded the garden, did her chores, but could not answer the question plaguing her mind, why had Tom turned from her? Tom, whom she had known for years and who she’d trusted with all her childish and adolescent fancies? He had been her only friend growing up, and now he acted like a stranger to her.

  Unease struck her at the thought of him. He was so handsome and yet the stern look he’d given her at church, it had sent a chill through her.

  Could he just throw away their relationship in an instant? Had it meant nothing to him? Could he be so heartless?

  That was not the Tom she knew. He was no doubt being poisoned by the malicious gossips around him and felt too heartsick about Mary to think clearly. That left just one thing to do: she must go and see him.

  She rose, put on her bonnet and pelisse, and left the house. She walked along the familiar path, down the wooded road that gradually led to town, and turned off before then, nearing the Maddox household. With each step, she felt lighter. It felt good to be doing something.

  Tom was the eldest son, who had recently returned from university, much to the delight of the ladies. With his charm and good looks, he was the talk of the village. Used to being in polite and overly feminine society he had polished his skills in the act of pleasing, making him a most desirable companion and acquaintance to any woman in town.

  It was, however, the worst kept secret that Poppy loved him. Just as Mary had said.

  Popped admired him like all the others but she had an unspoken claim on his affections, for she had loved him since they were children, when he was still a tall, gangly child with knobby knees. She had admired him long before he had become the most handsome, eligible bachelor he was now.

  She had fed his vanity, she knew that. But he was ever humble and such a close friend, and that was what she needed right now. She wanted her confidant and missed being in the presence of the man she loved.

  She simply missed him.

  But as she walked along the dusty path to his family’s house, something told her to be wary. A sense of unease filled her.

  She walked quietly around the side of the house and was just passing by an open window when she heard, “I don’t know how you tolerated her for so long. Tell us, did you ever suspect she had such a nature?”

  Tom’s voice hit her ears. “What, of a murderess? God, no. She fooled me completely. And Mary, too…” he sniffed. “She was so sad, I should have seen her behavior was hiding some secret passion.”

  “Do you think she always planned to kill Mary over you?” another voice asked.

  Poppy’s mouth dropped open.

  “Of course not! She’s a just a foolish girl, she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Except…” Tom started.

  “We all heard her. She threatened Mary,” a young woman said.

  “How could you be friends with her?” another girl asked.

  Tom sighed. “She was like a dog, always wanting attention. And I’m so kind. I couldn’t help but be nice to her.”

  “So you never knew she was a murderer?”

  “No. Do you really think I would have been seen with her if I’d known?”

  The ladies laughed.

  Poppy stood, frozen. Could this be true? Was this really Tom? The man she loved? How could he say such things?

  She started to move away when something kept her there.

  Tom said, “It was so odious, being her friend. But I felt pity for her, she had no one. She would tell me every little thing about her. So dull.” He laughed.

  Her cheeks were wet. Poppy brushed away tears and kept listening.

  Tom continued, “Mary knew she was envious of us, but what did that matter? We were in love.”

  One of the women sighed. “Do you miss her?”

  “Poppy? No.”

  “No, Mary.” A giggle sounded.

  “Oh. Yes, with all my heart. If she were still alive we would be planning our wedding now.” His voice caught.

  “You poor thing. And Poppy had no idea?”

  “No. We couldn’t bear to tell her. Poor Poppy was so generous with her feeling, we felt it would be best to tell her after the dancing. But Mary was so excited when I proposed, she just couldn’t help herself. And what with Poppy being her best friend…” he stifled a sob, or it might have been a laugh.

  She could hardly believe her ears.

  “I don’t blame Mary for telling her. None of us knew Poppy would react in such a way.”

  “And what did she say, again?”

  “Mary told her we were to be married, and to congratulate her. It was to be her happiest moment, marrying me, but then Poppy said, ‘No. It cannot be. He’s mine!’”

  “No. Did she really?” a woman asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “‘He’s mine, I loved him first!’ She was so angry. Mary felt out of sorts. But the damage had been done, so what could she say? She couldn’t take it back.”

  “What did Poppy say?”

  “She said, ‘Leave him alone or I’ll kill you! He’s mine!’”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” he said excitedly. “I heard it with my own eyes. Or saw it. You know what I mean.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “Poppy started screaming and Mary felt insulted. It was like a mouse attacking a cat. It was—”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Public,” said another.

  “Disgraceful,” said Tom. “As I was saying, Poppy started, but Mary isn’t one to back down from a fight. So of course she defended herself, but Poppy couldn’t stand it. Her face was as red as an apple and she said those horrid words,” he paused.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll kill you!” he said.

  “Oh!” some of the ladies gasped, some tittered, and some broke out into small spatters of applause.

  “So lifelike,” one said.

  “So real,” said another, “It’s just like her.”

  “Mmmm,” the others murmured in agreement.

  Poppy uttered a small cry of disgust.

  “Did you hear that?” one woman said.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Tom said.

  “It sounded like it came from outside.”

  “A cat, probably.”

  Another murmur, and more talk as Poppy slipped away, quiet as a mouse. She felt heartsick.

  She walked back the way she came, coming to the main road. How could Tom, her Tom, say such things? She had to know for sure.

  She had to see him alone. But how?

  She also knew at least one thing. Almost every word of his account was a lie.

  Chapter Ten

  Henry decided the best thing to do would be to go back to the scene of the crime. His mind had become befuddled with suspects, and he wanted to clear his head. He rode out to the grove where the carriage had overturned and took note of his surroundings.

  Some trees had fallen over due to the storm, and the area was messy and overgrown with fallen branches and torn up leaves. He walked over to the ground. The dirt held deep grooves from where the spokes of the carriage had overturned and dug into the earth. But it had rained that night. Likely the carriage would have stuck in the mud.

  He walked up and down the road and surveyed the grass. What would have prompted Mary’s maid to leave on such a rainy night, and what made the carriage overturn? Furthermore, it would have been driven by a coachman. Where was he?

  He closed his eyes and tried to recall the scene. That night he had been awoken from his bed by his valet, Geoffrey, who said Mr. Crabbe was at the door. Crabbe had entered, soaking wet, and said in a shaking voice that there’d been an accident. Henry had followed him out to the grove, braving the slick treacherous roads, to discover the carriage overturned and at least one horse dead.

  Another struggled in the mud, straining against its reins to be freed. He’d released the horse himself, but it was lame, and hobbled off in pain. Crabbe had led it to a tree while Geoffrey ran for men from the village.

  Henry heard the panting of the horse, and the patter of rain on the carriage side and doors.

  He had climbed up and flung open the carriage door. He forever wished to forget what greeted his eyes.

  A body lay twisted against the window. An arm was flung half-in and half-out of broken glass. Blood trailed down the pale arm, which had been exposed by the torn cloth sleeve, cut by broken glass in the accident.

  The girl’s blonde curls lay against her cheek, white as a ghost. A light purple shawl with shining gold threads had been twisted savagely around her neck. She did not move, and she gave him a lifeless stare.

  Constable Dyngley climbed down to the carriage floor and gently tried to wake her. “Miss? Miss?” The coldness of her limbs told him he was wasting his breath.

  He held in his arms a dead woman.

  He felt a pang of sorrow for this girl, whoever she was. To die alone in such a way was horrible, especially for one so young. He lifted her body free of the wreckage as the men from the village came. One of them said, holding a lantern aloft, “I know that carriage. It’s the Potters’.”

  Another said, “What’s that doing here?”

  The men watched Henry lift the girl’s body from the carriage. Out of respect for the dead he covered her face with the purple shawl that hung around her neck.

  “Who is that?” a man asked.

  “A young woman,” Henry said.

  “Only one girl it could be, traveling in that carriage at this time of night.”

 

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