The Green Remains (21 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My senses.”

— John Keats,
Ode to a Nightingale

3:10
PM

Simon admired the stained glass window high over the chapel’s altar as the choir sang the opening hymn. The sun was at the right angle to cast a purple-and-gold beam onto the brass plaque that adorned Keith’s coffin. The oak and bronze casket at the head of the main aisle rested on a catafalque covered in royal blue with gold bullion edging and the Clarendon crest embroidered in gold. As he followed the service in the prayer book, Simon’s eyes started to close. He hadn’t been sleeping well since Keith died, which was no surprise, and trying to keep some semblance of normality in his life was proving harder than he’d thought it would be. He’d assumed working with Nora while he kept painting would be enough to distract him from the looming thought that he was a suspect in Keith Clarendon’s murder. He worried about the effect this was having on the lodge business, too, even though he was the first to admit he wasn’t as good at business as Kate.

  Dear Kate. He hated that this had spread to her relationship with Ian. He wanted fiercely to believe that their broken engagement was a momentary glitch. When he’d assured Nora of that thought, he realized he’d been reassuring himself.

  Nora presented her own complicated line of thinking for him. He needed to support her as best he could while she finished this pregnancy and launched the book series, her new career. He worried, too, about her impulsive streak, but he’d tried to stop thinking about the nature of their personal life. They didn’t have one, beyond being close, caring friends. Months ago, he’d promised to act as a father to her baby—if she would let him. That idea seemed far-fetched to him now, between her firm independence and her inability to focus on a relationship. He understood the reason, but he also knew feelings were fluid. He hoped hers might change once the baby was born and he could play an active role with the child. That’s assuming he wasn’t locked away for Keith Clarendon’s murder.

  Basil was in high form, Simon decided, focusing on the vicar’s oratory on the important points of Keith’s brief life, including his scholastic and sports achievements. Simon stole a glance at Nora, who listened intently, a slight frown between her eyebrows. She remained a remarkable person to him. Twice now, she’d been brushed by death in the form of murder, and both times she’d handled herself with strength and grace. Another person wouldn’t have visited the family at home nor attended the funeral of a casual acquaintance, especially when both events had to remind her of the ghastly way she’d stumbled upon Keith’s body. And all while she was heavily pregnant.

  No, Nora was one tough cookie. If he could keep her from intruding into Keith’s investigation to clear his own name, he could worry less. On his side was the knowledge he had nothing to do with Keith’s death. He believed Ian would eventually clear him and find the real culprit. It was sit-and-wait time, but one thing Nora didn’t do well was sit and wait.

*

3:45
PM

Nora realized the vicar had stopped speaking. She brought her attention back to the service. The shuffling and coughs that accompanied the vicar as he sat down ceased when Sommer Clarendon wheeled away from the family pew. Pausing in front of Keith’s coffin, Sommer raised one hand and patted the polished wood, his fingers lingering, tracing an unknown pattern. Nora felt her throat constrict with emotion.

  Sommer spun his chair to face the crowd, withdrawing a paper from his jacket pocket. He drew a deep breath and cleared his throat.

  “One of Keith’s favorite poets was John Dryden. I’ve chosen his words, written in memory of a lost friend, to honor Keith.” In a voice that trembled slightly, he began to read:

Farewell, too little and too lately known,

Whom I began to think and call my own;

For sure our Souls were near ally’d; and thine

Cast in the same Poetick mould with mine.

Sommer continued the poem in a stronger voice. Nora closed her eyes as she pictured Keith, smiling to the reporters that day in the lobby at
People and Places
and
being carried into the chapel today. Too young to die, she thought, thinking of Paul and of Bryn Wallace.

  Behind her closed lids, fresh tears stung her eyes. The air felt close in the small, crowded space, and she started to fan herself with the program she’d been handed as she’d entered.

  Her midsection hardened into a firm ball, and she took a few deep breaths. Braxton Hicks contractions, her obstetrician had explained, in which the uterus practices for labor and delivery. The spasm passed, and the hardness relaxed. She felt her control returning and opened her eyes.

  Nora scrutinized the gathering. She knew some faces, but most of them were strangers to her. She checked her mental list of suspects. Who amongst them might be a murderer? Who had needed Keith to die for his own survival?

  Maeve Addams slipped into the row in front of them. Her short, leather skirt was black, set off with a tight, black lace top and matching tights that, except for their color, were unlike any funeral attire Nora had ever seen. She looked down at the navy maternity dress she wore; not exactly a fashion model.

  Maeve turned to catch Simon’s eye and flashed him a smile, ignoring everyone else. The woman had been verbal in her support of Simon, as if she were the only one who truly believed his innocence. Or was she covering something up for herself by deflecting attention to Simon? Nora pretended not to notice her, then seconds later leaned over and whispered to Simon: “Is she always fashionably late?”

  He whispered back, “Only when she wants to be the center of attention.”

  Nora thought he tried awfully hard to keep the smile off his face.

*

3:50
PM

Near the back of the chapel, Glenn Hackney shifted on the hard pew and crossed his legs. He admired the checkered pattern of the trousers Tony Warner wore but refrained from mentioning it. It was obvious Tony wasn’t gay, and Glenn felt certain by now that Tony Warner didn’t have any particular information he needed. Still, you could never be too careful in his profession; he didn’t want to discourage the reporter from any confidence. He’d picked up on Tony’s royal hankering on their first walk.

  “My uncle by marriage is Duke of Arbuthnot,” Tony managed to work into their conversation. “Twice removed” was almost whispered.

  Glenn recognized a fellow con man, although of a different sort. Tony coveted societal position, whereas Glenn was an acquirer, mostly of other people’s possessions.

  “Very nice,” Glenn had replied. “We’ve done the cruise work for the Ogilvies for the last few years. Such sporting fellows, these titled people.” He had never met an Ogilvy, titled or otherwise, but much of a con was down to sounding convincing.

  “I quite agree,” Tony had replied, a glint in his eye.

  Glenn still hoped their carefully contrived “friendship” would come in useful down the road. But his goal for today was to find a way to get into Keith’s work files to know just how much Keith had unearthed about him.

*

3:55
PM

Ian sat in the last row of the chapel. The constable he’d assigned to make a list of attendees was a local Windermere lass who knew the majority of the mourners by sight. He glanced at his watch and wondered how long it would take Higgins to check on Daniel Rowley and get back to the Hall.

  Keith’s father finished reading and made a few remarks, inviting the congregation back to the Hall for a reception, then motored back to the end of the first stall. His wife took Sommer’s hand as everyone stood for a closing hymn. Ian took the opportunity to slip outside. Squinting in the brighter light, he examined the imposing Hall that rose on the other side of the graveyard. No wonder the family was forced to give public tours. The utility bills alone must be enormous, to say nothing of the upkeep. His eyes roamed over the stone edifice, and he noted a movement at one of the upstairs windows. The curtain moved, he was certain, and yet the family was still in the chapel.

  Then it occurred to Ian that Keith’s uncle had not made an appearance; in fact, had not been seen outside Clarendon Hall since his debilitating stroke. It must be Edmunde at that window, Ian surmised, watching for activity from that huge, cold house. How much mobility the man retained had not been clearly established in Higgins’ interview, other than a strong left arm that moved enough to throw his breakfast and stop the questioning.

*

3:55
PM

Edmunde enjoyed being alone. He leaned forward, brushing the curtain aside with his good hand.

  After Gillian had settled him near his bedroom window, she had left to assist Sommer to the chapel. He’d heard Robbie volunteer to stay behind in case Edmunde used the call bell in her absence. The boy had entered the room once for a few minutes to check on him. Edmunde had pointedly ignored him. Robbie had told him he would be in the kitchen loading the dishwasher and had left.

  Edmunde continued studying the scene in front of him and saw a tall, blonde man exit and look up at his window. Finally, the vicar emerged from the chapel, followed by Keith’s casket, hoisted onto the shoulders of six sturdy pallbearers. Antonia followed with Sommer, guided by Gillian, and then he saw Cook and the rest of the crowd file out.

  They walked slowly toward the gravesite and the garish hole. Heads bowed as the vicar raised his arm, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. He read from his prayer book for a few minutes and then took a clod of earth and dropped it on the coffin.

  Antonia detached herself from Sommer’s side long enough to throw on top of Keith’s casket the spray of white roses she carried. Edmunde shifted restively in his chair, annoyed that his vision blurred even further as one large tear rolled from his good eye.

Chapter Forty-Eight

“‘I have just buried my boy, my handsome boy of whom I was so proud, and my heart is broken.’”

— H. Rider Haggard,
Allan Quatermain

4:10 PM

Glenn Hackney and Tony Warner joined the throng that walked respectfully a few paces behind the family to Clarendon Hall.

  “Classy touch, those white roses instead of dropping clumps of dirt on that lovely oak,” Tony commented.

  “Very nice,” Glenn agreed. “So much of these rituals are antiquated, but then tradition is what England is all about.”

  “Oh, I agree, totally,” Tony assured him. He pasted a smile on his full face, anxious to agree with Glenn, his ticket into the reception. “Shall we?” He gestured for Glenn to precede him as they reached the wide doorway.

  Glenn nodded and led the way. Tony slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and felt for his recorder. He fervently hoped someone would drop Nora Tierney’s name into conversation in a disparaging way.

*

Inside the Hall, the men found silver trays and laden platters placed on long tables running down one side of the formal dining room. White damask cloths that covered the tables were embroidered with the royal blue Clarendon crest in a border along their edges. Large pieces of furniture had been pushed back into corners, and chairs from other rooms added to the seating capacity in here and in the drawing room.

  The two men spent half an hour on line, filling their plates, and ate with relish. After polishing off his food, Glenn decided the time had come for a bit of exploration. The majority of people wandered about the room, gawking at the displayed antiques and oil paintings. More adventuresome souls climbed the staircase and examined the family portraits in the gallery.

  Mumbling an excuse to Tony about finding the loo, Glenn left his new acquaintance mingling at the fringe of a group, ear tuned to local gossip. Once in the hallway, Glenn joined a handful of villagers headed up the broad stairway, noting no one had the nerve to walk down the hall toward the private rooms. He stood with them as though he belonged there, reading the plaques under each portrait. Antonia Clarendon’s beauty had faded, but Julia Clarendon’s was preserved in a time warp.

  Glenn looked around the hall, trying to figure out which doorway would lead him to Keith’s study. He realized his greatest source of information stood close at hand and attached himself to a stout woman he’d seen running one of the tourist shops in Bowness. She admired the portrait of young Sommer Clarendon.

  “Beautiful dogs, and quite some heritage,” he said to her.

  The woman turned to him with a suspicious expression on her face but nodded in agreement.

  He met her look head on with his most charming smile, thrusting his hand at her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure—Glenn Hackney. I’m an associate of Keith’s from Oxford. And you must be related to the Clarendons?” His insouciant manner was spot on.

  The woman blushed, thrilled to be mistaken for a relative of the most prominent family in town, and shook his hand. A few more well-placed questions and compliments, and Glenn had won her confidence. He pointed down the east wing and leaned into her, asking modestly, “Dear lady, do you suppose the facilities are down that way?”

  “Oh, no,” she answered, happy to impart the correct information. “That’s the way to the Clarendon family rooms. There’s a loo down that short hall.”

  “You have been a frequent guest here,” he gushed, confirming Keith’s study lay in the east wing.

  “You do go on, Mr. Hackney,” she giggled, her ample bosom jiggling. “You can see the layout in the tour brochure.”

  He thanked her and walked toward the guest wing, reflecting how easily people could be duped by a few choice words.

*

5:05
PM

Antonia moved restlessly through the throng of people who’d invaded her home. She’d tolerated these last hours in a medicated fog. After acknowledging everyone and receiving their sympathies, she felt she’d done her duty and longed to be left alone. Yet the crowd only thinned slightly as people wolfed down Cook’s offerings and admired what was left of the Clarendon trappings.

  She was aware that Sommer sat in the middle of a group involved in a discussion, and even as she thought she should rescue him, a ripple of fatigue swept over her. She slipped out of the room, nodding to a few people standing near the kitchen door talking with Cook, and took the elevator upstairs, too hollow inside to plow through the eager guests coming down the main staircase.

  Those who had ventured upstairs satisfied their curiosity in the gallery. Antonia walked alone down the hall of the family wing, the thick runner muffling her footsteps. She turned the handle to her bedroom door and stopped, drawn irresistibly to her son’s room.

  Standing on the threshold to his bedroom, Antonia took in his collected belongings. Shelves held pieces of driftwood or stones Keith had collected by the lake. A telescope stood by the largest window, pointing to the heavens. She fancied she could see Keith making a minor adjustment. If she were to bend down in the dark of night and look through the eyepiece, would she see him waving to her, the way he’d once waved to the shore?

  Antonia quivered and crossed the bedroom to the dressing room and bath that joined his room with his library.

  After the police had finished with his rooms, she’d let the village helpers change the sheets and remake the bed. No one knew she had stolen into the room and taken the pillowcases from the hamper. Opening the mirrored closet door, she reached up and took the wrinkled cases off the top shelf, burying her face in them, breathing in the scent she was afraid she would forget. She inhaled deeply, trying to commit to memory the combination of musky cologne and perspiration that she recognized as Keith.

  The door to Keith’s library opened, the sound startling her, and Antonia threw open the connecting door in time to see the back of someone tall and slim slip out of the room. The scent of vanilla lingered as she hurried through the room to the door, but when she opened it and looked out, the hall stood empty.

*

5:12
PM

Tony looked around for Glenn and noticed him return to the drawing room, a sullen look on his face. Tony waved him over before Glenn could melt into a grouping; he needed the man as his introduction to the thin nurse who hovered near Sommer Clarendon.

  “Took you long enough,” Tony grumbled. “Everything come out okay?”

  Glenn’s distaste was evident. “I never discuss bodily functions. I was admiring the Clarendon portrait gallery,” he announced.

  “Of course. Let’s go visit the nurse, shall we?” He nodded in the direction of Gillian Cole.

  “Why the interest?” Glenn whispered.

  Tony leaned into him. “Because she leaves here after both of the gimps are in bed. She may have seen someone on the grounds last Friday night.” Tony rubbed his hands together. “And I’d love if it was Nora Tierney.”

  Glenn considered this. “Warner, you are a true charlatan.”

  But Tony noted he said it with a smile.