Authors: Marni Graff
Chapter Sixteen
“What have these lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell.”
— Emily Brontë
10:29
AM
Ian was reviewing reports when his intercom buzzed.
“Dr. Foreman on two for you, guv,” the duty sergeant said.
“Hello, Milo,” Ian said, picking up. “Have something for me?”
“Sommer Clarendon still have that rare plant collection of his?” Milo was uncharacteristically brusque.
“I expect so. Why do you ask?” Ian heard the pathologist draw heavily on his cigar before he answered.
Milo couldn’t hide a tinge of professional pride. “My budget is groaning from the rush on the toxicology, but my instincts paid off. There are definite traces of a plant called Tanghinia
in Keith’s stomach, not native to England. The only person around who might know of it is Sommer Clarendon. Tough situation.”
“Leave it with me, Milo, and I’ll get back to you. And thanks,” Ian said. He didn’t want Milo bumbling over his investigation. The pathologist meant well, but his people skills could use some polishing.
A sense of foreboding stole over the detective as he looked up the number to Clarendon Hall. This was a delicate task, to call the victim’s father so soon after his son’s death with disturbing news. He framed his questions before dialing.
Minutes later, Sommer Clarendon picked up an extension, and Ian explained what he wanted to know.
“Why yes, Ian, I know of that plant; pretty little thing. It was used in Madagascar centuries ago to ferret out criminals. Highly poisonous, of course, and the blighters never survived.” Sommer paused as the reason for Ian’s call became obvious. “My God, Ian. This has to do with Keith, doesn’t it?”
Ian plowed on. “It’s been found in Keith’s body. I promise to keep you posted as soon as I know more, Sommer. Right now, I need to know where it can be found.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the bereaved father replied: “There are only two that I know of in the Lake District, and I own them both. I still have one here; the other I loaned to Simon Ramsey.”
*
10:31
AM
Nora poked her head into Simon’s rooms after retrieving her camera. She saw him disappearing into his studio and followed.
“Hi there. I’m going with Kate to Clarendon Hall,” she called out. When she reached the doorway, she caught a glimpse of a painting in progress and a plant standing on a table next to the easel. Odd; she’d never known Simon to work from studio specimens. He preferred to sketch en plein air and then develop his paintings in his studio from those drawings, clipped to his easel. She always enjoyed watching Simon at work and was fascinated by his talent. He often took the time to explain his strategies and vision as he worked, conversations they both enjoyed. Her keen interest had cemented their friendship early on.
She stepped into the studio, eager to hear about his new project. Simon saw her and hurried over to the doorway, blocking her view and practically shoving her back into his kitchen as he drew the door shut behind him.
Nora was taken aback. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in that way he had when he was nervous.
Nora had trouble believing him. He was usually open to showing her what he was working on. Today, he didn’t meet her eye and was distinctly uncomfortable.
Nora felt his uneasiness and started to speak, then thought better of it. She would have to trust Simon to explain in his own time. “I’m off then,” she said brightly and left the room, wondering about Simon’s odd behavior.
The quilted bag slung over Nora’s shoulder sported a floral William Morris pattern. In addition to her camera, it held her wallet and the various bits and pieces most women accumulate: lipstick, tissues, a compact mirror and a roll of antacids. She’d added a small notebook in which she listed baby names under consideration. After pushing her glasses up her nose, she withdrew it and was consulting her latest entry when Kate found her in the hall.
“Sorry, occupational hazard. Agnes always has a menu question, even though I told her Simon was on duty.” Kate carried a covered basket over one arm and pointed to the notebook. “Still name hunting?”
They exited through the lodge’s main door, and Nora felt a twinge of relief when Kate guided her away from the scene of yesterday’s trauma. “What do you think of Aubrey? It means a visionary leader, someone of moral authority.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m the wrong one to ask. I think it sounds kind of stodgy or abrasive,” she said. They crossed the road and walked along the quay in the direction of the ferry dock.
“We’d call that a know-it-all.” Nora smiled and drew a line through the name. “When I was looking online at nursery things from the Beatrix Potter shop, I didn’t even think of her stories as a resource.”
“I don’t think you’ll find a name there unless it’s Peter,” Kate laughed. “You can easily walk over to the shop, or I can get Maeve to give you a lift tomorrow.”
Nora didn’t want Maeve taking her anywhere, as unreasonable as that seemed. “No, Squirrel Nutkin or Hunca Munca won’t do, but there’s always Benjamin or Jeremiah to think about. I’ll get there soon.” She stowed her notebook and concentrated on not bumping into anyone with her bulk. The area bustled with travelers navigating the uneven pavement dotted with stretches of cobblestones. It already seemed crowded with tourists, and Nora could see how Keith’s plans to increase visitors to the small village of Bowness-on-Windermere would have garnered local detractors in addition to Simon.
“I’m assuming naming the baby after Paul isn’t going to fly?” Kate asked, guiding Nora down Rectory Road.
Nora frowned. “If we’d been on a good note when Paul died, it would be a no-brainer. But considering we were hardly speaking and headed for a breakup, it would be tough for me. I’ve got a list to go through and more pages in my book to browse.” Nora stopped to catch her breath and take a few shots of the rising land and the lake behind her, busy with cruising steamers, ferries, private boats and a few canoes. At this distance, it looked picturesque and quaint, like a guidebook picture. Puffy, cotton-candy clouds reflected on the water’s surface without any reminder of yesterday’s horror.
Nora put her camera away. “It looks so—innocent,” she said.
Kate linked her free arm through Nora’s and turned her away from the shimmering water. “It usually is,” she murmured.
*
10:45
AM
Simon lingered in the dining room long after breakfast was cleaned up, enjoying a late cup of coffee with the owners of Lindisfarne House in neighboring Windermere. The three compared notes on the uneven tourist season, a result of the slowed economy. Simon was grateful they didn’t want to gossip about Keith’s death.
He needed this moment’s respite from the mess surrounding the death of Keith Clarendon. Yesterday had passed in a blur, and he needed to steady himself. The couple was getting up to leave when Simon glanced at the main hall entrance to the dining room and saw Ian standing in the archway. Simon saw his guests to the door of the lodge and turned back to greet Ian.
“Ian, Kate’s not here right now. I don’t expect her back for a bit—was she expecting you? Wedding plans to nail down?”
“If that sister of yours would settle on a date for the ceremony, we could actually make some.” The lanky detective strode across the dining room, motioning to Simon to follow him. “Could we talk in your rooms, please?” He crossed the hall to Simon’s door without waiting for a response.
Once inside the main room, Simon sat down and indicated Ian should do the same. Ian continued to stand.
“Simon, I believe you have in your possession a plant from Sommer Clarendon’s collection?”
“Yes, I borrowed it to use in a painting. It’s in my studio.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need to search and secure your studio and take that plant into evidence.” Ian sighed. “And you’ll need to come to Kendal station and make a formal statement.”
“What?” Simon stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. “What’s going on, Ian?”
Ian righted Simon’s chair. “Sit down, Simon. Milo sent Keith’s gastric contents to be analyzed on high priority. He believes Keith may have ingested a high dose of a glycoside that fits the cardiac failure he found. He found among the gastric contents the seeds of a rare plant—” Ian consulted his notes, “—called Tanghinia that can act as both a respiratory and a cardiac poison.” He met Simon’s eyes. “It’s native to areas like the Seychelles or Madagascar. Around Cumbria, there are only two known specimens: the one still at Clarendon Hall and the one in your studio.”
Simon sat down heavily. “This is absurd!”
“Maybe so.” Ian shifted his weight and stuffed his notebook back in his jacket. “I’ve sent a tech to collect the one from Clarendon Hall, too. But unless he committed suicide, and this would be a decidedly unpleasant way to do that, Keith was murdered.”
The full impact of Ian’s words hit him. “And I’m a suspect.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property so that they may more perfectly respect it.”
— G. K. Chesterton,
The Man Who Was Thursday
10:48
AM
Val Rogan followed a shopper leaving the busy Westgate Shopping Centre in Oxford and slid her Escort into the spot as soon as the woman vacated it. She locked up and crossed Norfolk Street, wondering if the threatening sky would unleash a shower. The street was full of Saturday shoppers about their business and many of them carried umbrellas. Her destination was the Worth Travel Agency.
Since Nora’s help had cleared her of Bryn’s murder, Val would do anything to aid her American friend. Today, she planned to browse the travel agency artlessly and gather as much information as she could about Keith Clarendon from his coworkers. Nice job he’d had, she thought, splitting his time between Oxford and Bowness. There was sure to be gossip as news of his death spread, and Val was very good at chatting up clerks.
Val had dressed in what she called her “Virgin Mary” outfit: a simple blue cardigan that hid the elaborate embroidery she’d done on the back of her white shirt and a long denim skirt. She wore comfortable flats and had removed all but one set of earrings, which today were pearl studs. She wanted to look like a single gal out for a bit of weekend window-shopping and dreaming of a trip to Turkey, the Brits’ latest vacation hot spot. Down the block, police lights caught her attention, bringing back with sudden clarity the moment she’d been told her beloved Bryn was dead. Val’s heart turned over with the memory; it was a loss she was still getting used to and over which she continued to grieve.
Shaking off the emotional pain, she reached the address she wanted and squared her shoulders. The lights she’d seen bouncing off the buildings belonged to police cars drawn up in front of the office. A cluster of people gathered around the entrance to the Worth Travel Agency.
It’s always Worth your while with us!
proclaimed a banner above the storefront’s entrance.
Val poked her way to the front of the crowd in time to see a constable taping up a hole in the agency’s large glass door, which stood propped open. Peering inside, Val could see an elderly man talking with a note-taking constable.
Suddenly, a slim, well-dressed young man brushed Val roughly aside and strode into the office. Val slid closer to the open doorway so she could hear the conversation inside.
“My God, Edgar, are you all right? What’s happened here?” The young man looked distressed as he scanned the overturned racks of brochures, their contents strewn across the floor. Filing cabinets and desk drawers gaped open.
“I found it like this when I responded to the alarm company’s call—I’m fine,” the older man said, but his face was flushed, and his hands shook.
“And you are?” the constable asked the young man in a nasal voice.
“Glenn Hackney, office manager. What’s going on? And please, can’t Mr. Worth sit down before he falls over?” He righted a chair and pulled it toward the owner, who gratefully slid into it.
“It would appear to be a robbery of sorts, sir,” the constable answered with a smirk. He turned to a clean page in his notebook. “How did you hear about this, Mr. Hackney?”
The office manager delicately picked his way through the debris as he took in the extensive mess. “The alarm company automatically calls me and Mr. Worth whenever it’s triggered,” he answered with impatience.
The constable scribbled a note, then looked inquiringly at Edgar Worth. “Do you routinely keep large amounts of receipts in the office, Mr. Worth?”
The older man shook his head as Glenn answered for him. “Not really. There’s petty cash, but either Mr. Worth or I make a bank drop of the day’s cash and checks every night after closing.”
The constable nodded and looked up, noticing Val at the front of the eavesdropping crowd. He motioned to the other bobby, who walked over and shut the agency’s door firmly in her face.