Page 11 of A Ruse of Shadows
Present-day Danny Stow wrapped up Miss Charlotte’s purchasesin brown paper and took out a spool of twine. “Dare I presume, sir, ma’am, that you’ve just come from Garwood Hall?”
A good number of visitors Mr. Elstree squired about Garwood Hall must not be serious prospective tenants at all, but those looking for a shiver down the spine by touring a former murder scene. Did Danny Stow think that was what they were, too? Mrs. Watson’s cheeks prickled with embarrassment.
Miss Charlotte was beyond such minor chagrins. “Indeed, that is so. We had heard some unfortunate rumors concerning the estate on our rail journey this morning. Mr. Elstree, after offering his reassurances, said we could speak to you, if we still felt in need of a greater understanding,” she said, sounding just like an earnest, prudent Manchester linendraper who had no idea that he might be deemed a seeker of unseemly titillations.
Danny Stow paused in the unraveling of the spool of twine. “Greater understanding, sir? I’m afraid all I can give you is a description of what I saw on that Christmas Day.”
“Good gracious, my dear fellow, why would we make you relive that harrowing memory? No, I wanted to ask if you know whether Mr. Meadows had the habit of sleeping with his windows open in winter.”
The shopkeeper blinked, taken aback by the query. “I had a pint with a footman from that time a few years ago. He mentioned that Mr. Meadows himself must have kept the window ajar. He didn’t like a room too warm, Mr. Meadows, and the house was new back then, everything flush and plumb. Maybe if he didn’t open a window, the room would’ve been too stuffy.”
“You think the murderer gained access to the room from the window?” asked Miss Charlotte.
“The house was locked up every night, and those locks weren’t disturbed.” The former gardener, deep in thought, slowly wove a net of twine around the wrapped-up pies. “It had to have been the window.”
“But getting in through the window would still have been the easy part,” mused Miss Charlotte. “From what I understand, the duvethad absorbed almost all the arterial spray from the cutting of Mr. Meadows’s throat. This meant that the murderer had climbed onto the bed, pulled the covers above Mr. Meadows’s head, and then reached a blade under to do the evil deed. Odd that Mr. Meadows didn’t wake—I understand there was no sign of any struggle.”
Stow shrugged. “His older brother said that after dinner on Christmas Eve, the two of them finished off a bottle of brandy, reminiscing over old times. Mr. Meadows could have been in a bit of a stupor going to bed.”
That had been the police inspector’s opinion also, that the victim had been too inebriated to respond to mortal threat.
“Do you think it was an outsider?” Miss Charlotte continued her unhurried questioning.
“I do,” answered her interviewee without a moment of hesitation. “The ladder that I used? It wasn’t where it should have been. It was moved during the night and tossed back somewhere in the garden. And the ivy around the window was loose—someone used that to help pull themselves up from the top of the ladder, the same way I had to.”
“Oh my,” said Mrs. Watson, rubbing a hand over her sleeve as if she felt chilled by the prospect. “But in a place as isolated as Garwood Hall, wouldn’t strangers in the neighborhood have been noticed?”
“If they’d come off the train at the village station, maybe. But we were only twenty miles north of Bolton—and that was no small place even fifteen years ago. If someone hired a carriage there, they could have easily covered the distance to Garwood Hall at night and been gone before morning.”
“But to accomplish that,” mused Miss Charlotte, “the so-called rabble-rousers from the factories would have needed to be fairly organized.”
Stow completed the twine netting he’d made around the paper-wrapped pies with two loops that served as a pair of handles. A few travelers had arrived and were milling around the platform, waiting for the next train. He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I don’tknow more about the murder than anyone else, Mr. Yardley, but I don’t think it was perpetrated by rabble-rousers. For one, the timing was perfect: Christmas Eve might be the only time when nobody pays attention to a carriage careening down a country road—folks would think that’s just other folks rushing home for Christmas.
“For another, look at the way the murder was carried off. Well, I suppose the snow that night was pure luck—those several inches covered up all the tracks any outsider might have made coming to and leaving the house. But other than that, it was all planning and skill. The deed was done so fast Mr. Meadows was probably dead before he knew what was happening. And other than the blood that dripped to the floor, there was no splatter anywhere else.
“At that point it would have been easier for the murderer to leave by going through the house. But did he do that? No, he left via the ladder again. True, he didn’t put the ladder back exactly as he ought to have—his one oversight—but by locking Mr. Meadows’s doors and leaving the window open, he had us, everybody in the household, do the work of trampling the area under the window for him, destroying any signs he might have left behind. Not to mention, no murder weapon was ever found.”
He shook his head. “The police inspector, I remember him, he was patient and conscientious, but he could find no clues, absolutely nothing to go on.”
“I see you have done some serious thinking on the matter, Mr. Stow.”
Stow gave a bitter smile. “Believe me, Mr. Yardley, the last thing I wanted, all those years ago, was to ever think about the murder again. I didn’t even care who did it—I just wanted to stop seeing Mr. Meadows in my sleep. Thankfully that did stop, after a while. But because I’m linked to the murder, people asked me about it. By and by I found myself turning it over in my head. I even brought it up with other members of the staff, when we were at the housekeeper’s funeral a few years ago.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Not really, except the bit about Mr. Meadows not liking his room too warm, from the footman I mentioned.”
Miss Charlotte, as Owen Yardley, stroked the beard on her face. “Mr. Stow, judging by everything you’ve said, you must believe the murderer to be a professional criminal—an assassin for hire, even. But such a person would have harbored no personal enmity toward the late Mr. Meadows and would have been acting only at the express desire of his paymaster. Do you have any opinion on the identity ofthatshadowy character?”
Stow expelled a breath. “The missus would be cross if she knew the direction of our conversation. And she’s right—the purpose of my life isn’t to speculate on Mr. Meadows’s murder. We’ve got each other, we’ve got the boys, and we’ve got plans to expand the pie business so we can give the boys a proper education.
“Mind you, she knows there’s no stopping people coming up to me asking about the murder—just make sure they buy enough of everything to make it worth your time, she always says. And most of the time, the folks who are interested, they only want the gory details. Or they want to tell me whattheythink happened—and I only need to listen and nod.
“It’s hardly ever that I’m asked about my theories. So I must beg you, Mr. Yardley, Mrs. Yardley, to please let this go no further than the three of us.”
Mr. Yardley raised a hand. “You have our solemn promise.”
Stow looked around again. More travelers had arrived on the platform—some were even eyeing the pies from not too far away. He lowered his voice further. “I think the person who did the hiring was most likely Mrs. Harcourt, Mr. Meadows’s sister, the one he gave everything to.”
