Page 60 of Evidence of Evil
“Sir Humphrey called on you,” she reminded him. “And frankly, a friendly call from you might well mitigate the nastier rumors.”
He seemed much struck by this and said little more until they reached the house. A stable lad ambled down to take John’s horse.
“You go in,” Constance said. “I have something else I want to do first.”
She felt his gaze on her back as she strode off toward the lake path. It was several seconds before she heard the crunch of his feet in the gravel as he headed to the front door. Constance hurried on.
She had a sudden urge to see the lake again, to approach it as Frances’s killer must have done.
A strong man could have carried her body from the house. But the wheelbarrow tracks had come from the other path, the one that led to the road connecting the village to The Willows and to Fairfield Grange. She prowled several yards along each path before returning to the lake, until she could almost imagine herself inert in the wobbling, bumping barrow, or clutched in a man’s arms, her nightgown trailing in the mud.
She stopped at the place Frances had probably gone into the water, imagined herself sinking beneath the lilies. Had the murderer stayed to watch, or just bolted as quickly as he could? Had he loved her as well as hated her enough to kill? She had been the kind of woman who could arouse all sorts of powerfuland contradictory emotions—even in Constance, who had never met her.
“Where did you die?” she murmured.
Wherever, she had been brought here, to this spot, and tipped from the wheelbarrow into the lake…
Behind her, in the trees, leaves rustled, a twig cracked, and she shivered, feeling the hairs on her neck prickle. It suddenly felt as if Frances were with her, as though the dead woman’s spirit sensed she sought the truth.
Her family didn’t. They wanted it covered up even if it meant blaming an innocent person. No one had understood her in life, and they refused to look too closely at her death. Even the police were obstructed by everyone’s misguided pride or loyalty.
“A clue, Frances,” Constance whispered. “Whom did you really love?”
Humphrey…
It was all that made sense. Frances had been good in India, remaining true to him, and yet he had married another. Surely only hurt would have made her behave as she did to Elizabeth, seeking out her secrets, and to Humphrey, who had betrayed her. And she never gave up.
Constance stared into the lake at her own reflection, unwilling to think of him as the killer. Had they trysted here at the house? Beneath Elizabeth’s nose?
She could not imagine it. But someone had tipped Frances’s dead body in here…
Slowly, she bent, picked up a loose stone, and dropped it into the water with a splash—a tiny splash, surely, compared that made by a body. The ripples from the stone disturbed the water, distorting her reflection—until, with a sudden lurch of her stomach, she saw another figure reflected behind her.
She tried to spin around, but her foot slipped and hands pushed her hard. She skidded down the bank, graspingdesperately for the dry earth that crumbled in her fingers. Water tugged at her skirts, soaked her feet, but it wasn’t the lake she feared. It was whoever had pushed her.
Floundering, she finally found a hold on the tree root poking above the ground and hauled herself back up the bank. She even rolled, as if that could have saved her from continued attack, and opened her mouth to scream for help.
But there was no one there.
Stumbling to her feet, she turned quickly, searching all around her. Trees rustled as a breeze blew through the leaves.
Someone is in there. The killer just tried to kill me, and I could not even see his face.
Her heart thundered, spreading chilled blood through her veins. Frustration warred with utter fear. She been so close to the killer. She had seen his face in the water, maddeningly distorted in the ripples, but itwasa man, for he’d worn a tall hat…
He was still there, hidden among the trees and bushes. And she was still in danger.
Yet she had to know.
She took a step toward the place she had last seen him. A footstep sounded behind her, and she whirled around to face a man strolling out from the trees nearest the house.
*
Dr. Murray’s finalcall of the morning was on old Sarah Phelps. Not that she had summoned him, but he had heard her coughing rather worryingly in her yard yesterday evening and thought he should look in on her. Without charge, of course, for he doubted she could pay. He wouldn’t tell Laing, unless the cough was serious, for the senior doctor had already dismissed his concern.
“Sarah Phelps is as tough as old boots, and whenever sheisill, she sends for me.”
Of course, Laing had the odd mean streak, especially if he was not the one being noble about it.
