Read Online A Tall Dark Stranger by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Smith
Tags: Regency Romance
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Renshaw sent a note canceling the drive. I thought he might come for tea to lighten the tedium of a whole day spent indoors with Beau, but he didn’t.
Rainy weather always gives Aunt Talbot a fit of the dismals. Her object of scorn that day was Renshaw.
“Taking you to the water meadow, where murderers lurk,” she said, shaking her head. “What was the man thinking of, and you, Amy, to go with him? He might have killed you.”
“Surely a murderer works more cunningly than that, Auntie,” I replied, making a joke of it. “I shouldn’t think he invites his victims out on dates before killing them. That would tend to point the finger at him, would it not?”
“You speak as if the murderer was normal. It’s quite possible he’s a madman seized by uncontrollable fits of violence, like poor Maggie McGee is taken by those fits of stealing. There’s not necessarily any sense in it. Maggie’s a spinster, and you know perfectly well she took that horn-handled razor from the everything store. I saw her with my own eyes.”
Auntie enjoys a good argument. When she is losing, she resorts to supposition. I had a reply to this latest supposition that the murderer was mad, however.
“The murderer stole Stoddart’s five hundred pounds. That doesn’t look like irrational behavior.”
“We don’t know the murderer took the money. It’s gone, but who is to say Stoddart had it on him? It’s a good deal to carry about in his pocket. He might have bought something with it or paid a debt. Speaking of money, Amy, did you get any notion at all of how Renshaw is fixed financially?”
When I told her about the enormous income from his hop farm, she rallied in his favor for a half hour, but when still the rain continued, she soon changed her tune.
“What is to stop a man from saying he has an income of a hundred thousand a year, when no one knows him?”
“Beau knows him,” I pointed out. “He told us about the hop farm.”
“He didn’t say anything about ten thousand a year. Those bucks hang together like burrs when one of them is after an heiress. Don’t forget Mr. Maitland in your scurry after Renshaw. If you course two hares at once, you’ll catch neither. Personally, I don’t believe a word Beau Sommers says. We’ll have a look at this hop farm before committing ourselves. Whoever heard of anyone making such a fortune from hops? Now if it were sheep or cattle ...”
“Belview Farm supplies hops to dozens of brewers. They must make ten thousand a year,” I said.
“Good God! Is it Belview he owns?”
“No! I only mentioned it as an example. One sees their advertisements everywhere.”
“My wits are gone begging. Of course it couldn’t be Belview. That belongs to Lord Travers. That certainly takes the gilt off the gingerbread. For a moment there I thought you were on to something. Travers would never send his heir off to India.”
After a few hours of haranguing, I began to have doubts about Renshaw myself. I didn’t tell her about his curiosity regarding the murder, or finding the blue ribbon, or, worst of all, his notion of removing to the Boar’s Head. She would never countenance the latter especially. When a gentleman visits a friend, he visits him at his home, not a convenient inn. Maitland, on the other hand, was in high aroma for having buried Stoddart with no fuss and no expense to the rate-payers of the parish.
No one called that evening. The rain continued dripping until we finally retired at eleven o’clock.
* * *
We were up early the next morning. It was Lottie’s custom to rise at seven, like a good farmer. We were at the breakfast table shortly after eight when he came storming into the room. His eyes were open as wide as barn doors.
“The body’s gone!” he exclaimed.
“What do you mean, gone?” Aunt Talbot demanded. She didn’t have to ask what body. We knew it was Stoddart he meant.
“It’s been dug up from the grave. The grave’s empty.”
For some reason I thought
Rainy weather always gives Aunt Talbot a fit of the dismals. Her object of scorn that day was Renshaw.
“Taking you to the water meadow, where murderers lurk,” she said, shaking her head. “What was the man thinking of, and you, Amy, to go with him? He might have killed you.”
“Surely a murderer works more cunningly than that, Auntie,” I replied, making a joke of it. “I shouldn’t think he invites his victims out on dates before killing them. That would tend to point the finger at him, would it not?”
“You speak as if the murderer was normal. It’s quite possible he’s a madman seized by uncontrollable fits of violence, like poor Maggie McGee is taken by those fits of stealing. There’s not necessarily any sense in it. Maggie’s a spinster, and you know perfectly well she took that horn-handled razor from the everything store. I saw her with my own eyes.”
Auntie enjoys a good argument. When she is losing, she resorts to supposition. I had a reply to this latest supposition that the murderer was mad, however.
“The murderer stole Stoddart’s five hundred pounds. That doesn’t look like irrational behavior.”
“We don’t know the murderer took the money. It’s gone, but who is to say Stoddart had it on him? It’s a good deal to carry about in his pocket. He might have bought something with it or paid a debt. Speaking of money, Amy, did you get any notion at all of how Renshaw is fixed financially?”
When I told her about the enormous income from his hop farm, she rallied in his favor for a half hour, but when still the rain continued, she soon changed her tune.
“What is to stop a man from saying he has an income of a hundred thousand a year, when no one knows him?”
“Beau knows him,” I pointed out. “He told us about the hop farm.”
“He didn’t say anything about ten thousand a year. Those bucks hang together like burrs when one of them is after an heiress. Don’t forget Mr. Maitland in your scurry after Renshaw. If you course two hares at once, you’ll catch neither. Personally, I don’t believe a word Beau Sommers says. We’ll have a look at this hop farm before committing ourselves. Whoever heard of anyone making such a fortune from hops? Now if it were sheep or cattle ...”
“Belview Farm supplies hops to dozens of brewers. They must make ten thousand a year,” I said.
“Good God! Is it Belview he owns?”
“No! I only mentioned it as an example. One sees their advertisements everywhere.”
“My wits are gone begging. Of course it couldn’t be Belview. That belongs to Lord Travers. That certainly takes the gilt off the gingerbread. For a moment there I thought you were on to something. Travers would never send his heir off to India.”
After a few hours of haranguing, I began to have doubts about Renshaw myself. I didn’t tell her about his curiosity regarding the murder, or finding the blue ribbon, or, worst of all, his notion of removing to the Boar’s Head. She would never countenance the latter especially. When a gentleman visits a friend, he visits him at his home, not a convenient inn. Maitland, on the other hand, was in high aroma for having buried Stoddart with no fuss and no expense to the rate-payers of the parish.
No one called that evening. The rain continued dripping until we finally retired at eleven o’clock.
* * *
We were up early the next morning. It was Lottie’s custom to rise at seven, like a good farmer. We were at the breakfast table shortly after eight when he came storming into the room. His eyes were open as wide as barn doors.
“The body’s gone!” he exclaimed.
“What do you mean, gone?” Aunt Talbot demanded. She didn’t have to ask what body. We knew it was Stoddart he meant.
“It’s been dug up from the grave. The grave’s empty.”
For some reason I thought
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