M.A. Lee: January 2025

Can an artist avoid death when murder paints with blood?

Portrait with Death ~

3rd Novel in the Into Death series

The train whistle blew. Steam clouded the grimy platform. People rushed past, laden with parcels that hadn’t gone to freight. Others sauntered along the platform, through the vapor wafting from beneath the engine. Small clutches of people lingered, saying goodbye.

Madoc hoisted his tightly-packed canvas duffle over his shoulder. He gave a shake of his head, to get his black hair out of his eyes. In the months since they’d met, his hair had grown. Isabella thought he had a personal goal to rid himself of anything like the military cut forced on him for years.

The conductor called for boarding, and tears flooded Isabella’s eyes. He was leaving. Now. Not weeks, not days. Now. She wouldn’t see him for months.

He touched her cheek. “None of that, Bella.”

“I wish I were traveling with you, Madoc.”

“Not yet. Only two and a half months. Then I will count the days until your ship arrives in Calcutta.”

“Seventy-six days, during which I work madly to finish an oil painting and store what we won’t need in that box room that Gawen’s offering, then I count the days. And try to finish the illustrations for his articles. He hasn’t written the last two yet.”

“You’ll come up with something he can use. You also have those pen-and-ink drawings for Tony Carstairs. London sites.”

“I have no worries about the drawings for Tony, but I’m running out of artifacts for your brother.” She fretted over the drawings because she dared not fret about his leaving. Married a month, and Madoc was heading to a faraway place. “Madoc, must you work your passage on this cargo ship? I can take a smaller berth or share with someone.”

“I need to stay active on this voyage.” He had rejected all her ideas for his travel to India, every idea she’d advanced over the past month of their marriage. “Captain Harvey is a cousin of one of my former soldiers. And working my passage will keep me busy. I’ll fall into my bunk every night, too worn out to miss you, love.”

Isabella clutched his arm. Nightmares no longer plagued him nightly, but they still occurred at odd times, for odd reasons. He’d been demobbed for over a year now. He wouldn’t want his new shipmates to know he had any weakness. Madoc made friends easily; he’d win them over—but they would be cautious if nightmares were their introduction to him.

“Besides,” he added, “I’m not certain what living arrangements Mr. Tredennit has set up in Calcutta. We won’t cross to Australia until July. Our summer is their winter.”

“An upside-down world.”

“A shake-up of your normal world. It will affect your art.” He flicked the golden end of her braided hair. “I’ll write letters or send a cable from every port until we reach Calcutta.”

The conductor called again.

Madoc bussed her lips with the briefest caress, risking censure for that public affection. Then he was gone, climbing into his compartment. He dropped the window to lean out.

She wanted to climb into that compartment with him.

The train engine groaned then began to pull, wheels squealing on the tracks before they caught and tugged. A man bumped her. A boy dashed between her and the train. When she steadied, the passenger cars were rolling, taking Madoc farther and farther away, faster and faster. He waved. She blew him a kiss. He stretched as if catching it, carried his closed fist to his lips. Then the vapor swirled, the train gained more speed and left the station, heading into the rain and away from her.

She yanked out a handkerchief and blotted her wet cheeks.

“Very touching,” said a wry voice behind her. “Shall we have tea before we start back? I know a shop a few streets from the station. They have clotted cream fresh from the countryside.”

“Cecilia,” Madoc’s brother Gawen said to his new wife, in a sigh rather than a quelling tone. “We planned to have tea at home.”

Gawen and Cecilia had insisted on joining them on the platform, partly to see Madoc off, partly to give Isabella support.

The two brothers were tight-knit. Gawen also hadn’t liked his younger brother working his passage to India and then to Australia. He understood the reason. He posed his arguments. Madoc hadn’t listened to him or to Isabella.

Cecilia had insisted on coming to the station for Isabella’s sake. She was intent on bolstering her friend. Isabella hadn’t moaned to anyone about Madoc’s leaving, yet Cess sensed her dismay. She’d tried dozens of distractions in the past fortnight. She had many more planned for the brief days before Isabella left to paint that portrait.

She didn’t begrudge the commission for the portrait. It would bring money, a lot of money, money to give her and Madoc a good emergency fund when they set up home in Australia. His job there would take months. Nor was the portrait the chief reason that she had to wait before taking ship to join him. That was the lack of a berth. With the war over and all countries in harmony imposed by treaty, their citizens had eagerly returned to traveling. The first affordable berth that Isabella could book wasn’t until April.

Seventy-six days from now.

An oil portrait. Six illustrations for Gawen, based on her remaining sketches from Crete and two artifacts. Ten pen-and-ink drawings for Tony Carstairs. Watercolor landscapes. Surely those will fill my empty hours without Madoc?

Cecilia pointed at the railway clock visible on the platform. “It’s a half-hour to lunch. Let’s eat at a tea shop then go on to St. George’s. Gawen, you do need talk to Isabella about your last two articles, and she can see the artifacts that you’ve picked for illustrations. Then she shall come to the flat for dinner.”

“No, I must call a rain check for dinner. I must finish my packing. I want everything almost out of the Kirkgardie Street flat before Filly Malvaise moves into your old room. I still have boxes and boxes.”

“I still want you to stay with us.” Cecilia looped a hand through Isabella’s elbow. Her other hand hooking on her new husband’s arm, she steered them off the platform and to the stairs. People coming down the steps had to venture to the side.

“I will not, Cess. You and Gawen married last weekend. You need time alone together.”

“We’ll have time when you leave.”

They emerged onto the street and into a cold rain that spat ice. Isabella popped up her umbrella while Gawen managed one for Cess and him. Cess turned and spoke, but the street traffic drowned her words. Isabella nodded anyway and followed them like a well-trained puppy.

Funny. Last summer I had to fend for myself, and I’ll be alone again when I travel to Upper Wellsford for the portrait. Not completely alone, though. Far from her, Madoc was still her husband, and Cess and Gawen were family.

London looked grey and dingy and dreary. Weeks in the countryside as spring emerged would be much better than cooped up in the congested city.

She hoped Madoc found a friend on ship. He’ll make friends quickly. He’ll find out their destination and their jobs on board and draw out their life stories.

That didn’t reassure her.

His ability to talk easily to strangers, to manage an unknown crew of workers, and to know work that needed to be done even without a prep for it: those traits had impressed Michael Tredennit. The older man had offered Madoc this chance. The new job had excellent pay and compensation for travel and an opportunity for advancement.

I’m happy for him. I am. I just wish—.

“Isabella, what do you think?”

She came to the present with a jolt and realized they’d passed Gawen’s roadster. “Sorry, I was wool-gathering. What did you ask?”

Cess exchanged a knowing look with Gawen then indicated the tea shop across the street. Brightly lit windows offered comfort from the elements. Ice pellets spattered her umbrella. The tea shop’s sunny interior, revealed above the bright blue café curtains, promised warmth and welcome. Cecilia launched into a description of a large luncheon.

Isabella listened to little of it. “Of course. Whatever fits with your plans.”

She tried to be less distracted as they lunched. The food was excellent and warming. The waitress allowed them to linger. Gawen talked of the last cataloging for the artifacts brought from Crete. Cecilia brimmed with plans for her columns for Modern Woman and how her work fit so easily into Gawen’s life. She tried a discussion of the new direction in the spring fashion magazines, but Isabella refused to engage in that conversation.

Then Cess began planning visits to four different couturiers, with Isabella needed for quick sketches.

“When are you planning to visit these fashion houses?”

“Next week.”

“You forget. I’m leaving for the Midlands in three weeks. I have packing. I have Gawen’s illustrations and those drawings for Tony. I can’t sketch countless models for you.”

“Your trip is a month away.”

“Not really. You will want these sketches to be magazine-perfect, won’t you?”

“Of course. Just like you do for Gawen.”

“That’s not enough time. Cess. It’s not. Not with everything else I must do.”

“Can you not delay your journey? Start the portrait at the end of February? Or in mid-March? Please! A few extra days only.”

Isabella cut into the luscious tiramisu, its aroma of coffee and chocolate promising delight. “I shall be at the outer edge of my timeline as it is. I dare not take extra days, or I’ll interfere with completing my commission. I won’t delay boarding ship.” She smiled at her friend, trying to take the sting out of her stubborn stance. “Let me talk to Tony. He may know of a young artist willing to do your fashion sketches.”

“Whoever it is,” she said glumly, “will want pay for their time.”

“Were you not going to pay me?” At Cess’s startled look, Isabella laughed.

“I fully intended to pay you, Isabella.”

“The hole gets deeper,” Gawen murmured then hid a smile behind his coffee cup while Cecilia blustered about payment.

The afternoon passed as planned. The ice turned back into rain.

When Isabella called a cab to take her back to the Kirkgardie flat, Cecilia waited with her in the entrance. “Do talk to your Mr. Carstairs. Give him my new address. Will we see you this weekend?”

“With a lorry in tow. I hope to have several boxes packed, ready for storage.”

“Stay for dinner. I’d have you visit us every night for dinner before you leave for Upper Slaughter.”

Isabella chuckled at the name. “Upper Wellsford. Next to Lower Wellsford. It has its own rail spur.”

“Upper Slaughter,” Cess declared firmly. “I predict that your curiosity will be slaughtered within three days of your arrival in that sleepy hamlet. You don’t have to stay there the whole time, do you? You can visit us. Every weekend.”

“Perhaps not that often. Oil paint sometimes has a mind of its own. I’ll ring you if I wish to visit.”

“How will you cart that monstrous canvas to Upper Slaughter? Why did the dowager want it nearly life-size?”

“He’s her only living grandson and heir to the barony. I’m making a very nice commission, Cess. The canvas and my easel should arrive before I do.”

“Oh, bother. That’s the cab man. You can manage everything else? If you need anything—.”

“I’ll see you several times before I go. And I will ask for help if I need it.”

“I feel as if my sole fledgling chick is flying the nest. I’ll miss you, Isabella.”

“I’ll write daily, Mother.”

“Oh, you!”

In this day of bright lipstick, they air-kissed. Like a posh Bright Young Thing, Isabella thought as she ran down the steps and slid into the cab.

She understood Cess’ strange feeling of loss. It had started for her when a gunshot nearly killed Cess. Madoc’s ocean voyage tripled the feeling of deprivation. Life’s changes weren’t always a blessing.

Cess had no one beyond their little circle. As the youngest daughter of Viscount Salton, she had had a wide circle of acquaintances. Yet she hadn’t had friends who became closer than family until the fraught events of last October. The viscount had threatened to cut ties when Cess wanted to marry Gawen. They had married. Maybe the viscount hadn’t followed through with his threat.

Isabella was just as alone. She had only an aunt for bloodkin, but that worthy remained in the States. Her marriage to Madoc had barely renewed the feeling of family before his imminent departure loomed. Cecilia and Gawen were her only friends on this side of the Atlantic, and soon Isabella would depart and enter another world where she knew virtually no one.

The cab trundled away, bouncing over pavement that needed repair, the rain pelting the windows and blurring everything around.

Or maybe that was the tears in her eyes.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Thursday, 5 February 1920

Flick Sherborne perched on a corner of Alicia Osterley’s littered desk and watched as her friend examined the photographic prints she had handed over as soon as she entered.

Blinking owlishly behind the thick round glasses that gave her the nickname of Owl, Alicia closely examined several of the prints. She hadn’t commented when Flick had presented her the courier envelope. She merely unwound the string and drew out the prints, spreading them on her desk to see the full range.

That’s how Flick knew Alicia would rise in the editing world. Already she had the behavior of Alan Rettleston, managing editor of the London Daily. No one had taught Owl the editing job; she came full-fledged with the knowledge. Cold logic about the facts, critical objectivity to judge the audience, emotional reaction held last, after all decisions.

With over two decades in the newspaper world, Alan Rettleston was emotionally stunted. Would Owl become that way? Her boss Lottie Crittenden wasn’t. Lottie was a publisher, not a busy editor. Modern Woman was her third publication. Where had Lottie gotten her seed money for Modern Woman?

Lottie and her nieces Greta Ffoulkes and Tori Malvaise threw fabulous parties filled with London’s Bright Young Things and artistic effetes. Flick rarely attended. Even more rarely did she receive an invitation—although the current obligatory invitation was propped on the dining table underneath the kitchen window. Like Owl, she was an employee more than a social equal. When Owl did attend a party, Flick imagined she blinked—well, owlishly at the goings-on in London’s high society. Those attending the fast and wickedly daring parties weren’t the readership for Modern Woman. Owl didn’t need to understand wild scavenger hunts and swimming in public fountains and all-night binges driven by white powder.

Owl was a babe in the editing world. Maybe she would escape the jaded cynicism of Alan Rettleston.

The current red-edged invitation came from Greta Ffoulkes, for a Valentine’s party. A masquerade The best of young London would be there, eager to celebrate the lives they hadn’t risked in the past war. Champagne would flow faster than conversation, and the dancing faster still. Secrets would become public, rumors would start, facts would be forgotten. She might go. In the crowd, no one would look too closely at her reworked black satin. A black mask for her eyes, a red flower pinned to her dark hair, and the Spanish shawl for an artistic touch.

“These are good.” Owl slid six prints toward her, the ones of women workers taking a smoke break outside a factory. The women’s coveralls hung baggily, with rolled cuffs at wrist and ankle. Their scarves and earrings said Woman at Work. The only thing that they shared with the few pictured men were tired faces and slouched bodies leaning against the brick factory walls. “Very good yet not for us. Sorry, Flick. I don’t have an article in the next six months that these photos will support. If something changes—.”

Sliding off the desk, Flick stacked the photos and tucked them back into the courier envelope she’d swiped from her father’s firm. “No worries, Owl. Rettleston will want a few of them. I wanted you to have first pick.”

Her friend sighed. “I wish I did have something. So many women will lose their jobs now that the men are demobilized. Perhaps I could commission an article—.”

“Not me. I don’t write the heavy-hitting. My garden features suit me very well, thank you.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Do you need a break? You look as tired as those workers.”

“Perhaps we could do a photo spread. No words. You can tell a narrative without words.” She held out her hand for the envelope.

Flick tugged harder at the string that closed it. “You don’t get two refusals in one visit, my friend. Alan Rettleston gets second refusal. Besides, a photo spread of working women is not really the audience of Modern Woman.”

“I know, but the occasional feature—I could argue for it.”

“Let Rettleston do his work. Don’t worry about me.”

Owl pursed her lips as she scrutinized Flick. “You look thinner.”

“It’s the pants.” She tugged at the wide-legged worsted pants made from a man’s suiting pin-stripe.

“Are you eating enough?”

Gosh, Owl was determined. She pressed a false humor into action. “Three meals a day. Positively stuffed.” She blew out her cheeks.

“Are they square meals?”

“On a round plate. Stop worrying about me, Owl. Or do worry in this way. Would you be interested in a public school garden feature? Boys on a manicured lawn would make fond mothers sigh with contentment. The public school I’m thinking of has clipped topiary. Very photogenic. I have a couple of photos from last October that would work for any publication date, even summer, and the topiary is evergreen.”

“Anything you bring us about flowers and gardens we’ll take. That’s from Mrs. Crittenden herself. We had a flood of letters after your December feature on orchids. It was as if English women had never heard of orchids. Are you thinking of Greavley Abbey where your brother is?”

“Yes. All unexpectedly, too.”

“He’s not doing well?”

Flick didn’t answer that. Owl’s fascination with Chauncey was long standing. Chauncey didn’t know of it and likely never would. Owl just blinked owlishly at him. “He needs a visitor to take him out of Greek conjugations and Old Guard politics, for which he has little patience.”

“When do you leave?”

“A couple of weeks.” She slung the strap for her tote over her shoulder. The big bag held her most prize possession, a Kodak Autographic Special camera, bought off a newshound who worked at the London Daily, Rettleston’s paper. “I must wrap up things here.” She grinned, knowing she would look like an eager street imp with her bobbed dark hair and over-sized flight jacket handed down from her brother Allworthy, an ace in the Royal Air Force. “Lottie’s party this weekend. The mater’s tea before Valentine’s Day. A masquerade. Dinner with Rettleston one night.”

“You don’t have to dine with—.”

“Whirlwind shopping with friends. One must have tweed for the country. I might see the rest of winter in Upper Wellsford and bring back more than one article with photos for you.”

“I wish I could take those workers,” Owl fretted.

“It’s not a problem.”

“Will you—?” She dropped her eyes and toyed with the fountain pen on her desk. “Please tell Chauncey that I said hello.” The bland words didn’t match the eagerness that had started her broken-off question.

“I will.”

Chauncey might not remember Owl. The petite dark-haired girl with a round face dominated by thick black spectacles would have barely registered on his pre-war scale.

Maybe he had changed. Maybe serving as Greek master at Greavley Abbey School in a sleepy village had changed him for the better.

Shame about the photos, though. Women losing work should be the focus of Modern Woman, not flower features.

Chapter 2

Friday, 27 February

Herbert Pollard ran the Hook and Line Pub with a strict hand. From under thatchy brows threaded with more silver than his sandy hair, he stared at the small watercolor easel that Isabella had brought on the train. Beside it on the bar lay her sketchbook, sliding out of her artist’s tote, a leather satchel confiscated from Madoc. Isabella fished in her purse for the three envelopes sent from the dowager Lady Malvaise, introductory letters to Mr. Pollard and the prep school’s headmaster and young Edward Malvaise, the subject of her portrait.

“We don’t approve of the wild goings-on that painters do,” Mr. Pollard said heavily. “Specially American painters what call themselves artistes.”

“We run a nice establishment,” his wife interjected from the end of the bar where she worked on ledgers.

The whistle for the departing train blew.

Chilled from the late February wind, Isabella stopped hunting in her purse and turned to the satchel. “Of course not. I mean, I’m reassured that you don’t approve of wild goings-on. A woman alone—.” She trailed off, letting them complete the sentence with the clichéd responses. Her icy fingers finally felt the three letters forwarded from Lady Malvaise’s secretary-companion. She withdrew them and removed the red cord that bound them. Mr. Pollard’s letter was on the bottom. Fighting shivers from her walk from the train station, she handed over his. “Did you receive the large easel and canvas and box that I sent? Those were supposed to arrive this morning.”

He stared at the letter as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “Aye, brought to us this morning they were. I put them in the room you hired.”

Isabella winced, thinking of small rooms offered by pubs and the size of the easel and the canvas. The box, the size of a milk crate, had her paints and brushes and turpentine and palette. Would the room hold her?

“What’s in this?” He tapped the envelope on the bar.

“Lady Malvaise has promised to pay for my room and board. She writes of the arrangements for you to draw the funds.” At least, that was the agreement in her own letter from the secretary. She hadn’t opened any letter but her own. “I don’t know all the particulars. Will there be a problem with my staying the length of time that I mentioned in my letter of the fifth?”

“No, no problem.”

His wife left her stool and came behind the bar to take the letter her husband handed her. “When you wrote, we thought you were a momma worried about her son. His first time away from home and all that. We didn’t know you were an artist from America, not until that easel arrived.”

“Oh. A momma with a son at Greavley Abbey School. No. I’m not really all the way from America, either. I live in England with my husband. He’s Welsh. Madoc Tarrant. The reason that I’ve come here, to Upper Wellsford, is that Lady Malvaise’s grandson attends Greavley Abbey School. It’s his portrait that I am to paint.”

“The dowager Malvaise?” Mrs. Pollard slanted a look at her husband as she unfolded the letter then dropped her gaze to read. She looked two decades younger than he. Her pale brows pinched in, then she turned to the second page. Whatever she read there turned her incipient frown into a wide smile. “Why, that’s fine, then.” She turned to her husband. “We’ll have no trouble accommodating Mrs. Tarrant. It’s as she says. Lady Malvaise will cover any charges for her room and board.” She tucked the letter back into the envelope. “And her grandson’s at the Abbey School. Has he been there long, Mrs. Tarrant?”

“I think he has attended for several years. I’m not certain, though. I suppose it is too late to introduce myself to Mr. Filmer the headmaster or to Edward Malvaise.”

As a bar maid appeared, Mrs. Pollard waved her husband back to his work. She rested an elbow on the bar and watched Isabella tuck the remaining two letters and her sketchbook into the leather satchel. “As to the boy, it’s much too late. He’ll have Friday Evensong and Compline to attend. Dean Filmer usually comes in after the service. That’s late,” she added.

Isabella nodded and smiled and murmured her gratitude. Everything they said was helpful. If that meant pretending that she knew nothing about Church of England services, then so be it. Her father had enjoyed what he called “high church liturgy” and the prayers of the canonical hours. A professor of history, he’d relished steeping himself in ritual and music and a setting with a strong weight of centuries.

She missed him terribly sometimes.

Not so much since her marriage to Madoc—although now she missed her husband.

“Will Mr. Filmer come to the pub after ten o’clock?”

“Closer to half-past. You better call him Dean Filmer. That’s what he goes by. The dean. The teachers are masters. Some kind of Greavley foolishness, but you know public schools and their traditions.”

That reminded Isabella that she’d hadn’t seen any women in the pub. “Do you have any policies that I should know about?”

“We have quiet nights here. No ladies in the pub after tea-time unless accompanied by their husbands or sons or a man of the village. Since you wish to meet Dean Filmer, I suppose that gives you permission to be in the pub, but not on a regular basis, Mrs. Tarrant.”

“I will keep that in mind. Will I take meals in my room?”

“Bless you, no, Mrs. Tarrant. We have a small sitting room reserved for guests. Mr. Pollard calls it the lounge. We have seating there and tables to serve dinner and breakfast to our paying guests. We keep city hours,” she added, sounding proud of that. “Lunch here in the pub, of course. If you’re to miss a meal service, be pleased to let us know several hours in advance.”

“That suits me perfectly.” She and Mrs. Pollard exchanged smiles.

After their original quick judgement, Isabella hadn’t expected to like the Pollards. She’d gradually revised her opinion of Mrs. Pollard. The husband remained a mystery.

Isabella slung the strap of Madoc’s satchel over her shoulder and gathered up her small easel and purse. Then she bent her knees to pick up her bulky suitcase.

“Sibby!” Mr. Pollard called. “Sibby! That girl!” When no one appeared at the swinging door behind the bar, he pushed it wide, offering a view into a busy kitchen. “Sibby! Get in here.”

The bar maid came out, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. With her dark hair and trim figure, she would have been pretty, but a scowl marred her sharp features. “What am I to do now?”

Mrs. Pollard rolled her eyes and returned to her ledgers. Mr. Pollard rapped out several sentences about “come when you’re called” and “work for me at whatever I say”. He finished with “Don’t be frowning at me, or you’ll be looking for another position.”

Sibby kept her gaze on him throughout and nodded or shook her head at the appropriate moments. When Mr. Pollard wound down, she crossed her arms over her bibfront apron. “What’s to do?”

“This is Mrs. Tarrant,” his wife said calmly from the end of the bar. “Take her suitcase, and show her to the room we’ve prepared. Freshen the water in her pitcher, and give her extra cloths.”

Sibby came around the bar. “This it?” and she reached for the suitcase.

Having lugged it from the station along with her small easel and satchel while the February wind bit through her, Isabella happily relinquished it.

For all her slenderness, Sibby had no trouble with the suitcase on the steep stairs to the first floor. The hall had windows at either end. Light filtered through lacy curtains. The uncarpeted floor looked oiled rather than waxed. Isabella’s city pumps clicked on the wood while the bar maid passed more soundlessly in plain brogues.

Sibby stopped at the last room. “This room looks onto the back. You’ll like that. Not so noisy as the front.” She swung the suitcase onto the bed.

Isabella winced, for the coverlet was a pale printed quilt with interlocked rings in pink and rose and purple. “Do they call that pattern ‘wedding ring’?” She peered around the room. The large easel and canvas that she had shipped were just inside the door, leaning against the wall, taking up the scant walk-space on this side of the bed. Madoc had knocked out the easel of rough wood and left it unsanded since it would be freighted. Brown paper wrapped the canvas, protecting it during transport.

“I have no idea. I’m not much for sewing.” The bar maid edged around the bed to a square table tucked into the front corner. She claimed a transferware pitcher adorned with a country scene. “I’ll get your water, ma’am.”

Isabella pressed against the bed to let Sibby pass, then she placed her purse and satchel beside her suitcase. She propped the little easel under the large one.

This room would be her home for the next twelve weeks. Surely the painting will be done by then! The little square table for the pitcher and basin took up the corner, with a small round mirror hanging above a shelf. A man who had to shave would devolve to many gyrations to see his face. She stepped over her box of paint supplies, shoved against the foot of the bed. Once around, she found that the other side had much more room. Under the window was a narrow table and a single chair. She switched on the japanned metal lamp, and the room took on a muted glow. Lace curtains half-covered the windows, but there were also heavy drapes pushed aside to reveal the misty landscape. After peering at the twilight-dim back garden, she drew the curtains. She was examining the shelves and hangers of the wardrobe between the bed and the outside wall when Sibby returned.

“Will you have dinner in the lounge or up here, Mrs. Tarrant?”

“Below, please. I intend to start as I mean to go on. Do you think we’ll have snow in the morning?” That didn’t bode well for her paints. Hopefully, she would soon have her preliminary sketching done, on paper and on the canvas.

“Weather report says Sunday will be warm and sunny, then we’re back to cold and rain. There’s towels in the bathroom. That’s down the hall, right next to the stair. The WC is across from it. Do you think you’ll need more cloths for washing?” Sibby had taken to heart Mrs. Pollard’s order to give her more cloths, and she crammed the stack onto the little shelf of the triangular corner table.

“Not for a few days.”

“I work afternoon and evening. In the morning till afternoon it’s Nuala. She’ll have your morning tea at 7 sharp. Breakfast a half-hour later. You have a couple of hours before dinner.” She nodded abruptly, remembered to smile, then retreated.

With the door shut, Isabella towed her suitcase across the coverlet and set to unpacking. Her few clothes which had crammed the suitcase looked lonesome in the wardrobe. She arranged and re-arranged them then decided to empty the contents of the satchel onto one shelf. Her sketchbook, pencils and eraser, sharpening pen knife and charcoal fit very neatly on the eye-level shelf. A long jacket, two good frocks, and her blouses hung neatly from the short rod. Folded skirts and jumpers and jodphurs filled the other two shelves. Her spare shoes, one pair for walking, the other pair in case of a special dinner, tucked easily onto the bottom shelf. Staring at the empty top shelf, she turned about, wandering what else would fit in the wardrobe and give her more room.

She stubbed her toe on the paint box. In a trice she fit her watercolor paints and brushes and palette, papers and clips neatly onto the top shelf. The small easel fit neatly under the table.

Tomorrow was her first meeting with Edward Malvaise. She also needed to cart to the school the large easel and canvas and paint crate with everything she needed to work with oils. Lady Malvaise had stated positively that the headmaster would provide a room at Greavley Abbey School in which she would work, and the paint crate would store there easily.

Full dark had fallen while she unpacked. Catching the time on her wristwatch. Isabella hurried into a plain taupe frock and tugged on a warm cardigan patterned with gold and bronze overblown roses. She finished her look with eardrops of seed pearls in a gold setting and the single twisted gold strand that Madoc had given her after their marriage. Sliding into a pair of mahogany pumps, she locked her door, slid the key into her purse, then clattered down the narrow stairway and turned down the hall that Mrs. Pollard had indicated with a wave of her hand when she’d mentioned the lounge.

There she encountered Sibby, carrying a tray with covers.

The bar maid gave her a jaundiced look that repulsed any greeting. “Mrs. Pollard says you are to linger over your dinner. You can use the lounge as a sitting room. When Dean Filmer arrives, she’ll send him there so you can meet with him.”

“That’s considerate of her.” She held the door then followed Sibby into the room.

The lounge was dim, with only three lamps providing a weak glow. The only welcome was a cheery fire. Three round tables with heavy chairs were set for dinner service. Well away from the fireplace were a settee and two fauteuils. The curtains were drawn against the night. They didn’t create a cozy ambience. Their dark color absorbed the light, adding to the dimness.

Sibby set the tray on the first table, well away from the fireplace. She removed the covered dishes then departed.

Isabella barely waited for the door to close before she dragged a table closer to the fire and scooted over its chairs. Then she transferred the covered plate and dessert coupe and bread plate. Covers off, she could see the steam rising from the steak and kidney pie. The dessert coupe had an apple crumble that surprised her by being delightful, with cinnamon sprinkled on the custard portion.

When Sibby returned an hour later, Isabella had rearranged the whole room, one table dragged to the window that overlooked the garden with its low wall and view of the trees beyond and the other table relegated to the far end of the room, in front of a set of low shelves, sparse of books yet rich with curios. She’d dragged the settee from the wall. With the deep armchairs across from the settee, she had created a conversation circle on the other side of the fireplace. The circle caught the fire’s heat and became cozy. She had claimed the fauteuil nearest the fire and was flipping through an old magazine when the door opened.

Sibby stopped short when she saw the changes but said nothing. She gathered the dishes onto her tray. “Will you be wanting coffee now?”

Should I risk coffee in the countryside? American born and raised, she’d acquired a coffee habit early, and English tea didn’t quite replace it. Only Middle Eastern restaurants could brew it properly, but sometimes their incarnations of coffee were too strong. “Yes, please, and thank you. My compliments to whoever baked that apple crumble. It was an unexpected joy.”

The bar maid smiled, a true smile, not a fake one. “That’ll be Mrs. Halsey our cook. I’ll tell her you liked it.”

“Thank you, Sibby.”

“Will you be wanting anything else? Cream and sugar for your coffee?”

“Black, please. I suppose it would be an imposition were you to tell me when the headmaster arrives? I think Mrs. Pollard intended to do so, but I doubt she will bring him immediately.”

“He’ll be late. Close to eleven. He comes in his auto. Too much trouble to walk from the school. I’ll be happy to give you a head’s up.” She hesitated then, “He likes to be called Dean Filmer.”

“Yes, Mrs. Pollard said. I appreciate this, Sibby.”

“You’ll be here?”

“Yes. I thought I would investigate the books on that shelf.”

Sibby lifted the tray, took a step, then paused. “Will I come back to more changes in the room?”

“I hope not. I thought I would leave the sideboard and the shelves where they were.”

“Mrs. Pollard may not like it. Is this one of those London room arrangements, furniture out in the room and not against the wall?”

“The dowager Malvaise is paying handsomely for my stay here, for over two months. I would like to have a bit of comfort in the evening. These chairs were too far from the fire.”

“You needn’t explain to me. I suppose you found cobwebs and dust bunnies.”

“I did.”

She shrugged. “It’s Nuala what cleans this room. You’ve given her more work of a Saturday morning.” Then she walked out the door she’d left ajar and hip-bumped it closed.

Isabella hoped Mrs. Pollard was not too upset with the changes.

How was Madoc enduring his changes? He would be on board his ship by now, with a narrow berth in a cabin shared with other men. A ship mess for his dinner, likely without any sweet dessert.

She tugged out a handkerchief to dab her eyes.

. ~. ~ . ~ .

Flick didn’t like cigarettes, but a cigarette in a lacquered holder was de rigueur among the faster crowds. She didn’t have to smoke it. If she waved it around, it might stay lit.

Her flatmates had left an hour ago, both in frocks copied from Lanvin’s newest creation, thin straps and a deep vee, a dropped waist with a full skirt beneath. Millie paired her rose pink frock with a feathery boa from props while Stefa in yellow threw on the glen plaid throw from the couch, wearing it like an enveloping shawl. They had laughed at Flick’s wish they “stay warm”. The rain had been spitting ice pellets when Flick arrived back from Fleet Street where she’d gone to sell her photos.

Alan Rettleston ran London Daily, and on the 16^th he bought every photo that Owl had rejected. As he lit one cigarette off another, he said, “I want more. Men only. Women only. Same style. Same factory if you can work it. Come back in a week with all of them. Do that, and I’ll pay a third more.”

Flick wasn’t a fool; she knew what he was doing. He wanted a narrative: the men gone, women doing their work; men returned, pushing the women out of jobs. Since that was the narrative she’d spotted, she’d follow his instructions.

The money from the photo feature would keep her ahead on funds, an entire quarter ahead.

When she returned to London Daily on the next Tuesday at noon, Rettleston set her to work with “Old Pickwick. He’s good at crafting a story after the photos come in.” While the newspaper’s official photographer developed the negatives, she and Pickwick poured over her contact prints, tiny images the same size of the negatives.

This morning Rettleston counted out her payment from his petty cash box. As he handed it over, he talked of a party hosted by Lilibeth Hargreaves.

Lilibeth was a member of the Bright Young Things. At their parties, champagne flowed freely, the music was jazzy or snazzy, and dancers crowded any tiny space. Only the flashiest of London’s ton would be on the guest list. Rettleston promised her dinner with dancing before.

Dinner. Dancing. Millie and Stefa had chattered during their morning cuppa that they had a party in the theatre district. Rather than stay alone at the flat or venture alone to a restaurant, Flick agreed to the evening. She immediately worried at Rettleston’s grin, more lascivious than she expected. “Would you take me to the Fitzwilliam Victoria Hotel?”

“That old dodge.”

“It does lean to the traditional.”

“Stuffed shirts and dowdy women,” he sneered.

“The food is excellent,” she countered, “and they have a chamber orchestra for dancing, not one of the newer brass bands. I met my parents there last month. Dinner, dancing, and Miss Hargreaves’ party. That’s a wonderful evening.”

He let himself be convinced. With dinner in the offing, Flick skipped the late lunch she’d planned and only had tea.

The red dress that she’d bought on a dare from Stefa came off its hanger. A sheath dress, calf-length, demure with its high neck and long sleeves, but the back draped so low it might be called backless. She wore her highest black heels and jet eardrops that she’d picked up at a market stall. The Spanish shawl with its vivid flowers on a black ground was her only concession to warmth. Then she picked up her black beaded purse that held in-case cab fare and ran down the steps to wait for Rettleston in the entrance.

His red roadster surprised her then didn’t, for she was discovering he had more than a bit of flash in him. He had the top up against the weather, thank God. She opened the door and slid in before he had a chance to put a hand to his own door latch.

The whole evening whirled. Pre-emptive maneuvering limited the cocktails he pressed on her. Couples crowded the Fitzwilliam Victoria’s dance floor, so he didn’t request too many dances. Flick spotted a good-looking man staring at her. She winked—yet he didn’t see. He looked away just as she did.

He was dining with other couples, the stuffed shirts and dowdy women that Rettleston had decried. One woman was flash, though, glittering rings on her fingers, a spandelle in her marcelled hair, an embroidered dress from a Paris catwalk. Handsome looked younger than the woman, an obvious single in the group, and he looked older than Flick’s brother Chauncey but younger than her oldest brother Warren. Her brother Allworthy’s age, she guessed. Then Rettleston demanded her attention, and she stopped speculating if Handsome Is was also Handsome Does.

The party at Lilibeth Hargreaves was wilder than she liked but not as wild as the theatre parties that Millie dragged her to. Lilibeth had hired a jazz band on a promotional tour from Louisiana in the States. The dancing was fast, the drinking faster, and Rettleston kept handing her fizzy cocktails. Conversation was impossible, but people talked louder, creating a din that still rang in her ears the next morning.

When Rettleston suggested breakfast, Flick winced. “I have a long drive tomorrow. I need sleep.”

“Come with me. You’ll sleep after I relax you.”

She groaned. “Take me to my flat, please. I’ve had a wonderful evening, but it has to end. I have to drive. I’m expected.”

Flick let him kiss her in the roadster, the gear shift keeping them apart, then she dashed out and up the steps to her flat. She waved from the door. He revved the motor then sped off.

She’d survived the evening.

Now to drive to Upper Wellsford.

Chapter 3

Friday Evening, 27 February

Michael Wainwright did not normally dine with his superior on a Friday evening. A murder investigation solved that very morning, no new case to mull over, he’d been trapped into an affirmative when the chief inspector cornered him to be the spare man at a celebration. Since he liked Chief Inspector Malcolm and had no plans for the evening, he didn’t try too hard to winkle out of the invitation.

His tuxedo fit loosely. He hadn’t regained the three stone lost in the last years of the war, looking into the fanged maw of hell and surviving only by a screech of talons.

When he woke in the night, darkness surrounding him like a predator monster lurking silent and still, he would forget where he was, when he was. Then an automobile’s revving engine would filter from the street below or an ambulance’s clangor would peal distantly. He would remember he had returned to London. The next seconds reminded him the Armistice was signed, and most of the soldiers were demobilized. On those nights he thanked God and dropped back to sleep.

Malcolm offered to pick him up, but Michael refused, saying he would make his own way to the Fitzwilliam Victoria Hotel. He hopped a bus and was glad of his overcoat that hid his tuxedo from the workers heading home.

The hotel’s marble edifice flew international flags. The Fitzwilliam was beyond his monthly budget except for special occasions, but he had dined there enough to know to walk through the elaborate lobby to the frosted glass doors that led to an atrium and thence to the restaurant with its exclusive dining and dancing. The string orchestra played a foxtrot rather than the international tango gradually replacing it.

Subdued conversations flowed under the strings’ harmonies. An occasional flute created a counterpoint. Not for the Fitzwilliam the clarinet and brass.

He was early but recognized by the maître d’, a dour man who adopted the mien of a stiff butler.

“Mr. Wainwright, if you will follow me.” He walked the fringes of the dance floor to a long table in the corner. “Do you wish a highball or John Collins to start the evening?”

He avoided the proffered chair that set his back to the room. “Whiskey and soda, please. Forgive me, have we met?”

“On the occasion of a wedding, sir. You dined with the bride and groom. Last autumn, I believe. And Easter last, you escorted an elderly couple. The happy couple also attended that evening.”

He had treated his brother and new sister-in-law to a celebratory evening here at the Fitzwilliam. He didn’t hide his surprise at the maître d’s memory. His grandparents were the elderly couple. “You’ve an excellent memory.”

The man allowed a small smile. “Our guests to the Fitzwilliam change rarely, sir.” Then he faded away.

While he waited for his superior and the rest of the party, Michael watched the dancers and discretely examined at the other diners. The tables around the dance floor were for couples, with tables for four and six farther back, and larger tables widely spaced behind columns.

A flash of red silhouetted against somber black caught his eye. He watched a couple taking a table behind a column. The woman wore the red, a dress that looked demure until she turned her back and he saw an expanse of pale skin above the draped back. The waiter drew out her chair, sitting her behind the marble column so that he had the barest look at her pretty face and dark hair, bobbed but not crimped as so many women did now. The man looked familiar. Michael caught an edge of trouble associated with his memory of the man.

A waiter delivered his drink. Sipping it, he reminded himself that the day was done, labor ceased. He could shed his role as an investigator. Tonight, his chief had cast him into the role of the charming Spare Man.

Chief Inspector Malcolm arrived, led by the maître d’. Malcolm escorted his wife. A lone woman followed then came three other couples, all chattering. He would be Spare Man for the unescorted woman. She wore one of the shapeless styles that were becoming popular, feminized with swirling embroidery that reminded him of India.

Michael stood and greeted them. He bothered to remember last names only, including the single woman’s. His job as a detective inspector had built his memory for names. He had to shift down table, away from the couple being celebrated, but that gave him a better view of the woman in red. Attractive rather than beautiful, he judged, her waif look imparted by her bobbed hair. She smiled as she responded to her escort’s conversation, smiled when the waiter delivered a sidecar to her and a highball to the man. Yet she kept looking around the dining room, as if she looked for someone.

He needed to focus on his own party, but his subconscious kept watch. He knew the instant the man stood, coming around to draw out the woman’s chair. They joined the couples gathering for another foxtrot. The man spoke. Her expression appeared frozen, without its earlier animation.

“Enjoy dancing, Wainwright?” his chief asked.

“Sir, no, sir. Not my thing, especially now.”

“No?” the single woman queried. Mrs. Pomphrey. Margaret, Margret, Margot, something like that. A widow. “Did you suffer an injury in the war, Mr. Wainwright? You seem healthy now.”

Margot Pomphrey, he remembered. “No injury,” he confessed. “I’ve turned stodgy since the war. My sergeant despairs of me.”

“Yet you were watching the dancing. Or the dancers. Has someone caught your eye?”

“Actually, I wondered if the Fitzwilliam had moved into the new decade and would shock us all with the Tango. They’ve tamed the Foxtrot, I see.”

The comment earned muted laughter and turned conversation from him to dancing.

The celebratory couple joined the next dance. Michael felt honorbound to ask Mrs. Pomphrey to dance, and she accepted with an alacrity that kept him distant on the dance floor.

The young woman and her escort had returned to their table. The waiter had presented the entrée. As the evening progressed, the couple received their services more quickly than Michael’s table did. Yet the number of times that they danced kept their progress through the dinner at a similar pace.

Mrs. Pomphrey rattled on about after-parties. He listened with half an ear and waited for his glimpses of the dark brunette. He had no hope that he would ever meet her. She would not deign to enter his local pub or dine at the humble restaurants he frequented. He rarely ventured into the society to which the Fitzwilliam Victoria catered.

Their worlds were far apart.

Yet he found himself lingering at the restaurant’s entrance as the party dispersed for the evening. The chief expressed his appreciation for Michael playing Spare Man. He clapped Michael on the shoulder. His wife said, “Margot enjoyed the evening. Your idea was brilliant, my dear.” Then she patted her husband’s chest and clattered through the atrium to the hotel’s lobby.

His chief hesitated, as if he knew he needed to say more. Michael quickly said, “Thank you for the invitation and dinner, sir. I will see you on Monday.” That put him back in lower status, and Malcolm nodded and followed his wife.

He lingered a few minutes longer, giving the others time to collect their checked evening wraps while their automobiles were brought to the entrance.

The maître d’ appeared. “Sir. Have you need of anything?”

“A bit of information, if you please. The couple that were seated across the dance floor from us. The table was beside a column. The woman wore a red dress. I have met the man somewhere, but I cannot recall his name.” He edged a bob across the lectern.

That last comment and the doucement cleared the maître d’s expression. “Yes, sir. The gentleman is Alan Rettleston, managing editor of the London Daily. We do not see him often. The young lady, however, is well known to us. She has dined several times, usually with her parents of a Sunday, once a quarter, I would say.” Then he stopped, waiting for the question that he had guessed prompted the first question.

“Her name?”

“Miss Felicity Sherborne. A photographer, I believe.”

“For the London Daily?”

“That I do not know, sir.”

Michael thanked him and left.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Saturday Morning, 28 February

Isabella introduced herself to the maid Nuala then enjoyed her morning tea and poached egg on dry toast.

Mrs. Pollard came into the room when she was refusing marmalade and more toast. Nuala saw the woman and ducked her head before retreating to clear the table now beside the window. Feeling a smidgen of guilt for rearranging the room, Isabella poured the last of the tea into her cup and stirred in another little spoon of sugar.

“Mrs. Tarrant?” The woman placed her hand on the back of a chair. “May I join you?”

“Please do. The sunshine is brilliant this morning. I shall enjoy my walk to Greavley Abbey.”

“You spoke with Dean Filmer last evening?”

She nodded as she tapped the spoon then laid it on the saucer. “He will send a man this morning for my easel and canvas and box of supplies. The headmaster has also promised to introduce me to young Mr. Malvaise.”

“You haven’t met him?”

“The dowager commissioned me. I have her letter of introduction to her grandson.”

“I see. You should have no trouble up at the Abbey School then.”

Isabella decided to tackle the furniture rearrangement before Mrs. Pollard did. “I hope you don’t mind.” She swept her hand around to indicate the room. “It’s a drastic rearrangement. Last evening the fire hadn’t had time to warm the room. I decided to shift my table closer which led to shifting a armchair, and then I had to balance the room. The more I moved, the more had to be moved. I didn’t realize until this morning that this room faces the south and will take advantage of this glorious sunshine. That table by the window will be wonderful on a warm and sunny morning.”

“Mrs. Tarrant—.”

“February doesn’t have many sunny days, I know, but I’ll be here through March and into April, and we will definitely have more days like today.” There, she’d reminded the woman that she was a long-term guest of the Hook and Line.

Mrs. Pollard grimaced and shifted in her seat. “We have other guests, Mrs. Tarrant. We have three fishermen staying with us. You didn’t see them last night because they supped in the pub. This morning they rose early. They didn’t quite know where to sit for breakfast.”

“I believe I saw them. Three men, young, middle-aged, older. We spoke as they left. Do they each take a different table? I thought they had eaten together this morning.”

“They did, this morning, but they don’t often do so.”

“They chose the window table. That table will be popular, especially this spring. Candlemas was cloudy, wasn’t it? We should have an early spring. Did I see crocuses at the gate?”

“You did. Mrs. Tarrant, the fishermen aren’t our only guests. Miss Felicity Sherborne arrives today to visit her brother. He’s a master at the Abbey School. She plans to stay a fortnight. She will arrive by tea-time, I should think. We have more guests expected next week. Where are they to sit, Mrs. Tarrant? Miss Sherborne cannot retreat to the pub. You will both be vying for the best table and the best seat.”

“If we are that crowded, then I hope Miss Sherborne and I can share the same table. It will be lovely to have someone to talk with during meals. Someone new always has a wealth of conversation.”

“You have a hopeful view of Miss Sherborne.”

“Should I not? What do you know of her? Has she stayed here before?”

“She stays once a season for several days. A long weekend for each of her visits last fall, this time a fortnight, as I said. I believe she’s keen on photography.”

“I shall enjoy her explanation of photography, I’m certain. I assisted a photographer once.” Poor Richard Lamb. Murdered by a colleague at the archaeological dig on Crete. The memory subdued her sparkle. “We will definitely have several conversation starters.”

Mrs. Pollard cleared her throat. She compressed her lips, as if she had more to say but wouldn’t. She stood and thrust her chair under the table. “I see that you plan to make your rearranging work. Please don’t be changing more things without consulting me.”

“Nuala didn’t have more work, did she?” She pretended not to know that the young woman had had more work. Moving furniture had revealed dust and cobwebs and gravel and bits of leaves hiding under the settee and chairs.

“You said a man from the Abbey School would collect your canvas and easel? Should I admit him to your room to collect them? I assume you’ll be at the Abbey all day?”

“Yes, please. And a box. Everything’s beside the door. I hope to introduce myself to young Mr. Malvaise before this morning is much advanced.”

“The boys play rugby on Saturdays. Preparation for the exhibition games on Founder’s Day, the first weekend in April.”

“Then I shall definitely need to speak with him early. Thank you for telling me that, Mrs. Pollard. Mr. Filmer didn’t mention it.”

Her smile looked pinched. “For asking you not to rearrange the room?”

“For giving me the warning about the games today and for telling me about Miss Sherborne.”

Mrs. Pollard didn’t snort, but she looked as if she wanted to.

The barmaid Nuala came in as Mrs. Pollard left. Staring into her tepid tea, Isabella wondered if Nuala had waited in the hall while Mrs. Pollard delivered her scold … which didn’t really come off. She hid a grin and drank the tea, even if it had lost all warmth.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

“Report’s filed, boss.” Sgt. Callaway followed Michael into his office. “In triplicate,” he added, imitating a nasally corporal. The story of the corporal had entertained Michael over several pints in the first weeks after Callaway returned to work with him.

“Sit down. Tell me we haven’t caught another case.”

“Not yet, boss. Sunday’s still free.” Callaway started to lower himself into a chair, then the door behind him opened. He quickly straightened and tucked his hands behind his back, a noncom giving a report to his captain.

Chief Inspector Malcolm barely gave the sergeant a glance. “Closed your case?”

“The sergeant filed the papers earlier.”

“Good then. You two will have the rest of the weekend free.”

“We hope so, sir.”

“I have a commission from my wife.” He acted as if the sergeant wasn’t there. The chief was probably used to servants standing around. “My wife and I hope you are free for dinner Saturday next. Just the four of us. Margot Pomphrey enjoyed last evening.”

He saw Callaway’s eyes roll. The sergeant would relish that bit of information and ruthlessly tease Michael. “If no case arises, sir. I must insist on paying my way, however.”

“Nonsense. This will be a favor to us. Evening attire, I would think, though we do not plan to attend a party afterward. Plans do change, however. Best to prepared.” He waited expectantly then, and Michael was forced to thank him for the invitation. His chief then turned to Callaway. “How is Mrs. Callaway, sergeant?”

“My mother is doing well, sir. Thank you for asking.”

The door shut behind Malcolm. “You’re doing better, Callaway,” Michael praised. “You gave no hint that you knew he’d forgotten you aren’t married.”

“He’ll never remember that, boss.”

“Not until you rise in the ranks.”

“That’s not likely to occur.”

“The world’s changing.”

“And you’re having dinner with him, boss. Again. The world’s staying the same. People find their levels and stay there. Like him and his wife setting you up with that Pomphrey woman. Again.”

“Then we’ll have to hope a case will interfere. That reminds me. We had a man in our station some months back. I cannot remember the case. Alan Rettleston. Editor on Fleet Street. London Daily. Do you remember?”

“Not our case, boss.”

“No. Just here in the station.”

“I can ask around, quiet-like.”

“Do that. I’m curious.”

“Trouble, boss?”

“No. Not even a hint of it. Just my curiosity.”

“You know what curiosity did. A case right up our alley. I’ll see.” He faded back and shut the door just as quietly.

Michael worked through paperwork until he reached an old file from months back, the weeks immediately after he’d returned to police work. He hadn’t thought the war had returned home with him until he came on that crime scene. Unsolved still. He rarely had time to review the case, but he kept the file on his desk for spare moments like this. He leaned back and started through the documents, reading each one individually, trying to shift them around, like puzzle pieces that fit in multiple spots. A new angle? Missing facts? Different kinds of interviews? He’d thought at first that his newness as a detective inspector hampered him. He no longer thought that.

Callaway knocked then poked his head around the doorframe.

“Come in.” Michael closed the file. “I need the interruption.”

“MacBride case, boss?”

“How did you know?”

“Still worries me, too. We’ll get to the answer, boss, never you doubt it.”

“In this year, I hope. Already a half-year has passed, and we’re still no closer. What do you need?”

“That man, boss, Alan Rettleston. He was in the station. Charges never brought.” He touched his nose.

That nose-touch meant that Rettleston had paid his way out of the charge. “What brought him to us?”

“Assaulted a Jane at a Mott Shop. Broken bones the worst of it. Re-arranged her face for her. Surgery needed there. The Jane was willing to charge, but nothing doing. You have anything we can use?”

“No. I just recognized him. He was at the Fitzwilliam Victoria.”

“Was he? That nice place? With who?”

“Whom. A pretty lady in a red dress.”

“She’ll need to be warned.”

“Unfortunately, she might not view me as creditable. You know these new things. They don’t automatically accept everything the police says.”

“No one should do that. But a word of caution ….”

“Anything else, sergeant?” He drew the file back toward him.

“No, boss.”

“Then we’ll plan to have a normal Sunday, shall we? We might manage some interviews on this before a new case crops up.”

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

The walk to Greavley Abbey did not take long. Few vehicles passed on the road. Isabella took to the wide verges whenever she heard a motor, but the macadam was easier walking. The road was bitumen in Upper Wellsford itself, but it changed to the crushed gravel mixture once she passed the last village cottage. Trees grew along the grassy verge. The forest looked cleared of undergrowth although deep within the old-growth trees were tangles of bushes. The understory along the verge looked to be flowering trees, drinking up the sunshine that didn’t penetrate the oaken canopy. Driving the road in spring would be a celebration of color.

When a brick wall began running alongside the road, she knew the Abbey was near. The wall seemed to die away deeper into the forest. She wondered the reason for its building.

She hadn’t searched for Greavley Abbey’s history. Lacking a cathedral or an influential monastic order, the abbey had escaped Henry VIII’s deprivations, and the village had built its own church, a plain grey-stone building with a Palladium style front and an octagonal bell tower at the back.

Her sole source at the London Library in the Pall Mall had claimed Greavley Abbey had a checkered past. The monastery, still Catholic yet its influence greatly reduced, survived until Henry VIII and then Oliver Cromwell. In the Jacobean Glorious Revolution, the monastic order was forced to remove. A wealthy merchant purchased the whole, Abbey Church and dormitory and extensive grounds. The merchant’s heirs grew wealthier in successive monarchies. Yet while the family accumulated wealth, the blood was not as prolific. By the 1780s, the last merchant had no direct or collateral heir to name. He fastened upon the idea to form a school and spent his last three decades doing so.

Isabella reached the grand entrance with its round spheres topping the supports for the open ironwork gates. She stopped to catch her breath. Distant shouts let her know the boys already were at play. She saw no one moving about the front. The Abbey Church stood to her right, medieval in shape with stained glass windows and a high bell tower that reminded her of Notre Dame in Paris. Before her was a manor house, Palladium style, and she wondered if the childless merchant had built both manor house and village church.

In the narrow opening between church and manor she could see through to a building of grey stone, much like the church. That must be the monks’ dormitory. She saw the barest corner of a further building and wondered at it. The manor was of a warm brick with grey stone quoins. The house rose three stories, taller than the church and its dormitory, although the crenallated bell tower ran a story higher. The manor’s architect must have sought symmetry with the church buildings rather than an imitation of the earlier buildings.

Trees grew, old and strong, to her left. Along that side of the house was a boxwood hedge. She wondered if that was the approach to the maze that had fascinated the librarian.

The church and the manor formed two sides of a square. The librarian had spoken of a cloister walk and three other buildings, one for administration, the second for teaching, and the third for the teachers’ lodgings. Only they didn’t call them teachers, Isabella remembered. Mr. Filmer had called them masters, and he was the headmaster, but she was to refer to him as Dean Filmer.

Surely in this great place would be a lockable room for her painting. The headmaster had said that she could leave her work without worry. Yet her late father had taught at public schools, in America and here in Britain. Boys easily became imps.