A Deception at Thornecrest

Book 7: An Amory Ames Mystery

by Ashley Weaver

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

Amory Ames is alone at her country house Thornecrest, enjoying her last few weeks of peace and quiet as she prepares for the imminent arrival of her baby. Her husband, Milo, is in London on business, and Amory is content to catch up on her correspondence, organize the nursery, and avoid the well-meaning but rather overbearing company of the ladies in the village as they prepare for the Springtide Festival. But then a woman appears on her doorstep, also claiming to be Mrs. Ames, Milo's wife. Amory's marriage has had its ups and downs in the past, but her faith in her husband has been restored, and Milo has been nothing but thrilled about becoming a father. Though the supposed second Mrs. Ames seems earnest, Amory is convinced she must be mistaken, a belief that Milo confirms upon his homecoming. However, when a second unexpected visitor arrives at Thornecrest, secret identities and whirlwind romances appear to be becoming par for the course. It's not until the day of the festival, when a body is discovered, that the strange characters appearing in town begin to seem more sinister, and Amory is determined to uncover the killer in the crowd.
“An elegant Agatha Christie romp.” DEBORAH CROMBIE

Release date: September 8, 2020

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 288

Sample

1

THORNECREST


ALLINGCROSS, KENT

APRIL 1934

IT WAS ON a sunny spring morning in the eighth month of my pregnancy that a woman arrived on my doorstep claiming to be married to my husband.

The day started out much like any other, with no hint that I would soon be involved in a melodrama worthy of any of the radio plays with which I had lately been amusing myself. I arose early and breakfasted heartily before going to the morning room to complete my correspondence. My husband, Milo, was in London for the weekend, tending to some business with our solicitor, and I was taking advantage of the solitude to catch up on my letter writing.

Things had been quiet at Thornecrest, our country house, over the past few months, and, for once, I didn’t mind the slow pace. My pregnancy had been progressing well, and we were expecting our first child in a month. Many of the anxieties I had felt in the initial stages of my pregnancy had begun to subside as we neared the birth. Perhaps it was the growing bond with my child. Or perhaps it was simply the knowledge that the baby’s arrival was inevitable, whether I was prepared or not.

I was composing a letter to my cousin Laurel, who was on holiday in Greece, expressing just such a sentiment.

I am growing more and more excited the closer I come to the baby’s arrival. I had worried that I might be anxious, but I am feeling rather calm and confident about it all. Perhaps when one realizes that life is about to be irrevocably altered, there is little choice but to embrace the change with open arms.

Little did I realize how apt this sentiment would prove to be.

A brief clearing of the throat drew my attention from my letter. I looked up to see Grimes, our butler, standing in the morning room doorway.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Ames,” he said.

“Yes, what is it?”

He hesitated, and that was the moment I knew that something must be amiss. The butler was normally the epitome of unflappable professionalism, but I could tell he was doing his utmost to remain composed. That didn’t seem to bode well for whatever he was about to say next, and I felt a brief surge of alarm that something might have happened to Milo before Grimes’s next words put me more at ease.

“There is a young woman here…” The words trailed off, and I waited for him to continue, wondering at his uncharacteristic reticence.

“She gives her name as … Mrs. Ames,” he said at last.

I frowned. Certainly it wasn’t my mother. Grimes was acquainted with her, and he wouldn’t be acting so strangely if it were she. Despite her somewhat aggressive personality, she was not the sort of person to ruffle Grimes’s feathers. No, it must be someone else.

But there was no other Mrs. Ames. Though my maiden name and my married name were, coincidentally, the same, neither Milo nor I had another female relation with the same surname. Unless it was some distant relative of whom I was unaware.

“Does she say if she’s a relative of mine or of Mr. Ames’s?” I asked, to prod him forward.

He seemed to be marshalling himself for some unpleasant task, and then he came out with it.

“She claims to be Mrs. Milo Ames, madam.”

I blinked. Surely he had misspoken. He did not correct himself, however, and I realized that he meant what he said.

“Mrs.… Milo Ames,” I repeated after a moment of heavy silence.

“Yes, she’s come looking for Mr. Ames … her husband.”

This was growing more bizarre by the moment.

“There must be some mistake,” I said. It was the only logical conclusion.

“Undoubtedly,” he replied. I could tell, however, that he was not convinced. Grimes had never especially cared for Milo, and he didn’t put forth much effort to hide the fact. Even now that Milo was making great strides toward putting his past behind him, Grimes remained staunchly disapproving. Perhaps it was because Grimes had always been loyal to Milo’s father, and Milo and the elder Mr. Ames had never seen eye to eye.

In any event, there was nothing to be done about this mysterious situation but to face it head-on.

“You’d better show her in,” I said. “I’m sure we shall sort this all out.”

He nodded. “Very good, madam.”

I rose from my seat at the writing desk and smoothed my hair, telling myself that I should remain calm. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. While it was true that my husband had something of a colorful reputation, I didn’t think that bigamy would be much to his taste. After all, one marriage had often seemed to require much more effort than he cared to exert.

Nevertheless, I was a bit flustered by the idea that someone else was claiming to be married to him. It was all so strange.

A moment later Grimes returned to the room, followed by a young lady.

“Ah … Mrs. Ames, madam.”

“Thank you, Grimes.”

I knew he was curious, but he was too proper to linger in hopes of overhearing something; he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

I turned my gaze to my visitor. The girl was young and very pretty, with pale blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. She was also distressed. Though she tried to hide it, I could tell that she was in a state of barely suppressed agitation. Her gloved hands were clenched at her sides, her face was ashen, and she was breathing much more quickly than the walk from the front hall to the morning room would normally dictate.

I was quite sure that Grimes had not told her what she was walking into, and I tried to decide the best way to broach the subject.

“Good morning,” I said, deciding upon the conventional greeting.

“Who are you?” she asked bluntly. There wasn’t any aggression in her tone, and I took it that she had been expecting to see Milo … or whoever she thought her “Mr. Ames” was.

“I’m Mrs. Ames,” I said.

This caught her off guard. She looked a bit uncertain then, and I considered how I should proceed. One wasn’t exactly taught the proper etiquette for such situations, after all.

“Mrs. Ames?” she repeated at last.

I nodded.

“Who … who is your husband?”

“My husband’s name is Milo,” I said.

She grew a shade paler, if possible, and it seemed to me that she swayed ever so slightly on her feet. I took a step toward her, but she collected herself and met my gaze before looking me over. It was, I thought, the first time she had looked closely at me, and her eyes stayed for a moment on my rounded stomach.

“You’re going to have a baby,” she said in the dazed tone of someone who has been met with a terrible shock.

“Yes.” For some reason, I felt almost guilty admitting it.

She burst into tears.

Good heavens, this was going poorly.

After the briefest of pauses I hurried to her side, trying to decide how best to comfort her. Displays of great emotion had always been vexing to me, and this situation was particularly bewildering.

“He told … He said that he loved…” Her words broke off into a sob, her face buried in her hands.

I was at a total loss, but I was now certain that it wasn’t Milo who had seduced this young woman. He wouldn’t have made such a rash declaration.

I gently took her arm and led her toward the white Louis XIV sofa before the fireplace. She sank into it, still crying into her hands, and I looked around for a handkerchief. It was, I feared, too late to spare her gloves, but she might at least have a proper place to wipe her nose.

I discovered a clean handkerchief in the drawer of my writing desk and brought it to her.

She took it, still crying, but it seemed as though she was beginning to get control of her emotions.

I lowered myself into the chair beside her and waited for her to speak.

“I’ve made such a fool of myself by coming here,” she said at last.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

She sniffed, wiping her eyes on the corners of the handkerchief, and then looked up at me.

“I met him in Brighton. I was taking a little holiday there. I’m a typist for a small company in London, but I had a few days off and a bit of savings, so I thought that I could benefit from the sun and sea air. It was very quiet since it was the off-season, but I enjoyed that. I’m not much of one for crowds of people.”

I nodded encouragingly.

“And then, one day, I was walking along and there he was. The most handsome gentleman I had ever seen in my life.”

Though I did not believe this young woman had married my husband, the description was accurate enough. Milo was remarkably good-looking, a fact that never failed to attract the attention of women wherever we went.

Of course, he was not the only handsome gentleman in England, and it was a stretch of the imagination to believe it was he who had bumped into this young woman on a beach in Brighton. Milo didn’t even particularly care for beaches; they wreaked havoc on his Italian leather shoes.

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“It was the last week of January,” she answered promptly.

Despite knowing that it could not possibly be my Milo to whom she was referring, my traitorous mind cast itself back to see if I could remember his whereabouts at that time.

He had been gone, I realized. He had been tending to some business affairs regarding a nightclub in which he had invested. Though I was quite certain he had been in London at the time, I supposed he might very well have gone south to Brighton instead. Not that I believed he would do such a thing.

“Would you like some tea?” I asked suddenly. I ought to have offered before now, but the truth of it was that I wasn’t as concerned with my duties as hostess as I was with delaying her story. For some reason, my unease was building, and I needed a few moments to collect my thoughts.

But she shook her head. “I don’t care for any, thank you.”

And so there was nothing I could do but say, “Then please continue.”

“I’m afraid I was gaping at him,” she said. “He looked just like a cinema star. I knew he was going to walk right past me, so I thought that I would look at him for as long as possible. But he stopped in front of me. I stared at him for a moment, and then he leaned down and picked something up out of the sand. ‘You’ve dropped your glove,’ he said. I hadn’t even realized that I had let it go. He held it out to me, and when I reached to take it, our fingers touched.”

I found myself caught up in her romantic story, but the sudden recollection that she was allegedly telling it about my husband took some of the fun out of it.

“And so you formed an attachment?” I said, hoping to spare myself some of the details. I still didn’t believe it was Milo, but it was all so strange. What I wished more than anything was that he would suddenly appear in the doorway and straighten all of this out.

“He remarked how cold my fingers were, and would I fancy a warm cup of tea? So we went to the teahouse. We talked for hours. And after that, we spent a great deal of time together over the next week. When it was nearly time for me to return to my job, I didn’t know how I was going to bear it.”

I thought back to being young and in love, to the undulating waves of bliss and confusion and anguish. Everything had always seemed so very urgent, as though the end of the world would come if romance were thwarted. The future had been alive with possibilities. And then suddenly one was married for six years and heavily pregnant. How quickly life goes by.

“… and he said he didn’t want to say goodbye either. And so we decided that we would be married.”

“Just like that?” I asked, rather surprised at the swiftness of it all. Even at my most romantic, I could not envisage marrying a man I had known for only a few days.

She nodded. “We … we spent one more day together.” One more night, their wedding night, was what she meant. I could tell that from the way she blushed and avoided meeting my eyes.

So this man, whoever he was, had taken her to bed under her assumption that he was her husband, though he had clearly been using a false name. What a wicked trick to play on a young, innocent girl.

“And then?”

“Then I had to return to my job, and he told me that he would follow me to London shortly. But … but he didn’t. I’ve been waiting for so long, and I began to wonder if something terrible had happened to him, so I thought I’d better see if I could locate him myself.”

“Did he give you this address?” I asked, wondering how far the charlatan had taken his ruse.

She shook her head. “I found his name in the London Directory. There was a listing for a flat and … and a big house in Berkeley Square. I … I thought it must be some mistake, for he had told me he didn’t have a place to live in London. But he had mentioned that his people came from Kent. And then I found out that he had this property, so I decided to come here. I … I didn’t know about you, of course.”

“Of course,” I said gently.

We sat for a moment, both of us, I am sure, contemplating how we might proceed from here. It seemed clear that either there was another handsome Milo Ames who hailed from Kent and had failed, for reasons unknown, to reunite with his new bride in London or that someone was using Milo’s name, for what purpose I couldn’t imagine.

The simplest way to deal with things, I knew, would be to have Milo come home directly. I ought to see if he could be reached at Mr. Ludlow’s office.

It seemed the young lady was thinking the same thing, for she looked up at me. “When do you expect him back?”

“In a few days, but I should like to clear things up before then.”

She nodded.

“He said his name was Milo Ames?” I asked.

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“And he was from Kent.”

“Yes.”

“I assume someone must be using my husband’s name. What did the man look like?”

I thought I detected a bit of sympathy in her expression as I asked the question. I’m sure she thought I was some sort of deluded cuckquean, left pregnant and alone while my husband ran about seducing other women.

A year or two ago, I might have believed it myself. But, though Milo had done his share of outrageous things in the past, he had left most of his wild ways behind him. Even in the wildest of times, I didn’t think that he would have seduced a young woman under such outrageously false pretenses. He had never had any difficulties winning women without wedding them. Myself excluded, of course.

“As I said, he looks rather like a cinema star: tall and very dashing, with black hair and the bluest eyes you ever saw.”

Tall and dark. Black hair, blue eyes. Though Milo was certainly not the only gentleman who might fit this bill, it did fit him.

A thought occurred to me. “Do you have a photograph, perhaps from your wedding?”

It seemed to me that she flushed slightly, and she dropped her gaze. “I … I have one, but I left it in London. I didn’t … foresee needing it.”

“Of course. Well, I’m certain there must be some explanation for all of this. Rest assured, we shall get it sorted out in no time.”

“Yes, I … thank you, Mrs.… Mrs.…” She couldn’t quite bring herself to call me by the name she had thought now belonged to her.

“Why don’t you call me Amory,” I said. “It will make things easier.”

She drew in a relieved breath. “And please call me Imogen.”

“Very well. Now that that’s settled, perhaps we ought to come up with some sort of plan. The first thing we need to do, of course, is speak to Milo about all of this. He’s in London now, but I should be able to contact him and tell him to come home.”

She looked aghast at the suggestion. Her face grew a shade paler before my eyes. “Perhaps … perhaps it would be better if you were to speak to him without me.”

I could see that she didn’t relish the idea of some kind of dramatic scene. Despite my suggestion she had been deceived, she still thought we were talking about the same man. The only way to rectify that would be to have her meet Milo. I felt bad that Imogen was soon to learn she had been led astray by some rotten imposter.

“I can certainly speak to him alone first,” I said. “But I think you’ll find that my husband is not the man you met. What you have told me is a very serious matter. I must believe that there has been some kind of mistake, that someone is claiming to be Mr. Ames for some unknown purpose.”

She nodded, though I could see that there was some little hint of doubt in her clear blue eyes.

An idea struck me suddenly. She might not have a photograph, but I did. I got up and crossed to the fireplace. There was a photograph of Milo and me there in a small gilt frame. We could clear up at least the question of his identity immediately.

I picked it up and walked to her. I expected, as I handed it to her, to see a look of confusion cross her face. But, instead, she looked up at me, her expression both miserable and pitying. “Yes. That’s him.”



2


I FELT A little surge of surprise followed by a sinking feeling in my stomach. I had been so sure this was all some sort of mistake, a case of stolen identity or some such thing. But it seemed rather improbable that someone might have stolen both Milo’s name and his face.

There was, of course, the possibility that this young woman was operating some sort of scheme. Perhaps she had seen our picture in the gossip columns, read of our past marriage troubles, and assumed that I would pay her off to end the matter. It seemed the only possible solution.

But I looked at her, and, try as I might, I could not bring myself to believe that there was anything sinister in her motivations. One could feign sorrow and distress and even tears, but there was something in her whole attitude that made me believe that, whatever the true situation, she had been deeply affected by the experience.

Inwardly, I sighed. What a mess all of this was. I needed Milo to come home at once.

Until then, there was nothing that could be done. Although, I supposed I could at least help this young woman in the meantime.

“Where are you staying, dear?” I asked.

“I … I hadn’t thought about it.”

I realized belatedly that she had no doubt intended to stay here when she met up with her erstwhile husband. How very awkward this was becoming.

“You must stay here,” I offered, though some part of me was very much hoping she would decline. Whatever the truth behind this situation was, things were bound to get even more uncomfortable than they were now. Granted, Thornecrest was large enough to accommodate a great many people without pushing them into one another’s company, but the fact remained that I was not particularly looking forward to playing hostess under the circumstances.

“Oh, no!” she said quickly. “I couldn’t. Is there, perhaps, a hotel nearby?”

“There’s an inn in the village, the Primrose Inn. And there’s an elderly lady, Mrs. Cotton, who lives in the blue house next to the apothecary shop. She offers short-term room and board.” I rattled off the list of available lodgings a bit too quickly, perhaps, but I was very much relieved. I liked to consider myself a hospitable woman, but there were limits, after all.

“That will do nicely. Until … until things are resolved, I’ll register under my own name: Prescott.”

This was another relief. What a thoughtful girl. I could only imagine the talk that would spread amongst the villagers if she were to register as Mrs. Milo Ames.

“I’ll have my driver take you there,” I offered.

“Oh, no. I can walk.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes. I … I need some time to think.”

I imagined that both of us would be doing a good deal of thinking over the next few days.

“I’ll ring you when Milo gets back.”

She nodded, her expression miserable. “You’ve been very kind. I’m so sorry to have come here and caused so much trouble.”

“You haven’t caused any trouble,” I assured her, though we both knew that this wasn’t precisely the truth.

“I … I just can’t understand it,” she said softly.

“I know, dear. But don’t worry. We’ll sort it all out.”

She took her leave then, and I rang for Grimes.

“Yes, madam?” he asked when he arrived in the doorway. I was certain that he must be curious about my encounter with the other Mrs. Milo Ames, but his expression gave nothing away.

“Will you please see if you can locate Mr. Ames and tell him to come home as soon as possible?”

* * *

THE WAIT FOR Milo’s return would no doubt be a long one, so I was glad that I had an afternoon engagement to keep me occupied. The Springtide Festival was to be held next weekend, and I was a member of the committee of ladies who were overseeing the preparations.

The annual village event was held on the grounds of Bedford Priory, the home of Lady Alma Bedford, one of our local eccentrics. The youngest child of the Earl of Endsley, she had purchased and restored the Priory, the property of which abutted Thornecrest, nearly thirty years ago, after her father’s death. Now nearing fifty, she was a striking woman with strong features, short iron-gray hair, and sharp, dark eyes. She had a direct but not unfriendly manner and spent all her time and a good deal of her fortune on her stables.

If there was anyone in Kent who was as enthusiastic about horses as Milo, it was Lady Alma. She had never married but referred to her horses as her children. She seldom wore anything other than riding clothes and was often seen galloping about the countryside in all manner of inclement weather.

The first festival, a small gathering to celebrate the beginning of warmer weather with friends, food, and horse racing, had been her idea. With the initial backing of her wealth and her forceful personality, it had occurred annually ever since, growing in size and significance. We now had a fully formed committee with an allotment of local charitable funds to support the enterprise.

The Springtide Festival was a source of great excitement and pleasure in Allingcross, a chance for the locals to pit their best horses against one another in a race and hedge-jumping course, to eat and be merry, and to be outdoors and enjoy the sunshine now that winter was passing.

Though the event was held on the grounds of Bedford Priory, the ladies of the committee met at the vicarage. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Elaine Busby, was confined to a wheelchair after a dreadful automobile accident that had injured her and claimed the life of her daughter fifteen years before. She moved about quite easily in her chair, but Lady Alma thought it best that we meet at the vicarage and had tactfully argued that it was in a more central location than the Priory.

We had managed to get most of the planning done at prior meetings, and this was our final gathering before the festival. For most of the meeting, we simply enjoyed tea and idle chatter, drawing around to business matters only after the last of the biscuits had been consumed.

“The vendors are settled, and all of the food has been taken care of, I think?” Lady Alma looked at Mrs. Busby, who was overseeing that aspect of the planning.

She nodded. “It’s all settled. We’ll have the usual tea tent, which will serve refreshments periodically, as well as the various vendors who have chosen to set up booths with items for sale. I’ve spoken to everyone again this week. And then, of course, there will be tea following the races.”

They talked for a few minutes then about what sorts of food would be available—cakes; sausage; puddings; tarts; apple, cherry, and pear jellies and jams from local orchards—and my mind wandered. Truth be told, I was glad to be little more than a nominal member of the committee this year. Now that my pregnancy was nearing its end, it seemed that the strain of every task was multiplied.

“There are several new locals with wares for sale this year,” Mrs. Unger said as the conversation drifted to the other festival events.

“I know several ladies have spoken of entering the pickling competition,” Mrs. Norris put in.

“My husband will be offering pony rides to the children,” Mrs. Hampton reminded us. “And I believe Mabel will be telling fortunes.”

The door to the sitting room opened just then, and a young woman stepped into the doorway. It was Marena Hodges, one of the village girls. Her shoulder-length dark hair was windblown, and her cheeks were flushed from the cool breeze. Even the thick woolen jumper and mud-flecked leather boots she wore did nothing to diminish her prettiness and the elegance of her bearing.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said, casting her amber-colored eyes over the assembled guests before settling them on Mrs. Busby. “I didn’t realize that you had company, Aunt Elaine.”

“It’s quite all right, dear. You’re welcome to join us, if you like. We’re discussing the festival.”

A smile flickered across the girl’s face, and there was some mixture of amusement and complacency in it. Her eyes, though they moved about the room, had a faraway look in them, as though her mind were elsewhere.

“That’s kind of you, but, if you ladies will excuse me,” she said, “I’ve a few things to attend to. You know I shall be only too glad to help you on the day of the festival, of course.”

“I suppose I should be going as well,” Lady Alma said, rising from her chair with her habitual swiftness. I was reminded rather of one of her geldings clearing a hedge. “I like to visit my darlings before dinner.”

This was the committee’s cue to adjourn. One by one, the assembled women took their leave, until it was just Mrs. Busby and me alone in the little sitting room. For some reason, I felt disinclined to go. Perhaps it was only that rising from chairs was getting more difficult with each passing day.

But it was also true that there was something comforting about the warm little parlor. For as long as I could remember, I had always felt at peace when visiting the vicarage. I supposed it had as much to do with the Busbys themselves as with the homely atmosphere of this room. Mrs. Busby, with her silvery hair, warm brown eyes, and gentle spirit, was the picture of a grandmother any child would be glad to have.

“You look tired, Mrs. Ames,” she said as I worked to summon the effort to begin to rise from my chair. “Would you care for another cup of tea?”

I was prepared to refuse but thought better of it. I wouldn’t mind a few more minutes of company. After all, it was a good distraction from all the thoughts swirling through my head.

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Mrs. Busby refilled my teacup. Despite the limitations of her chair, she moved easily and with natural grace.

“I suppose you’ll be glad when the baby has arrived,” she said, stirring sugar into her own cup of tea. “I know the last month or two is always a great strain.”

I nodded, my hand straying to my stomach. “Though I must say, I shall miss feeling him so close to me.”

“Yes, that is a special time.” She looked wistful for a moment, and I felt a little as though I had made a faux pas. The Busbys had lost their only child, a daughter called Sara, in the accident that had confined Mrs. Busby to her wheelchair. Though I had not known them then, people often spoke of the way in which the vicar and his wife had borne the tragedy with strength and dignity. Their lives had changed immensely since the accident, but I had never known them to be discouraged. Nevertheless, I had noticed the way Mrs. Busby smiled, with just the faintest hint of sadness, when she interacted with the children of the village.

The sound of music filtered into the room, a rousing jazz piece. Marena had apparently turned on the radio in the room above us.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard that Marena has been staying with us for the past few months?” Mrs. Busby asked.

“I heard something to that effect,” I answered honestly. Though I tried very hard not to participate in village gossip, it was nearly impossible not to glean bits and pieces of news.

Though she called her “Aunt Elaine,” Marena was not really Mrs. Busby’s niece. Marena’s mother, Mrs. Jane Hodges, was a rather grim local woman who lived in a cottage isolated from the village and had always seemed a good deal more concerned with the bees she kept than with her daughter.

In consequence, Marena had spent a good deal of time at the vicarage in her younger days and had been great friends with Sara. She had, in fact, been in the automobile with Mrs. Busby and Sara on the day of the accident.

After Sara’s death, Marena and the Busbys had remained very close, and Marena often spent time at the vicarage, doing her best to help Mrs. Busby adjust to life in a wheelchair.

“She and her mother have had another falling out.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to think of that woman. She doesn’t realize that the harder she pushes Marena, the farther away she’s going to drive her. It all started with Marena’s young man, Bertie. I knew that the more Mrs. Hodges objected, the stronger Marena’s attachment would be. That’s the way with young people, isn’t it? She should have just let the matter run its course.”

I wondered if that was why Marena had seemed so starry-eyed. She had been walking out as of late with Bertie Phipps, a young man who lived not far from Thornecrest. He’d often helped both Milo and Lady Alma at their stables, and I thought he seemed in