The man on the doorstep of Jo’s cottage dripped rainwater; it trickled from wet-plastered hair to overcoat gun flap and onto the overnight bag clutched under one arm. Jo had remembered to say hello, but that didn’t stop him staring at her, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He reminded her of a disheveled pigeon after colliding with a windowpane.
“Mr. Ronan Foley?” Jo asked, stepping back to give him entry room.
“I—Yes.” He shuffled onto the flagstone cottage entry. “I—I thought keys would be in a lockbox?”
“Um?” Jo had practiced every opening line, but not this one. She blinked twice. “I have the keys for you. It’s for an attic en suite . . . in my . . . house.”
“You live here?” The way he looked around himself wasn’t entirely complimentary; Jo chose the high road.
“Don’t worry! You’ll have total privacy,” she insisted. That was the point of going through all that trouble of installing a full bath on the second level (including hoisting a freestanding tub through the attic casements, quite a feat when you’re five foot four and one hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet).
“Of course, of course,” muttered Mr. Foley. “You . . . meet all your guests in person?”
Jo decided not to tell him he was her first guest. Or that she’d locked her knees to keep from bouncing up and down with nervous energy. She also fought to urge to ask if he was Irish. Instead, she dangled the keys.
“The door at the top of the stairs locks with the minikey,” she said. “The brass ones are for the front door and dead bolt.”
“Thank you, Ms. . . . ?”
“Jones. Jo Jones.” She smiled, probably a little too much. He had a broad face and smile lines, but he wasn’t smiling now. “Always ask if you can get them something,” Tula had said when she informed her about her decision to rent the cottage. “It’s welcoming.” Wise words from the Red Lion innkeeper and the one person Jo considered a truly close friend. She might have suggest what to offer.
“I could get you . . . something? I can cook. Well. I can warm things up. Actually, I can drive into town and get food. Or maybe you’re thirsty?”
“Tea,” the man said, and of course he would say tea. They were in Yorkshire.
“Yes! Yes, that I can do. And cookies. You don’t call them cookies—but little shortbreads with the jam in the middle?”
Maybe it was the fact that Jo had forgotten to call them tea biscuits, or maybe it had to do with the fact she wasn’t taking breaths between sentences, but the startled pigeon suddenly began to . . . laugh. It worked a change in him, shaking all the stiffness out.
“Tea biscuits. You’re American—you are, aren’t you?”
“Erm” was the best she could do, but now, now he smiled.
“Delighted,” he said, shaking her hand. “May I?” He pointed up the stairwell, but Jo looked at his wet mackintosh. Obviously, he needed to clean up. And she should, as they say, put the kettle on instead of jawing at him like an idiot. He hadn’t actually waited for an answer, though, just gave the keys a jingle and disappeared up the stairs.
This wasn’t how she’d pictured her first experience as a host—and she’d run every possible scenario right down to the mise-en-scène. She’d try again when he came downstairs. Better make it a big plate of biscuits.
* * *
account soon would be as well if she didn’t find some work. A year ago when she’d first moved to England, Jo had envisioned herself freelance editing, but that still hadn’t taken off yet. Plus, she had been spending all of her time in the Abington Archive searching for any scant information about her ancestors with the long-suffering elder museum curator, Roberta Wilkinson. Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a moneymaking endeavor. It was obsession.
But she couldn’t help it: Jo had moved to the Ardemore property last year in a surprise inheritance following the death of her mother, who conveniently never mentioned that her will would leave Jo with a giant crumbling manor home (unlivable), the small cottage attached (slightly more livable) or the gardens upon which they were built, which turned out to be quite famous. The cottage made for a simple, straightforward home that suited Jo nicely, but she’d learned in a hurry that the manor across the hill housed only secrets.
The mysteries of her ancestors William and Gwen, for example, who had lived in the estate house a century prior. They were lord and lady so to speak; their portraits had hung regally in the estate house as a constant reminder of their strange marriage and even stranger living arrangement with Gwen’s sister, Evelyn. Some handwritten letters revealed that Evelyn and William were having an affair. How much sister Gwen knew about it all was unclear.
Jo had been the one to bring all this to light last year when she discovered, buried beneath the crumbling estate, the remains of Evelyn herself—and the telltale signs of pregnancy etched in her bones. Curiously, no remains of a child were found with her, only a hope chest filled with baby clothes buried in the garden and the letters between her and William.
The questions surrounding the strange love triangle at Ardemore estate a century ago and what exactly happened to Evelyn’s child haunted Jo, but the constant dead ends threatened to drive her mad. Even Roberta, who worked in a museum after all, was ready to let it go.
“Face facts,” said the crusty old woman; the Ardemores had always been a “bad lot” who didn’t care about community, and Evelyn and her baby “obviously” died in childbirth. Time to focus on the better part of the Ardmore property: Jekyll Gardens, about to open to the public in an event that would be historic for the town of Abington.
The kettle whistled and Jo jumped; she usually tried to stop it before the unholy screech. She poured hot water in the pot and steeped; if her sojourn in the north of England had taught anything, it was to never leave the tea bag in.
Her guest was awkward. But so was she. This could work.
She reached into the cupboard for the package of Jammie Dodgers. Jo bought them because, as a New Yorker, “Dodgers” would always mean Brooklyn, even though they had been in LA since 1957. Of course, there was the Artful Dodger, too, from Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist. A silly name for cookies, maybe, but the mix of American baseball and Victorian pickpocket appealed to her sense of incongruity.
She emptied the whole box onto the tea tray, and by the time she reached the living room, the man was standing in front of her. Clean and tidy and now in proper lighting, he offered her the chance for a better look.
Face: full, square at the jaw. Hair: dark and wet, combed back behind the ears. Mud-flecked black trousers had been changed to another pair, also black. Rather baggy. The blue button-down shirt was damp at the collar.
“How long were you standing in the rain?” Jo asked. “You were very wet.”
“Sorry? “Oh. Yes. It’s—I didn’t have an umbrella.” He touched the curl at his temple with a wandering fingertip.
Had she been rude? She held out the plate of biscuits to offer him one. He gave her the smile again. Salesman smile, she thought, but his eyes settled on the Dodgers with evident pleasure.
“You’re out of the way, living up here.”
“Sort of. We’re close to the trails, though, and you can’t get any nearer the Jekyll Gardens.” Jo flapped a hand toward the window. “You’ll practically be on the doorstep for tomorrow’s opening ceremony.”
That had been the entire point of finishing preparations for renting the cottage by May: the Jekyll Gardens Opening Celebration. Jo may have lost her ancestral home to a fire, but finding out that it was built on a garden designed by the renowned Gertrude Jekyll . . . Well, it was one for the books. The
falling-down house at the edge of town had suddenly become a site of national historical significance. The whole National Trust seemed to have checked into the Red Lion inn.
“You’re lucky,” Jo added, hugging her knees in the rocking chair. “I barely got the weblink up before you booked in—otherwise there’d be stiff competition for a room, I’d bet.”
He hadn’t answered either comment, or her attempt at a joke, just chewed a sticky biscuit and drank tea. Jo felt a prickle run down her spine; was she not supposed to make chitchat? Wasn’t that part of hosting duties? He’d looked at the clock twice, but after swallowing, he refocused on her.
“I’m afraid I didn’t know about it. Just traveling through on business.”
“Oh! But you’re here at just the right time! The National Trust is opening the garden tomorrow—it’s where the manor house used to be. Big party!”
“Sorry, a manor? I didn’t see anything nearby . . .”
Jo jumped up and joined him by the window, pointing to the dark distance. “Well, you can’t really see it from here. But just beyond the trees is Ardemore House. What was once Ardemore House, at least.”
“So, it’s a ruin?” her guest asked, and gulped his tea.
“Well, it is now. It was deserted for almost a century. The property was supposed to be in the care of my uncle Aiden in the nineties, but he never really tended to it. Didn’t even live here, in fact.” Jo looked up to see her guest gaping at her and stopped short.
“So you are a newcomer to Yorkshire, then?” he asked. Jo almost laughed. He wasn’t exactly hanging on every word, was he?
“A yearling, I guess,” she admitted. “I came here to start over after my divorce and the death of my mom last year. I didn’t realize inheriting the estate would be so . . . complicated.”
She felt herself at risk of rambling again, so she pulled out her phone and flipped to her photo library. “Here’s the Ardemore House before. Here it is after the fire last year, still smoking. I was inside it when it burned down.”
“You—What?”
Jo’s finger kept swiping through the pictures.
“That’s the garden workmen over summer, and here is the original Gertrude Jekyll plan, and this—” Jo stopped at last on the National Trust page “—this is the announcement of its opening tomorrow! I’m sort of, em—part of the—committee.”
Mr. Ronan Foley looked down dutifully at a bright summer green event ad: open time at 10:00 a.m., official ceremony at noon, under pavilion, rain or shine. He didn’t say anything. Again. And Jo felt her heart hammering. Uncertain about chitchat, she’d instead launched into full-blown special interest lecture. Nice, Jo.
Or was it her reference to the fire? She’d got used to everyone knowing about all of that; it had caused quite a commotion in Abington. There’d even been interviews for the paper.
“Very interesting.” His eyes roved about the room in a full circuit. Then he smiled, genuinely and wide. A surprised smile. “Well, it would be my pleasure to come.”
Crap, Jo thought. She’d got a hapless rain-soaked businessman who booked the cottage only because he couldn’t get into a hotel . . . and now she’d accidentally invited him to the gardens.
“You know, you really don’t have to—” she began.
“No, I do. It’s a wonderful idea. So many locals will be there, new people to meet. You can expect me . . .” His eyes strayed to the enormous painting over the fireplace even as he spoke. “My goodness. Beautiful painting.”
Evelyn’s portrait. It would be hard to miss. The near-life-size painting took up most of the chimney. The gilt frame glinted, offering the perfect contrast to the moody scene within: a woman with strange, distant eyes, a face simultaneously demure and retiring, fierce and resistant. She sat against a backdrop of flowers—yet the sky was a haze of storm.
“Yes. Evelyn Davies,” Jo said. “An ancenstor.”
Do not recite your family history. Do not mention that she was buried under the house.
Ronan took a closer look, tugging up his ill-fitting second trousers. From the side she could see his jaw was more pronounced, and he ran a thumb down its stubble, briefly lost in thought. Jo had often seen James MacAdams do that.
Which reminded her to text him with a reminder of the details of the ceremony opening. Again. For good measure.
detectives solved murders with wits, extraordinary attention to detail and the reflective power of eidetic memory. MacAdams relied on wits alone.
“Something about the eyes,” Foley remarked, still staring at the portrait. “They don’t quite square with the angle that her body is facing.”
“Yes! I thought the same when I first saw it. The painting was damaged badly. Likely by acid. But I found out my uncle Aiden had it repaired when he lived here, and that’s why the eyes look a bit ‘off’ from the rest.”
“The artist’s style is quite distinct,” Foley was saying.
“It’s an Augustus John painting,” Jo said proudly. “You have a good eye. Are you into the arts at all?”
“No. Not in the least. I actually work in real estate development for an architecture firm. Boring stuff. You can call me Ronan, by the way.”
“Ronan. Is that an Irish name?”
“I’m Irish originally. Live up in Newcastle now.”
“I thought you might be,” Jo admitted.
“We all look alike?” he laughed, a sort of bubbling chuckle in his throat.
“I don’t know about that,” Jo assured him. “But you do sound like my friend Tula Byrne. She owns the Red Lion.”
“Tula?” He raised his eyebrows, mulling it over. “Irish indeed. How interesting. All the people in Abington seem quite . . . cozy.”
Jo wasn’t sure what to say to this. She watched him drink the rest of his tea while standing, then he pocketed some of biscuits.
“I’ll be along tomorrow. Easy to spot—I’m on my last clean shirt and it’s blazing red silk.”
“Oh?” Jo wondered if this was his attempt at humor, and whether she should laugh.
He checked his watch with darting eyes. “It’s very late. I’m sure you’ll need to get up early.”
It was late, about eleven. And she did have to get up early, because she promised Tula she would. And given how stressed she’d been about meeting Mr. Late-coming Foley, Jo now needed another shower.
Jo liked to think of herself as a morning person, awake in the space between dark and daylight, when the world was dew soaked and silent and new. But thinking didn’t make it so. Her alarm had gone off twice already. It was six thirty-five and she’d promised to help load catering. At seven. Dammit. She’d been looking forward to the opening of the Jekyll Gardens for months, but she would have given her left arm to wriggle out of it now. That was the way of public engagements. Like mornings, they were better in theory than practice.
Perfunctory clean-up, hair in a short knot of ponytail. She was about to face a bunch of strangers, so the outfit of safety included her black jeans and a gray T-shirt. Jo tugged her Doc Martens on in the kitchen. So far, the skies looked clear but it was going to be squishy. She filled the electric kettle and set an assortment of teas on the counter with more biscuits. It looked a bit sad—like airline fare. She was going to have to up her game in future, but then again, her lodger hadn’t even thought she’d be there. Technically she already exceeded expectations.
Jo peeked up the stairs: door still shut, no noises. Probably dead asleep. She crept quietly out the door. Jo was almost not late.
* * *
“Will wonders never cease!” Tula said, tossing Jo an apron as she walked into the Red Lion. “It’s as early as I’ve seen you since the jet lag wore off. Be a dear, take the sausage tray out of the oven, would you? Ben’s servicing the coffee rig.”
Espresso machine, Jo translated. It was Ben’s pride and joy, and Jo very much encouraged its use. But so far, it seemed best suited for creative malfunction.
Jo followed orders and retrieved an enormous tray overladen with varieties of rolls and pasties. Tula had already prepped breakfast for a dozen lodgers and half filled the travel cart with meat pies. Normally a welcome sight—but a bit much pork grease on an empty stomach.
“How many people are you expecting to turn up?” Jo asked, handing it over with pot-holders.
“The whole town had better, or I’ll go after ’em with a switch and broom,” Tula said, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Best thing to happen in Abington since I don’t know when—we’ll be booked all through the summer!”
That was the general sentiment: the discovery that the Gertrude Jekyll Gardens held historic significance meant a boost to tourism. Jo had achieved semicelebrity status among the town, particularly the small business owners.
“Anyway,” Tula insisted, pulling the warming cover over her delicacies. “It’s our first fete in ages. Sutton—from the poulterers, you know him—is bringing the generator; the cider house should be there, crafters. I ain’t about to run out of eatables.”
Judging from the number of tents ordered, it was going to be an honest to god circus up there. It caused a worrying clench in Jo’s guts. “Fete, fallow, fiduciary,” she whispered on repeat. All she had to do was cut a ribbon; Roberta Wilkinson promised to do the talking. And Gwilym, who was vying for the role of neurodivergent Watson to Jo’s Sherlock, would be there, too. He’d booked his room about six months ago.
Tula signaled to Ben, steered Jo and the meat cart, and they were off on the first delivery trip.
There would be four of those, in the end, partly because Tula’s Scout had the guns to get uphill well laden, and Sutton’s delivery cart
did not. Jo walked the green in her wellies; crushed gravel steamed in spring sunshine and temperatures promised to rise. White party tents glistened where Ardemore’s circular drive had been, a combination market, fair and celebration.
Even the local vintner had a table, sporting cowslip wine. Which wasn’t wine at all, but a fermented concoction of yellow petals and sugar (and sometimes brandy). Jo made a slight face; recalling that cowslip actually referred to the manure the flowers grew within. It took the romance right out of it. She settled on the tea tent instead, ordered black with milk and perched on a folding plastic chair. In the shadow of the tent flap, she could watch the general goings-on without being the center of attention.
“If I may say, you look conspiratorial.”
Jo looked up to see Emery Lane, an acquaintance who worked at the Abington solicitor’s office, in a white-and-blue suit, sporting a pink bow tie and boater hat. But he didn’t look like an assistant to the town solicitor. He looked like—
“Luncheon of the Boating Party,” she finished out loud.
Emery smiled under his pencil mustache. “Renoir?” he asked. “Very good.”
“Sorry. But it’s perfect—you could be painted in front of the garden terrace!”
“I was afraid you were going to say you discovered yet another unknown painting in Abington,” he said, taking the seat next to her. “Speaking of which. How is your Augustus John original?”
“Evelyn is presiding over my living room magisterially,” Jo said, blowing on her tea. “Is Rupert coming?”
“He is.” Emery half hid behind his teacup. “But I am guessing that isn’t who you’re waiting for?”
“I’m not waiting for anyone.”
“Not even James MacAdams, over there?” Emery asked, looking over her head.
“He’s here?” Jo swiveled in place, but did not see a rumpled-looking detective. Instead, she saw only a vest-clad, hill-walking Welshman with a ginger man-bun.
Behind her, Emery chuckled.
“My mistake,” he said innocently. “Hello, Gwilym!”
“Emery!” Gwilym gave the man an enthusiastic handshake that almost turned into a hug, but when he turned to Jo, the smile went
lopsided. “Erm, I have some news—and I don’t think you’ll like it.”
Jo gave Gwilym a look. No conversation should ever start like that. Especially not today. Jo braced herself, but Gwilym’s attention had already been diverted. He took Emery’s seat and cast his eyes at the tea tent’s baked goods.
“Scones and clotted cream!” he announced.
“Bad news, you said,” Jo reminded him. She could already guess. MacAdams wasn’t going to be there; he’d told Tula, who told Gwilym, who took it upon himself to—
“It’s Roberta,” he said.
Jo heart pancaked against her sternum.
“Oh my God. Is she all right?” she asked, half rising in her seat. Roberta might be stalwart and stern, but she was also elderly and—
“What? Yes! Oh, yes—she’s all right. It’s just that she found a body on her way here and had to call the police to handle it, so she might be running late to the garden ceremony.”
Jo sat down again, hard. So far, this had been a deeply unfair chain of emotional stimulants. She blinked, opened her mouth, then shut it again. Gwilym kept talking.
“Since she’s been delayed, she thought you could give the opening remarks. I mean, you were the one who found the garden plans—”
“A body. Like, a dead body?” Jo interrupted.
“Yes?”
“Whose?”
“She didn’t know—or didn’t say. The mobile service isn’t great out there.”
“Out where?”
“Oh. She was walking the trail from town. You can give the talk, right?”
Jo swallowed tea. Spur-of-the-moment presentation on Gertrude Jekyll. Could she? Obviously; she’d done most of the research for the brochure and could quote a few of the sources verbatim. But Roberta found a body and would be delayed needed to be processed at some point, alongside the police had been informed.
And of course, in Abington, police meant James MacAdams.
“Great,” she said, and meant nothing of the sort.
Detective Chief Inspector MacAdams stood at the edge of a weedy ditch. Below, marbled patches of black dirt, gray mud and bent grass turned to soup from the previous night’s deluge. The town medical examiner, Eric Struthers, stooped to take a closer look at the body.
A man, dark haired, lay face down in the wet earth. No coat. No bag. A bit of a tumbled-over look, as if he’d rolled into position. Not especially remarkable, except for the gash in his skull, visible even from where MacAdams was standing.
Eric blinked up at him. “I’m going to need a hand getting out of here, James,” he said.
MacAdams braced one foot against the gravel and the other on the firmer bank before giving Struthers a good tug. His boots pulled free with a bone-sucking sound.
“Cold and stiff,” he said, scraping mud.
“Meaning?”
“Warm and stiff, three to eight hours. Cold and stiff, eight to thirty-six. I can tell you more after I get him to the lab.” He peeled off his glove and looked to the sky above him. “Weather plays a role. Warm now but was cold and wet last night. But since rigor mortis hasn’t worn off yet, it’s safe to say he hasn’t been here more than twenty-four hours. Maybe even as early as last night.”
“Any chance it was a hit-and-run?” MacAdams asked dubiously. Struthers gave him a plastic smile.
“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. I’ll know more after we get him under the lights, but in the absence of broken bones, torn clothing or tire marks? I’d say murder.”
Of course. MacAdams turned his attention to the bright horizon; the sun had come up against a cloudless sky, all hint of storm forgotten. The Jekyll Gardens opening was no doubt off to a glorious start.
“Ah-hem, Detective.” Roberta Wilkinson stared at him through her yellow-lamplight glasses and struck the ground with her walking stick for emphasis. “I do have somewhere to be, you know.”
“I’ve taken a statement,” said Detective Sergeant Sheila Green, MacAdams’s partner, waving a notepad over the shorter woman’s gray-white head.
“I’ll get Uniform to drop you at the, ah . . .”
“Jekyll Gardens,” Roberta barked, sniffing the air with a stately my-kin-were-born-to-the-land frown. “Forget it. Came this far. I’ll just walk. Though I take it you’ll be late.”
There was a nearly 100 percent chance that he wouldn’t make it at all, despite being dressed for it. He didn’t say so, and Roberta hadn’t waited for a reply anyway before she started down the road.
“She takes right to roam very seriously,” Green said, slapping her notebook against her left palm. “Started this morning from the Mill, nine o’clock sharp. Took the trail up over the stiles, but apparently part of it was flooded, so she came up this way to the road.”
MacAdams nodded. There were two lanes: one that led directly to Jo’s cottage and the gardens, and one that ran along the walking path.
“She walked right past him. Then called us.”
It had been spotty, a crackling voice cutting in and out, though MacAdams was more surprised by the fact Roberta Wilkinson owned a mobile than that she’d managed to get a signal. He’d been halfway through breakfast.
Green closed the notebook. “Nothing else of use, frankly. Didn’t see anyone, no sign of cars or other walkers, etc. If Roberta hadn’t been along, there’s no telling when we might have found him.”
“It would be a quieter Saturday if she hadn’t,”
MacAdams said dryly.
“Sir? I think he might still have ID on him,” a uniformed police officer shouted from the ditch. Three of them were attempting the task of getting the body onto a gurney. The lad picked something up from the ground below.
“Yeah? And an earring. I think?”
“A what?” Green asked—but Struthers nearly leaped back into the ditch.
“Leave it!” he barked. “Leave it, please. It’s evidence and you aren’t even wearing gloves.” He snatched the leather wallet from the officer and bagged it. Then he leaned into the mud once more. “Earring or pendant. Gold.”
“Maybe torn off in a struggle?” MacAdams asked.
“Don’t think so. Delicate little thing.” He pulled it free with tweezers and dropped it into another plastic envelope. “I’ll process everything and call you. You’ll be in your office?”
MacAdams sighed. So it would seem.
* * *
Abington CID hadn’t changed very much in a year, though it was in want of a chief. The old boss, Cora Clapham, had abruptly left the precinct in light of the familial corruption that came to light in their last case. She was now in Southampton, last MacAdams heard. The job opening had been advertised rather aggressively in MacAdams’s direction, but he wasn’t fool enough to take it. Then again, he’d ended up as de facto interim chief without the attendant promotion . . . so perhaps he was a fool, at that.
“Gridley’s making coffee,” said Detective Constable Tommy Andrews when they made it back to the station. Kate Gridley was better at coffee than most. Almost a promotional capability, something to remember when it was time to consider a second sergeant.
“Good, could use some.” MacAdams tossed his coat over a chair.
“You, eh, had other plans, I thought?”
“It’s a village fete,” MacAdams said, as if this explained the freshly ironed light gray slacks and rather more festive than usual tie. “Bit like
May Day.”
Green only shrugged, sat backward on a swivel chair. “Today isn’t May Day—and you didn’t answer my question, boss.”
“Yes,” MacAdams said, demurring to his attire. “I had other plans. And now, I have a murder investigation. Shall we?”
Kate Gridley had reappeared from the kitchenette; by far the most tech savvy of the bunch, she already had several search engines running and ready, and still managed to start coffee. MacAdams seized his chance for a moment of silence—and a coffee mug. Then he opened his messaging app. The last one had been from Jo, reminding him of the opening time. MacAdams scrolled to the chat window, ...
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