Cecilia nodded her head and stepped away from James. It was time for her playacting. She looked at the magistrate with wide blue eyes as she twisted her hands together. “I should never so impose, my lord. That would prove too upsetting, I am certain. Truly, I am fearful for when you bring poor Mrs. Jones up that I should turn sickly. When I heard what my dear Sir James said, I became so distraught I solely needed a hug of comfort,” she said plaintively.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her husband raise an eyebrow. He had been well aware of her helpless playacting since they’d met. And it was a role she’d adapted—at one time or another—in each of the mysteries they’d solved. Since she looked like a fragile woman, gentlemen did not see beyond her outward act to her cunning intelligence.
“Lady Aldrich and I should like to take the children home in her pony cart,” she continued. “Unfortunately, your wagon blocks the way. Can one of you gentlemen move your wagon further into the meadow so we might go home?” she asked, looking from one man to another, a sorrowful, pleading look on her face. “I really cannot bear the thought of seeing Mrs. Jones in pain—or in death!”
Cecilia saw Sir James compress his lips against a knowing smile for her manner, instead maintaining his legendary sangfroid. The only man in the group to appear surprised by her manner was Dr. Patterson; none of the others knew her well enough.
“My apologies, milady,” said the brewer, Mr. Haydon Vernon. He took his hat from his head. “My mistake. I shall move it immediately,” he said, bobbing his head. Then he slapped his hat back on and fairly trotted over to his wagon,jumping into the seat with surprising agility for a man his size. He unwrapped the reins and encouraged his horse to move forward.
Cecilia waved her thanks to him, then hurried back to the cart.
Elinor shook her head. “I don’t believe sugar melts in your mouth; you are entirely too sweet already,” she said.
“Did I overdo it?” Cecilia asked, bending over the side of the wagon to see that Hugh still had the bottle in his chubby hands.
“I don’t believe so, but I swear you should tread the boards,” Elinor answered as she struggled to strap down a squirming child in the back of the wagon. “Stop it, Charlotte. We have to go home now so the men can work.”
“No!”
“Yes. Cook should have tea biscuits ready for us by the time we get home. Don’t you want more of those?”
“Kit!” Charlotte said. She began bouncing up and down. “Kit! Kit”
“Yes, a biscuit when we get home,” Elinor said while she firmly tied Charlotte in place.
She turned to Cecilia. “Let me hold Hugh for you while you climb up on the cart, and I’ll hand him to you.”
Quickly, they were ready to leave.
Cecilia looked around the meadow and the rutted path off the hill with different eyes. Coming up, she saw the beauty and simplicity of nature. Now she looked for any irregularities—trampled grasses, a dropped item, evidence of a snagged coat, anything that might indicate another person had been on the downs with Mrs. Jones, and who they might be. But the road and its surroundings were as clean and beautiful as she recalled them being that morning. One would think death would leave markers.
Unfortunately, it seldom did.
She positioned Hugh higher against her chest. She certainly hadn’t been looking for another mystery, but she couldn’t ignore this one. She liked Vicar Jones and his wife. They were good people and were good for the community. It behooved her and James to uncover the truth of Mrs. Jones’s fall off the cliff. It was the least she could do for that kind, jovial woman.
“Elinor, I didn’t see any sign of Mrs. Jones’ pony cart, did you?”
“No, but she has a smaller, two-wheeled cart; I suppose her horse could have wandered off with it, looking for more grass.”
“Hmm, possibly, if she hadn’t set the brake properly, I suppose. But if she drove or rode her horse, would the horse have gone far?”
Elinor shook her head. “No, and the horse she uses is old Milton, retired from years of being Lady Mortlake’s mount.”
“How is it you know all these small details?” Cecilia asked.
Elinor laughed ruefully. “From Mrs. Jones. She didn’t like how Simon and I were excluded from Mertonhaugh’s small society due to my middle-class antecedents, so she strived to visit me frequently. And that woman can talk. Sometimes, her visits could get overwhelming; however, I saw they served a purpose for her, though I never sussed out what that service might be. And she has been like a grandmother to Charlotte since neither my nor Simon’s mother yet lives. She often came over on the day she knew the nursemaid had off and took it upon herself to care for Charlotte.”
“Did she ever have children of her own?” Cecilia asked.
“You know, I don’t know, but I suspect she did but never spoke on that, and I didn’t ask for fear that was a painful tale.”
Cecilia nodded, then sighed. “Do you think…do you think she might have taken her life by jumping off that cliff?” she asked tentatively, mindful of the close relationship Elinor had had with Mrs. Jones.
“No. That would never enter my mind. She was too full of life.”
“But what about that circumstance with Georgia Inglewood? Could she have somehow felt guilty for Georgia’s death?”
Elinor paused for a moment before answering. “No. She believed—or chose to believe—the verdict of aniliac passion—in common terms, a ruptured appendix.”
