Page 37 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
I went to the library.
I went outside.
I wandered through the garden.
But still agitation stabbed through me, relentless slices of doubt and worry and suspicion. Would it always be like this, loving Mr. Markham? Passion and fear, laced together, one chasing the other until it was impossible to tell where one started and the other began?
I couldn’t articulate to myself why Mrs. Brightmore’s words ate away at me, after the pleasure of last night and after the genuine need for me I’d seen in him this morning. After I had told myself that Itrustedhim, that Ididn’t careabout the strange circumstances around Violet’s death. That I would throw away that tiny chance at a future away from Markham Hall to live however long I could in Mr. Markham’s bed.
But eat away at me they did. Maybe it was the certainty in her tone. Or the blazing conviction in her eyes. She felt so sure that I’d be tossed aside like so much rubbish.
Or was she sure that I would be dead?
Despite the warmth in the garden, I felt chilled to the core. I couldn’t endure this any longer, the way Violet’s death hung around Markham Hall like a poisonous fog. I had to find out the truth. Had to.
My wanderings had taken me to the front gate of the property, where I stood looking out onto the road to Stokeleigh, and a faint idea substantiated itself. Without giving myself time to thoroughly canvass the wisdom of my plan, I set off for the village, hoping that the policeman who’d investigated Violet’s death would be readily found.
It only took fifteen minutes for me to reach the village, by which time moisture had dampened my brow and my hair grown a little disheveled from the summer wind. I stood at the head of the high street, wondering where I should go and whom I should talk to, when—inevitably—I was approached by Mrs. Harold.
“Miss Leavold! What a surprise!”
I squinted at her in the sunlight. She only had one of her retinue trailing behind her, and her arms were full of flowers.
“I was picking flowers for the altar,” she explained. “Would you walk with me there? It’s only a short way.”
Of course, I didn’t want to. The rector’s wife irritated me beyond measure…but. A single thought prevented my instinctive refusal of her offer: she was the most well-informed person I’d met thus far, well-informedandwilling to share her hoarded information. If I wanted to find the policeman who’d carried out the murder inquiry, Mrs. Harold would know his name, location, family history, and current medical ailments.
“I’d love to walk with you,” I said and I meant it.
Three hours later and I was outside the North Riding of Yorkshire police building in Scarborough. I had walked the ten miles by myself rather than taking a horse or asking Gareth to hook up the phaeton for me. I didn’t want anyone to know about this errand—especially not anyone who might feel duty-bound to report it to Mr. Markham. But as I pushed my way across the busy sea-scented street, I felt a tug of uncertainty. Would it be inappropriate for me to show up unannounced? I was hardly familiar with how these things worked—perhaps most people wrote letters to inquire about these sort of things rather than visit in person. Or they had a solicitor or agent inquire for them.
But, I reflected as I smoothed my hair and dress, I was Violet’s only living family. I had the right to ask around, the right to know what happened. Surely, my familial connection to the victim would cover over any irregularities in my approach?
The building was nondescript, a small brick affair, and I was met with an industrious—if gloomy—interior. A man was crossing the foyer when I entered, a hat tucked under his arm.
“May I be of service?” he asked, seeming to want to be anything but.
“I’m looking for Officer Mayhew,” I said.
The man blew out a breath then gestured for me to follow him further into the murk. Far-spaced windows weakly illuminated several desks, all covered in papers, and corridors leading down even darker halls. Tobacco smoke overwhelmed me, making my eyes sting, and I didn’t realize that the man had stopped until I very nearly ran into him.
“A lady for you, Mayhew,” he said and then departed without any further pleasantries.
Mayhew grunted but didn’t look up for a moment, his hand jotting notations as he peered at barely legible list—a shop inventory it looked like.
I sat without being invited to, and he finally looked up, surprised. I don’t think the man’s introduction had even registered with him. He was handsome, much younger than I expected, perhaps the age Thomas would be if he were still alive. Reddish hair and grayish eyes, a strong and determined mouth.
“I apologize, Miss—”
“Leavold,” I supplied.
“—Leavold,” he said slowly, memory filtering in through his eyes. “I didn’t notice you. How may I help today?”
I didn’t see any point in dancing around the subject. “My cousin died two months ago, Mr. Mayhew. I would like to know more about the circumstances surrounding her death. Her name was Violet Markham—nee Leavold—and she was married to Julian Markham of Markham Hall.”
He looked at me a long moment, a look of consideration and calculation, and finally he released a long sigh. “I’ll be back in just a moment,” he said, standing and leaving his desk. True to his word, he was only gone for a few minutes, returning with a thin sheaf of papers bound with twine.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” he said, slicing the twine cleanly with a small knife. “Because I learned very little in my investigation. And if the investigation were not closed, I would not be able to divulge even that much. But since it is finished and since you are the only kin of hers that has come forward to inquire…” As he talked, he disseminated his bundle in small, precise piles around his desk. The papers now appeared group by content—or by date. It was difficult to decipher the handwritten words upside down. He looked me once more in the eye. “What do you already know?”
