British Manor Murder (14 page)

* * *

Lucy felt a sense of relief when she finally got back to her room and closed the door, shutting out everyone and being by herself.
Me time
they called it in the magazines and she was finding that it was something she really needed. Maybe it was all those years spent satisfying the needs of Bill and the kids, not to mention the demands of her boss Ted, and even the constant calls for “something for the bake sale” or “just an hour or two” selling raffle tickets on Saturday morning at the IGA.

It was too early to go to bed, so she decided to settle herself on the chaise by the window for an hour or so with P.D. James's fascinating Inspector Dalgliesh, and was just opening the book when her cell phone rang. She was tempted to ignore it and let the call go to voice mail but then panicked, thinking something might be wrong at home.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, fearing the worst.

“More than all right, everything's great,” said Bill. “I just want to double-check and make sure it's okay with you if I close out the college fund and invest the money with Doug Fitzpatrick.”

“Who?” asked Lucy as alarm bells went off in her head. “What?”

“Don't tell me you don't remember,” said Bill. “I told you all about it the other day. He says he can double our money in three months.”

Lucy didn't remember that conversation, but she did remember Zoe's concerns about the investment advisor her father was spending so much time with.

“That's crazy, Bill,” said Lucy. “There's no investment on earth that yields that sort of return.”

“Now that's where you're wrong, Lucy. When I was on Wall Street, I saw some amazing deals go down, but I was never in on them. It was all insider stuff. Now I've got a chance to be on the inside.”

“It sounds to me that you're letting your emotions cloud your good sense,” said Lucy.

“You're a fine one to say that,” snapped Bill. “I watched you wallow in a cloud of negativity all winter, and frankly, I'm worried that you're sinking into depression again. You're definitely drinking too much. That was quite a hangover you had.”

“I am not depressed and that hangover was a one-time thing, after a big dinner,” countered Lucy, who had a dim recollection of talking to Bill on the phone when she was hungover. “I just think that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

“See! That's what I would call negative thinking. You need to snap out of it and think positively.”

Lucy couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Bill, I'm not depressed, honest,” she said, deciding to take a different approach, “and I know how much you want to make it possible for Zoe to go to the college of her choice. For all I know, maybe this is the deal of the century. I'm no financial wizard; I can't even balance the checkbook. All I ask is that you check this guy out, and take a real close look at this deal. If it's as good as it seems, if you're really convinced we won't lose it all, then I guess we should do it.”

“Aw, Lucy, I knew you'd come around,” crowed Bill.

“Promise you'll at least call Toby, see if he remembers this guy,” said Lucy with a sinking feeling.

“Good idea. I'd like to check in with him anyway. I haven't heard from them lately.”

Lucy had a sudden vision of avalanches, tidal waves, and earthquakes; she saw the entire state of Alaska drifting off from Canada and floating in an iceberg strewn sea. It was nonsense, all nonsense, she decided, firmly banishing the nightmarish images. “No news is good news.”

“That's my Lucy,” said Bill, ending the call.

* * *

The tense atmosphere didn't improve much the next morning as Sue and Lucy discovered when they came down for breakfast.

“The police have set up an incident room in the stable and they're going to be interviewing us all,” said Perry, “so don't plan on going anywhere today.”

“They want to interview us?” asked Sue, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Hennessey said everyone, so I assume that includes you and Lucy.”

“At least they've set up in the stable,” said Poppy, emerging from the pantry with a box of Weetabix. “They're letting us open to the public, but the scene-of-crime people will be working on the hidey-hole. They still haven't figured out how the killer got Cyril's body in there.”

An awful thought occurred to Lucy. “You don't think he was alive? That someone locked him in there and left him to die?”

Poppy and Perry exchanged glances.

“I suppose anything is possible,” said Perry with a grimace.

“They're doing an autopsy, of course,” said Poppy. “I guess we'll know more then.”

“Right now, they're not telling us anything.”

“Police procedure,” said Lucy, who'd found official silence extremely frustrating as a reporter in Tinker's Cove. “They don't give out information because it helps them in the investigation.”

“Aha,” said Perry with a smile. “The one who says the victim was wearing blue nail polish is obviously the murderer.”

“Right,” said Lucy, pouring a generous helping of cream on her Weetabix.

* * *

After helping clear up the breakfast dishes, Lucy and Sue found themselves alone in the kitchen and settled themselves on the sofas with the dogs. Sue leafed through the well-thumbed pile of
Country Life
magazines, while Lucy curled up with her mystery.

If only Inspector Hennessy was more like Dalgliesh, she thought, admitting to herself that while a sensitive nature was a definite plus for a fictional detective, it would probably be a detriment to a real life detective.

Gerald, fresh from his session with Hennessy, seemed to agree with her. “Bugger the blasted fella,” he declared, marching into the kitchen and heading straight for the drinks tray, where he poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey.

“So the questioning didn't go well,” offered Sue.

“Damned impertinent. Wanted to know, well, things that are none of his damned business.”

“Was there a drift to the questions?” asked Lucy. “Could you tell if he's got a theory about the murder?”

“Damned if I could tell what the fella's thinking,” said Gerald, draining the crystal tumbler. “Fella didn't seem to know a thing about life in the country, that's for certain.

Didn't know this time o' year you've got to keep an eye on the sheep.” He set the empty glass on the counter next to the sink, grabbed a stout walking stick that was propped by the door, and marched out, apparently intending to keep an eye on the sheep.

“I thought he was keeping an eye on Vickie,” said Sue after he'd gone.

Flora wandered in soon after her father had gone, opened the refrigerator door, and stood there for quite a while, staring at the contents.

“You remind me of my girls back in Maine,” said Lucy. “They do the same thing, hoping the yogurt and mini carrots will morph into chocolate.”

“I'm not really hungry,” said Flora, plucking a strawberry from the bowl sitting on the kitchen island. “Just bored, I guess.”

“And stressed, I imagine,” said Lucy, noticing the blue shadows under Flora's eyes, and her twitchy fingers.

Flora bit into the strawberry and chewed thoughtfully. “I don't have anything to hide.”

“Of course not,” said Sue. “Still, it's not nice to be questioned by the police.”

“It certainly isn't,” said Poppy, arriving with a trug full of freshly cut flowers. She set the trug on the counter and produced a large vase from a cabinet, then began filling it with water. “I know I shouldn't say this, but murder is terribly inconvenient. I wish they would just solve the darn thing and move on.”

“Are visitors staying away now that news of the murder is out?” asked Sue.

“Quite the contrary,” said Perry, hurrying in. “They're coming in droves, attracted by the gruesome crime. So many, in fact, that we're running low on tickets. Do you know where they're stored, Pops?”

“Try the gift shop,” advised Poppy, and Perry hurried off just as Vickie and Desi came in, faces flushed and dressed in riding clothes.

“Wonderful morning for a ride,” said Desi, taking a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge and filling two glasses. “Mist on the moors and all that.”

“It was beautiful!” exclaimed Vickie. “You are so lucky to have all this. Imagine riding for an hour at least and never leaving your land.”

“It's not really all ours. It's . . . well, it's complicated,” said Desi, draining his glass.

“Would you like a bit more?” offered Vickie, picking up the juice bottle and preparing to refill his glass.

“No, that was plenty,” said Desi, holding up a hand as if to signal a stop. “Got to watch my weight, for the dancing you know.”

“Oh, Desi, you're so fit and trim. You don't need to worry about that.”

“Tell that to the ballet master,” he said with a wink. “Now I understand I have a date with a copper.”

“Perhaps later you can show me the folly?” suggested Vickie, cocking her head invitingly.

“Per'aps,” said Desi, making a quick exit, much to the amusement of his mother.

Looking for elevenses, Winifred and Maurice arrived as Flora was leaving.

“I'll put on the kettle,” offered Winifred, “and, Maurice, why don't you see if you can find some biscuits.” She turned to Lucy and Sue. “Will you be wanting tea, too? Poppy?”

“None for me,” said Poppy, snipping the stem of a tulip and slipping it into the vase.

“No thanks,” said Sue.

“Love some,” said Lucy, eager to take advantage of the opportunity to question Willoughby, who she considered a prime suspect. “I'll get the mugs.”

Soon she was sitting at the table with the two experts, nibbling on chocolate digestives and sipping tea. “Have the police figured out how poor Cyril got put in the secret room?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light and casual.

“If they have, they're not saying,” said Willoughby, his mouth full of biscuit.

“I suppose you haven't found anything in those old plans?” asked Poppy.

“Not so far,” said Willoughby with a shrug. “I did find plans for the memorial for that little girl—the one they pickled.”

“Her portrait is in the east hall,” offered Winifred. “If you'd care for a look, I'd be happy to show it to you.”

“They pickled a little girl?” asked Sue, wide-eyed.

“She was dead. Died at sea,” said Willoughby.

“Her father, the sixth earl, I believe, couldn't bear to have her buried at sea so he had them stuff her into a barrel of rum, just like they did to the General, old Horatio. It was the only way to preserve a body at the time. He brought her back home to the family burial plot,” said Poppy. “A lot of visitors like to visit her grave. They leave little tokens.”

“A touching story, I'm sure,” said Harrison with a sniff. She was carrying a large plastic basket overflowing with dirty laundry. “I hope you don't mind if I use the washer? For milady's smalls?”

Poppy glanced at the huge basket and repressed a smile. “Not at all,” she said, stripping the leaves off a lilac branch.

Chapter Thirteen

“S
o, how did it go?” asked Lucy when Sue emerged from her interview with DI Hennessy. Lucy was sitting on the terrace outside the family room, trying to enjoy the sunshine and abundant vines that clambered up the lichen-spotted stone wall of the manor, but finding instead that her mind kept returning to the murder.

“Okay, I guess,” said Sue, seating herself on a teak garden bench. “There really wasn't much I could tell them.” She paused. “Well, that's not exactly true. I could tell Sergeant Izzy quite a bit about how she could improve her appearance.” She examined her fingernails, which were painted with pale pink polish. “Honestly, polyester should be banned, done away with. It's a crime against humanity.”

“It is practical for a working woman,” said Lucy.

“It's ugly,” said Sue. “The sergeant has great bone structure. She just needs a little touch of concealer and bronzer, a bit of mascara, and a slick of lip gloss. It would only take a few minutes in the morning and she'd look so much better.” Sue paused for emphasis as if she was going to deliver earthshaking news. “I actually don't mind the ponytail. It works for her.”

“I'm sure she'd be thrilled to know that you approve,” said Lucy in a sarcastic tone.

Sue sighed and looked around, planting her hands on her thighs. “So what can we do today? We can't go anywhere until they interview you, right?”

“Right,” said Lucy, watching with interest as Lady Wickham stepped through the French doors and crossed the terrace on her way to the stable for her interview.

As her voluminous skirts billowed around her, it was rather like watching a clipper ship in full sail. She was accompanied by Harrison, of course, who bobbed along behind her like an oversized dinghy attached to the mother ship.

“This ought to be interesting,” said Lucy, rising from her chair and intending to follow the pair through the gate in the wall that led to the adjacent stable yard.

“What do you think you're doing?” asked Sue.

“Stretching my legs,” said Lucy innocently. “We can't leave. There's nothing to do so I'm going to take a bit of exercise and walk about.”

“You're hoping to eavesdrop, that's what you're doing,” said Sue.

“Nonsense!” declared Lucy. “I would never do such a thing.”

“I think I'll take a bit of exercise myself,” said Sue, getting up.

“Good idea,” said Lucy, smiling. “It will do you good.” As Lucy had expected, the dowager countess was not at all hesitant about making known her displeasure at the situation. Her strident voice could be clearly heard through the open window and was booming through the walled courtyard.

“This is outrageous!” she announced in ringing tones. “My father was a marquess. I was married to an earl. I am a member of one of England's most venerable noble families. We date back to 1066 I'll have you know, and I am not accustomed to being treated as if I were some common person of no account.”

Sue and Lucy could not hear Sgt. Hennessy's reply, but they could figure it out from Lady Wickham's next remark.

“There is no question of Harrison leaving my side! I might well find this trying situation too much due to my delicate condition. I might even faint and would need my maid's assistance with my smelling salts.”

This argument apparently did not sway the inspector, as Harrison promptly emerged from the stable, clutching an ancient, cracked leather handbag. “Oh, shame on you!” she scolded, waving a knobby finger at Lucy and Sue. “Eavesdropping, were you?”

Taking a page from Lady Wickham's book, Sue pulled herself up to her full height and glared at the lady's maid. “How dare you say such a thing!”

“We're simply getting a bit of exercise,” said Lucy.

“Don't be getting all hoity-toity with me,” replied Harrison, narrowing her eyes. “I know quality when I see it and you're not it.” Having delivered that sally, she marched off, her back ramrod straight beneath her black dress, shiny from being ironed too much.

“Well, I guess she told us,” said Lucy as the open window of the interview room was slammed down, cutting off her ladyship's further remarks.

“Is Harrison for real?” asked Sue, musing aloud as they returned to the seating area on the terrace. “The woman lost her son, but she doesn't seem the least bit troubled by it, not to say moved or distressed.”

“Maybe they were estranged. Perhaps she didn't even know him,” said Lucy. “A lot of girls who found themselves pregnant gave their babies up for adoption. Sometimes they never even saw them.”

“I know and thank goodness those days are over,” said Sue. “Rachel would probably say that Harrison is compensating for her loss by substituting Lady Wickham for the child she lost.”

“She's devoted to the countess. The horrid old woman is everything to her,” said Lucy.

“Well, I don't approve,” declared Sue. “It's twisted and unnatural.”

“What's unnatural?” asked Perry, who was crossing the terrace, car keys in hand.

“We just encountered Harrison,” explained Sue, “and were struck that she doesn't seem to be at all grief-stricken by her son's death.”

Perry smiled and shrugged. “She's always been a bit of a puzzle,” he said in a dismissive tone that seemed to Lucy to be yet another example of upper-class disdain for those who served them. “I'm headed into the village to the printers. Care to join me for a pub lunch?”

“Thanks, but I'm waiting to be interviewed,” said Lucy. “Sue can go, though.”

“Are you sure you don't mind?” asked Sue. “I hate to desert you.”

“Go,” said Lucy. “I'll be fine.”

“Well, if you're sure . . .”

“I'm sure,” said Lucy as Sgt. Matthews appeared in the stable yard gate, beckoning her.

Giving Sue and Perry a little wave, Lucy followed the sergeant into the borrowed interview room.

She found the inspector sitting at a card table with legs that folded away for storage. He was surrounded by shelves loaded with miscellaneous crockery, dusty old saddles piled on sawhorses, and cracked leather bridles and riding whips hanging from hooks.

“Do sit down,” he said, indicating an aged Windsor chair that was missing a few of the spindles from its back.

“Thank you,” said Lucy, seating herself and discovering the chair wobbled a bit on the uneven flagstone flooring.

“For the record, will you please confirm that you are Lucy Stone from Tinker's Cove, Maine in the USA and that you are a houseguest here at the manor.”

“That's right. I came with my friend, Sue Finch, for the hat show.”

“You have a shared interest in hats?” asked the inspector.

“Not really. I just came along for the trip.”

“Have you any knowledge of the victim, Cyril Harrison?” he asked.

“None at all.”

“And previous to your arrival at the manor, did you have any acquaintance with any of the other people here at the manor?”

“Only Perry, the earl. Sue met him in the cafeteria at the Victoria and Albert Museum a few years ago. I was introduced to him then.”

“And what is your impression of the family at the manor?” the inspector asked, leaning back so his chair tilted on its rear legs and propping one argyle-socked ankle on the other knee as if settling in for a good old gossip.

“Oh, goodness, I don't know,” said Lucy, unwilling to speak ill of her host family. “They seem pretty typical of any family, despite their wealth and titles.”

“In what way?” persisted the inspector, leaning forward, which caused the chair to land with a thump.

“Just normal,” said Lucy. “But I can't help wondering how that poor man got into that hidey-hole. Have they found the entrance? And what was he doing here, getting himself killed?”

“That is exactly what we are trying to discover, Mrs. Stone,” said the inspector with an amused smile.

“I am a reporter back in Maine,” said Lucy, finding the inspector's relaxed attitude encouraging. “I have covered the occasional serious crime. I've even helped solve a few.”

“Well, I can assure you that the Thames Valley Police force is quite capable and will not require your assistance,” he said, swiftly putting her down.

“I didn't mean to imply,” she began, backtracking.

“Of course not,” said the inspector. “But it would be wise for you to bear in mind that you are on unfamiliar territory here and we are dealing with a ruthless and cunning murderer.” He paused, glancing around at the accumulated clutter that represented decades, if not centuries, of aristocratic country life, and leaned back once again in his chair, which creaked under the strain. “Mind you, these people are different from you and me, and it's best not to cross them. I'll be glad when this case is over and done.” Then he seemed to collect himself and told her she could go. “Best be careful for the remainder of your stay,” he said as she rose to leave.

Lucy didn't mind being left to her own devices while Sue lunched with Perry. She spent the rest of the morning admiring the manor's famous gardens, even chatting with a couple of gardeners about the famous fig tree that was two centuries old. Then she had a sandwich in the kitchen with Sally, who much to her disappointment had nothing at all to say about the family or the murder, preferring instead to dwell on the reproductive potential of the Duchess of Cambridge. “I reeelly don't think she'll go for a third, now that they've got an heir and a spare,” she opined. “Especially since she has such dreadful morning sickness. Poor thing. Now I myself was never bothered much by that, but I did have dreadful swollen ankles with my fourth.”

Fearing more obstetrical confessions from Sally, Lucy made her excuses and settled herself in her favorite teak chaise on the terrace where she planned to spend a quiet afternoon with the intriguing Inspector Dalgliesh, who always solved the murder.

* * *

Sue and Perry returned around three and Lucy joined them in a sneak peek at the hat show in the long gallery, which was almost ready for the gala opening.

“We're just waiting for a few last minute arrivals from the royals,” said Perry, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Camilla is sending the feather fascinator she wore at her wedding to Prince Charles, and we're also getting the toilet bowl hat Princess Beatrice wore at Wills and Kate's wedding. Bea doesn't own it anymore. She donated it to charity and it was auctioned off. I don't mind saying it was a bit of a struggle getting the name of the anonymous buyer and then tracking him down, but believe it or not, Poppy came to the rescue.” He paused. “She can be quite persuasive when she wants to be. I think she promised to let the poor soul sleep in the Chinese bedroom after paying for the new curtains or something.”

Lucy didn't share Sue's passion for fashion, but she had to admit the display of headgear was fascinating from a sociological perspective. It was amazing what people would put on their heads—anything from boxy Tudor headdresses that looked like cages for thought to Native American feather warbonnets. There was even a hideous, pleated, plastic rain hat that folded flat for storage in its own little plastic envelope, designed to be carried in a lady's purse, ready to protect her 1960s bouffant hairdo in case of a sudden shower. The exhibit was extremely well done, and many of the hats were shown with works of art that depicted similar designs.

“Did you curate this yourself?” asked Lucy, impressed by the broad knowledge and expertise needed to create such an exhibition.

“Well, I had a little help from Winifred,” admitted Perry, “but I did most of it myself.”

“It must have been an enormous amount of work,” said Sue.

“Well, you know what they say about work. When you love what you're doing, it's not work at all. It was fun.” He gave a wry smile. “I only hope the critics appreciate what I've done. They can be so cruel. They really savaged that Lucian Freud retrospective.”

“Well, Lucian Freud is rather an acquired taste,” said Sue, leaving Lucy to wonder who and what she was talking about.

“He's good enough for the Duchess of Devonshire. She's had him paint her several times, so he's good enough for me. But I say, enough of this idle chitchat. It must be time for cocktails.” Perry checked his watch. “Oh, well, rather early,” he admitted, “but it must be six somewhere, right?”

When they arrived in the great room, they discovered other family members had the same thought. Gerald was wielding a corkscrew and opening a second bottle of wine, the first already having been emptied to fill his own glass, as well as those of Poppy, Desi, Vickie, and Flora.

“You must've heard the cork pop,” teased Poppy.

“It's been a long day,” said Perry, “beginning with my interview with Inspector Hennessy at the ridiculous hour of eight o'clock.” He accepted a glass of wine from Gerald, sniffing it appreciatively. “I suppose the early hour was necessary,” he admitted after swishing that first mouthful and swallowing. “They do say that crime never sleeps.”

“Do you really think they'll ever solve it?” asked Vickie in a doubtful tone. “All they asked me was pretty much my name and address, and what I do for a living.”

“And what exactly do you do, if I might ask?” asked Poppy in a rather snarky tone.

“She's a marketing consultant,” snapped Gerald, glaring at his wife. “You know that perfectly well.”

Poppy was not to be deterred. “I rather thought she did something else,” she insisted, giving Gerald a knowing look.