British Manor Murder (18 page)

Lucy glanced up at the ladder, which rolled on a track attached to the top of the bookshelf just below the row of vases. Sue, she noticed, was also eyeing the same spot with a curious expression on her face and the phone in her hand.

“Help should be here any minute,” said Sue.

True to her word, Quimby rushed into the room and quickly took in the situation. “I was a medic in Afghanistan,” he announced, taking over from Lucy. “I think I can make you a bit more comfortable until the ambulance gets here.” He was already checking Winifred's pulse and examining her eyes. “Is there a blanket or any sort of cover around here?”

Lucy grabbed a paisley lying on the back of a sofa and he used it to cover Winifred.

“You're going to be fine,” he said, looking into the stricken woman's eyes and holding her hands. “I know you're in pain, but you need to stay with me.”

Winifred managed a little nod, but her eyes were closing.

“Hey, there,” said Quimby in a sharp voice. “None of that. Rise and shine.”

Her eyelids flew open.

“Tell me your middle name,” he said.

“Guinevere,” she whispered.

“So your folks liked old time names?”

“An aunt . . .” she said in a barely audible voice.

“So you were named after an aunt. I hope she was rich,” said Quimby.

“ 'Fraid not,” said Winifred, her eyes closing again.

Fortunately, the ambulance crew arrived and quickly bundled her onto a stretcher and carried her off.

“That looked like a nasty break,” said Quimby when they had gone. “She was going into shock.”

“What happened?” asked Flora, who had noticed the commotion and come to see what was the matter.

“Winifred took a tumble from the ladder,” explained Quimby. “She broke her leg.”

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Flora. “I have to tell Mummy!” She ran off just as Willoughby came in, looking rather put out.

“At this rate, we'll never get this inventory finished,” he said, grumbling. “My time would be better spent on the guidebook. That's what I'm supposed to be doing.”

“We've had an accident,” said Quimby. “Winifred fell off—”

“I can't imagine what she was doing up there,” said Willoughby, interrupting him. “She really had no business being there.”

Lucy was surprised at Maurice's reaction and wondered if he simply wasn't interested in his colleague's mishap or if he was defending his turf. The library, after all, was his responsibility.

Quimby was studying the ladder's operation. “The fault doesn't seem to be with the ladder. It's perfectly sound.”

“Of course it is,” snapped Willoughby.

“She said it slipped right out from under her,” said Lucy, joining him.

“Well, it shouldn't have. See here. It has a kind of braking mechanism. When a person stands on it, puts weight on it, it doesn't slide. As I said,” insisted Willoughby, “everything in here is shipshape and present and accounted for . . . except for Flora, who was supposed to be helping me.”

“Flora wasn't with you?” asked Lucy.

“Winifred probably reached too far and lost her balance,” said Willoughby, ignoring Lucy's question and casting an eye at the ladder. “It's easy enough to do.”

“I think I'd better find her ladyship and let her know that it was an accident, nothing more,” said Quimby, taking his leave. “Flora can be a bit of an alarmist.”

“That girl is little more than a nuisance,” said Willoughby. “Since the inventory taking appears to be indefinitely postponed, I think I will go down to the chapel and check some dates on the tablets there. I believe I've found a significant discrepancy.”

He also left, leaving Lucy and Sue alone in the vast library.

“Is it me or does Willoughby protest a bit too much?” asked Lucy. “If he was alone, which he admitted before realizing it was a mistake, he could have pushed the ladder out from under Winifred.”

“You do have a suspicious mind. Why would he do that?” asked Sue, who was studying the vases with a puzzled expression. “I can't help but wonder . . . those vases look a bit modern to me.”

Lucy looked up at the white Chinese vases that were decorated with blue designs. “I have to admit, I've seen similar ones in the Christmas Tree Shop,” she said, naming a chain of popular discount gift shops back home.

“Me, too,” said Sue, climbing the ladder to get a closer look.

“Do be careful,” said Lucy, anxious for her friend.

“Quimby said the ladder is perfectly sound,” insisted Sue, who was halfway up.

Lucy was hovering nervously at the base of the ladder, though what she thought she could do to prevent Sue from falling wasn't clear to her.

Reaching the top, Sue reached for the nearest vase with both hands and Lucy held her breath. “As I thought!” exclaimed Sue, a note of triumph in her voice as she made a half turn, still holding the very large vase and pointing to a label on its base. “Made in China.”

“What do you think you're doing?” demanded Willoughby, making them both jump.

They hadn't noticed him returning to the room.

“This vase is not an antique,” said Sue, looking down at him from her lofty perch.

“Of course it is,” said Willoughby, reaching for the inventory and flipping through it. “Right here it says eleven Tang dynasty vases.”

“I'm no expert on dynasties, but I'm pretty sure the Tangs, whoever they were, didn't use little sticky labels that say M
ADE IN
C
HINA
,” declared Sue, handing the vase down to Lucy, who passed it to Willoughby.

He adjusted his glasses, looked at the label, and sat down on a sofa with a thump. “I don't know anything about this,” he said indignantly.

An odd thing to say, thought Lucy, considering that nobody had asked him.

Chapter Seventeen

A
rmed with one of the vases, Lucy and Sue hurried off to find Poppy.

She was in her office, a large, sunny room that overlooked the parterre garden on the east side of the manor. It was a charming room with flowery chintz curtains on the windows and many gilt-framed watercolors on the pale green walls. The mantel was filled with family photos and numerous engraved invitations, many beginning with the letters
HRH
. Poppy's large desk, however, was all business with a couple of computer screens, several phones, and piles of papers. A top-of-the-line copy machine stood nearby; the control panel rivaled that of a 747 jet.

“What is it now?” she asked when they entered. Rolling her eyes, she looked heavenward as if for divine intervention.

“We were helping with the inventory—” began Sue.

“Yes?”

“And I thought these vases looked a bit, well, inauthentic. . .”

“And?”

“They were made in China,” announced Sue.

“Of course. They are antique Chinese vases, part of a noted family collection,” said Poppy.

“Not these. These have little gold stick-on labels,” said Lucy.

“Catalog numbers, surely.”

“I'm afraid not,” said Sue, tipping the vase bottom up so Poppy could see the offending label for herself.

Poppy half rose from her chair to check the label and, recognizing it as one she was quite familiar with and knowing an identical label was actually affixed to many items in the manor gift shop, she sank back into her chair with an enormous groan. “Oh, dear,” she said, adding a big sigh. “Are they all like this?”

“I didn't check each one,” admitted Sue, “but I suspect they are.”

“I'd better call Perry,” said Poppy, reaching for a phone. “We have to look into this.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Lucy and Sue, Perry and Poppy were in the library. Perry was aloft on the ladder, checking the vases one by one and concluding that even the ones missing the tiny little gold labels were indeed fakes. “They're much lighter than the antiques. When you get a good look up close there's no question that they're modern. There's no crackling, none of those little spots that the old ones have. These are too shiny by far, though I think there's been a halfhearted effort to scuff them up and make them look antique.”

“How long do you think they've been up there?” asked Poppy, biting her lip.

“There's not much dust,” said Perry, rubbing his thumb against his fingers, “so I don't think the switch was made too long ago.”

“If Lady Wickham took the little St. Roch figure, perhaps she's been helping herself to other things, too,” said Lucy.

“She's probably had Harrison doing the dirty work,” said Sue.

“I've actually seen Harrison sneak out of the kitchen with bottles of wine hidden under her sweater,” said Lucy.

“I don't know who she thinks she's fooling with that caper,” said Perry, smiling. “She's been doing it for years. I actually felt a bit sorry for her when she had to ask Gerald for that sherry. She couldn't snitch it because he was standing in the way, which I suspect he may have been doing quite intentionally.”

“You've never challenged her?” asked Lucy, somewhat incredulous.

“Of course not. All that subterfuge is quite unnecessary, but I suppose it gives the old crow a bit of a thrill,” said Poppy.

“And what about the items from the manor? The figurine and the vases?”

“Well, we can't be sure it's Aunt,” said Perry.

“And even if it is, well, I don't think we want to make an issue of it,” said Poppy.

“But those vases must have been enormously valuable,” said Lucy. “You said they were part of a famous collection.”

“Surely they belong to the nation, to everyone,” said Sue.

“They belong to the family,” said Perry, correcting her. “And this is a family matter, which the family will deal with.”

“Of course,” said Sue, chagrined. “It's really none of my business.”

“Oh, no. We're grateful,” said Perry.

“Absolutely,” agreed Poppy. “Much better to discover something like this ourselves, so we can handle it without a lot of fuss.”

“And it's about time we realized how desperate poor old Aunt Millicent really is. I certainly didn't have a clue,” said Perry, seating himself in a rose-covered slipper chair.

“We don't know for sure that she's been taking things,” said Poppy, sitting down in the matching chair.

“I guess we'll have to have a little talk with her,” said Perry, “even though I doubt she'll admit to any wrongdoing.”

“I wouldn't come right out and confront her,” cautioned Poppy. “We'll explore some options. She could live here.”

“Perish the thought,” said Perry.

“Or perhaps an allowance of some sort,” suggested Poppy.

“Maybe we can get her into a Grace and Favor apartment at Kensington or Hampton Court,” said Perry. “I've always felt rather guilty, you know. Poor Wilfred had the title for only a couple weeks when he had that heart attack; he and Aunt Millicent hadn't even moved into the manor.”

“Don't forget. Wilfred was shagging that call girl at the time,” said Poppy.

“I suspect Dad didn't want the title any more than I do,” said Perry. “I'm sure it meant more to Wilfred than to either of us.”

“Certainly to Aunt Millicent,” said Poppy with a chuckle.

Lucy and Sue shared a glance. It was obvious they'd been forgotten.

“We'll be off,” said Sue as they began to leave the room.

“She is quite chummy with the Queen,” Perry was saying as they closed the door behind them.

Climbing upstairs to their quarters, Lucy expressed her surprise at Perry and Poppy's reaction. “I certainly didn't expect them to be quite so forgiving.”

“I don't know if that's what they are being,” said Sue. “I think they simply want to keep yet another scandal in the family.”

“I guess I can't expect them to turn her in to the police,” said Lucy.

“Not hardly,” said Sue. “What is that upper class mantra? Never apologize and never explain?”

“I thought it was ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know',” said Lucy, as they reached the guest level. “I never thought I'd be saying this, but I'm looking forward to returning to my simple middle-class life in Maine.”

“The thing that really puzzles me”—Sue followed Lucy into her room and seated herself on a chintz-covered nursing chair—“is why Harrison is keeping up this stiff upper lip nonsense. It's her son who was found in the secret chamber, after all. Even if they were estranged, there'd have to be some sort of blood tie, wouldn't there?”

Lucy picked up an emery board and perched on the cushioned stool that sat in front of a charming dressing table, a feature that she was determined to recreate in her bedroom when she returned home. “Maybe there is no blood tie,” she said as she filed her nails. “Maybe Cyril was actually Lady Wickham's love child, kept secret all these years. She's the one who's been in seclusion since his death was discovered.”

Sue stared at her friend. “I think you're out of your mind. Secret love child? That phrase does not come to mind when I think of Lady Wickham.”

“She must have been young once. Perry said she was quite the girl back in the swinging sixties,” said Lucy, holding out her hand and examining her nails. “And maybe Cyril was killed because he would have had a claim on the earldom. Did you think of that?”

“No, Lucy, that never occurred to me. Cyril was a thug—a drug dealer from a tough part of London.”

“Stranger things have happened,” insisted Lucy, starting to file the nails on her other hand. “There are all sorts of rules about these titles and estates. Most are entailed but some aren't. Perry doesn't have any children and it doesn't look like he will. When the earl on
Downton Abbey
only had daughters, the title went to Cousin Matthew. Maybe Cyril was a cousin and that's why Perry and Poppy don't want to pursue the matter with Lady Wickham.”

“Or maybe they simply don't want to embarrass a sad old woman,” said Sue.

“Do you think they knew she was stealing all along?” asked Lucy.

“I wouldn't be surprised if somebody knew,” said Sue. “That ladder was pretty steady when I was on it. I think it's entirely possible that someone pushed it out from under Winifred, fearing that she was about to discover the switch. What with all these jib doors and secret chambers, an assailant could have popped out from anywhere.”

“And disappeared just as quickly,” said Lucy with a shudder. “This place is starting to seem more like Wolf Hall than Downton Abbey. You don't know who you can trust.”

Sue wrapped her arms across her chest and rubbed her upper arms. “I know. It's a horrible feeling, isn't it? I feel like I have to keep looking over my shoulders.”

“We can't go on like this,” declared Lucy. “We have to get to the bottom of this mess, and Cyril is the key. Somebody killed him for a reason.”

“We have to be very careful, Lucy,” warned Sue. “We're dealing with a dangerous person.”

“You're right,” agreed Lucy, “but there is one person who was vetted by the police and cleared . . . and that person also knew Cyril.”

“Robert Goodenough, the vicar,” said Sue.

“Right,” said Lucy, standing up and marching over to the wardrobe where she pulled out a jacket. “Let's pay him a visit.”

“Not so fast,” said Sue. “He's a busy man. We can't just march in and start asking questions. We need to make an appointment.”

“Right,” said Lucy, watching and waiting while Sue called the vicarage.

As it happened, Robert was away at a diocesan conference but the church secretary said he'd be available the following morning and the meeting was set.

“What do we do until then?” asked Lucy. “They can't continue taking inventory without Winifred.”

“Well, I'm going to stretch out on that lovely chaise longue in my room with the latest British
Vogue
,” said Sue.

“I've got my jacket out, so I think I'll go for a walk,” said Lucy. “I do my best thinking when I'm walking.”

“Be sure to take a stick,” said Sue. “Just in case.”

“Good idea,” said Lucy, remembering a well-stocked umbrella stand in the kitchen.

When she got there she found Harrison sitting at the scrubbed pine table enjoying a cuppa and a smoke. Seeing her, Harrison quickly stubbed out the cigarette in her saucer.

“No need for that,” said Lucy. “It's none of my affair if you smoke.”

“Lady Philippa doesn't like me to smoke indoors,” said Harrison in a resentful tone. “Things used to be different, you know, when servants had their own place downstairs. There was up and there was down, and those that lived upstairs weren't welcome downstairs. That was for them that was in service, you see. It's all changed now.”

“Back then you could smoke if you wanted to?” asked Lucy.

“Different houses had different rules, o' course, but the butler that used to be here, Chivers was his name. He enjoyed a cigarette himself and didn't mind if others did, too, so long as it didn't interfere with their work.”

“I suppose that was some time ago,” said Lucy. “I thought that people stopped going into service after World War I.”

“Some places stuck to the old ways longer,” said Harrison, lighting up a fresh cigarette. She inhaled deeply, then continued. “The old earl, Poppy and Perry's grandfather, he lived to be quite old. He didn't like change so he kept the house staffed just as it was when he was a little boy. When he died there were a lot of old folks still working here, including Chivers. The old earl's first son, that was m'lady's husband and Perry's uncle, he would've kept the old folks on. Some said it was like going back in time, coming here. They had maids laying the fires every morning and bringing tea in bed to the married ladies. There were footmen at dinner. People knew their places, that was for sure. But,” she added with a sniff, “everything changed when his lordship that was died and this crew came in.”

“You miss those days?” asked Lucy.

“I like being in service. I always have. I suits her ladyship and she suits me.”

“It must have been hard when you had a child,” suggested Lucy.

“Not so bad. Her ladyship sent me off to my sister's when she realized I was up the spout. That's what we used to call it, y'see.”

“A funny term,” said Lucy.

“But she kept the job for me and I came back after little Cyril was born. My sister kept him, and maybe that was a bit of a mistake. I think she was much too soft on him. If I'd raised him, I dare say he might've turned out a bit better. I sent money, o' course, but I didn't know that her husband—Alf that was—well, he had some friends that were what you call bad company. Alf himself wasn't above helping himself to anything that fell off a truck. That's what he called it. You'd see they had a nice new set of furniture or my sister'd have a mink stole. Alf would say it fell off a truck, and he'd wink.”

“Some things have gone missing here,” began Lucy, aware that she was treading on thin ice. “Do you think Cyril could have had anything to do with that?”

Harrison took a final draw on her cigarette and stubbed it out, then rose and carried her cup and saucer to the sink. She dumped the butts in the trash and put the crockery in the dishwasher, then turned to Lucy. “Like I told the cops, I don't know what Cyril was up to. We wasn't close and that's the truth. I don't suppose I could've expected anything else, not with Doris raising him.” She straightened her shoulders. “Don't get me wrong. I don't have any regrets, not really. I suits her ladyship and she suits me. I wouldn't want it any other way.”