British Manor Murder (20 page)

“What do you suppose Vickie did?” mused Sue in a low voice as they followed him across the lawn.

“I think it's pretty obvious,” replied Lucy. “I think he thought she was interested in him, but she was really only interested in closing some sort of sponsorship deal.”

“Poppy was dead set against that, wasn't she?”

“So Poppy nixed his chances with Vickie,” concluded Lucy. “I see rough waters ahead. How many more days till we go home?”

“Three, sweetie. Only three.”

Lucy sighed. “Well, I've got to say, life here among the blue bloods isn't at all what I expected.”

Chapter Nineteen

A
s Lucy and Sue drew closer to the manor, they heard the wail of a siren and quickened their pace, fearing some sort of accident or perhaps a fire. When they reached the drive, they saw an ambulance arrive with its siren blaring and lights flashing.

“Probably one of the visitors fell ill,” said Sue. When the ambulance continued past the visitor's entrance where a handful of people turned to watch as it turned into the gate to the private stable yard, she changed her mind. “Do you think it's Lady Wickham? Maybe she isn't faking like we thought and is really sick. She could have had a heart attack or stroke.”

“I have no idea,” said Lucy, quickening her pace. “Accidents can happen to anyone. I hope it's not serious.”

When they entered the private yard, however, they saw the EMTs were already carrying someone out on a stretcher and loading the blanket-covered person into the ambulance. Poppy was a step or two behind, clutching a sweater and her purse as she hurried to accompany the victim in the ambulance. In a matter of moments, the doors were slammed shut and the ambulance took off, slowly at first but picking up speed as soon as it cleared the gate in the stable yard wall.

Perry was standing in the doorway, watching anxiously as the ambulance departed. They hurried up to him.

“What happened?” asked Sue.

“Flora overdosed,” he said, his face white.

Lucy was shocked, but not surprised. Realizing that Flora's addiction to drugs explained a lot about the girl's condition—and perhaps about Cyril's presence at the manor.

“How awful,” said Sue.

“Will she be all right?” asked Lucy.

“I think it's really bad,” said Perry. “Desi found her. He's pretty shaken up.”

They followed Perry into the great room where Desi was slumped over the sink, filling a glass with water.

“Thank heaven you found her,” Perry told him, wrapping his arm around his nephew's shoulders.

Desi carefully set the glass down on the counter and embraced Perry; the two men clung together for a long moment.

Desi pulled away, shaking his head. “Thank God she's into vinyl. She got this old turntable. Unearthed it from the attic, I think. She insisted the sound was better, richer. She was really into it. When the record stuck and Nina Simone was singing the same phrase over and over, I went in her room to see what was going on and there she was, lying on the floor.” He paused. “I've been around drugs enough to recognize an overdose. I only hope I was in time. I shouldn't have waited so long before checking on her.”

“You can't blame yourself,” said Lucy. “You did the right thing.”

“I was so mad at her. I kept thinking she should get off her butt and fix the damn thing. It was driving me crazy,” he said, staring at the glass of water.

“How long do you think she was out?” asked Perry.

“The LP was about halfway through when it stuck,” answered Desi, finally picking up the glass and taking a long drink.

“So maybe fifteen minutes at the most?” said Sue, estimating the time.

“She might have started the record and then shot up afterwards,” said Lucy. “It may have been only a few minutes.”

“However long it was, it was too long,” said Desi

Full of bluster, his father came into the room.

“What's this? Quimby tells me Flora's overdosed? They took her in an ambulance and Poppy went, too.”

“And I'm going, too,” said Desi, setting down the glass. “I can't stand waiting here.”

“I'll drive,” said Perry. “You're in no shape—”

“He's in no shape? What's that supposed to mean?” demanded Gerald, waving his walking stick in his son's face.

“Back off, Gerald,” said Perry. “Desi found her. It's thanks to him that she's in the hospital.”

“It's thanks to him that she's in this mess in the first place, you mean,” thundered Gerald, practically nose to nose with Desi. “Where do you think she got the drugs? From this artsy-fartsy ballerina, that's who!” he yelled, stabbing his finger into Desi's chest. “Actors and dancers and rock and rollers, they're all dope fiends and you can't tell me any different. Anybody who reads the papers knows they're always overdosing.”

Desi was shaking his head. “I knew . . . no, I suspected she was using, but I didn't know for sure. And you're right. I have seen a lot of people, some of them friends, get in trouble with drugs, but I was not getting drugs for Flora. I've seen how much damage that stuff can do and I stay clear of it.”

Gerald didn't seem convinced, but he was less agitated, merely clutching the walking stick and occasionally lifting it and then thumping it on the floor. “Damned foolish girl,” he declared. “You'd think she'd know better.”

“Mother shouldn't be alone at the hospital,” said Desi. “Are you coming?”

Gerald considered the matter for a moment. “No. You and Perry go. I'll hold the fort here.”

“There's bound to be press,” said Perry as he and Desi crossed the room toward the doorway. “You'd better have some sort of statement ready.”

“Damned nosey bastards!” thundered Gerald. “I'm not saying anything to anybody. It's none of their business.”

“Righto,” said Perry, giving them a curt little wave of farewell.

As soon as they left, Lucy turned to Gerald. “Is there something we can get you? Something we can do?”

“Sorry about all this,” he replied, seemingly at a loss now that there was no one to yell at. “Nothing to do but to carry on, I suppose. I know what I'd like—a stiff whiskey. How about you girls?”

“I could use a glass of wine,” said Sue, sliding on to a chair.

“I could, too,” admitted Lucy as Gerald took a bottle of chardonnay out of the refrigerator.

They were an awkward little group, sitting together at the big scrubbed pine table with their drinks. After a few minutes of silence, Lucy got up and opened the refrigerator, thinking she could make some sort of meal. She found some frozen pizzas in the freezer and asked if anyone would like some.

“I hate to admit it,” said Sue, “but I am starving.”

The phone rang and Gerald answered it, listened a moment, and then slammed it back on its hook. “Damned impertinent,” he fumed, draining his drink. Then he picked up his walking stick and put on his hat. “I'll eat at the pub,” he said, marching out.

The phone continued to ring frequently while Lucy and Sue ate their pizzas. They always answered it, hoping for news of Flora, but the callers were all reporters. Their answer was always the same—“no comment”—which got them some rather rude replies.

Lucy was shocked to discover that journalists in England seemed to behave quite differently from their American colleagues.

“I wish we could turn the phone off,” she said after a particularly nasty exchange.

“I'll answer and give them what-for,” said Harrison, who had come into the kitchen to prepare Lady Wickham's dinner. “You folks don't need to be bothered with the likes of them.”

“Are you sure?” asked Lucy, surprised at this turn of events.

“Never fear, I'm used to these nosy-parkers. They're always calling m'lady, you see,” said Harrison, frying up a rather large steak.

“How is Lady Wickham?” asked Lucy. “I understand she hasn't been well lately.”

Harrison's eyebrows shot up and she gave Lucy a sharp look. “That's none of your affair,” she snapped as the phone rang once again. “And that's exactly what I'm going to tell these Fleet Street muckrakers!”

Lucy decided it would be best not to reveal the fact that she herself was a journalist, even though her muckraking was limited to a small coastal town in Maine, and suggested to Sue that they leave the great room and let Harrison get on with her duties. Although still light outside, they had the garden to themselves since the visitors were gone for the day, so they took a stroll around the formal parterre garden, then paused by the fountain to enjoy the quiet.

It didn't take long, however, for the mosquitoes to discover them and they decided to go inside.

“You know,” said Sue as they approached the big house, “I think this is the lull before the storm. I bet all hell will break loose tomorrow.”

* * *

Her words hardly seemed prophetic when Perry greeted them with a big smile the next morning. “Good news!” he announced as they arrived in the great room for breakfast. “Flora's going to be fine.”

“That's wonderful,” said Lucy, accepting the mug of coffee he'd poured for her.

“What a relief,” said Sue, taking her mug over to the table and sitting down.

“She's going to have to stay in hospital for a day or two”—he paused before delivering the bad news—“which is just as well because the police are coming back to question everyone again.”

“I suppose they want to know how she got the heroin,” said Sue. “Why don't they just ask her?

“Doctors have forbidden it,” said Perry with a knowing look that Lucy took to mean they had been heavily influenced by Flora's parents.

“Maybe there's a connection to Cyril,” said Lucy in a speculative tone. “Maybe he was the dealer. Maybe Cyril was involved with the poor kid who overdosed in the maze . . .”

“I wouldn't be at all surprised if he was,” said Perry, who was busy slicing bread and putting the pieces in the toaster. “We're all supposed to gather in the library at ten this morning, just like in an Agatha Christie mystery.”

“And all will be revealed,” said Lucy.

“I rather doubt it,” said Perry, leaning against the counter and cradling a mug in his hands while waiting for the toast to brown. “Sergeant Izzy there isn't as sharp as Miss Marple and the inspector is certainly no Hercule Poirot.”

* * *

Lucy did feel a bit like a character in a mystery novel when she and Sue went to the library at the appointed time and found everyone, including Lady Wickham, gathered there.

She was dressed in one of her usual flower-printed chiffon dresses, her dyed hair had been touched up, and if she truly had been sick, it seemed she had certainly made a quick recovery. She was scolding Inspector Hennessy, telling him in no uncertain terms that he had no business telling her what to do.

“I am the daughter of a marquess and the wife of an earl and I do not intend to allow someone like you to poke and pry into my private life.”

“Lady Wickham hasn't been well,” said Harrison, aware that the inspector was not sympathetic to this line of argument. “It would be best if she could rest in her room until she is needed for questioning.”

“My health is not the issue,” declared Lady Wickham, contrary as ever. “What I mean is that I am quite obviously above suspicion and I do not wish to waste time in pointless conversation when I have better things to do.”

“You are not above the law, even if you are a countess,” began Hennessy, glaring at the old woman.

“We will be happy to accommodate your ladyship,” said Sgt. Matthews, interrupting her boss. “We will speak with you only if we feel it necessary after we've completed all the interviews.” She paused. “Will that be agreeable?”

“I suppose it will have to do,” said Lady Wickham, attempting to look down her nose at the sergeant and failing, due to the young woman's superior height.

“Now, please take a seat with the others as the inspector wishes to speak to all of you together.”

“I don't imagine we'll need to keep you long,” said Hennessy, placing himself in front of the fireplace and facing the assembled group, who were seated on three sofas. Gerald and Poppy, as well as Lady Wickham, were all on the center sofa, opposite the fireplace. Harrison stood protectively behind her ladyship. Willoughby, Quimby, and Vickie were on the inspector's right, and Sue, Lucy, and Perry were on the left. Winifred, wearing an ankle cast, was standing to one side, along with Sgt. Matthews. Lucy thought it might be her imagination, but she sensed an air of nervous expectation.

“I'm taking the rather unusual step of speaking with you as a group,” began Hennessy, “because I believe recent events have made clear the need for you to come together as a community and to cooperate with this investigation. A young woman has nearly died and some of you had knowledge that, had you shared with us, might have prevented this terrible situation.”

He studied the group, making eye contact with each member, and didn't find much encouragement, so he continued. “This young woman, a lovely young woman, seemed to have everything going for her. A loving family. A privileged life. No money worries. Acceptance at a top university. An aristocratic pedigree. But for some reason she became involved with drugs to the point of becoming addicted.”

This got a reaction as Poppy gave a little gasp.

Hennessy was quick to press the point. “You can play the denial game and pretend that this was simply a one-time thing and she made a near fatal mistake, but the facts do not support that theory. Whatever the reason, this lovely young woman became entangled in the world of drugs and some of you knew what was happening and did nothing.”

“I knew,” said Vickie, blurting out the words. “She was getting the heroin from Cyril, the dead guy. Sometimes the kid Eric made the delivery. He worked for Cyril.”

Hearing this, Lucy turned to see Harrison's reaction, but the lady's maid remained stone-faced and apparently unmoved as Vickie continued speaking.

“She even had me pawn some jewelry for her so she could pay him when she got in debt. She couldn't do without it, and when he died . . . well, she must've got some bad stuff off the street in Oxford. That's why she overdosed.”