British Manor Murder (21 page)

Lucy and Sue exchanged a long glance, wondering if Flora hadn't been meeting her tutor as she claimed on the day she drove them to Oxford, but had been buying drugs instead.

“What do you mean, got it in Oxford?” demanded Gerald. “She hasn't left the manor for days. You were in Oxford yesterday, though, weren't you? You were the one who got the bad drugs.”

Vickie looked as if she'd been slapped in the face, and then her face crumpled and she burst into tears. “I did and I'm so sorry. I didn't know. How could I know? She was so desperate . . .”

“Finally, I think we're making some progress,” said Hennessy. “In addition, it has come to my attention that a number of valuable items are missing from the manor. Isn't that so?” he continued, giving a nod to Winifred.

“Yes. I haven't had time to complete my inventory—I've had to work off an older and incomplete one—but a cursory examination reveals that numerous pieces are missing, mostly from rarely used rooms on the upper stories. These include a small Cezanne, conservatively estimated to be worth at least a million pounds at auction. A rough estimate of the total value is well over two million.”

“Oh, my God,” moaned Poppy. “We're ruined.”

“It wasn't that stupid girl, was it?” demanded Gerald.

“No, I'm sure not,” said Vickie, quick to defend Flora. “She was using her trust fund. She told me it was pretty much gone and that's why she had me pawn some jewelry for her.”

“This is unbelievable,” said Perry, shaking his head.

“Now I'll be speaking to each of you individually, and I want you to examine your consciences and your memories and tell me anything that you think might have any relevance at all. An operation of this scope couldn't take place without somebody noticing something . . .”

It was then that the door opened and the vicar burst in, his face alight with joy. “I have wonderful news,” he began, then sensing the tense situation, switched gears. “Oh, my goodness, do forgive me. I was so happy to hear that Flora will be all right. That hasn't changed, has it?”

“No, no,” said Hennessy. “The young lady will recover.”

“Praise be to God,” said the vicar. “And no thanks to me. I should have spoken up about Cyril. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, which I now realize was a mistake.”

“Perhaps you'd like to share what you know,” said Hennessy in an authoritative tone.

“Well,” began the vicar with a sympathetic nod to Harrison, “Hoxton is a tough environment and Cyril did what most people do in that situation—he did what he had to in order to survive. He had a gang of sorts and they started out stealing handbags from old ladies and beating up anybody who wasn't properly British. It was all about the group, about a group being stronger than one person. As they got older, the gang became less important. Some of them had families, a few got sent to jail. Cyril, however, got involved in the drug scene, first using and then selling. I had a run-in with him when he tried to recruit boys from the church youth group and I'm sad to say he was successful with young Eric Starkey. I lost track of Cyril and I must admit it was quite a shock when I ran into him here . . . at the manor, of all places.”

Hennessy nodded. “Somebody was so shocked that they killed him.”

“But it wasn't me,” said the vicar, stepping beside Harrison and taking her hand in his.

Much to Lucy's surprise, the lady's maid didn't snatch her hand away and tears came to her eyes, causing her to blink furiously. Robert then made the sign of the cross on her forehead and gave her a benediction. When he was finished and the amen was said, she quickly wiped her eyes and resumed her previous stone-faced expression.

“But what brought you here today?” asked Perry. “You said you had wonderful news.”

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” said Robert as the sparkle returned to his eyes. “When I was in Hoxton, I made the acquaintance of a prominent couple who became interested in my work with the young people there. I have stayed in touch with them through the years, and asked them if they would like to attend the opening of the hat show. I'm happy to say that Kate and Wills—

“Oh, my,” gasped Lady Wickham, collapsing in a dead faint.

Chapter Twenty

A
ll attention was focused on Lady Wickham, who did not regain consciousness for some time, despite Harrison's efforts. The lady's maid rebuffed all offers of help and continued to chafe the old woman's wrists and to wave an ancient vial of smelling salts under her nose, to no avail.

“I really think we have to call for an ambulance,” Poppy finally said after some moments had passed. “Perhaps she's had a stroke or something.”

“Shall I put in a call?” asked Sgt. Matthews, indicating her walkie-talkie. “I can have the EMTs here in minutes.”

That seemed to do the trick. Lady Wickham's eyelids fluttered and she made a great show of regaining consciousness. “Dear me,” she moaned. “What happened?”

“You just took a turn. Nothing to worry about m'lady,” cooed Harrison. “It was the vicar's announcement that took you by surprise.”

“Yes, it was quite a shock,” Lady Wickham said, nodding. “Imagine, a black man like the vicar on intimate terms with the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. I never would have dreamt such a thing was possible.”

“Really, Aunt, this is the twenty-first century,” said Perry. “The royals are well aware that Britain is changing.”

“It's rather more than that,” said the vicar, looking somewhat amused. “The prince is committed to carrying on his mother's good works.”

“Dear me,” moaned Lady Wickham, sinking back on to the pillowed back of the sofa. “Don't mention that dreadful hussy Diana to me.”

“Well, it's great news, Vicar, and I for one am terribly grateful, not to mention pleased and excited,” said Perry. “I have a great deal to do to prepare for a royal visit.” He turned to the inspector. “Do you need me? Is it all right if I get on with things in the long gallery?”

“No problem at all,” said the inspector, consulting his notebook. “I think we'd like to begin this morning with Maurice Willoughby.” He raised his head and looked around the library expectantly, but there was no sign of the librarian.

“I wonder where he's got to?” said Quimby. “Shall I go look for him?”

“No need,” said the inspector, giving Sgt. Matthews a meaningful glance, which resulted in her leaving the library. “I'll begin with you, Mr. Quimby.”

“As for the rest of us?” asked Poppy. “I have quite a few things I need to attend to.”

“Just don't leave the manor. I'm sure I'll be able to find you when I need to,” said the inspector.

“Good,” said Perry, taking Robert's arm. “Would you like to come along with me and give me the necessary contact information? I imagine I will have to talk to Kensington Palace.”

“I don't have it with me. I was so eager to share the good news that I didn't think to bring it. I'll have to go back to the vicarage and text you,” said Robert, casting a questioning look at the inspector.

The inspector gave him an approving nod, then indicated to Quimby that he should follow him to the adjoining little library that had been prepared for the interviews. The group gradually dispersed, going their separate ways.

“I think I'll go along to the long gallery and help Perry,” said Sue. “Do you want to come?”

Lucy, who was curious about Willoughby's disappearance, declined the invitation. She recalled Bill telling her that Doug Fitzpatrick wasn't the man he claimed to be and she had a similar suspicion about Willoughby. “I think I'll take another look at that perennial border,” she said, telling a little white lie. “I want to take some photos so I don't forget how they got that fabulous look.”

“Planning something similar back home?” asked Sue, raising an eyebrow.

“Not on quite the same scale,” admitted Lucy with a shrug, “but I think I could borrow a few ideas.”

When she got outside, however, she didn't head in the direction of the fabulous serpentine perennial border that was the envy of gardeners throughout the world, but instead followed the shady path through the woods to a cluster of cottages that housed various manor employees, including Willoughby. The cottages were joined in a row like townhouses, with walled gardens to the rear and a road in front where a few modest cars were parked. Lucy wasn't sure exactly which cottage was Willoughby's, but when she walked around back she peeked through an open gate and spotted a woman hanging wash on a clothesline.

Taking a closer look, she recognized Sally, the maid who took care of their rooms at the manor. “Hi!” she called. “It's a great day for drying.”

“It is indeed,” said Sally, whose hair was blowing in the breeze. “I have a machine, but I like to dry my clothes on the line. They smell so nice when I bring them in.”

“Me, too,” said Lucy. “I like nothing better than to see my pretty sheets flapping in the breeze on a sunny day.”

“It's the simple pleasures that are the best,” said Sally. “Sometimes I feel sorry for them that's up at the manor. It's all very grand, but they don't get to enjoy the little things.” She pointed to a flowerpot that contained a lush geranium. “When you've got millions of plants, all flowering at once, you don't really see them, do you? I've had this geranium for years and I bring it in every winter and put it out every summer. This plant and me are old friends.”

“I have some like that, too,” said Lucy. “I have my mother's spider plant. It must be more than twenty years old, since she's been gone for some time.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Sally.

“Thank you,” said Lucy. “You know, I'm actually looking for Mr. Willoughby. He's wanted up at the manor, but I'm not sure which cottage is his.”

“Mr. Willoughby hurried out some time ago. It looked like he was setting out on a hike. He had a backpack and a stick.” She paused. “He gave me a big wave.”

“Interesting,” said Lucy. “Is this his day off?”

“Not usually. He has the weekends. A lot of folks who work at the manor are needed on the weekends because that's the busiest time with the most visitors, but he doesn't have anything to do with them, and I think they like to show the library sometimes, too. They have special behind the scenes tours on the weekends. That's what they call them, and they charge an extra ten pounds.” She grinned. “That Poppy doesn't miss much. She's quite the businesswoman.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Lucy. “Well, I guess I'll be off. It's been nice talking to you.”

“Same here,” said Sally, lifting her empty laundry basket and carrying it inside.

Lucy walked along, wondering if Willoughby was going for a hike or a quick exit and wishing she could get a peek inside his cottage. She still wasn't sure which was his. She had noticed a few window curtains twitching as she passed, which she took to mean she was under observation.

The trip wasn't wasted, she decided, as she intended to tell Hennessy what Sally had told her about Willoughby's departure. The historian had always topped her list of suspects in the murder because he seemed the most likely person to know about the secret room, apart from the family. She was mindful of Bill's discovery that Doug Fitzpatrick was not the person he pretended to be, and remembered a couple incidents when Willoughby seemed to have let his mask, or rather his accent, slip. She doubted an educated librarian would ask for a
cuppa
tea, and she was pretty sure she'd heard a bit of a Cockney twang once or twice. Not that she was any expert on British accents, she admitted, thinking that perhaps she was being overly hasty in suspecting Willoughby.

There was also the fact of Flora's overdose, which rather changed the equation. She remembered Flora and Desi saying how they had enjoyed exploring the manor when they were kids, and it seemed likely that they might have discovered the secret room. She didn't think Flora could have succeeded in killing Cyril and hiding his body by herself, but she and Desi were close and he might have helped his sister. Or he might have discovered that Cyril was her supplier and decided to eliminate him.

These were the thoughts that occupied her mind as she walked along the path, intending to make good her avowed intention of studying the perennial border, when she heard angry male voices. Most probably a couple gardeners voicing some sort of disagreement, she thought, pausing to listen and recognizing Robert's deep bass voice.

Giving in to curiosity she crept closer, confident that a tall hedge would conceal her, and peered through a gap in the greenery to see who the vicar was arguing with. She wasn't all that surprised when she saw that it was Willoughby, and that her suspicions about him were correct.

“I know you, and you're no more Maurice Willoughby than I'm Saint Peter. You're Bert Winston, right? You were one of Cyril's boys back in Hoxton, weren't you? And you did time for it, too, as I recall. You were delivering a warning to a Pakistani kid, Khalid somebody, wasn't it? You beat him to a bloody pulp.”

“Don't be daft,” snapped Willoughby. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You didn't go to Southampton or Reading or any university. You took some jailhouse courses and watched a few movies and you've been putting on a big act. I suppose you had plenty of time to practice a posh accent—” Robert's accusation ended rather suddenly with a series of thuds and grunts.

When Lucy rounded the hedge, she saw the two men engaged in a fistfight. She ducked back behind the hedge and reached for her cell phone, but the only number she could remember was Sue's. She began punching it in with trembling fingers but must have done something wrong because the darn thing didn't work.

The thuds and grunts had escalated and included groans. She knew she had to get help fast, before Willoughby killed Robert . . . or Robert killed Willoughby. Lucy had rarely seen men fight, except in movies and TV, and she found it terrifying. Somehow she had to stop it. The phone was hopeless so she decided the only thing to do was to intervene. She plucked up all her courage and ran around the hedge, yelling, “Stop it, stop it!” at the very moment Willoughby delivered a roundhouse punch that knocked out Robert.

She instinctively ran toward Robert, intending to help him, but Willoughby blocked her and she realized her danger. She turned to run and dashed for a gap in the hedge but soon discovered she had taken the wrong direction and was in the maze. She could hear him panting behind her as she ran, trying desperately to remember if it was three lefts and then all rights or the other way around. Finding herself completely confused, she ran blindly, taking each turn as it came and miraculously found the exit. She was almost there when she took a terrific blow to her back and fell flat on her face. Willoughby's enormous weight landed on her back. She tried to free herself, but his hands were around her neck. Struggling to breathe, she scratched at the hands in vain.

Suddenly, a dark shadow seemed to float through the air, only to land with a thud, and she was able to breathe again.

Scrambling to her feet, she saw Desi deliver a serious punch to Willoughby's jaw and he crumpled to the ground.

“What was that?” gasped Lucy, her hands at her neck.

“A grand jeté,” said Desi. “I needed to cover a lot of ground, fast.” He shrugged. “Nothing to it, really. I do that ballet jump all the time.”

Willoughby regained consciousness just as several uniformed police officers arrived and took him into custody. Lucy, along with Robert and Desi, followed the group back to the manor where several official vehicles were parked. Inspector Hennessy informed Willoughby of the charges against him, namely theft and murder, and he was bundled into one of the vehicles and taken away. They were watching the car disappear down the drive when Harrison was brought out of the house in the custody of Sgt. Matthews and a uniformed police woman, followed by Poppy and Gerald, who both looked quite solemn. Hennessy had his charges ready—conspiracy to commit theft and interference with police.

“What's this all about?” demanded Desi.

“It seems that Harrison and Willoughby were in cahoots, stealing bits and pieces from the manor,” said Poppy. “One of the dealers who'd been buying the pieces identified them.”

“What about Aunt Millicent?” asked Desi. “Flora rather suspected she was part of the ring, perhaps even the head of it.”

“If so, we do not have a case against Lady Wickham,” said the inspector, getting into his car and giving the driver a nod.

“Interesting morning,” said Gerald, adding a
humph
before marching off.

“Where's he going?” asked Lucy.

“To the barns,” said Desi with a smile. “Whenever things get tough, Dad goes to check on the livestock.”

Poppy wasn't about to seek solace with the livestock, however, and turned to Robert. “You knew Cyril was engaged in selling drugs and never thought to warn us?” she demanded. “How could you do that in good conscience? And you a vicar, too?”

“I saw him only briefly. He told me his mother worked here and convinced me he'd changed his ways.” Robert gave a rueful smile. “Being a man of faith, I took him at his word.”

“Well, it would have saved us a lot of grief and sadness,” said Poppy.

“I know, and I regret it,” said Robert. “I have to confess I am more ashamed of my failure to recognize your librarian, Willoughby. I knew him before as Bert Winston . . . when he was in the same gang as Cyril and Eric, but I didn't make the connection. I think I was dazzled by the grand setting and never tumbled to the fact that he wasn't who he pretended to be.”

“When did you figure it out?” asked Lucy.

“It was when I came here. I ran into him in the hallway, and something he said when he greeted me got me thinking.”