Death Sits Down to Dinner (15 page)

Her mind returned again to Miss Gaskell’s reaction to being questioned by the police. It was so extreme that it almost smacked of guilt as well as fear. As she ate her chestnuts she wondered why Miss Kingsley had imposed such a restriction on her household, that none of the servants, nor Miss Gaskell, dared even to mention Sir Reginald’s name let alone his death. The entire household was in thrall to an elderly lady who was determined that the murder in her dining room simply hadn’t happened.

And why,
she thought as she stood up and brushed bits of charred chestnut from the front of her coat,
has Miss Gaskell been confined to her room with this exaggerated illness? Yes, the girl has a severe cold, but not so severe that she has to be quarantined in her room. Is it perhaps to keep her from the police, from answering their unwelcome questions?

*   *   *

That day, Clementine had lunched at Claridge’s with Olive Shackleton and Gertrude Waterford, and had then gone on with Gertrude to Lucy Duff-Gordon’s fashionable and extraordinarily expensive salon in Hanover Square for a fitting. There had been a fashion show, something Lucy had dreamed up to better show off the lovely clothes she had designed for spring; this was an experience that Clementine found altogether fascinating.

The main room of the salon was full of tall, elegant young women floating around in a collection of Madame Lucile’s recent creations; each lightly clad in thin, drifting layers of richly colored silk as they wandered past her in an exotic and languid procession. A particularly exquisite model, with fairy-bright silver hair and almost transparent white skin and wearing a rose-pink silk dinner dress, caught her eye. One of Lucy Duff-Gordon’s assistants, noticing her interest, whispered in her ear, “It’s called ‘Heaven in the Circle of Your Arms,’ Lady Montfort; Lady Duff-Gordon must have had you in mind when she created it!” Clementine had needed no further encouragement and had penciled an emphatic tick next to the dress on her card.

She had then spent the balance of the afternoon justifying to Pettigrew why she had chosen a dress in rose-petal pink, a color her maid thought would not work well with her coloring; it would make her look sickish: her ladyship’s skin tone required rich, deep colors, not pastels.

*   *   *

When Mrs. Jackson came into her drawing room, it struck Clementine that her housekeeper was looking particularly handsome, and guessed she must have walked home. Mrs. Jackson’s cheeks were flushed from cold air and exercise, her blue eyes had a positively steely gleam, and little tendrils of wavy auburn hair had worked themselves loose from the plaited bun secured severely at the nape of her neck. She presented a picture of youthful vigor but most of all she radiated intention, Clementine noted with satisfaction, and was far lovelier than any of the languid young women she had seen modeling those exotic creations this afternoon.

“Long day, Jackson?” she asked as she indicated an upright little chair next to her. They had crossed a line somewhere last June during their investigation into the murder of Teddy Mallory and the net result was that even though they still observed the formal arrangement of mistress and servant, there was a greater and deeper understanding between them; it was nothing quite as egalitarian as friendship, because that would have made them feel a bit uncomfortable, but something akin to it. Their appreciation and respect of each other’s perspicacity and intelligence had grown considerably and their interactions since then had been those of two women who equally respected and liked each other.

Mrs. Jackson took the seat indicated, neatly shod feet together, hands in her lap, and back erect. She turned her handsome head attentively toward Clementine.

“How are things at Chester Square, servants cooperating and helping out?” Clementine asked.

“Oh yes, m’lady, they are a nice bunch; professionals every one of them and properly trained; the butler is a little elderly, but…”

“Looks pretty past it to me,” Lady Montfort observed, and Mrs. Jackson realized she was being carefully pushed into conversation about the inmates of Chester Square servants’ hall. In a sudden rush she gave in.
Why fight it? She knows something’s up, and she’s planted me there to find out what. So give her what she’s after and be done
. But she held out a little longer, the last refuge of the truly obedient, and remained silent.

“And poor little Miss Gaskell looked so unwell on the night of the dinner party. How is she faring, can she be of any help to you at all?” Lady Montfort probed, her eyes fastened intently on her housekeeper’s face.

“She’s rallying nicely, m’lady, but she’s quite reduced by what happened.”

“Reduced?” prodded Lady Montfort. “If she is rallying, what could have reduced her?”

“She was doing quite well until the senior housemaid informed her that a policeman from Scotland Yard, Inspector Hillary I think she said his name was, would be coming to ask a few questions about the incident in the house.”

“You must be referring to the murder of Sir Reginald Cholmondeley.”

“Yes, m’lady … the murder.” Mrs. Jackson suppressed a smile. “They don’t speak of it at all at the house, the subject is definitely out-of-bounds. When Miss Gaskell was told that the police wanted to question her, she fell to pieces, carried on quite dreadfully.”

Mrs. Jackson was quite aware of the particularly penetrating gaze her ladyship adopted when she was especially interested in an idea. And she set about the business of updating her on every single thing that had transpired since her first day at Miss Kingsley’s house: the no-talk policy on the subject of the murder, the inability of the butler to remember who she was from one hour to the next, and the framed photograph that had been hidden behind the pillows of Miss Gaskell’s bed in the morning, which had disappeared completely by the afternoon. She rounded this off with a description of Miss Gaskell’s near hysteria before she had left.

“That is all remarkably interesting, Jackson. Who was the man in the photograph, I wonder?”

“He was of late middle age, maybe forty-five, barrel-chested, fashionably dressed, with the sort of side-whiskers worn by the late prince consort.” She could see the image quite clearly in her head.

“Oh really, side-whiskers? How delightfully old-fashioned! Great heavens, Jackson, I think that was a likeness of Sir Reginald Cholmondeley. No one really wears side-whiskers anymore, unless of course the photograph was taken over twenty years ago. But you say he was dressed in an up-to-date fashion.” And when Mrs. Jackson acknowledged that he had appeared to be, Lady Montfort jumped to her feet, clapped her hands lightly together, and then held them. “Jackson, I’m sure that photograph is of Sir Reginald! Now I must go in to dinner, but afterwards will you please come straight back here. Oh very well done, Jackson, very well done indeed!”

Chapter Thirteen

The servants’ supper belowstairs at Montfort House that evening was a convivial affair, with Cook presiding from the head of the table.
Convivial?
Mrs. Jackson thought not.
Boisterous
was a far more apt description for this racket. The noise around the table was considerable with high-pitched shrieks of laughter from the roundly pretty second housemaid. Both footmen had joined them after serving upstairs dinner and were shouting each other down to gain the girl’s attention. Mr. White was still upstairs waiting on Lady Montfort and would no doubt have seriously have disapproved of this din. But if Cook thought their behavior inappropriate, she did nothing whatsoever to call them to order.

Mrs. Jackson, constitutionally more phlegmatic than Miss Pettigrew, whose face wore a pinched look of disapproval, lifted her spoon to eat her fish soup. It was good: robust, complex in flavor, and fragrant with herbs, served with thick slices of crusty homemade bread. Mrs. Jackson lifted her voice above the roars of laughter.

“This soup is delicious, Cook, such flavor, but tomatoes at this time of year?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson, I’m glad you are enjoying it. The stock is made from fish heads and bones with onions, simmered all day. Tomatoes dried and preserved in oil, from the end of the summer. The rest is plain old North Sea cod, such a nice fish for a soup like this.” And the cook turned to laugh at the second footman’s joke about a one-legged jockey.

Mrs. Jackson had to secretly applaud the energetic resourcefulness of a young woman who had the time to make such an excellent meal just for the servants’ supper, as well as produce a six-course dinner for the upstairs dining room, even if it was beyond her to keep the lower servants in order.

Another gale of laughter ended in a piercing shriek when someone at the table, more than likely the plump housemaid, was pinched by the second footman. Sensing that Pettigrew was about to fall apart, Mrs. Jackson bent a look of stern censure on the first footman, who had the grace to lower his voice and nudge his second-in-command. For a moment there was a lull in the uproar. Mrs. Jackson remembered her appointment with her ladyship and rapidly spooned down the last delicious drops of soup.

*   *   *

Lady Montfort had picked her way through a few of the superb courses laid before her and was sipping a small glass of brandy when Mrs. Jackson returned to the drawing room.

“Now then, Jackson, sit down there on the sofa because I want to show you something.” And Lady Montfort put into her hands a sheet of foolscap paper that when turned sideways showed a series of vertical columns, each headed by a name. The names, Lady Montfort explained, were those of everyone in the Chester Square house on the night of the murder, both upstairs and down. On the left-hand side was a list of hours and minutes. It was just like a Bradshaw’s train timetable.

“Look at this, Jackson.” She pointed to the column on the far left. “The women left the dining room at the end of dinner, at ten o’clock, to leave the men to their port. All of us went upstairs to the salon, they call it the little salon I think, but the doors to the large salon were open because Lady Ryderwood was to sing for us.

“And here is the interesting part.” She tapped the next column. “Not all of the men came up to join us at the same time when they left the dining room. Here are Lord Montfort, Captain Wildman-Lushington, and Sir Henry Wentworth.” Her finger moved to the corresponding columns. “They were first to join us in the salon at about a quarter to eleven; I know this because Lord Montfort remarked that perhaps Lady Ryderwood would not sing for too long and mentioned the time to me as he was anxious about the weather and getting home as soon as possible. They were followed by Sir Vivian Hussey, a good five minutes later.” A long index finger tapped to indicate Sir Vivian’s arrival in the salon.

“Now look here, this is interesting. At eleven o’clock, or close to it, Captain Vetiver arrives; mind this is twenty minutes
after
the men have started to come upstairs, Jackson. He reminds Jennifer Wells-Thornton that Miss Kingsley’s nephew, Mr. Tricklebank, is waiting for her in the outer hall, as they are going on. She says her thank-yous to Miss Kingsley, and leaves. Nota bene, by the way, Jackson, what was Trevor Tricklebank doing all that time after everyone started to leave the dining room?

“Then there is a little calamity in the salon: the footman spills coffee over Marigold Meriwether’s skirt and there is a big bustle in response.” Her finger traced back to the columns for each of the women. “Miss Kingsley sends the footman off for vinegar to stop the stain spreading, and then she sends off Miss Gaskell for some pure spirits. Then, on Lady Wentworth’s suggestion, Miss Kingsley leaves to get Epsom salt or baking powder. All this to-ing and fro-ing goes on for about fifteen, maybe even twenty, minutes. You see? At this time I seem to remember Mr. Greenberg comes up from downstairs, having kept Mr. Tricklebank company, so he tells us, as he waits for Miss Wells-Thornton in the outer hall. And a minute or two later, Miss Gaskell returns with the white spirit and is told to leave the skirt alone, as it is time for music.” Lady Montfort took a moment to sip her brandy and marshal her thoughts.

“So here we all are, gathered in the salon. We take our seats, and this must have been between fifteen and twenty minutes past eleven. Lady Ryderwood sings her first and, as it turns out, her only song. I have checked my libretto for the opera and Lady Shackleton’s score for
Madama Butterfly
and the song lasts about four minutes, which is not a long time when you are listening to a voice as richly perfect as that of Lady Ryderwood. Then at the end of the song or nearly at the end, in comes Mr. Churchill, who has apparently been speaking on the telephone in the library all this time to his secretary at the Admiralty. He arrives to interrupt the evening’s music, and at this time Miss Kingsley and I hear the butler’s loud cry from the hall. And off we go.” She paused to allow her housekeeper to take this all in.

Mrs. Jackson realized that all the time she had been busying herself with the charity event at Chester Square, Lady Montfort had been working away at this list of where everyone was on the night of the murder, and had made this beautifully organized little chart.
She was doing this as she waited for me to join her in an investigation
, thought Mrs. Jackson, and she felt a guilty little thrill of pleasure, because this is exactly what they were doing. She quickly ran over the times again and then she looked up at Lady Montfort, who was positively beaming down at her, hands clasped, as she hovered over her housekeeper expectantly.

“Miss Gaskell was absent from the room for over fifteen minutes,” Mrs. Jackson said.

“Yes, more like twenty, and Miss Kingsley was absent from the room for several of those minutes, too.”

“Would that give Miss Gaskell time to go downstairs and kill Sir Reginald?”

“I would have thought so.”

And here Mrs. Jackson finally acknowledged to her ladyship that she had joined her in what was to be their second murder investigation together. “I could time myself, m’lady,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I could time myself leaving the little salon to go down the stairs, enter the dining room, wait there, and then walk back.”