Malice in Miniature (14 page)

“All right, lead me to the deer park,” I said with a groan. “I need to walk miles as a penance after that.”

We drove for some time through the rolling Hampshire hills, still beautiful even with winter coming. The sheep were round with wool, the cattle sleek and healthy. Now and then a rabbit would disappear into a hedgerow, and for one lovely instant I saw a pheasant before he whirred up and was gone.

I didn't see the house until Alan had turned the car into the long, straight drive. Then it appeared before me in all its majesty.

The trees on either side of the drive had lost their foliage for the winter, and the bare branches did nothing to obscure the perfect lines of the manor. Made of soft pink brick and some kind of white stone, it rose serene and lovely.

And huge.

“Alan, this surely isn't—I can't—how could I ever—” I couldn't keep the panic out of my voice.

He patted my knee. “Don't worry. It looks enormous and confusing, but it sorts itself out quickly. You must admit it's beautiful.”

It was. Compared to Brocklesby Hall . . . well, there was no comparison, really. This house was really old, built in a time when grace and proportion were paramount considerations. I would love being a guest here, strolling through the gardens, sitting by one of the fires that, judging from the forest of chimneys, warmed nearly every room. But
live
in a place like this? Me, a hick from Indiana?

Alan glanced at me and I forced a smile. “Perfectly beautiful.”

I had the feeling I wasn't fooling him a bit.

He pulled the car into the prime spot reserved for the commandant and led me into the imposing front hall. It was as big as my whole house in Sherebury. On one wall a huge white marble fireplace crackled with a wood fire. Twin stone archways, flanked and surmounted by colorful coats of arms, led to another part of the house. The floor was of polished stone, the walls of polished wood. I clung to Alan's arm and tried not to gape.

A pleasant-faced young black woman in uniform was sitting at a desk to one side. She looked up and smiled broadly, at my hat, no doubt. Alan drew me nearer.

“Betty, allow me to introduce my wife, Dorothy Martin. This is Betty Atieno, who has volunteered to take you in charge for an hour or so. Unfortunately, I have a meeting in”—he looked at his watch—”in two minutes. Betty, if you'll deliver Mrs. Martin to the drawing room when you've finished, I'll join her there as soon as I can.” He kissed me lightly on the cheek and strode off. I watched him go with the sensation of losing a lifeline in mid-ocean.

“Such a lovely man,” said Betty, her ebony face lighting up with a smile. “We all hope he will come here. We would enjoy working with him. Now you must come with me and I will show you the house that may be your home for a time.”

“Thank you. I'm afraid I feel a little lost. It's so big . . .”

“I, too, felt intimidated when I first came here. It is not like Kenya.” She grinned, and I couldn't help joining her.

“Ah, that's where you're from. I wondered about that delightful lilt to your speech. I'm a foreigner myself, as you probably know. Do you like living in England?”

“I miss my home, yes, especially in the winter, but I enjoy my job and I like this estate. You will like it, too, Mrs. Martin, when you have found your feet. Do not worry.”

Betty had missed her calling, I thought. She would have made a wonderful nanny. Meekly I allowed myself to be soothed and conducted on a tour.

The house had been turned into a working institution without a great deal of alteration. Certainly its beauty remained largely unsullied, but my appreciation was soon swamped by a return of panic, for in sheer size, Bramshill was as overwhelming as Brocklesby Hall.

Betty regaled me, as we turned one confusing corner after another, with the story of the ghost, supposedly a bride who, in a rather rowdy game of hide-and-seek on her long-ago wedding day, had hidden in the big chest that now resided in the front hall. She drew the lid down a bit too far and it locked. She was never found, and her restless spirit still, according to the story, walked the halls today.

I was skeptical. Ghosts that come complete with careful, logical explanations carry the scent of Hollywood, it has always seemed to me. Nevertheless, it was not a tale to inspire warm, happy feelings about the house. By the time I was deposited in the drawing room, I was feeling very New World, very small, and thoroughly daunted. Betty explained about the tapestries.

“They are old, and extremely valuable. We have a saying. ‘In case of fire: women, children, and tapestries first.' And not necessarily in that order!” She showed me the cords that provided for a quick release of the hangings, so that they could be rolled up and carried off, and I realized she wasn't kidding. I shrank a little further into myself.

When Alan came to claim me I was hard put to maintain a smile, but he pretended not to notice. “Ready for that walk?” he boomed.

“More than ready,” I muttered. “But I'll need to change my shoes.”

My bag had been left in the front hall. I slipped into an old pair of tennis shoes and followed Alan out the door.

The sun had come out in full force, and the day was warm for November, but I was glad of my jacket. We walked briskly and silently, our thoughts interrupted only by an occasional scream from one of the peacocks. I jumped the first time; after that the screams were just irritating.

“Look,” said Alan, touching my arm and pointing.

Three white deer moved like the ghosts of deer through the leafless skeletons of trees. They froze at some small sound and looked at us, motionless, then bounded out of sight.

“There's a bench over there, Dorothy. In the sun. Shall we sit for a bit?”

We sat and watched the woods for a little while, but no more deer appeared. Alan spoke at the same moment I did.

“Alan—”

“Dorothy—”

He gestured.

“No, you first.”

“Very well. Dorothy, don't worry so. You've been edgy ever since we got here. Do I frighten you, now that you're burdened with me for life?”

“What an idea! No, you don't scare me, but this place does. It's all so beautiful and so English, and so unlike any place where I could feel at home. I hate to be such a— a coward and a killjoy, but I just can't get enthusiastic about living here. I'm sorry.”

“My dear, there's no need to apologize! I hope you'll take a little longer to make up your mind, but if you decide in the end you don't want me to take up the appointment, I shan't. That isn't what I wanted to talk to you about, though.”

“What, then—oh.”

Here it came, I thought. He was going to call me off, tell me that a man in his position couldn't allow me to meddle any more in Bob Finch's problems.

Margaret Allenby had told me to let Alan see my point of view, but I was demoralized. “It's all right, Alan,” I began dispiritedly. “I see your reasoning. Bob isn't the chief suspect anymore, anyway—I told you there were developments. I think—” To my horror, I couldn't keep my voice steady. I gulped, squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and started over, on the proper tack this time.

“I've been thinking a lot about all this, Alan. You have a point, of course, but I think I do, too. Ada Finch is a friend, and she's begun to depend on me for moral support, and even for solutions to her problems. And maybe that isn't as silly as it sounds.

“The truth is, I'm an unashamed snoop, and people seem to like to talk to me. I can't help it if they tell me things, can I? Or if I start putting two and two together? I taught school for too many years not to know something about people and what makes them tick.”

I had been studying my lap, but I looked up to see how Alan was taking this. He was looking at the trees in the distance, his face unreadable.

“Well, anyway, there it is. I think I can do some good, looking into Mrs. Lathrop's murder. Maybe I can even help the police a little. You're always saying you're understaffed.”

Still no response.

“Can't we work out some way that I can keep on poking around, without embarrassing you or breaking any rules? Alan, say something!”

He looked at me, finally, his face sober.

“Dorothy, I'm ashamed. I didn't realize you felt quite so strongly about it. I value your abilities, of course, and I don't want to stand in your way, but . . .” He ran his hand down the back of his neck. “The plain fact is, I worry about you. You constantly underestimate the potential for catastrophe. The police are trained to deal with dangerous situations; you're not.

“You think I'm concerned about regulations. I must consider them, of course, but my chief concern is your safety. My dear, I love you, and I couldn't bear . . .”

He looked away again.

“Well, at least we understand each other,” I said after an uncomfortable silence. “Alan, a few weeks ago I promised to love, cherish, and obey you. I meant it. If you issue me a direct order—”

“Confound it, Dorothy, I'm not going to order you about! You're an intelligent human being with a will of your own; you've the right to make your own decisions. I suppose I'm being overprotective.”

“Oh, Alan, you're not! Not really. You're just being— male. And English.”

“I can scarcely help that,” he said with a tiny smile.

“Any more than I can help being female and American. And I don't want you to be any different I just—I suppose I want to eat my cake and have it, too. Go my own way and lean on you when I need to.”

He put his arm around me and drew me close. “Lean on me all you like, my dear. Let's leave it for now, shall we? I think we both need to do a bit more thinking. Meanwhile, I'll try to be a trifle less dictatorial and hidebound. And, love—it'll be all right. I promise.”

We sat gazing at the trees, watching for the pale, lovely deer.

I
n spite of my reservations about Bramshill, and Alan's ambivalence about my activities, we enjoyed a pleasant weekend. We went to the village church on Sunday morning, and though the music was awful, compared to a cathedral choir and organ, the vicar was a charming man who conducted a dignified service and preached a good sermon based on St. Paul's letter to the Ephesians, the bit about husbands loving their wives. Perhaps because of that, or perhaps because a night together in a large, comfortable bed in the guest wing had strengthened our appreciation of each other, on Sunday afternoon we talked long and hard about Mrs. Lathrop's murder. By tacit consent we avoided controversy. I was careful to be non-provocative in my remarks, and Alan, in his turn, was scrupulously fair about dealing out information. He really was trying to unbend.

I brought him up to date on the disappearance of the accountant. “When I found out, it seemed obvious that he was the culprit, but I thought about it on the train coming down, Alan, and now I'm not convinced that Thoreston actually had anything to do with it. I'm sure they'll find irregularities in the books—that's why he's vamoosed—but he's not the type for anything more ambitious. He struck me, the one time I met him, as a sly, sneaky kind of person. He cringes, like Uriah Heep. Now a man like that might easily embezzle a few paltry sums, but would he have the steady nerves, not to mention the knowledge, to plan a particularly clever poisoning?”

“Means, motive, opportunity.” My spouse intoned the classic trio like a mantra. “Look at it from a police point of view. The means and opportunity were at hand. From what I've been told, anyone in the house could have got at the herbal tea, though there's a limited time period involved.

“Morrison's kept me apprised of all the main points of the case, because of my personal interest. This, by the way, is privileged information; don't mention it to anyone.

“It seems Mrs. Lathrop asked for new herbs to be gathered on Wednesday, a week and a half ago, and Bob did as the head gardener, Adam, told him. She, Lathrop, allowed them to dry for a couple of days in a fruit desiccator, and then chopped them and put them away in her own particular tea caddy, which she kept in the kitchen. According to the cook, Lathrop was quite particular about mixing the herbs herself, though she trusted the gardeners to pick them.”

“With her weight, I doubt if she would have enjoyed stooping over flower beds, especially in the sun.”

“Perhaps not. At any rate, on the Sunday—a week ago—she indulged in a heavy meal and was struck with indigestion in the evening. She asked the cook to make her an infusion, drank it, and reported feeling better, although she drank a little more of the tea in the morning, a fresh infusion, just to be sure. She felt fine, then, until Wednesday night, when a meal of roast pork caused her fits again. She had a dose of the tea, but this time it didn't work quite so well. The cook implied that it was no wonder, the amount of pork she had eaten.

“So Lathrop got out of bed early in the morning, apparently still feeling uncomfortable. This time she went down to the kitchen and prepared the infusion herself, since the cook was in bed. That was when she became really ill, vomiting and thrashing about. She called for help, but the cook and Claude were the only ones in the house at the time, and they didn't know what to do. By the time the doctor came her heart was failing; she died a few minutes after his arrival.”

“So. It sounds as if the tea was okay on Wednesday night, and not okay by—when?”

“The cook doesn't know for certain, since she didn't wake until Lathrop started screaming and throwing things, just before seven o'clock. It's fortunate, by the way, that the cook sleeps in a little room just next to the kitchen, or she'd never have heard anything in that great barracks of a house. She ought to have been up, of course, but it seems she was in the habit of sleeping late when Sir Mordred wasn't around, and letting Mrs. Lathrop get her own breakfast.