Rules of Murder (23 page)

“I can be of service to Mr. Farthering, please?”

Min stood there, coatless, with a flatiron in his hand. A pair of gentleman’s trousers, Rushford’s no doubt, were spread on the bed to be pressed. No one else was in the room.

“Did anyone come through here, Min?”

“No. I see no one.” Min set the iron down on the hearth and hurried into his coat. “Please forgive state of disarray.”

“No, no,” Drew said. “That’s all right. Carry on.” He turned to the door and then back again. “Min, did you hear anyone on the telephone just now?”

“Telephone? No, no telephone that I have heard.”

“Very well then.”

Drew went back into the sitting room and opened the connecting door on the other side. No one in that room. Whoever he was, if the American had gone out that way, he would be well away by now.

With a flash of inspiration, he snatched up the phone. “Hello, operator? Did you just put through a trunk call from this number?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I reconnect you?”

“Why, uh, yes. Yes. Please.”

A moment later there was a click at the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Ah, yes. May I ask to whom I am speaking?”

“Who’s this?”

The voice was male, clearly not English, and rather surly upon such short acquaintance.

“I was just wondering . . .” Drew winced as the other phone slammed down, and then he jiggled the switch hook. “Operator! Operator!”

“Operator.”

“Ring that number again, please, and hurry.”

He waited, pacing a semicircular path in front of the little mirrored telephone table. It was taking too long this time.

“Are you there, sir?”

Finally. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that number doesn’t answer.”

“I just spoke to someone there.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Shall I keep trying?”

“Yes. Definitely. Ring me back if you get anyone.”

“I certainly will, sir.”

He paced awhile longer, still waiting, and then he returned to the library.

Seeing him, Nick stood up. “Did you reach the inspector?”

“Not yet, no.”

“No?”

“Someone was using the line.”

Nick sighed. “I suppose it was too much trouble to telephone from the kitchen or upstairs.”

“I did go upstairs, actually,” Drew said. “Mason was using the phone in the study, so I went up and found Constance’s telephone engaged, as well.”

“Who . . . ?”

“That’s what I would like to know. I overheard only a couple of sentences, a man’s voice, but not one I recognized.” Drew glanced at Madeline. “And it was definitely American.”

She caught her breath. “But there aren’t any—”

“Precisely. No American men staying here at the house. So where could he have come from? And where could he have gone to?”

“And you’re sure he’s not still in the house?”

“Don’t worry, darling. Stalwart Nick is going to get a couple of the men and have a look around.”

Nick blinked. “I am?”

“Yes. That’s after you call the inspector and tell him what’s gone on here and present him with our mystery footwear. Still untouched, of course.”

“That’s all very well,” Nick said, “but what will you be doing?”

Drew smiled at Madeline. “I thought a certain charming young lady and I might wander down into Farthering St. John and catch up on the gossip, perhaps stop by the good Queen Bess and see if our Mr. Whiteside is still visiting.”

Madeline took his hand and stood up. “Are you sure we shouldn’t stay and see what happens here? I mean, if somebody’s in the house—”

“If somebody’s in the house, Nick and the others will see to him. You’d better get your walking shoes.”

She looked down at the stylish little silver sandals she was wearing. “You don’t mean for us to walk all the way there again, do you?”

“Why not? It’s not far. Just a pleasant stroll.” He turned her toward the door. “Now hurry on up and put on your sturdiest, most unfashionable shoes, and we’ll see what lovely scandals we can hear about over sweet old Mrs. Beecham’s garden gate.”

She hurried up to her room and returned a moment later wearing a pair of the most hideous, sensible shoes he’d seen on anyone younger than sixty, and a daisy-strewn, black straw hat to make up for the shoes. Soon they were walking down the tree-shaded lane that led to the village.

“Oh, she’s not there,” Madeline said, scanning Mrs. Beecham’s garden. “And I’m sure she could have told us about anyone staying in the village.”

“Not to worry, darling,” Drew told her. “There she is at Mrs. Eversleigh’s next door, nattering away.”

They hurried over to the rose arbor, where the two women sat talking.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Drew said, smiling as he removed his hat. “And how are you this fine day?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Farthering,” Mrs. Beecham said. “Oh, do come in, the two of you. How are you, Miss Parker?”

Drew opened the little iron gate for Madeline and then followed her into Mrs. Eversleigh’s garden. The owner of the garden was a wizened, frail little woman, a sharp contrast to the plump, hearty Mrs. Beecham, but she seemed just as eager to gossip.

“Yes, come in,” she said, her black eyes snapping. “Sit down.”

“We can’t stay but a minute, Mrs. Eversleigh.” Drew pulled up a wicker chair for Madeline and then took one for himself.

“This is the American girl I was telling you about, Madge,” Mrs. Beecham told her neighbor. “Miss Parker, we were just talking about the terrible goings-on at your uncle’s company.”

“Hello,” Madeline said to her hostess, and then she nodded at Mrs. Beecham. “Yes, it was pretty terrible.”

“And that poor man who was attacked, how is he today? He is staying at Farthering Place now, isn’t he?”

Drew fought off a smile. There was nothing the ladies of the village missed. “He is. At least for a day or two. The whole thing was rather unnerving for him, as you might understand.”

“It’s a wonder we’re not all murdered in our beds,” Mrs. Beecham said, one hand over her heart.

“If we were, it wouldn’t be any less than I’ve expected every
night since the war,” Mrs. Eversleigh put in, sounding mournfully delighted at the prospect. “The world’s never been the same since.”

“No. No, it hasn’t,” Mrs. Beecham sighed, and then her expression brightened. “And where are you two young people off to this afternoon?”

“We heard there was another American visiting,” Drew said, “and Miss Parker thought she’d see if it was someone she knows.”

Mrs. Beecham frowned. “Another American?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Eversleigh said. “At least no one I’ve heard about.”

“Nor I,” Mrs. Beecham confirmed. “Why, even the ones we had have since gone.”

“Have they?” Drew asked, glancing at Madeline. “When was this?”

“Oh, this morning, so they say,” Mrs. Beecham said.

“And we never did get to meet that Mr. Flesch,” her neighbor added. “He must have been very fond of his wife to be still so grieved.”

“No one got to meet him?” Madeline asked.

“No, dear,” Mrs. Beecham said. “He had all his meals brought up to him the whole time he was here.”

“Well, Mr. Whiteside did say he took cold after he’d got here,” Mrs. Eversleigh said, “although he did take the air some mornings later on. Still, such a shame to come all this way and never see anything. At least he didn’t end up like Mr. Martindale. Once he took cold, he was here one moment and gone the next.”

Mrs. Beecham made a sympathetic clucking noise. “Poor Mr. Martindale. And he was such fun at cards. He’d pretend he was holding one sort of hand and drop little hints about it. Made one feel so clever to have figured it out, and so foolish later to find he had won with something else entirely.”

“And where did they go this morning?” Drew asked, turning over in his mind what she had just said. “Mr. Whiteside and Mr. Flesch?”

“Mr. Piggot at the station said they got tickets to Southampton. Sounds as though they’ll be going straight back to America.”

Drew stood, pulling Madeline up with him.

“I hope you’ll excuse us, ladies. I’ve just remembered something I must see to.” Drew replaced his hat with a brief bow. “It’s been lovely seeing you both.”

“Yes, good to meet you, Mrs. Eversleigh,” Madeline called as Drew hurried her out the gate and toward the center of town.

“Young people are always in a hurry,” Mrs. Beecham sighed, and her neighbor nodded.

“I tell you, it hasn’t been the same since the war.”

“Where are we going?” Madeline asked, struggling to keep up.

“If Whiteside and the supposed Mr. Flesch are still in Southampton, they may be worth talking to.” Drew crossed the street, making a beeline toward the police station. “What the ladies said just now about their friend Martindale dropping little hints to set them wrong . . .”

She caught her breath. “You don’t think—”

Drew pushed open the door to the police station and saw Police Constable Applegate at the desk. “You’ve got to ring up the police in Southampton, Jimmy, before Lincoln gets away.”

I
n another minute, Applegate was on the telephone to the station in Southampton and then to Chief Inspector Birdsong at Farthering Place. Soon the constable and the chief inspector were on their way to the coast, with Drew and Madeline reluctantly in tow.

“It makes perfect sense,” Drew insisted. “If Lincoln was supposed to be dead, he’d have to hide somewhere, but it would have to be somewhere near enough for him to carry on with his mischief. It would be easy enough for him to check into the Queen Bess as Mr. Flesch before he was supposedly killed in the greenhouse. Then all he need do is slip out via the trellis, show up at the house as Lincoln, kill Clarke to take his place, and slip back to the inn. And there’s poor little Eddie to unwittingly cover his footmarks.”

“Then Whiteside is in on it, too,” Birdsong said.

“Obviously. But why?”

“The money, of course.” The inspector wagged his thick finger in Drew’s face. “We’re not talking a few hundred in blackmail anymore.”

“I realize that, but why? Whiteside’s a rich man. He needn’t
do another day’s work in his life if he doesn’t like to, even if he lives a hundred years more and doesn’t make another farthing.”

“Some men’s greed knows no bounds,” Madeline said.

“Still, murdering for it?” Drew shook his head. “He doesn’t at all seem the type.”

“You’re always saying you can’t tell about people,” she reminded him.

“Perhaps it’s a game to him,” Birdsong said. “See how much he can get away with and never be suspected.”

“Then he oughtn’t have been so clumsy with his tales about poor Mr. Flesch.” Drew crossed his arms over his chest, struggling to keep a calm demeanor. They were close now.

“And what about the things in the room?” Birdsong asked. “The lipstick marks on the cigarettes and the napkin.”

“Red herrings,” Drew said. “What better way to turn suspicions the wrong way round?”

It wasn’t long before they were in Southampton and, soon after, at the dock of the ship next leaving for New York City. An official request for a look at the passenger list showed a Mr. Whiteside and a Mr. Flesch booked for a first-class cabin. They had not yet checked in.

“The ship leaves in less than an hour. They’ll have to show up soon.”

“No need to worry, Mr. Farthering. I have men set up at both ends of the pier and on the ship itself. They won’t be slipping away from us at this point.”

As if they had been summoned, Whiteside and his companion showed up a few minutes later. Whiteside was his usual jocund self. His companion, shrouded in an overcoat and broad-brimmed hat, was still an enigma.

“All right,” Birdsong said, and with a nod to the two waiting constables he stepped forward and took Whiteside’s arm. “I’ll have to ask you to come with me, gentlemen.”

“Here now. What are you doing?”

“You are Mr. Jonas Whiteside of New York City?”

“Yes. And who the devil are you?”

Birdsong showed him his identification. “I am Chief Inspector Birdsong of the Hampshire Police. Now, if you and your
companion
would come along quietly—”

“I won’t! I’m an American citizen and I’ll be hanged if I’ll come quietly. You there! Farthering! Tell these idiots who I am.”

“It’s not a question of who you are, sir,” Drew said. “We do have some concerns about the elusive Mr. Flesch here.”

The two constables already had custody of the man in the overcoat and hat. They hadn’t yet attempted to remove the dark glasses and muffler that concealed his face.

“We’re both Americans! We’ve broken none of your laws, and you have no right to hold us!”

Already a little gathering of the curious was taking place around them.

“You’d best come along, sir,” Drew counseled. “And do stop shouting. No need to lay this all out in the street as it were.”

“What are the charges, Inspector?” Whiteside demanded. “What laws have we broken? You can’t just arrest us for nothing!”

“Perhaps our Mr. Flesch can clear everything up for us,” Drew offered. “If you’ll just remove your hat and those glasses, sir . . .”

“You can’t do that,” Whiteside protested. “Mr. Flesch has been very sick. It’s a wet day, and it won’t do him any good to catch a chill on the trip home.”

Birdsong was obviously unimpressed. “Then we’ll take him down to the police station and see he gets out of the damp.”

“It will have to be one way or the other, sir,” Drew said.

“What sort of country is this?” Whiteside roared. “It’s barbaric!”

Birdsong merely went up to the suspect in the overcoat and pulled off his hat and glasses. “All right, Mr. Lin—”

There was a general gasp.

“That’s Lucy Lucette, that is!” a man cried, followed by a rising babble of agreement.

The woman displayed her perfect smile to the crowd and shook loose her wealth of golden hair. Then she bit her full lower lip and tucked in her chin so she could give the inspector a coy look through her long, curling lashes. “I suppose you think I’ve been a naughty, naughty girl, Inspector.”

“I think you’d best come along now, miss,” Birdsong said. “And you, Mr. Whiteside.”

“Publicity stunt,” Drew said, fuming.

Madeline squeezed his hand. “Now, you know your Agatha Christie did just the same thing not five or six years ago.”

“They don’t know that for certain. She said she had a nervous breakdown and didn’t know what she was doing. This . . . this so-called actress hasn’t any such excuse.”

“Well, they haven’t actually broken any laws, have they?”

“I don’t know that it isn’t an offense to sign a hotel register under a false name,” Drew said, adding a sanctimonious sniff for good measure.

Madeline snuggled against him in the back of the police car. “You have to admit, it worked pretty well. She’s been all the talk since she disappeared. I’m sure
Arabella’s Gilded Cage
will be a smash hit.”

“But Whiteside! A man his age ought to know better. Especially with her climbing down trellises just to go gamboling
about in the fields at night because her artistic temperament demands it, and him thinking he has her safely tucked out of sight.”

Madeline smiled. “A man his age rarely knows better when it comes to a girl her age.”

“And what in the world could she see in him?”

“I’m sure there are millions of reasons she would find him irresistible. All of them in his bank in New York City.”

“And if this motion picture is a success, and he’s backing it, then there will surely be a few million more,” Drew observed. “The two of them should be beaten to death with the penultimate issue of
Silver Screen.
”

“Why not the latest?”

“I might want to read that one.”

“You’re just mad because you didn’t have everything figured out like you thought you did.”

“Well, she may scheme all she likes. She’ll never be another Constance Collier. Why, in ten years no one will remember the name Lucy Lucette. Perhaps five.”

Madeline sighed. “It would have explained everything so neatly. Now we have to start all over again.”

“Not all over. We just have to figure out where Lincoln has been hiding himself all this while, and where he plans to strike next.” Drew turned to the chief inspector. “Did your men ever check out that cottage Mrs. Chapman sometimes lets out?”

Birdsong looked weary. “They did, I’m afraid. They spoke to the lady and to her tenant, a fellow from Ipswich. Definitely not Lincoln.”

“Not Lincoln in a false nose and glasses?”

Birdsong pursed his lips. “No.”

Before long, they were overlooking the village of Farthering St. John. Drew leaned toward the front seat and tapped Constable
Applegate’s shoulder. “I say, Jimmy, would you mind popping us up to Farthering Place before you go back to your duties?”

“It’s not really official police business, is it, sir?”

“It’s all right, Applegate,” Birdsong said. “Drop me at the station here first and then take them on up. It’s not far.”

Drew gave him a rueful smile. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. I feel rather embarrassed running you out to Southampton for nothing.”

“Let that be a lesson, young man. I’m not saying it wasn’t an interesting theory on your part, but you’d better let the police see to this investigation from now on. Every time we have to go chasing wild geese, that’s time the real murderer has to think of how to get away.”

Chastened again, Drew spent the rest of the drive back to Farthering St. John in silent contemplation of the quandary that remained to be solved.

P. C. Benson was waiting in front of the police station when they pulled up. Seeing his urgent expression, Birdsong put down the car window.

“You’ve got to go up to Farthering Place, sir. Right away. Mr. Parker is dead.”

Drew felt Madeline’s hand tighten on his arm, and he put his free hand over hers.

“What happened?” Birdsong asked.

“I don’t have details at the moment, sir. All I was told is that he and Mr. Rushford had a quarrel and, defending himself, Rushford killed him.”

“No,” Madeline whispered.

Drew pulled her into his arms. “Hold on to me, darling.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask any questions. She merely clung to him, unmoving, hardly breathing.

“All right, Mr. Applegate,” Birdsong ordered. “Farthering Place and quick as you can.”