The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  “Getting back to your question about the body and the smell,” she said. “I don’t know why Mrs. Tippett or Betsy didn’t notice. Perhaps because of the game room. After years of working beside it, perhaps they learned to blot it out.”

  “I understand the gamekeeper was discharged, and shooting parties canceled, as Lord Maggart can no longer tolerate the noise.”

  “Is that what Mr. Collins said?”

  “Yes.”

  “He told me someone was arrested for the murder. The dead man’s wife. Is that true?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Ah. I hoped it was not.”

  “I almost get the impression,” Ben said carefully, “that Mr. Collins frequently circulates information that isn’t entirely true.”

  Mrs. Grundy did not contradict him.

  “I’ve said clearly, time and again, that Bobby Archer couldn’t have died where his body was found,” Ben said, trying the cake. The sponge was dry and the icing, too sweet. He wasn’t surprised that Mrs. Tippett couldn’t equal Mrs. Cobblepot’s results; few could.

  “Of course not.” The door behind Mrs. Grundy stood open, theoretically allowing anyone passing to overhear, but she maintained the same level tone. Like any housekeeper, she exercised discretion, but her willingness to answer his questions without retreating behind closed doors impressed him.

  “It may have happened in the game room. Even someone who’s lived here as long as I would find it hard to tell. Its floor and walls are so deeply stained, you see. Or the kitchen. After—well. My point is, the floor could be cleared of blood in record time.”

  “You sound certain of that.”

  “I am. I expect that if I tell you something later judged essential, you will be obligated to take it to the authorities,” she said. “Otherwise, may I trust it will never leave this room?”

  He nodded.

  “Did Lady Maggart tell you about our troubles over the summer?”

  “She said there’s a ghost in this house. She woke one night and saw her.”

  Mrs. Grundy looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.

  “Have you heard the story? About a woman in black?”

  “I did say I grew up in Fitchley Park.” She flashed a smile. “There’s been rumors of strange doings here since the days of Cromwell. Cavaliers, priests, and smugglers. It’s all part of the lore.”

  “Do you believe the house is haunted?”

  “No. Not by ghosts. His lordship can’t forget the war. Her ladyship… it’s not for me to say what she feels guilty about. But I think if she had a bit of a breakdown, and smashed a mirror and some of her toiletries, she wouldn’t want to explain it to the staff. So an insistence that a woman in black did it papered over the disturbance, however imperfectly.”

  He took that in. “How does that connect to clearing blood from the kitchen floor?”

  “It was a fraught time,” Mrs. Grundy replied. “The gamekeeper, Charlie, had recently been discharged. Her ladyship was unhappy. Lord Maggart was ill. Then Lady Maggart’s dog, a Pomeranian called Phoebe, died in the middle of the night. I heard a terrible howl. I raced into the kitchen, thinking Mrs. Tippett was being murdered. Instead, I found Phoebe, dead on the butcher block.”

  “How was she killed?”

  “Her throat was cut.” In the hall, two maids passed carrying an enormous basket of laundry between them, but Mrs. Grundy didn’t let that deter her from answering. “Her ladyship blamed the ghost.”

  “And you?”

  “Mrs. Tippett always hated that dog. Especially when it followed her ladyship into the kitchen. Her temper is always uncertain. Or perhaps Charlie slipped back inside and killed poor Phoebe for revenge. He took his discharge very hard.”

  “Do you think Lady Maggart might have done it herself?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes she surprises me.”

  “What about Lord Maggart?”

  The housekeeper twisted her hands. “I won’t consider it.”

  “Because of his illness?”

  “Because I’ve known him all my life. We played together. We had lessons together. We even took meals together, when old Lord Maggart and his wife were in London for the season. For years I thought of him as my own brother. Until I put on my apron and starched cap.”

  Ben finished his cake, choosing his next questions carefully. Then he asked, “Did Lord Maggart care for the dog?”

  “No. He’d asked her ladyship to get rid of it.”

  “Was he shocked by what happened?”

  She shook her head. Ben had the impression she could have said more but declined. It wasn’t surprising. The Maggarts provided her home and livelihood. Should that situation come to an end, she was unlikely to find anything but factory work.

  He took another tack. “With regard to the dead man, Bobby Archer—did you know him?”

  “We never spoke. I’d seen him, of course, many times.”

  “What was his business at Fitchley Park?”

  “Only her ladyship can say.”

  The implication was unmistakable. Would Mrs. Grundy reveal more if she understood what was at stake?

  “Policemen are meant to be entirely disinterested,” Ben said. “I, on the other hand, make no such claim. I came here to write a death certificate. But fundamental questions remain unanswered, and I’m nothing like convinced Mrs. Archer killed her husband.”

  “No,” Mrs. Grundy agreed with surprising strength. “The blackout would make it almost impossible for a woman to slip into the house through the window. It’s true the tradesman’s entrance is never locked—permitting access to the privy, you see—but she’d still need to find her husband without waking the staff.” She shook her head. “Once these thoughts overtook me, I felt quite ill.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the killer must’ve had help from within. Three people at minimum, I should think, to carry, clean, and conceal. And when that was accomplished, they lied to the special constable, to you, to me, and anyone else who would listen. When it became clear that I live among those who have aided and abetted a murderer, I hid away for a few hours. Until I could face the world without weeping, or screaming, or both.”

  He thought about that. He’d finished his tea, so Mrs. Grundy rose and began transferring the dirty dishes and cutlery back onto the serving tray. As she lifted the pot with her right hand, something occurred to him.

  “I wonder, Mrs. Grundy—who on the staff is left-handed?”

  She set the pot down with a clatter. “Why?”

  “It’s impossible to be certain, but from the angle of the wound, I think Bobby’s killer was left-handed.”

  “Oh. Well. As to the gamekeeper, I can’t say I ever noticed. For the indoor staff, most of us are right-handed. Except for Kitty, of course.”

  “The maid who discovered the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you mind if I spoke with her?”

  “Of course not. I’ll fetch her, and you may interview her here, in my sitting room.”

  “Thank you. If you don’t mind, may I ask you one more question?”

  Mrs. Grundy turned back. The bulging brow made her look angry, even faintly menacing, when she probably only meant to seem polite.

  “You mentioned living among people who aided and abetted a murderer,” Ben said, watching her eyes. “Does that mean the murderer resides upstairs?”

  She blinked. “I hope not. I owe Lord Maggart everything, Dr. Bones. So with all my heart—I hope not.”

  Worry Stone

  Kitty Ryan was one of those young women for whom “pleasingly plump” had been coined. She had a round face, dimpled cheeks, a dimpled chin, and the ivory-pink coloring of a porcelain doll. A single yellow curl escaped from beneath her mobcap, right in the middle of her forehead, where it just so happened to accentuate her prettiness. Without being asked, she closed Mrs. Grundy’s door before sitting down across from him.

  “I’m glad to see you again, Doctor. Thank
you for being kind to me over the spot,” she said in a high, chirpy voice. Ben might have found it acceptable in a Punch and Judy character, but it was altogether grating in a human being.

  “You should know,” she continued, pausing for dramatic emphasis, “the drop on the carpet really was red wine. That’s why I drain the glasses before I fetch them back to the kitchen. Waste not, want not.”

  “How long have you been at Fitchley Park, Kitty?”

  “A year.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.” She fluttered her lashes.

  “No, really.”

  “Twenty,” she admitted, giggling behind her hand.

  “Why lie?”

  “Why ask?” She giggled again, blue eyes bright with what was probably perpetual mirth. “I like a bit of fun.”

  “You were late getting out of bed yesterday. Why?”

  “Forgot to wind my alarm clock.”

  “Is Mrs. Grundy cross when you’re late to your duties?”

  “Yes, but she forgives me,” Kitty chirruped. Reaching into her skirt pocket, she withdrew a smooth red stone the size of a sixpence, shifting it from palm to palm like a worry stone.

  Ben took her through the morning, asking the logical questions and receiving the same answers Mr. Collins and Lady Maggart had supplied the day before. Either all three were telling the truth, or they’d done a good job getting their stories straight.

  Ben decided to toss a stick of dynamite into the mix. “Did Lady Maggart have a love affair with Charlie the gamekeeper?”

  Kitty’s eyes popped.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. I’m not interested in circulating gossip,” Ben said. “Nothing unrelated to the murder will leave this room, and I’m convinced it was a murder. Plymouth CID will come to Fitchley Park soon, with Scotland Yard sure to follow,” he said, wondering if Dirk Diamond offered any lessons on outright lying. “They’ll arrest the murderer. Then they’ll arrest everyone on staff who helped conceal the crime.”

  Kitty began passing her worry stone along the gaps between her fingers, an operation that required some dexterity.

  “Those who help the cause of justice will surely be treated better than those who continue to lie,” Ben continued, watching the stone travel back and forth. “We know Bobby Archer was carrying on with someone in this house. I have reason to believe it was you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re the sort he’d pursue,” Ben said, making another stab in the dark. “You’re left-handed. His killer was left-handed. Did Bobby break your heart? Change his mind about divorcing his wife for you?”

  “No. No!” Kitty cried, fingers closing over the stone. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know him!”

  “You contrived some way to lure him into the game room. Crept up behind him and cut his throat,” Ben said, not believing the scenario for a moment, at least not with Kitty wielding the knife. “All you needed was another conspirator, perhaps two, to help drag the body away and mop up the blood. I don’t know how you opened the room—lifted the key, perhaps—but once the body was in there, you went to bed and waited for someone to find it. You hoped it would be like Phoebe the Pomeranian, something ugly and bizarre that would be ultimately blamed on the ghost.”

  “I didn’t know him,” Kitty insisted, blinking back tears. “I was never out of bed.”

  “Which of the girls do you share a room with?”

  “Betsy. But—b-but she sleeps like the dead. She’ll say she doesn’t know, that I might have slipped out and how can she be sure… I mean, of course, she shouldn’t assume I’d go out, except to the privy, but if she were asked under oath….” Kitty trailed off helplessly.

  Ben folded his arms. Sitting back in his chair, he continued to regard her without saying a word. It was a trick that had always worked with his younger sister, Cathleen. He wasn’t surprised when Kitty cracked in under a minute.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she pleaded, beginning to sob. “I didn’t do anything but see the door was open. It wasn’t supposed to be open. I looked at him lying on the bed, naked as the day he was made, and ran out screaming.”

  “Naked?”

  She nodded.

  “When I saw Bobby, he was wearing black silk underpants. The new sort,” Ben said.

  Once again, Kitty looked stricken.

  “Who put underpants on the body?”

  “I don’t know. I swear it. I don’t know.”

  It occurred to him she might be telling the truth on that point. He couldn’t be sure, and he was feeling his way in the dark with this line of questioning anyway.

  “Did they come from Mr. Collins’s wardrobe?”

  She shook her head.

  “Lord Maggart’s?”

  “Yes, but….”

  “But what?”

  “They aren’t truly his lordship’s. Her ladyship bought them in Plymouth. She put them in his chest of drawers, and sometimes Polly launders them special,” Kitty said, back to rubbing the worry stone with her thumb. “But I think they were meant for Charlie. Or….”

  “Bobby?”

  “I don’t know,” Kitty said, voice breaking.

  He didn’t think he could push her much further. It was probably time to stop throwing sticks of dynamite and try to forge a connection.

  “I’m sorry if I seem hard on you. I only want to find out what happened to Bobby Archer. That stone you carry—it’s rather pretty.”

  “It’s from my sweetheart. A promise of better days to come.”

  “When the war is over?”

  “Sooner than that, I hope,” she said, sniffling miserably. He offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted, dabbing at her eyes. Red glinted in her palm.

  “What sort of stone is that?”

  “Jasper. May I go, sir?”

  “Not just yet. Are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell me? Because if Mr. Collins is involved,” Ben said slowly, “he should go to the police rather than wait to be arrested. And so should you. Claiming loyalty to a husband makes a difference in court, but not a sweetheart.”

  Once again, Kitty’s eyes popped. “Cor! How do you know these things?”

  “I have a knack for getting at the truth.” It was a shabby trick, implying great powers of perception. In actuality, Ben had heard Mrs. Tippett call her brother “Jasper.” It seemed a sure bet that a man so evidently vain would give Kitty a gift that bore his Christian name.

  “I couldn’t help noticing how bare Mr. Collins’s room was. Above stairs, there’s not much furniture and plenty of space. Does he keep a second bedroom—an actual bedroom—up there? To be close to Lord Maggart, should he require something?”

  Kitty nodded. The poor girl clearly regarded him as a magician who couldn’t be lied to.

  “Were you there with him early Sunday morning?”

  She nodded again.

  “This liaison is an open secret among the staff? Meaning, if you’re late for your morning duties, it’s overlooked because Mr. Collins is the butler.”

  “They know we have an understanding. And when we’re married, I’ll….” She stopped.

  “Be better liked among the staff than Mrs. Grundy?” Again, Ben made a guess based on what little he knew of domestic servants. “She’s been with Lord Maggart since they were children. Why would he—” He stopped as it became clear. When Lord Maggart died, his wife would be obligated to leave Fitchley Park. After she turned it over to her late husband’s heir, probably a cousin or nephew, that person could reconstitute the staff as he saw fit. It was quite likely that a new master, meeting a housekeeper who looked like Mrs. Grundy and a butler with a pretty young wife, would discharge the former and elevate the latter.

  Kitty squirmed in her seat. Her initial coquettishness was gone. Now she looked like a schoolgirl caught out of bounds. The scheme to oust Mrs. Grundy struck him as cruel, but his responsibility wasn’t to insert himself in the staff dynamics. It was to ferret out anything that might uncover the
truth about Bobby’s death.

  “Were you with Mr. Collins all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to Bobby Archer?”

  “I don’t know,” Kitty said. She shifted the worry stone from hand to hand.

  Lying again, Ben thought. She knows, or she has a powerful suspicion.

  “What’s your instinct?”

  They locked eyes for a moment. Perhaps Kitty believed he could divine fact from falsehood. Or perhaps she wanted to unburden herself. Either way, she began to speak, and he thought she spoke truthfully.

  “I said I didn’t know Bobby. And I didn’t—we weren’t friends, weren’t acquaintances. But I knew his sort. He used to pinch my bottom and make eyes at me when no one was looking. I don’t think he was coming to this house for any reason but one. And he wasn’t coming for me, or Polly, or Betsy. That leaves her ladyship. I can’t swear to it because I never saw them together, but I saw her with Charlie time and again. If she could carry on with him under his lordship’s roof, why couldn’t she do the same with Bobby?”

  Ben, who’d come to the same conclusion, reached into his pocket and withdrew the blackened compact he’d rescued from John’s wheelbarrow. He meant to ask Kitty if she recognized it, but he didn’t have to.

  “Her ladyship’s Stratton. She said she lost it in Plymouth.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Let me look at it.” Kitty examined the compact. Turning it over, she wet his handkerchief with her tongue and scrubbed away some of the scorching. “There! Faint, but you can see it,” she said.

  He could: the engraved initials OMO.

  “The second O is for Olivia,” Kitty explained.

  “Thank you.” Slipping the compact back in his pocket, Ben decided to shake her up one last time, assuming that was possible.

  “Did Lady Maggart kill Bobby and force some of the staff to help her cover it up?”

  Instead of flinching, Kitty laughed. “Her ladyship? She can’t even kill a rat. She shouts for me to do it. When she saw Phoebe dead in the kitchen, she was sick.”