by Sara Rosett
“Oh, I don’t think I could. And I’m sure what I have to say isn’t important. I was only in the conservatory for a moment. It would be so embarrassing to confess that now. I didn’t even plan to go into the conservatory at all, but I saw that horrible Mr. Payne go in, and I—” She released my hand and picked up the handkerchief. She twisted it around her index finger and then unwound it.
I massaged my fingers. “But you did eventually go to the conservatory, didn’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have dirt on your shoes.”
She rewound the handkerchief as she sighed. “Yes, but how I wish I hadn’t. This would all be so much simpler if I’d gone on into the drawing room instead. If only Mr. Payne had never sold his maps to Winston.”
Talking to Miss Miller was a bit like trying to catch a butterfly. Her mind darted around, and it was hard to follow her, but I felt as if we were getting to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Payne sold your brother a map?”
“Several maps. And they were all fakes.”
“Oh my.”
“Well, not the maps themselves. They were antique maps. It was the signatures on the backs that were forgeries. Winston was so swept up in his excitement at owning maps signed by Rudyard Kipling and Charles Darwin that he snapped them up—along with several others. It was only after Winston passed on and I was having his things valued—because what use are antique maps to me?—that I learned the signatures were all forgeries.”
She smoothed out the handkerchief on top of the blanket. “When I met Mr. Payne here, I recognized him immediately. Of course he didn’t remember me at all. I was only the spinster who poured his tea and arranged his dinners when he stayed with us.” She plucked at the lace on the handkerchief. “But I didn’t want Sir Leo to be taken in by that—that—schemer. He’s a conman, you know. I mean, he was a conman.”
She’d gotten worked up, but now she fell back against the pillows. “It was such an embarrassing situation. You saw what Mr. Payne was like, how persistent and persuasive he was. If I went to Sir Leo and told him Mr. Payne sold Winston forgeries, I was sure that Mr. Payne would pooh-pooh my words and convince Sir Leo I was mistaken. I decided to tell that nice Captain Inglebrook about it yesterday. I explained everything to him. He said he’d have a word with Mr. Payne. And he must have, because Mr. Payne came to me this afternoon.”
She pressed herself deeper into the pillows. “It wasn’t a good idea, asking Captain Inglebrook to handle it. How I wish I could go back and change that as well. I should have left well enough alone.” She paused as she yawned. Then she gave her head a little shake and worked herself up higher against the cushions so she sat up straighter. “This afternoon Mr. Payne came and said—well, he said he knew something about me that I wouldn’t want to get out.”
“Knew something about you?” What secret could this fluttery woman have?
Miss Miller leaned forward and lowered her voice. “My surname isn’t Miller. It’s Muller—a German name.”
“Oh, I see.”
She went back to plucking at the lace on her handkerchief. “When the war started, my brother decided it would be best if we became the Millers. He’d retired from his job in the city, and we were moving to Nether Woodsmoor, where we weren’t known. Winston said changing our name was the prudent thing to do. You remember how much the Germans were reviled, don’t you?” she asked. “Still are reviled.”
“Yes, I understand.” I didn’t like to think someone would treat Miss Miller differently because of her surname, but I knew it was true.
She became more animated as her eyes narrowed. “But then after Captain Inglebrook warned him off, that awful Mr. Payne pinched my letter. An old one from this very room—a letter I’d saved and cherished. It was from my sweetheart. He died in an accident in eighteen ninety. It was addressed to Miss Marion Muller, and it was one of my most precious possessions. He had no right to search through my belongings,” she added in a rush, her cheeks flushing pink. “Mr. Payne had the nerve to say that if I didn’t keep quiet about the maps he’d sold to Winston, he’d make a point of ‘finding’ the letter during tea and reading it aloud so everyone would know my true last name.”
“What a bounder.”
Her burst of energy faded quickly. She stifled another yawn and nodded behind her hand. “I—well, I’m sorry to say I was a coward, and I told Mr. Payne I’d inform Captain Inglebrook it had all been a mistake, which I did. But then this evening when I saw Mr. Payne go to the conservatory, I thought perhaps I could convince him to give the letter back. He hadn’t said anything about returning it. I should have made him promise to give it back before I agreed to what he wanted. I did so want that letter.”
“So you went into the conservatory . . .”
“I did, but only after walking back and forth for a few minutes in the corridor. I decided I really must do it. I plucked up my courage and rushed in. I didn’t see Mr. Payne or hear him moving about. I decided he must have left, so I wound my way through the paths—it’s so easy to get turned around in all that vegetation, isn’t it? But eventually I followed one of the paths to the fountain. I thought I’d take a moment and admire the lily pads—such a beautiful and unusual flower! In fact, there are so many unique flowers in the conservatory—”
“What happened when you got to the fountain?” I asked, anxious to keep Miss Miller from going off on a tangent.
She drew in a breath and pressed her hand to her chest. “I was shocked—so shocked! Mr. Payne was lying there on the ground, motionless, and his eyes—” She shivered. “It was truly dreadful.” She picked up the handkerchief and wound it around her index finger. “But then I thought that might be my only chance. If he had the letter with him at that moment, I could get it back. I knew from one look that Mr. Payne was gone. I did my bit during the war, keeping the men company and writing letters for them. One poor man died while I was reading to him from The Thirty-Nine Steps, just slipped away.” She lifted her free hand and wiggled her fingers, wafting them through the air, a sketch of his departing spirit. “And then there was Winston. I was there with him, holding his hand when he passed on, so I know what death looks like.”
I didn’t interrupt her this time. Her face was sorrowful as she paused, lost in memories. Then she drew in a breath and returned to the present. “Mr. Payne’s death meant there would be police and questions that I didn’t want to answer, so I”—she swallowed—“forced myself to check his pockets.”
She unspooled the fabric from her finger. “The letter was in his tailcoat pocket—thankfully, that section of his coat wasn’t under his body. I could reach it without touching him. I found my letter. It was only as I stood up and turned away that I saw poor Mr. Stone. He was over near the other path, not the one I’d come down.”
My hope that her story would clear Peter, which had been inching up as she spoke, plummeted.
“Seeing him gave me even more of a fright.” Miss Miller pressed her hand to her chest. “I hadn’t realized he was there. A large overturned pot had hidden him from my view. I was so frightened. Two dead men! But then Mr. Stone twitched, just his foot. He groaned, too, so I knew he was alive. I scurried past Mr. Stone—I did feel terrible leaving him—but I was afraid someone might find me there.”
“So, you didn’t see anyone else in the conservatory?”
“No. I fled.”
“And earlier, when you were walking along the path through the conservatory, did you see anyone? Even a glimpse?”
“No.” Another yawn caused her jaw to crack. “Excuse me. I’m so drowsy—the sleeping draught, you know.”
I suppressed a frustrated sigh. Miss Miller must have left shortly before Deena checked to see if the conservatory was empty. If only Miss Miller had arrived a little earlier, she might have seen what happened. Her story wouldn’t help Peter—if it was the truth. I searched her face, trying to work out if there was any guile in her sleepy blue eyes. She blinked and cranked her eyebrows up in an effort to stay awake.
“So,
you have the letter now?” I asked.
She pulled a wrinkled envelope with faded handwriting from her dressing gown pocket. “I’m not letting it out of my sight now.”
“I imagine not.” It wasn’t proof, but it did verify a portion of her story because I could see the handwriting. The envelope was addressed to Miss Marion Muller. “I realize the whole incident is distressing, but you must tell all of this to the inspector. It’s much better for him to hear it from you than to find out you were in the conservatory and kept it from him.” As disappointed as I was that her story wouldn’t help Peter, her presence in the conservatory was part of the puzzle of what happened, and Longly needed to know about it.
She snuggled down into the pillows. “I suppose I must,” she agreed, her tone similar to a child who knew they had no choice in a matter, “but I’ll do it tomorrow.” I wondered if it was the sleeping draught making her compliant or if she’d really changed her mind.
The maid returned, and Miss Miller stashed her letter under a pillow. The maid set a tray across her lap, then departed. Miss Miller struggled up a few inches. “I’ll just nibble on this and then get some rest. I’ll have a word with the inspector tomorrow.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“Perhaps . . . you could be with me when I speak to him?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Miss Miller ate a few birdlike bites of toast, sipped the tea, then settled back on the pillows, her eyelids drooping. I removed the tray, tucked the blanket around her shoulders, and rang for the maid. Once she’d taken the tray, I picked up the cream-colored shoes and tiptoed from the room. I hoped Miss Miller wouldn’t change her mind about speaking to Longly, but I decided I’d take charge of the shoes just in case.
I checked the billiard room to see if Jasper was waiting for me there, but it was empty. So much for comparing notes on our sleuthing. I went down to the ground floor. It appeared everyone had followed Miss Miller’s lead and retired early. Most of the rooms were dark and silent. The hallway leading to the conservatory was blocked off with a row of chairs. Down the dim corridor, I could see the door to the conservatory was closed and probably locked as well, I imagined. The library and the drawing room were deserted.
I climbed the stairs to my room, wondering if Jasper had retired early as well or if he was still with Peter. I wasn’t about to go knocking on his door or Peter’s after everyone had retired. That would be highly inappropriate. I’d have something to tell Jasper over breakfast—or lunch, I supposed. Jasper was not an early riser.
As I opened the door to my room, a voice came from inside. “Finally! Where have you been?”
Chapter Nine
Hand pressed to my heart, I closed the door. “Sonia, you frightened me half to death.”
In one corner of the room, a single table lamp was switched on, its glow illuminating the birds and flowers on the wallpaper. Sonia, still in her evening gown, stood in front of the light. She picked up a book from the table. “I’ve been waiting for nearly half an hour. I told your father I was going to pick a book from the library. He’ll wonder what’s become of me. Where have you been?”
“Speaking to Miss Miller.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that answer. She probably thought I’d been holed up in Gigi’s room looking at magazines while Gigi smoked cigarettes. “Well, I only wanted to speak to you for a moment.” Sonia squeezed the book. “You must find out who killed Mr. Payne. Do”— she circled a hand in the air—“whatever it is you do, and make sure it’s cleared up. For Peter’s sake.”
I was still carrying Miss Miller’s shoes. I put them down on the bureau and went across the room. “What’s brought about this change? I thought you disapproved of me working.”
“Disapprove is a strong word. I simply think you should act in a manner that befits your station. However”—her tone lost its condescending note and became brisk as she clutched the book with both hands—“if you can help the family avoid scandal, then you have an obligation to do that.”
“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can to help Peter.”
“Good.” Her stranglehold on the book tightened, and she seemed to be about to say something more, but she only said, “Good night,” and swept past me as she left the room.
“Well, that was odd,” I murmured. I didn’t ring for Hannah to help me out of my gown. I went behind the lacquered screen and changed into the night clothes and dressing gown that Hannah had laid out for me.
A tap sounded on my door. A deep voice whispered, “Olive?”
I belted my dressing gown and opened the door an inch, then stepped back and swung it wide. “Jasper! You look a little worse for wear.”
He was leaning against the doorframe, his arm braced on it with his head resting on his forearm. “I am.”
Jasper was usually impeccably groomed, but some substance smeared one of the lapels of his tailcoat. His hair, which was never tidily smoothed down, was even more disheveled than usual. A heavy aroma of cigarette smoke emanated from the tailcoat. Jasper did smoke—not usually around me because smoke bothered me—but he never reeked of it.
“Where have you been?” I sounded much like Sonia’s usually snappish tone, so I added, “I looked for you in the billiard room.”
“I’ve been at the White Duck Pub in the village.” He enunciated each word carefully.
“Jasper, you’re squiffy!” I’d never seen Jasper drink to excess.
“Afraid so.”
“Then we’d better talk in the morning.”
“Ah, but you’ll want to know the important news I picked up this evening—it concerns our case.”
“Our case?”
“The murder of Mr. Payne—quite a catchy ring to that. It would make a good book title, don’t you think?”
I looked around Jasper. Thankfully, the hall was empty. “You’d better come in.” I didn’t want Sonia to find Jasper in this state outside my door in case she came out of her room on her way to the bath.
“Only for a moment.” He heaved himself off the doorframe, ambled in, then propped himself up against the dressing table. He waved a hand at me. “You stay over there. You smell far too good for me to be responsible for my actions while I’m in this state if you get much closer. Roses with a touch of gardenias, I think.”
I had put on a floral scent that evening. I felt my cheeks grow warm. Jasper had flirted with me before, but tonight his light teasing veneer was thinner than usual, and his gaze had an intensity that I found . . . intriguing, I realized with a start. I decided it would be best to ignore the comment—and the funny flutter of my heart. “So, why have you been downing pints at the pub?”
“All in a day’s work, old bean. After I made sure Peter wasn’t about to do something foolish, I chatted with one of the police chaps—”
“What do you mean, do something foolish? Is he . . . distraught? He seemed to be—well, not fine, but at least not too overwrought when I saw him in the drawing room.”
“My dear girl, the general consensus is that he lost his head and killed a man. Of course he’s distraught. Fortunately, Lady Caroline convinced him to drink a cup of tea, which contained a sedative. It’s one that he’s been prescribed but usually refuses to take. It’s probably the best thing for him at the moment. He’ll sleep straight through to morning.”
“I hope the rest helps him. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll remember more of what happened in the conservatory.”
“One can hope, but I’m not waiting around for that. Memories are fickle. I’m following your example and searching out answers.”
“How unusual of you.”
“I know. But this involves Peter. When I was a sniveling, lonely eight-year-old fresh off the ship from India, he rescued me from a life of shuttling between dotty aunts, which is truly a fate worse than death for a young boy.”
It wasn’t like Jasper to even mention the past or become sentimental. I was tempted to see if I could prod him into further disclosures, but he fr
owned at the carpet. “I seem to have wandered away from my point. What was it?”
“Something about the police.”
His head popped up, and he gripped the dressing table as he took a deep breath. “Mustn’t do that,” he said in an aside. “Yes. Right. I learned from one of the police lads that Dr. Grimshaw is the police surgeon who examined Mr. Payne’s body. I also discovered the good doctor frequents the White Duck every time he visits Nether Woodsmoor, so I went down to the village.”
“Clever.”
Jasper had picked up one of the bottles on the dressing table. He fell silent as he rotated the scent bottle, gazing at the facets.
“And I assume Dr. Grimshaw was at the pub?” I asked, otherwise it might take until dawn for Jasper to recount his evening.
“What? Oh—yes.” Jasper replaced the bottle and turned to me, but he moved his head at the same pace as the turtles we’d watched at the river when we were children. “Dr. Grimshaw can put away his pints. I bought him a round—or five—perhaps more? I lost track. A few careful questions revealed all. Mr. Payne was indeed murdered.”
I sat down in the armchair, a feeling of dread settling over me. It wasn’t surprising news, not after I’d seen the state of Payne’s head, but it was still unnerving to know Longly’s inquiry was now officially a murder investigation.
Jasper crossed his arms. “Someone beaned the poor chap near the crown of his head. So that washes out Captain Inglebrook’s theory of an accidental fall. If Mr. Payne had fallen backward, the injury would be lower on the head, nearer the back of the skull, not the top. The doctor said it wouldn’t be possible for someone to fall from a standing position and strike the crown of their head on the rim of the fountain. ‘It was all wrong,’ he said.” Jasper paused.
Furrows formed in his forehead. “There was something else . . . oh yes! The shape of the wound. I’ll spare you the rather gruesome bits, which Dr. Grimshaw gave me in great detail. The upshot of it is that Mr. Payne was struck with something that has a shallow concave shape. Dr. Grimshaw said the police found several garden spades that would fit the bill in the storage cupboard at the back of the conservatory. They’ve taken them off for examination.”
