The Last Mrs. Summers

by Rhys Bowen

  “I suppose it could have been an intruder,” Belinda said. “It must be easy enough to get into a house this size without being seen. Someone with a grudge against Tony—again we come back to Uncle Francis.” She grabbed my hand. “Oh, Georgie, I do so hope it is him. Or should that be ‘it is he’? My grammar was never the strongest.”

  “It’s not very charitable to wish a murder on your uncle, however obnoxious he is,” I said, wrestling with my own uncharitable feelings about Belinda’s uncle. “Do you really want your uncle to hang?”

  Belinda frowned. “But he’s such a good candidate. And if he did do this, then he did it fully intending me to be the prime suspect. He wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I was hanged and he got his hands on my lovely money.” She let the curtain fall. “Oh, I do wish we’d never come here. I do wish I’d refused Rose’s invitation. I really didn’t want to accept.”

  “But it would have been rude not to,” I said. “And it did seem like a godsend after a night at White Sails.”

  Belinda put on her dressing gown. “The only good thing I can think of is that I left my toilet bag in the bathroom last night. At least I’ll have my face flannel and cosmetics. I don’t know what I’d have done without those. But as for what I’m going to wear . . .”

  “I didn’t bring much with me,” I said. “You’re welcome to my spare skirt and jumper.”

  She opened my wardrobe and stood, eyeing them with obvious distaste. “Not wanting to be rude or anything, but they are not exactly me, are they?”

  “I agree they are not the height of fashion,” I said.

  “Not the height of fashion? Georgie, you’ve had that old tartan skirt as long as I’ve known you. It’s gone all saggy in the bottom.”

  “True,” I agreed. “I didn’t pack anything elegant because I thought we were driving to view a house and then coming home again. So I went for comfort over haute couture.”

  This forced her to laugh. I came over to stand beside her. “The jumper and skirt are pretty grim, aren’t they? I’ve never had what you might call a large wardrobe and these are from my Castle Rannoch days. But in truth, I didn’t actually think I’d need a change of clothes. I just threw them in at the last minute.”

  “But I can’t be interrogated by a man from Scotland Yard in clothes like that,” Belinda said. “He’ll come up with all sorts of ulterior motives for murder.”

  “No, he would have expected you to kill off Rose and marry Tony for his money.”

  “That’s true. But he’ll never believe I’m a fashion designer.” Then her face lit up. “I know. We could borrow something of Jonquil’s. She and I are about the same size.”

  “Wouldn’t Mrs. M. have a fit?” I asked, not wanting to confront that formidable woman.

  “Jonquil’s not exactly going to be needing them for the next twenty-four hours, is she?” Belinda said. She went across to my bedroom door, opened it and listened. We could hear voices coming from downstairs. A man’s ponderous speech, then a woman’s. It sounded as if Mrs. Mannering was speaking with the constable who had been on duty all night, probably offering him some breakfast. Belinda grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let’s go and choose something while the coast is clear.”

  I hesitated. “Wouldn’t it be simpler just to ask Mrs. Mannering?”

  “If we ask anyone it would be Rose. She’s the mistress of this house. Mrs. M. is only the housekeeper,” Belinda said, tossing her head in the way that she did when she wasn’t quite sure of her decisions. “I certainly don’t want to go creeping to Mrs. M. for permission. Besides, I’m only borrowing something for a day. Not like I’m stealing it.”

  “Mrs. M. might report to the police that you’ve helped yourself to Jonquil’s clothes.”

  “Well, I’m not staying up here in my nightclothes, waiting for Scotland Yard to call, nor am I going to be seen in your jumper and skirt. So if you’d like to find the dreaded woman and ask permission, then please hurry up about it. I am in serious need of a cup of tea and breakfast.”

  “Oh, very well,” I said. “I suppose she did say that we could borrow Jonquil’s dresses, didn’t she?”

  Feeling like naughty schoolgirls we crept across the balcony to the other wing. This corridor was dark and smelled musty, as if nobody had been there for a long while.

  “Which room was it?” Belinda opened a door. I peeked inside. “No, that was the nursery,” I said, glancing around. “Her bedroom was next door.” I stood examining it. The curtains were drawn. They hadn’t been on the occasion Rose had shown us the rooms. I guessed that Mrs. Mannering had been in and drawn the curtains herself. There was something about the nursery now that I found unsettling. As I was trying to analyze what it was Belinda shoved me out and closed the door as silently as possible, moving on to the next room. These curtains were also closed. Belinda went over and yanked them open. I looked out onto the sea of whiteness. The cliffs and the estuary beyond were hidden in fog. Belinda was already attacking the large cherrywood wardrobe.

  “She really had some very nice things,” Belinda said in a soft voice. “What a pity Rose isn’t the right size.”

  “I don’t think Mrs. Mannering would have let her wear them anyway, do you?” I whispered back. “Not the right class of person.”

  “Poor Rose,” Belinda said. “I do feel sorry for her in a way.”

  “Unless she killed her husband and set you up to take the blame.”

  “Then probably not so much,” Belinda agreed. “I say, look at this, darling. It’s perfect, isn’t it?” She took down a gray cashmere dress with a rolled collar. It hung long and straight, perfect for the woman with a boyish figure and the dark gray was somber enough to give the right effect to a visiting detective.

  “Definitely,” I said. “You’ll look demure but presentable.”

  “I shall need shoes and stockings,” she said, taking out a pair of black court shoes. “Oh, my size. That’s good.”

  “And you’ll need underclothes,” I said as she handed the shoes to me.

  She rummaged in drawers and carried an armful back to my bedroom. “If anyone complains, I shall point out that I am being kept from my own clothes and, unlike Tony, I do not enjoy appearing naked in front of other people.”

  I was glad to see she was a little more combative this morning. I thought that was the right touch for dealing with bombastic policemen. We crept back to my bedroom and I helped her put on the dress. She looked stunning, as she so often did. I completed my own morning toilette and then we went down to breakfast together. The dining room was deserted but there were several tureens keeping warm on the sideboard and we helped ourselves to smoked haddock, poached eggs, bacon and toast. We had just sat down to eat when Mrs. Mannering came in. She gave no indication of having had a troubled night’s sleep. Her face was still smooth and unwrinkled and her graying curls were exactly in place.

  “Oh, my dear young ladies, I am sorry I was not here to take care of your needs. I was feeding the constable in the kitchen. He was loathe to leave his position at the bottom of the stairs, bless his heart, but I pointed out that you were hardly likely to make an escape when I had your cape with the motorcar keys in it, hanging in the hall cupboard.” She gave a satisfied little smile. “Is everything to your satisfaction? Is the tea hot enough? I could have a fresh pot made.”

  Then I saw that she had taken in what Belinda was wearing. “Miss Jonquil had a dress just like that,” she said. “I believe it came from Harrods.”

  “I believe it did,” Belinda answered. I stared down at my smoked haddock.

  When she had left the room I glanced at Belinda. “You’re not going to tell her the truth?”

  “It will be interesting to see if she dashes straight up to examine Jonquil’s wardrobe, won’t it?”

  “Belinda, you really are naughty sometimes,” I said.

  “I just felt I ought to do somethi
ng,” she said. “After all, someone in this house has put me in a frightfully awful position. I’ve been questioned by a rude policeman. An even worse one is on his way. I had to strike a blow for independence.”

  And she went to get herself another cup of tea.

  * * *

  WE FINISHED BREAKFAST and still there was no sign of Rose. I presumed the sleeping powder she had been given had truly knocked her out and I wondered whether it had been administered deliberately so that she could not be interviewed by the local inspector. We went down the hall to the morning room to read the newspapers that had been delivered. I thought it didn’t say much for their security that a newspaper boy had been allowed up to the house on his bicycle.

  I saw that Belinda couldn’t settle down. She flicked through pages, then got up and walked around, peering out of windows, then perching on the edge of the sofa before wandering again.

  “Nobody from London could possibly get here yet,” I said to her. “It’s at least a six-hour train ride and then he’d have to be driven from the nearest station.”

  “I know. I just want it to be over. I do hope Uncle Francis hasn’t done a bunk. I wonder if anyone spotted his yacht moored near here yesterday. Do you think that Inspector Purdy will be back or will he wait for the man from Scotland Yard?”

  “Belinda, I have no idea. Now will you sit down and try to relax.”

  “Easy for you to say. It’s not your neck, is it?”

  “Let’s hope it isn’t yours either,” I said. I went back to the Times crossword. “What’s a seven-letter word for obstinate?” I asked, looking up. But Belinda was no longer in the room.

  “Belinda?” I called. I got up and went to the door. No sign of her. Of course, she could have paid a visit to the lavatory. I waited, but she didn’t return and I began to feel a little uneasy. The constable had now resumed his place at the bottom of the stairs. A chair had been provided for him, and he looked as if he had just woken up from a little snooze.

  “Has the other young lady come up the stairs?” I asked him.

  He was glancing around, looking a little guilty. “No, missy. No one’s come past this way.”

  I turned back in the other direction. Down the dark hallway, through the long gallery and at last I found myself in the library. The curtains were drawn and the room lay in gloom but I could make out a figure that stood there. Belinda was standing on the other side of one of the glass-topped tables and in one hand she held an impressive dagger.

  Chapter 20

  OCTOBER 18

  TREWOMA, CORNWALL

  I can’t wait for this day to be over. I wonder if the inspector from Scotland Yard will get here by nightfall. Golly, I hope so. The waiting is nerve-racking. There is something about this house that is definitely unsettling. And now I’m having worrying thoughts about Belinda. . . .

  “What on earth are you doing?” I demanded, my voice louder than I intended.

  She looked up, startled, and dropped the dagger. It landed on the glass table with a clatter. “Georgie, I didn’t hear you coming in. You frightened me.”

  “You frightened me too, standing there with that menacing object in your hand. What were you doing with it?”

  “I just wanted to see how easy it would be to help oneself to one of the weapons without being seen. No problem, if you hadn’t followed me. And then I noticed that this dagger actually had precious stones down the side of the scabbard—is that what this is called?” She held it out to me. “So that made me start to wonder if the dagger that killed Tony came in a similar case, and if so, where is it.”

  “Good point,” I said, “but you really are a chump, you know. You’ve now put your fingerprints all over a second weapon.”

  “Oh gosh. So I have. That wasn’t very bright of me, was it?”

  I handed her my handkerchief. “For heaven’s sake wipe it clean as quickly as possible, then put the darned thing back.”

  Belinda did as I told her and together we placed it back on its hook on the wall.

  “Now wipe the wall,” I said. “Your left hand touched it when you stretched up to hang the dagger.”

  We scrubbed at the wall, then Belinda said, “So where was the other dagger hanging? Perhaps the person who stabbed Tony also touched the wall when they took it down.”

  We searched the room but couldn’t find where the dagger had hung. Then we looked through the long gallery and drawing room and again there seemed to be no empty hook.

  “So where could the murder weapon have been displayed?” Belinda asked. “If it wasn’t easily visible, how could anyone say that I found the dagger and stabbed Tony with it?”

  “That will be a good point in your favor,” I said. “Now please come back to the morning room and don’t do anything else that could incriminate you.”

  “You’re right,” Belinda said and allowed herself to be steered back to her armchair beside the fire.

  Shortly afterward a young constable arrived and took our fingerprints. He seemed rather taken with Belinda, as were most men, and blushed when she smiled at him. If only the inspector was as influenced, she’d be all right. But my experience was that most inspectors were older men with no susceptibilities to pretty faces or long sexy legs. The morning dragged on and there was no sign of Rose. I began to wonder about that too. What if Rose was lying dead in her bed, if the killer had finished her off at the same time as Tony? I was tempted to go and ask Mrs. Mannering to check on her, but I didn’t feel like wandering around this house looking for the housekeeper. But I did find myself glancing across at Belinda. Seeing her standing there with the dagger in her hand and a strange look on her face had definitely shocked me and made me wonder. I thought I knew Belinda pretty well. We had slept side by side in the dorm room at school. We had had adventures together. But she had always been a free spirit, an opportunist, so different from me in so many ways. She had certainly had more than her share of men. But since she had had a baby and had to give it away she had become less sure of herself, more cautious, vowing to stay away from men. Was it possible that something inside her had snapped and when Tony came into her room, perhaps tried to force himself on her, she had taken revenge for the times she had been betrayed? I didn’t want to think that. I told myself that it was just the brooding atmosphere in this house that was making these strange thoughts pop into my head.

  Mrs. Mannering came in at eleven with a tray of morning coffee and a plate of gingerbread. “Mrs. Summers has awoken but with a bad headache. She asks me to excuse her but she will take her meals in her room today. She has, of course, had the most terrible shock. As have we all. But we must be brave, put a good face on it and soldier on.”

  She gave a curt little bow and left us.

  Luncheon was an uneasy affair with Belinda and me sitting across from each other at the large dining table. It was a simple meal, as befitted the solemnity of the occasion: a thick soup, a piece of poached fish and a milk pudding. Almost nursery food but frankly I didn’t feel like eating anything. I wondered whether I might be able to take a look at Belinda’s room and see if I noticed anything before the inspector from London arrived, but every time I went out into the hallway the constable was sitting there, stoic in his duty. Until I was heading for the lavatory after lunch, that was. The chair in the hall was empty but I could hear voices coming from up above. Cautiously I made my way up the stairs. If questioned, I would be retrieving a handkerchief from my bedroom.

  Belinda’s door was open and through the crack I could see several figures moving around inside.

  “Take a picture of that, Simms,” said a voice I recognized as Inspector Purdy’s. “And careful with that fingerprint powder. The bloke from Scotland Yard will want good clear prints.”

  “This pillow is all wet, sir,” came another voice. “What do you put that down to? Outside in the rain last night maybe? Or could the rain have blown in through the
window?”

  “The housekeeper reckons the bloke washed his hair in the bath last night,” the inspector said. “His hair was wet when we first saw him. Still a bit damp, isn’t it?”

  “Washed his hair in the bath? Who does that right before they go to bed? My mum would say you’d catch your death of cold.”

  “These upper-class types are different from you and me,” came the inspector’s voice. “They take baths every night, some of them. And bloody great bathtubs too, not a tin bath in front of the kitchen fire like you’re used to, sonny.”

  “Rather them than me,” the other voice said. “You wouldn’t catch me having a bath every night. It don’t seem natural.”

  “What about the murder weapon, sir?”

  “Have you taken the fingerprints off it?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I put it aside for the inspector from London?”

  “Make sure you don’t handle it, boy. We don’t want your fingerprints on it, do we?”

  “Righty-o, sir. And should we leave the window open? The rain’s still coming in.”

  “Yes, leave everything exactly as we found it.” There was a pause. “Right. I think that’s all we can do at this moment. Let’s go and have a cup of tea in the kitchen, then.”

  I retreated to the top of the stairs so that it appeared I was just coming up as they emerged from Belinda’s room. The inspector raised a questioning eyebrow at me. “Did you want something, my lady?”

  “I’m just retrieving my handkerchief from my bedroom, Inspector.”

  “Your room is next door?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you mind if we take a look around?”

  “By all means, Inspector,” I said. “Miss Warburton-Stoke had to share my room last night so you’ll find her fingerprints in there, but apart from that there is nothing of interest, I can assure you.”