The Last Mrs. Summers

by Rhys Bowen

  “And were you allowed to clean the rooms the next morning?”

  “Well, I wasn’t allowed in the bedroom because Mrs. Summers took to her bed for the day. I was going to clean the bathrooms but Mrs. Mannering told me to leave them and not disturb Mrs. Summers. Mr. Summers’s bathroom was a mess but Mrs. Mannering said she’d take care of it.”

  “You saw his bathroom? What kind of mess was it?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual. Wet towels all over the place and water on the floor.”

  “It was always like that?”

  “Well, this looked a little worse than usual. More wet towels on the floor. He got through ever so many towels. I couldn’t understand it personally. At home we all took a bath once a week in front of the fire and used the same towel.” She gave an embarrassed grin.

  I was trying to find a way to ask whether she had noticed any blood on the floor but I couldn’t come up with a way to phrase it before she said, “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Mr. Summers was murdered and the police are saying my friend did it. I am sure she didn’t. So I am just trying to get straight in my own mind how he could possibly have been killed and whether any of you servants noticed anything.”

  “But he was stabbed in the lady’s room.” Elsie looked perplexed. “That’s what we heard.”

  “While she was in her bath,” I pointed out. “She came back and found him lying there.” I hesitated. “Do you know, was Mr. Summers in the habit of walking around with no clothes on?”

  She really looked shocked now. “Oh no, miss. I’ve never seen nothing like that. Nor heard about it from the rest of the staff. He was always quite a proper sort of gentleman. In fact he apologized to me once when I was cleaning in the bath and he came in in his underclothes.”

  She clearly wanted to get back to her task but I couldn’t resist asking, “Is everyone else happy to be working here, do you think?”

  She shrugged. “Everyone has a little gripe every now and then, you know. Same as it is in any big house, I’d imagine. But we’re all glad to have the work. There’s not much to do around here, apart from fishing or working on the farm.”

  “So you can’t think of anyone who might be happy Mr. Summers is dead?”

  She shook her head. “Quite the opposite. We’re all worried about our positions now. What might happen to us if Mrs. Summers decides to up and leave.” She looked up suddenly as the door opened and Mrs. Mannering came in.

  “Elsie?” she asked. “My lady? Is something wrong? Can I help you?”

  “I just came to ask Elsie if she’d help me pack up Miss Warburton-Stoke’s possessions and also mine. Now that Mrs. Summers’s mother is here, I feel that my presence is a little awkward.”

  Mrs. Mannering nodded. “I quite understand, my lady. But I’m sure Mrs. Summers intends you to stay the night and leave in the morning. You would not have time to drive to your home before dark and I fear another bout of rain is approaching.”

  “Very well,” I said. “But I will leave first thing in the morning, and I’ll be taking Miss Warburton-Stoke’s things with me. I presume the police have gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb?”

  “I expect they have, my lady.” She ushered me out of the bedroom. “Mrs. Summers would be delighted if you join them for tea first.” And she stood sentry at the bedroom door until I had walked down the stairs.

  Chapter 27

  OCTOBER 19

  TREWOMA

  Maybe I’m getting somewhere at last.

  It was an awkward teatime to say the least. I realized that I had missed luncheon and was quite hungry but it didn’t seem fitting to be tucking in when the house was in mourning. So I nibbled dutifully at a cucumber sandwich, answered politely when spoken to and waited for the moment when I could excuse myself again. I was also conscious that the other occupants of the room were wearing black, whereas I had brought no black garments with me. One doesn’t expect a death in every household one stays in, does one? My bright green jersey seemed almost garish and out of place. Perhaps I could just slip away after tea. But then where should I go? To Truro so that I could be close to Belinda, if they would let me see her? But what good could I be there, apart from being a comforting presence?

  The question was what good was I here? I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, other than finding what appeared to be Tony’s towel or bathrobe on the bonfire. I was beginning to wonder more and more about Rose. She was the one with the motive and I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had appeared behind me on the cliff top. If I hadn’t sensed her coming and looked around, would she have given me a push? And there had been a tiny gleam in her eye when she had proclaimed herself a rich widow. Except for that wretched cocoa in the kitchen which would have made a well-executed murder almost impossible. I waited until tea was over and Rose suggested we take a turn about the grounds before the weather turned wet again. I replied that I thought she’d rather be alone with her mother and off they went. The moment they were well away from the house I made my way toward the kitchen. I had a good excuse. The gingerbread had been delicious and I would love to give the recipe to my cook.

  A long narrow hallway led to the back of the house. I went through the door that divided the lives of those belowstairs from those above and found myself in an even darker, narrower hallway. Great houses are never built with convenience and comfort of servants in mind! From the far end came the clink of pots and pans. I walked toward it, then just outside the entrance to the kitchen I stopped. Ahead of me was a large, well-lit kitchen but through the gloom to my right I noticed a stone staircase cut into the wall. Of course, all the best houses had servants’ staircases so that the masters were never offended by the sight of people actually working for them. Instead of going into the kitchen I crept up the stairs. The steps were steep and uneven and I thought of a servant trying to carry coal scuttles or hot water up to their masters this way.

  I was a little out of breath when I came to a door on the floor above and opened it. I was standing at the far end of my bedroom corridor, right next to Rose and Tony’s bedroom. I glanced around, then tiptoed into the room, carefully closing the door behind me. It was a lovely big room with a four-poster, a pretty dressing table in the window, and Rose’s dress flung carelessly over the stool. An enormous oak wardrobe took up a lot of one wall. It was in many ways a woman’s room. I spied a door beside the wardrobe and found myself in a large bathroom. On the other side of that was yet another door that led to a gentleman’s dressing room and beyond that what must have been Tony’s bathroom. Yes, there were his shaving things on the shelf and an enormous claw-foot tub. I stood, staring down at it, picturing Tony in that bath. If someone had come in unexpectedly, he would have been taken off guard. Someone with a knife, or in this case, a dagger. It was not the sort of tub from which one could have made a speedy exit.

  The only thing against that scenario was that there would have been blood in the water. Someone would have had to have enough time to clean up the bathroom, and there would have been blood on the towels too. Besides, how could anyone have carried him through the whole bedroom suite, down the length of the hallway and laid him on Belinda’s bed? Rose might have had time to run up those back stairs from the kitchen and kill him, but would she have had time to carry him the length of the hallway without being heard? I was in my room, after all, and it would have taken superhuman strength. Wouldn’t I have heard a body being dragged? Maybe not on the carpeted hallway. But wouldn’t she have let out a grunt of exertion that I might have heard through my door? Unless this was some sort of conspiracy and the killer had a helper—one who got away through that open window. I wondered who might have been Rose’s ally.

  I shook my head in frustration. How was I ever going to prove that Belinda didn’t do this? I realized then that I was trapped in a bathroom in a potentially dangerous house. I looked
around and there was a white-painted door, blending in nicely to the white-paneled wall. I opened it and found myself back on the corridor, right next to the room Mrs. Mannering had given to Rose’s mother. How convenient. Not so far to drag a body after all, but still a goodish way. I went back to Belinda’s room and started to pack up her clothes. Then I opened the wardrobe and saw Jonquil’s evening dress hanging there. I’d have to put that back, plus the one that had been lent to me. I certainly had no wish to keep it now, after what had happened. I finished packing Belinda’s things, retrieved both the dresses and crossed the balcony to the forbidden hallway without Mrs. Mannering appearing in that uncanny way behind me.

  This side of the house felt so much colder. Was it just that no fires were lit here, that the wind came directly off the Atlantic, or was it something else? I found myself glancing back down the shadowy hallway. Then I opened the door and stepped into the bright light of . . . drat. I’d made the same mistake again. This was the nursery. The bedroom was next door. I stood examining it with pleasure. The rocking horse so like the one that still resided in the nursery at Castle Rannoch. All those wonderful dolls. Again I found myself picturing a nursery like this at Eynsleigh, a sweet little person, with Darcy’s dark curly hair, asleep in that cot. If only. . . . Then I frowned. Something was different. The dolls were now sitting on the doll bed in the corner and the soft toys in the crib. Surely they had all been together . . . in the red cart. The red cart was no longer here.

  I was breathing rather fast. It had been a sturdy replica of a farm cart, big enough to transport a child. In fact there among the photographs on the mantelpiece was a snapshot of an adorable, curly-haired Jonquil riding in the wagon with a small friend, being towed by an older boy. It had rubber wheels. Was it possible it was big enough to transport a dead man along a hallway? His legs would have dragged along the floor, of course, but I thought it could have been done. Why else would it now be missing?

  I slipped out of the nursery without being seen, returned Jonquil’s two evening dresses to her wardrobe and went back to my own room, where I packed my own suitcase. Should I try to find what had happened to the wagon? But if I did, what would it prove, unless there were bloodstains on it? It must have been disposed of, possibly out of that window, or one of the staff would have reported seeing it in an unlikely place. Why had it not been returned to the nursery? Either because there were bloodstains or because Tony had been so heavy he had damaged it. Either way it would be something to present to the police, a small piece of evidence that Tony had not come naked into Belinda’s room of his own free will.

  I felt a glimmer of hope. Should I leave quietly now and spend the night in Truro? Maybe be allowed to see Belinda? Or should I search the grounds to see if I could find any evidence of that wagon—perhaps being burned at this moment on the bonfire? I realized I ought to do that. And my excuse would be that I had decided to join Rose and her mother after all. Out I went into the blustery afternoon. The wind had now picked up, driving a great bank of dark cloud from the ocean. Already I felt the first spots of rain. I reached the kitchen garden and saw no sign of Trevor, the young gardener. The bonfire was still smoking and was piled higher than my head with dead leaves. I took a stick and dug into it but could not feel any large object. With so many acres of wild grounds it would be easy to hide the wagon elsewhere. I started to wander through the more heavily wooded section until the rain arrived with a vengeance and I was quite soaked by the time I made it back to the house.

  “My dear lady Georgiana. I rather fear that an expedition was quite unwise given the inclement weather,” Mrs. Mannering greeted me as I took off my sodden overcoat. “I hope you have not caught a chill. I will have Elsie run you a bath right away.”

  An image of that large bathtub flashed into my mind. “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I grew up in Scotland. I really am quite hardy and I feel that I should perhaps take this opportunity to leave Mrs. Summers and her mother in peace. I really am not comfortable being an intruder at this awful time.”

  “I do understand,” she said, “but may I suggest again that you leave in the morning. The conditions tonight will not be suitable for driving. Some of the lanes around here flood very easily.”

  I tried to study her face. Did she perhaps want me in the house? Did she suspect Rose? Given the way she seemed to know exactly what was going on all the time, did she want me to get at the truth?

  “I have nothing suitable to wear for dinner,” I said. “I brought no black dress with me.”

  “Please do not concern yourself,” she said. “We will not be dining formally tonight. Only a simple meal.”

  I hesitated. The thought of a meal with Rose and her mother was not appealing, but I had told my housekeeper I was staying at Trewoma. If Darcy came looking for me, he’d expect to find me here. Also Belinda’s father might show up. Then I decided that I could always telephone my house again when I’d found a hotel or boarding house. I just wanted to be away from this place. “You have been very kind,” I said, “but now that Mrs. Summers’s mother is here, I feel I should go to Truro to be close to Miss Warburton-Stoke. Please thank Mrs. Summers and explain to her that this situation has made me feel most uncomfortable.”

  She nodded. “Of course. If you feel you must leave. And I hope for your sake that your friend is not found to be guilty in this matter.”

  I wanted to ask her about the wagon, about the mess in Tony’s bathroom, but I felt those were questions better coming from the police. So I collected the bags and had James carry them to Brutus for me. The rain had proved to be just a squall and had now settled down to a drizzle. The light was fading and I began to regret my impulsive decision. I was not looking forward to driving all the way to Truro in the dark along the precarious Cornish lanes. I turned on the headlights and windscreen wipers and gripped the wheel as I negotiated the narrow lane. I just prayed that I didn’t meet any large vehicles coming the other way. I wasn’t sure I knew how to reverse!

  Before I reached the village of Rock with its post office and shop I came upon several vehicles parked beside the road. One of them was an ambulance and I recognized another as a police motorcar. As I slowed to a crawl, trying to negotiate past them, a group of men came up from the seashore, two of them carrying a stretcher on which a form was covered in a blanket. And following this procession was Jago. Of course my curiosity was now overwhelming. I drove to a spot where I could pull off the road and walked back to where the action was taking place, noticing as I did so that we were beside Trengilly, right at the spot where Belinda and I had accessed the grounds from climbing over the rocks at the seashore. The men were now loading the body—for body it must have been, into the back of the ambulance. Jago was deep in conversation with a policeman.

  I went up to them. They broke off as they saw me approaching. “Has something happened?” I asked. “I noticed the ambulance.”

  “Just a sad accident, miss,” the police constable said. He was one I hadn’t encountered before, a friendly looking lad not much younger than me. “Local chap. Simple sort of fellow. Not quite right in the head, you know.”

  “Old Harry, you mean?” I asked, glancing at Jago for confirmation. “What happened to him?”

  “Drowned,” the policeman said. “He must have got caught by the tide. He often hung about on the seashore, didn’t he?”

  “Where did you find him?” I asked.

  “He’d washed up on the rocks where you and Belinda were the other day,” Jago said. “I was just telling the constable, some of our visitors were taking an evening stroll and spotted something at the water’s edge. They came to find me.”

  “What was he doing on the rocks here? I wonder,” the policeman said. “Nothing for the old man around here. Do you think he was trying to get onto the Trengilly estate?”

  “I doubt it,” Jago said. “I’d made it very clear to him once before that I’d hand him to the police
for trespassing if he came here, and he was mortally afraid of the police, you know.” He looked out up the estuary. “The tide’s coming in. I reckon he must have fallen in somewhere closer to the headlands.”

  I followed his gaze. The land ahead of us curved in a sweeping bay and on the far side of that bay would be Trewoma. I pictured that narrow beach where we had met him once before. And the high cliffs where rocks had rained down . . .

  “Did he have any injuries?” I asked.

  “He was battered around a bit by the rocks,” Jago said. “That’s to be expected, I suppose, poor old fellow.”

  “Did he have any family?” The ambulance doors were now shut and the two ambulance drivers were climbing into the cab.

  Jago shook his head. “Nobody. He just sort of slept rough. People used to let him use a shed or cow barn, you know. He’d do odd jobs. There was no malice in him.”

  “Well, thank you, sir,” the constable said. “If I could just get the names of your guests who discovered him.”

  “Certainly,” Jago said. “Here they come now.”

  And a group of people was coming up a narrow path from the shore. The woman at the front was wearing a fur coat. The men wore overcoats with collars turned up, hats shielding their faces in the fading light.

  “How long is this going to take?” the woman demanded in accented English. “The rain is picking up and I’m getting horribly wet. You had better go and get the automobile for us, Jago. I do not want to have to walk back to the house.”

  “I only need your names, madam,” the constable said.

  “Helga von Dinslaken,” the woman said as she approached us. “Can you spell that, do you think? I doubt it.” And she laughed.

  “And these are Baron von Stresen, Señor Arguello, Mr. and Mrs. Greenslade and Mr. O’Connor. I’ll write them down for you and drop them off at the police station tomorrow, all right?” Jago said. “I don’t want to keep our guests out in the rain. I’d better go and get the motorcar.”