Murder at Archly Manor

by Sara Rosett

  I didn’t have to go closer to see it was a man stretched out on the ground. His torso and upper body were in the shadows, but his black-clad legs were visible in a bar of light coming through one of the open doors. The unnatural angles of his lower limbs and the utter stillness could only mean one thing.

  It wasn’t Violet. I drew in a breath, which came easier than it had a few moments ago. “Who is it?”

  “Alfred.”

  I looked up to the balcony, but it was deserted. The fireworks continued to explode overhead, creating a flashing effect that intermittently lit up the house and Alfred’s body. I turned away and swallowed hard. My surge of fear that it was Violet who had fallen faded, and I felt shaky with relief. I was grateful it wasn’t my cousin lying crushed and broken on the flagstones. But the whole situation was terrible—awful. And at the same time, I almost couldn’t believe what I’d seen. It was so . . . fantastic. People weren’t pushed off balconies, and yet, Alfred’s body lay unmoving just a short distance away.

  “. . . the police.”

  The final words of Monty’s sentence penetrated my thoughts. “What? Oh, right. The police—yes, of course.” They would have to be called.

  Monty said, “Find Babcock—the butler, you know—and have him ring up the local police station. Can you do that?”

  At his mollycoddling tone, I straightened my spine. “Of course. If I can’t find Babcock, I’ll do it myself.”

  Monty raised his eyebrows, but I swept away before he had a chance to say anything else. As I left, I heard him calling for one of the footmen to create a barrier around Alfred, and for someone to alert the footman on the stairs to hold everyone upstairs. My steps stuttered for a moment, but I pressed on. Of course Monty was right. Someone—a woman, in fact—had pushed Alfred over the balcony, and she might still be upstairs.

  As I dashed across the terrace, my foot skidded. I caught my balance and saw the luminescent glow of several pearls by my foot. I picked up the strand of about ten pearls that had come to rest in the mortared groove between the flagstones. They looked valuable, and I didn’t want to leave them there, but I didn’t have my handbag with me or pockets in my dress. I hesitated for a second, then slipped them into my glove, where they lodged against my forearm, cool against my skin.

  The musicians were taking a break, and the ballroom was empty. I sped on to the reception hall, where the furniture had been pushed askew. Plates of half-eaten food and empty glasses littered the tables and the edges of the stair treads. Babcock was picking up the large silver tray that the revelers had abandoned at the foot of the stairs. I rushed to his side. “You must ring the police. Tell them to come at once. A man—Alfred Eton—has been killed, pushed off the balcony.”

  Babcock straightened slowly, the tray in his hand. Butlers always seemed to maintain an impassive expression, but I’d startled him enough that his eyebrows actually rose. “How unfortunate. I will see to it immediately.”

  “Thank you.” I took a few steps up the stairs. “And I suppose you’d better find Sebastian and let him know what’s happened.”

  “Of course, madam.” He tucked the tray under his arm and glided over to the telephone positioned on a table under the stairs.

  The footman on the landing recognized me and stepped aside, allowing me to trot up the next set of stairs. Another set of footfalls sounded as someone sprinted up from the reception hall. Monty spoke to the footman, instructing him not to let anyone come downstairs. I was too worried about Violet to stop and speak to Monty.

  As I made my way down the corridor, I peered into the rooms on the back of the house that looked out toward the lake and the fireworks display. Alfred’s door was open, but the room was empty. The other rooms on this side of the hall were occupied by Lady Pamela and Thea. I didn’t think Violet would be in either of those rooms. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Violet hadn’t come upstairs with Alfred to watch the fireworks? But I should check Violet’s room—just to make sure. Violet, Gwen, and I had rooms on the other side of the hall that looked out over the front of the house.

  Lady Pamela’s door opened. She stepped out and closed the door with a snap. I didn’t want to engage in another rendition of Ring Around the Rosie, so I moved to the far side of the hall out of her reach. But Lady Pamela wasn’t interested in games. As she neared me, I saw her pupils still were large and dark, but now her attitude seemed more angry than euphoric. She wore a new gown, a shimmery pink shift decorated with seed pearls.

  She saw I’d noticed her dress. “That idiot Tug spilled his drink all over me,” she said, then sailed down the corridor to the stairs.

  I tapped on Violet’s door. Lady Pamela’s autocratic voice floated back to me, her words clipped. “Stand aside this instant.” Obviously, the footman was following instructions. Monty’s voice rumbled soothingly.

  A voice on the other side of the door called, “Come in.”

  I stepped inside. Violet’s room was similar to mine, except instead of pale green and gold striped wallpaper with cream furnishings, this room had a lavender color scheme. Violet was seated at the small writing desk positioned between two long windows on the far side of the room. Her back was to me. She remained bent over the desk, her pen scratching across the paper. “Have you come to apologize?” Her tone was frosty.

  “No.”

  She whipped around. “Oh. I thought you were Alfred.”

  So she and Alfred were on friendly enough terms that she would expect him to come to her room. It appeared that their relationship was on a much more intimate level than Aunt Caroline or Gwen imagined. “What are you doing?” I asked. It wasn’t like Violet to be shut away in her room while a party was going on.

  “I’m writing a letter to Alfred to explain to him exactly how angry I am.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I stopped, not sure how to go on. I couldn’t say it as baldly as I had to Babcock. My news would shatter her. I paused, feeling sick at the thought of what she would have to face.

  A tap sounded on the door connecting Violet’s room to Gwen’s next door. “Violet, are you in there?” The door opened an inch, and Gwen poked her head into the room. “I thought I heard voices. Hello, Olive. I haven’t seen you for hours.”

  “I know; I wondered where you were.”

  “There was a bit of an upheaval in the kitchens. I went down to smooth things out.”

  “Only you would get roped into running someone else’s party,” I said, glad for the momentary distraction.

  “I couldn’t leave the poor cook on her own. She had no idea how many people would arrive for the party.”

  Violet closed the lid on the writing desk and turned sideways in her chair. “She must be new. Sebastian’s parties are always like this. The word spreads and more people arrive. In fact, this one seems a little bit mild. People probably won’t even remember it in a few weeks despite the fireworks.”

  That awful feeling in the pit of my stomach intensified. This party was certainly not going to be forgotten. “Violet, I’m afraid I have some bad news—”

  Violet jumped up from her chair and crossed the room to Gwen. “What have you done to your hand?”

  Gwen stepped fully into the room. She had been holding her hand pressed to her waist, but now she extended it. She had a towel wrapped around it. “Someone dropped a champagne flute, and I cut myself picking it up.”

  “Oh, Gwen,” Violet said. “Why didn’t you call for someone to clean it up?”

  I went to Gwen and gently pulled back the towel to examine her hand. “Because Gwen likes to handle things herself and not cause a fuss. It doesn’t look bad. It’s not deep, and the bleeding has stopped.” A red scratch ran along her palm from the base of her thumb down to her wrist.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “I came up to put a plaster on it.” Gwen dabbed at the cut with the towel. “I’ll be back in a moment. Then why don’t we all go down and watch the end of the fireworks?”

  �
�That’s not a good idea,” I said. “In fact, I’m surprised they’re still going on.” Even though this side of the house overlooked the drive and we couldn’t see the fireworks going off over the lake, I could still hear the pops and booms as the fireworks continued. “But I suppose they haven’t sent anyone over there to tell them to stop.”

  “Why would they stop the fireworks?” Violet asked.

  “There’s been an—” I was going to say ‘accident,’ but that wasn’t right. Alfred’s fall hadn’t been accidental.

  Gwen tilted her head. “What’s wrong, Olive? You’re awfully pale. Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “I’m fine. It’s—here, come over to the chairs.” I drew them both over to the wingbacks positioned in front of the empty fire and had them sit down. I grabbed the chair from the writing desk and dragged it over. I blew out a breath, then I took one of Violet’s hands in both of mine. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but Alfred was pushed off the balcony—”

  Violet blinked. “What?”

  “Alfred was pushed off the balcony—”

  Violet jumped up. “Where is he? I’ve got to get to him. Why didn’t you tell me when you first came in?”

  She turned for the door, but I caught her hand. “He’s—that is—he didn’t survive the fall.”

  Gwen drew a sharp breath. Violet stared at me for a long moment. Her face became hard. “I know people play pranks all the time, but this is beyond cruel. How could you even say something like that?”

  “It’s not a prank.” I had expected hysterics and was ready to pull Violet into an embrace and smooth her hair as she sobbed on my shoulder, but she continued to stare at me as if my words didn’t make sense.

  “But he can’t be. He can’t. He’s here—just across the hall—in his room. We were going to watch the fireworks, but he was being completely insufferable.”

  “So you were with him on the balcony?” I asked. “Who else was with you?”

  “No one. I mean, I didn’t even go onto the balcony. We argued downstairs before the fireworks began. He was being so stubborn—I couldn’t stand it, so I—I left him in the hallway and came in here. He’s still out there, on the balcony outside his room. He has to be. If something had happened to him, I’d know it.” She put her hand on her chest. “I’d know it inside.”

  “I’m sorry, Violet.”

  “No. Take it back.” Her tone was harsh. “It’s not true.”

  I said gently, “I’m not lying to you.”

  Violet’s fierce expression shifted and her brows wrinkled. “No. You’re wrong,” she said, but her tone wasn’t as fierce as it had been.

  Gwen stood, put her arm around Violet, and moved her back to the chair, where she gently pushed her into the seat. Using her uninjured hand, she pulled a blanket from the bed and tucked it around Violet’s legs.

  Violet stared at me for a long moment, then said, “What happened?”

  I mentioned what I’d seen from the lawn but didn’t describe Alfred’s body on the terrace.

  “He was pushed?” Violet asked. “That means he was killed—someone murdered him.”

  “Yes.” I looked at Gwen, but she was ringing for the maid, probably to request a cup of tea or a sleeping draught for Violet.

  I turned back to Violet in time to hear her murmur what sounded like, “Then it was true.”

  “What’s true, Violet?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  The police arrived, collected the names of the partygoers, and then sent them off. It was nearly three in the morning when a knock sounded on the door of Violet’s room. The police had asked that Gwen and I remain in Violet’s room with her until we were called for an interview.

  Violet still huddled in the chair. She had cried a little, but mostly she stared, lost in her own thoughts. Gwen had hovered and tried to convince Violet to take a sleeping powder, but Violet only shook her head. She didn’t move or react when a maid with dark curly hair and a long nose stepped into the room. “The police inspector would like to see you, Miss Olive.”

  I stood up. “Where is he?”

  “In Mr. Blakely’s study. I’m to take you.”

  I followed the maid out the door. A police constable stood outside Alfred’s room. I glanced into it as we walked by. The room was packed with people. The bright flare of a flashbulb temporarily lit up the balcony.

  The footman guarding the landing on the staircase was gone. We stepped around the debris from the party that still covered the stairs. As the maid and I neared the ground floor, a maid passed through the reception hall with a teapot on a tray. The soothing aroma of freshly brewed tea drifted in her wake. Thinking of Violet’s near-catatonic state, I said to the maid who was walking with me, “After you take me to the inspector, could you see that Jane brings up a fresh pot of tea to Violet’s room?”

  The maid gripped the sides of her apron as her gaze skidded to the left and right. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “I mean, I’ll see to it, but Jane can’t. She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  She lowered her voice. “Jane packed her clothes and left. Marched out the front door, she did. I saw her myself. She used the telephone under the stairs, bold as you please, to call Mr. Brown, then left.”

  “Mr. Brown?”

  “The taxi service in the village. Jane told Mr. Brown to meet her at the front gates.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “It must have been a little before midnight. The fireworks started not long after she left.” The maid who had passed us with the tea tray a few moments earlier came out of the little room at the end of the hall that was Sebastian’s study. She left the door ajar. The maid with me indicated the study door. “The police inspector is in there. I’ll see to the tea for Miss Violet,” she said. She was obviously flustered because instead of escorting me into the room and announcing me, the maid ducked her head and scurried away, leaving me outside the door.

  A male voice rumbled on the other side of the door. “. . . don’t hold with all these rambunctious young people. Pack of trouble, that’s what they are. Haven’t had a moment’s peace since Mr. Blakely moved into the neighborhood. Motorcars tearing through the village at all hours. Constable Phiney had to run them out of the fountain on the green last month. Splashing about in it after midnight. You mark my words, this is nothing more than a lover’s quarrel gone bad. The young woman was probably drunk, or she’s a drug fiend. She gave her intended a shove—that’s what happened.”

  Indignation blazed through me. Calling Violet a drunk or drug fiend! This police officer hadn’t even spoken to her. He couldn’t know a thing about her yet.

  A different voice, also male but more muted, replied, “Remains to be seen, Inspector. We’ll do our part tonight, then I’ll ring Scotland Yard. This is a matter for them. With all of these posh names, we definitely need the Yard in on this.”

  It wouldn’t do Violet any good if I lost my temper. I took a deep breath through my nose, squashed down the outrage I felt on Violet’s behalf, and rapped on the panel of the door. A rotund man with a bald head was seated behind a desk at one end of the room. He didn’t look up from his examination of an open pocket watch on the desk.

  The other man in the room had a thatch of coarse brown hair, a luxurious mustache, and was dressed in tweed. He was more courteous. He rose from a chair that had been swiveled away from a credenza with a typewriter. He extended his hand. “I’m Chief Constable Warren.”

  I shook his hand. “Olive Belgrave. Pleased to meet you.”

  “This is Police Inspector Jennings.”

  The man behind the desk finally lifted his bulky frame from his chair a few inches and gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”

  “I’m glad you wanted to see me,” I said. “I can tell you one thing straightaway. Violet didn’t do it.”

  The inspector lifted a plump hand.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He checked the watch, which was centered on the desk. “First, name and residence.” He jerked his head toward a man in the corner, a young constable with a shiny pink face and a pencil poised over a notebook.

  I gave my name and my London address, at which the inspector raised his eyebrows. “Not one for swanky digs, then?”

  “It’s temporary.”

  “And this Miss Violet Stone is a relative?”

  “My cousin. As is her sister, Gwen.”

  “Naturally, you would defend this . . . Violet Stone.”

  “Naturally. But it is the truth. I know Violet. She wouldn’t do something like this. She told me she left Alfred in the hallway and went into her room.”

  “So she admits she was upstairs?”

  “In her room, not on the balcony.”

  He made a noise that indicated disbelief, then looked at the watch again. “Right. Moving on. About the balcony. I understand you saw the whole thing from the lawn?”

  “What little there was to see in the darkness.” I described the struggle and the brief glimpse of the figures when the firework lit up the house.

  Inspector Jennings drummed his chubby fingers on the desk. “And your cousin Violet, she has blonde hair?”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean she was on the balcony. Plenty of people at this party have blonde hair.”

  “But she was the only one who had had an argument with the victim.” Inspector Jennings gave me a perfunctory smile and checked the pocket watch. “I believe we’ve taken enough time with you, Miss—er—Belgrave. That will be all.” He looked at the constable. “Have her escorted upstairs. Let’s have the fiancée in next.”

  Chapter Ten

  I woke with a start. Why had I been sleeping in a chair?

  The room was dim, but sunlight radiated around the closed green drapes. Oh, yes. It all rushed back—Archly Manor, Alfred’s death, and that police inspector who seemed to have decided Violet was guilty.