Murder at Archly Manor

by Sara Rosett

  Beyond the terrace that ran along the west side of the house, a small area of lawn sloped down to a belt of trees. I walked back and forth a few steps until the sun slanted over the grass at the perfect angle. “Gwen, come stand exactly where I am. You’re taller than I am, so duck your head a little bit and look at the grass. What do you see?”

  “The lawn and trees.”

  “Do you notice anything interesting about the grass?”

  “Well, it’s cut evenly.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t see—oh, footsteps in the dew!”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  A layer of dew coated the grass on this side of the house, which was still in the shade. I peered at the first footprint in the droplets. The footprint was small and curved, a lady’s shoe. The grass had been slightly compressed underneath it but not totally flattened.

  “I can see a trail of footprints,” Gwen said, her voice excited. “They go all the way over to the trees.” Then her tone turned puzzled. “You think that Violet is in the woods? I know she’s frightened of being blamed for Alfred’s death because of the cufflink, but it’s not going to do her any good to hide in the woods.”

  “No, I doubt she’s hiding in the woods. I think after she collected her things, she went to Sebastian’s study and made a telephone call to Mr. Brown. She requested his taxi service.”

  Gwen looked from me to the trees and back again. “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “Violet was following Jane’s example. She knew about Mr. Brown. We stopped there on the way to London. Violet probably gave Mr. Brown the same instructions Jane did. I bet he picked her up outside the gates and took her to Finchbury Crossing.”

  “So you think Violet isn’t even on the estate?”

  “Exactly. The question is, where did she go from the train station?”

  “I may not be smart enough to find footprints in the grass, but I can answer that,” Gwen said. “She’d go home to Parkview Hall.”

  “Do you really think so? Won’t that be the first place the police look after they exhaust all possibilities here?”

  Babcock came through the doors from the study to the terrace. He held out a tray. “A telegram for you, Miss Olive.”

  “Thank you.” I took it, and Babcock melted away as I ripped the envelope open. It was always better to open it quickly rather than let my thoughts get carried away with all the horrible possibilities a telegram could contain.

  “What does it say?” Gwen crowded close to my shoulder. “Oh, it’s only Jasper. I thought it might be from Mum, saying Violet had arrived at Parkview.”

  “It’s much too soon for that. It would take Violet hours to get to Derbyshire.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s where she’ll go. And I’m going there now.” Gwen headed back to the house.

  “Do you think Inspector Longly will let you leave?” I asked.

  “Just let him try to stop me. I’m not under suspicion. He has no reason to hold me.” She swept through the door, then returned a moment later. “Aren’t you coming?”

  I looked up from the telegram. “No, I’m going to London to speak to Jasper.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jasper met me on the platform when I emerged from the train. “Hello, old thing.”

  “I didn’t expect you to meet me here,” I said.

  “I had to see for myself that you were all right. Quite a house party, what?”

  “Rather.”

  Jasper leaned toward me with a confidential air. “About that commission you gave me . . . I have news.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it. Your wire was incredibly vague.”

  “A ploy to get you here quickly.”

  “You couldn’t have telephoned? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but . . .”

  “Frightfully public things, telephones. You never know who’s listening in.”

  “That is true. What’s your news?”

  “All in good time, old bean. First, food. Have you had lunch?”

  “No, but I’ve been well fed for the last few days at Archly Manor. I’m not starving like I was that day you took me to the Savoy.”

  Jasper offered his arm. “Nevertheless, I’m feeling peckish today.”

  Over a sizzling steak, I told Jasper everything that had happened at Archly Manor. “And now Violet has disappeared. Gwen thinks she’s gone back to Parkview Hall, but I’m not so sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think Parkview is where Gwen would go if she were in trouble, but I don’t think it’s where Violet would go. Besides, it’s the first place the police will look. Violet is savvy enough to know that.”

  Jasper put down his cutlery. “But Violet’s not smart enough to realize running away makes her look guilty?”

  “I’m not saying her thinking is flawless, I admit that. I think she fled on instinct, but once she was away from Archly Manor, I bet some of her natural deviousness came out. Violet will do her best to confuse the trail.”

  “Where do you think she went?”

  “A friend’s, most likely. I telephoned Parkview and spoke to Aunt Caroline before I left Archly Manor. I have a list of friends Violet was especially close to during the season last year. I’ll get in touch with as many of them as I can today.” Aunt Caroline had also said that Uncle Leo was feeling much better, and she expected the doctor to lift the quarantine soon. I was so glad to hear the news, especially with Gwen going there. I didn’t want her to become ill on top of everything else.

  Jasper drummed his fingers on the table as he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re loyal. Maybe too loyal.”

  “How could I be too loyal? What do you mean?”

  Jasper stopped drumming his fingers. “If anyone has a reason to be devoted to the Stone family, it’s me. They welcomed a rambunctious, clumsy boy into their home every holiday for years on end—something my own family wouldn’t do. But loyalty should have limits.”

  “If you’re saying I’m blindly loyal, you’re wrong. I genuinely don’t think Violet killed Alfred.”

  “Now I’ve made you angry. Of course you’re backing Violet. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Violet’s the type to shove her intended off a balcony either. But your determination to prove Violet is innocent combined with your tendency to run at life headlong, well . . . you’re like quicksilver.” He swished his hand through the air in a serpentine motion. “Someday those lightning decisions of yours will get you into trouble. I’d rather not see that happen.”

  Irritation flared through me. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m well able to govern my actions. If I were as hotheaded as you seem to think I am, I’d—I’d have removed Sonia from Father’s life long ago,” I said with a little smile to show I was teasing.

  “Well, there’s proof positive I’m wrong, then,” Jasper said, and the tension that had sprung up between us eased. “You’ve shown great restraint there.”

  The waiter removed my plate, and I put both hands on the table, stacking one on the other. “All right. You’ve kept me in suspense long enough. What have you uncovered about Alfred?”

  “It’s taken me quite a while to track down the truth, but I can assure you no one with the surname of Eton was employed as an accountant in Delhi in the civil service any time in the last fifty years.”

  I hunched forward, pressing my hands into the tablecloth. “You weren’t able to find evidence of his father as an employee in India?”

  “Not a trace. I made a thorough search, calling in a few favors—for which you owe me greatly, by the way. We’ll discuss that later.”

  “Oh, admit it. You were actually interested.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I merely executed a favor for a friend.” Jasper grinned as he spoke.

  “And I thank you.” I bowed my head. “But no matter what you say, I can tell this caught your attention.” I gazed across the restaurant. “If Alfred’s father was never in India, was Alfred
ever there?”

  “Excellent question,” Jasper said. “I looked into it. I couldn’t find any mention of an Alfred Eton either.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You don’t seem shocked.”

  “If you’d told me this a few days ago, I would have been shocked, but after discovering Alfred was blackmailing people, I can’t say it’s surprising he would lie about his past. I wonder if anything Alfred told us was true.”

  “Doubtful,” Jasper said. “Did Alfred mention anything else, any scrap of information? A place or person? He might have slipped up and given a bit of his real background.”

  “Oh.” I sat up straight. “He mentioned—no, it was Essie—she told me Alfred said he grew up in a tiny village . . . what was its name?” I reached for my handbag and pulled out the list of information I’d written down when I first started investigating Alfred’s background. It seemed like I’d made the list weeks ago, but it had only been a few days earlier. I unfolded the paper. “Setherwick. That’s where it was.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Neither have I.” I put my napkin on the table. “I need an atlas. Do you have one?”

  “I’m afraid my rooms only have gramophone records and books of the most unedifying sort.”

  “Really?” I asked, momentarily distracted. “What sort of books do you read?”

  “The most lurid detective fiction imaginable. I’ll loan you one sometime. I think it would appeal to your curious side. My nonfiction section is rather thin.”

  “We need an atlas.”

  One taxi ride and a quarter of an hour later, we were at the British Museum, poring over an atlas only slightly smaller than the table it rested on. I checked the index twice and shook my head. “No Setherwick here.”

  Jasper heaved the unwieldy cover closed. “Let’s check another to be sure.”

  In the second atlas, I trailed my finger down the list of towns and villages that began with the letter S, then I shook my head.

  “It doesn’t exist, does it?” Jasper asked.

  “No. And now the question is, who was Alfred Eton, really?”

  I would have preferred to continue my search into Alfred’s background, but the search for Violet had to take priority. Jasper was kind enough to send me off to Mayfair in a taxi. Several of Violet’s friends lived within a few blocks of each other, and I’d be able to visit all of them on foot.

  It was an unproductive search. Two hours later, I returned to the train station, picked up my valise from Left Luggage, and walked to my room at Mrs. Gutler’s boarding house. Even though I had money to pay a bus fare, I couldn’t bring myself to spend it when I had no urgent need to get home quickly.

  Walking allowed me to think over the question of where Violet could be and who Alfred could have been. The other question hovering in my mind that night as I unpacked was why would someone take a fake name and pursue an engagement with a young society girl? Wouldn’t Alfred have been found out eventually? Or had he hoped his charade would never be discovered? Perhaps he had fake papers—a birth certificate and other documents that would “prove” his identity—and he wasn’t worried about being caught.

  Being one’s own maid gives one quite a bit of time to think. I sorted my clothes to send to the laundry around the corner, mended a hem, and reattached a feather to one of my hats. I had plenty of time to think through those questions, but I didn’t come up with any satisfactory answers. I had one more of Violet’s friends to speak to the next day, and I laid out my green tricot dress with its matching hat and dropped into my creaky little bed.

  Lady Buxton-Wimburry lived an hour outside of London in a Victorian home. She was not helpful at all. She hinted that Violet’s behavior was beyond scandalous and that she wouldn’t let her daughter associate with her in the future.

  I bought a sandwich and a newspaper for the return train journey to London. I almost wished I had one of Jasper’s lurid detective novels to take my mind off things. Nothing exasperated me more than unanswered questions, and once my mind started on a track of trying to figure something out, it wouldn’t stop.

  I rattled the newspaper as I flung it open. I should’ve expected it, but I was still stunned when I turned a page and saw a picture of Violet and Gwen alongside a story recapping the events surrounding Alfred’s death. The article had no new information. The writer merely rehashed the details of Alfred’s death, exaggerated the excesses of the Silver and Gold party, and did their best to sensationalize the inquest—a difficult task, considering how dry the proceedings were. I was skimming through the text when a line caught my attention.

  Alfred Eton, lately of the swanky South Regent Mansions, was known to be one of the Bright Young People about town, mixing with Sebastian Blakely and Lady Pamela Withers.

  I folded the paper, anxious to get back to London. I knew exactly where I needed to go.

  I breezed into the elegant and modern entry lobby of South Regent Mansions and gave the hall porter who resembled a walrus a friendly smile. “Hello. I stopped in a short while ago and made some inquiries about Alfred Eton.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, and then his face cleared. “Oh yes.” He shook his head. “Poor sod.”

  “I suppose so.” I didn’t consider Alfred a poor sod—besides being a blackmailer, he’d deceived Violet—but I suppose he didn’t deserve to die for either of those things. “Have the police been here?”

  “Yes, been and gone. Didn’t find anything of use, apparently.”

  “And has anyone else been here?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean . . .” He sent a significant look at my handbag.

  I removed two five-pound notes from my bag along with the newspaper open to the article about Alfred’s death. I held the folded notes against the newspaper and handed the whole thing to him. “Perhaps one of these young women?”

  The money disappeared into his large palm as he took the newspaper. Either the larger bribe or the fact that Alfred was dead loosened his tongue. “Yes, she’s been here.” He held the paper out, his finger pointing to Gwen’s face.

  Gwen? He had to be mistaken. I pushed the paper back to him. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes. It was this lady right here.”

  “Not the lady with short hair?”

  “No, the young lady had long hair, and she was quite upset.”

  “When was this?”

  He frowned at the ceiling. “It would’ve been a few days before you came the first time.”

  What was Gwen doing at South Regent Mansions?

  “Miss?”

  I realized he was holding out the newspaper. I took it. “Thank you.” My thoughts reeled. Sweet, straightforward Gwen had come to South Regent Mansions? Why hadn’t she told me? And why had she come in the first place? Could she and Alfred—? No. Gwen would never do that to Violet. And Gwen truly thought Alfred was a cad. But then why visit Alfred’s flat? “How often did you see her?” I asked, hardly believing I was asking the question.

  “Just the once.”

  I gathered my thoughts and remembered I had another question for the hall porter. “Did a doctor make a house call on Mr. Eton?”

  “No, miss. In fact, he hardly ever had any visitors.”

  “I see.”

  “Will there be anything else, miss?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, “one other thing. I’d like to peek inside Alfred’s flat. Could you make that happen?” I reached into my handbag again.

  The hall porter could make it happen, and I made it worth his while, handing over almost all of my remaining bank notes to him. The expense was worth it if it got me into Alfred’s flat with no fuss. But no more taxis or buses for me. I’d definitely be walking from now on.

  It didn’t take long for the hall porter to procure a passkey from one of the maids who cleaned the flats. I rode the lift up to the sixth floor, where the lift boy unlatched the grate. I felt his gaze on me as I walked to Alfred’s flat, unlocked the door, and stepped insid
e.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The door of Alfred’s flat opened into a short, narrow hallway. To my right, a few steps down the hall, was a small kitchen. As instructed, I left the key on the countertop beside the sink. The next door, also on the right, opened into the bathroom.

  Two doors, side by side, faced me at the end of the hallway. The doorway on the left opened into a living area with a curved wall of windows, giving a view of the courtyard below. I intended to go into the living area, but I heard a slight rustling noise from the other doorway, which opened to a bedroom.

  “Violet, it’s me, Olive.” I poked my head into the bedroom.

  Violet came out from behind the door, an iron lamp base in the shape of a curvy female figure clutched in her hands.

  “You weren’t going to bean me over the head with that, were you?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know it was you, did I? How did you know I was behind the door?”

  “A hunch, but even if I hadn’t realized you were in here, your clothes would’ve given you away.” I gestured to the bright dresses spilling out of her valise onto the unmade bed.

  Violet put the lamp base down on a bedside table. “How did you find me?”

  “I’m ashamed to say it’s taken me far too long to figure it out. I realized you’d run away from Archly Manor, but I spent yesterday and part of today speaking to your deb friends.”

  Violet gave a little shudder. “I’d never go to one of them. They might welcome me, but their mothers—they’d act like I had some sort of fatal disease.”

  I didn’t want to agree with her, but the atmosphere at the homes I’d visited had been decidedly frosty.

  Violet said, “Well, as long as you’re here, we may as well be comfortable. Come through to the living room.”

  Violet dropped onto a brown button-backed sofa with square lines. Greasy waxed paper, teacups, and glasses covered a side table next to the sofa. “Excuse the mess,” Violet said. “The maids have been told not to clean this flat, so there’s no service.”