Murder at Archly Manor

by Sara Rosett

  “Speaking of the police, I believe we should ring Inspector Longly,” I said.

  Violet gripped the arm of the sofa. “But he’ll arrest me.”

  “I doubt that.” I tilted my head toward Sebastian. “We now have another person who can corroborate your story about Alfred’s blackmail.”

  “But what about the cufflink?”

  “Circumstantial evidence,” I said. “Alfred could have lost it before you went upstairs. Monty saw him wearing them after your argument. How many dances did you dance with other boys?”

  “Three or four, I suppose.”

  “And then you went upstairs with Alfred?”

  “Yes.”

  “See, that’s plenty of opportunity—at least ten, maybe twenty minutes during which the cufflink could have fallen off. And if it did fall off during the struggle on the balcony, then that means the murderer picked it up and planted it on your dress later. If you hadn’t run away from Archly Manor so quickly, Uncle Leo’s solicitor would have arrived. I’m sure he would have pointed out to the police that just because the cufflink was lodged in your dress, which no one saw until days later—rather odd, don’t you think?—it doesn’t clinch a case against you.”

  “But what if they say all that doesn’t matter? It was Alfred’s cufflink. What if they arrest me?”

  Sebastian leaned forward, pressed his hands to his knees, and stood up. “Don’t be a ninny, Violet. I’ve hidden the truth about Alfred too long. It must come out. We might as well take control of the situation and make sure we are the ones who tell the inspector our story.” Sebastian strode across the room toward the telephone.

  Violet jumped up and beat him to it. “Then I’m calling Father’s solicitor.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Inspector Longly arrived, he surveyed the living room and said, “I see the party has moved to Alfred’s flat.”

  Sebastian said, “Not exactly. Please have a seat.” He gestured to the sofa. Violet scooted as far away as she could from the inspector and glanced at Uncle Leo’s solicitor, an older gentleman with a toothbrush mustache and reassuring manner, who was seated in the chair Sebastian had occupied earlier. Mr. Tarpliss had had a conversation with Violet before the inspector arrived. After hearing her story, he’d advised her to tell Longly everything.

  “Even the bit about the notebook?” Violet had asked.

  “Especially that part,” Mr. Tarpliss had said. “Don’t worry. You shan’t have any trouble from the inspector. As your friends have told you, circumstantial evidence does not a case make. I’ll tell you if you shouldn’t answer one of the inspector’s questions, but Longly is a reasonably intelligent chap. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Once Longly was seated, Sebastian sat down in a chair he’d dragged in from the bedroom and said, “I suppose I’d better begin.”

  Longly had taken out his notebook and balanced it on his left knee, but as Sebastian told his story, Longly stopped taking notes after a few moments. The speed of Sebastian’s speech made it impossible for Longly to keep up with his left hand, but he listened intently, and I had a feeling he would remember everything Sebastian said.

  When Sebastian finished, Longly said, “The details of this item Mr. Eton was holding over you, what were they?”

  Sebastian’s gaze flicked around the group and then back to Longly. “Perhaps we could go into that at a later time? I’m sure you’ll need us to give a more formal statement, correct? I’d be happy to give you the full details then, particularly if you will assure me that, in exchange for my information, you’ll prevent it from going any further.”

  Longly tapped out a fast beat on the notepad with his thumb. “We can go into your story and your request concerning it in more detail later, Mr. Blakely.” Longly directed his attention to Violet. “How did you come to be here?”

  Violet looked at Mr. Tarpliss, who nodded. She took a breath and launched into her story. Violet’s soft-spoken answers were barely audible. I found it hard to believe that this was my feisty cousin who had gotten into trouble so often. She was completely subdued. I wondered how much of it was an act and how much was genuine. She recounted how she had come to be at Alfred’s flat and explained that Alfred had given her a key.

  Longly had quite a few questions about the notebook Violet had burned. He said, “I’m not pleased you didn’t bring this information forward sooner.” He glanced at Mr. Tarpliss, and Violet seemed to shrink into a smaller ball against the arm of the sofa. “Nevertheless, it’s important we pursue all these leads, no matter how tardy they might be. I’ll need you to write down everything you can remember from the notebook.”

  I opened my handbag. “I can help you there.” I took out Violet’s list and handed it to Longly. “Violet wrote this down,” I said, leaving out the details that she’d written it down the day after Alfred died and that I’d been carrying it around for days.

  Longly’s gaze ran down the list, and I could’ve sworn his lips twitched when he read the words Lady Snooty and my parenthetical notation of Lady Pamela beside it.

  He folded the list in half. “This is another thing that we will have to go over in greater detail. I think at this point we should move to a more formal setting to complete these interviews.”

  Several hours later, Violet and I were seated in the first-class carriage of the train heading for Nether Woodsmoor. We’d been interviewed separately and had gone over our statements in great detail with the inspector, which had taken hours. When Longly finally thanked us for our time, Violet had looked weak with relief.

  I suggested a hearty dinner first, then a train to Parkview. I knew Violet was exhausted and emotionally drained because she didn’t protest and followed me meekly to the restaurant then to my lodgings, where I repacked my valise. Violet had been subdued and had hardly spoken during the whole journey to Derbyshire.

  I sent a telegram to Parkview Hall and informed them we would be arriving at Upper Benning on the train. I expected Ross to be waiting for us in his chauffeur garb, but when we stepped off the train, it was Gwen who stood on the platform. She threw her arms first around Violet and then me, squeezing tightly as she whispered to me, “Thank you for finding her.”

  She tucked her arm through Violet’s as we walked through the station. Gwen’s motor was parked on the street. “Now, tell me what happened. Where did you go? And Olive says you’ve spoken to Inspector Longly and everything is fine?”

  Violet said, “Olive can explain,” and went to Gwen’s motor.

  “Oh,” Gwen said, obviously a bit stung by Violet’s tepid response.

  “She was at Alfred’s flat, and the police have our statements. There’s more to tell, but it will have to be later,” I said with a significant look at Violet, who was leaning against the door of the motor.

  “Of course, we must get you home,” Gwen said. “The good news is that Father is completely recovered, and no one else has come down with the flu, so we’re all in the clear.” Gwen opened the rumble seat, and Violet climbed in the back. I sat down beside Gwen, and I told her what we’d discovered about Alfred as we set off on a twilight drive through the English countryside.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As soon as we arrived at Parkview, Violet went straight up to her room. Gwen was about to follow her, but I caught her arm. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure there’s more to tell.” Gwen glanced up the now empty stairs and sighed. “Violet is going to be in her withdrawn mood, and I won’t be able to get a thing out of her. Let’s go through to the conservatory. No one will be in there right now.”

  The conservatory ran along the back of the house. High-ceiled and lined with soaring windows, it was a mass of glass and greenery. The sun was below the trees, and the room glowed with a rosy light. Our footsteps clicked across the black and white marble floor as we made our way through the plants. Urns with trailing ivy lined one side of the room, and the floor was a maze of wide-leafed exotic plants. The air was sultry and h
eavy with the scent of flowers.

  I knew that if I let Gwen get started on her questions, it would take forever to answer them all, so I asked, “Why did you go to Alfred’s flat?”

  Gwen pushed the wide leaves of a banana tree out of the way, and we emerged into a cleared space in the middle of the room with an arrangement of wicker furniture. “What do you mean? I—I didn’t go to his flat.”

  “Oh, Gwen. You’re a terrible liar,” I said. Any doubts I’d had about the hall porter’s memory evaporated at Gwen’s attempt to lie. Why would she lie unless she had something to cover up? “Don’t even try. I know you went there.”

  Despite us being alone in the cavernous room, Gwen lowered her voice. “How did you find out? I was so careful.”

  “I showed the hall porter a picture of you and Violet, thinking that Violet might have visited Alfred at his flat. But the hall porter pointed out that it was you, not Violet, who he’d seen in the building.”

  Gwen reached up and smoothed a stray hair behind her ear, and I noticed the scratch on her hand was nearly healed. “I didn’t want to go, and I knew Mum would be scandalized, so I told Mum I was shopping.”

  “But why did you go?”

  She raised her chin and met my gaze. “I went to buy him off.”

  “You offered Alfred money in exchange for leaving Violet alone?” I asked. “Gwen, how underhanded of you. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  She smiled briefly, then looked away. “It was terribly wrong, but I knew he wasn’t an honorable man. I couldn’t prove it. And Mum was dithering about hiring a detective. I decided approaching Alfred on my own would be the easiest way.”

  “What did you offer?”

  “Passage to America, and two hundred pounds once he arrived there.”

  “Golly. He turned you down?”

  “Didn’t even hesitate. I was shocked. I was so sure he would jump at the money. It makes sense now, knowing about his little deception with Sebastian.”

  “He’d already tried his luck in America,” I said. “He was doing much better here.”

  Gwen sighed. “I suppose I should’ve offered him more. But it was all I could manage out of the estate account without asking Father for more funds. I knew Father wouldn’t approve. He’s always held that Peter, Violet, and I must work out our problems ourselves. I’m not sorry I did it, though. Of course, I feel horrible for Violet. I know this is a ghastly time for her, and Alfred’s death is tragic, but she will get over it. She’ll be so much better off without him.” A maid arrived, said the cook had a question about the menus for the next day, and Gwen went off to handle it.

  I sat in the chair for a long time after she left. The room became gloomy as the sun set, and I wondered how far Gwen would go to protect her sister.

  The next morning, seated across from Gwen at the breakfast table, I decided my suspicions were completely ridiculous. With the bright sunlight from the window behind her creating a halo of her golden hair, Gwen was the epitome of delicate beauty. I’d known her my whole life. She loved Violet fiercely, but Gwen wouldn’t resort to murder—not even to protect her little sister.

  But what if it was an accident? The thought whispered through my mind. Perhaps she didn’t mean to do it. Had Gwen approached Alfred again? Had she gone upstairs during the party, perhaps to keep an eye on Violet and Alfred during the romantic fireworks, but found Alfred alone on the balcony and made a second attempt to get Alfred out of Violet’s life? Perhaps he’d refused again and grown belligerent. Jane and Violet had said that Alfred had been hostile earlier in the evening. What if that anger had spilled over and he threatened Gwen physically—had she really cut her hand on a broken glass? If she and Alfred struggled on the balcony . . .

  I gave myself a little mental shake and focused on my breakfast. I tried to push that scenario out of my mind, but it wouldn’t go away. Gwen was reading a letter. As soon as she refolded the letter, I decided it was no good—I had to ask.

  We were alone in the breakfast room. “Did you ever . . . renew your offer to Alfred?”

  “Hmm?” Gwen’s attention was still fixed on the letter as she replaced it in the envelope and put it beside her plate.

  “Did you try to buy off Alfred again during Sebastian’s party?”

  Gwen’s gaze flew from the letter to me. “No. Why do you ask that?”

  “I only wondered . . . did it come up again?”

  “No. He was quite firm when he turned it down the first time. I knew it would be useless to try again.”

  The butler appeared and said there was a telephone call for Violet, but she hadn’t come down from her room.

  “I’ll take it,” Gwen said and left the room.

  I put down my cutlery, not hungry anymore. After weeks of getting by on dry rolls and watery tea while longing for filling food, part of me couldn’t believe I was leaving food on my plate, but suspecting Gwen turned my stomach. Aunt Caroline came in, said good morning, then went to the sideboard.

  Gwen returned to the breakfast table and picked up her letter. “That was Sebastian. He’s invited us to Archly Manor for a few days. He’s having a . . . um . . . gathering to commemorate Alfred’s life. A memorial, he called it.”

  Aunt Caroline turned, her plate in hand. “A memorial? But has there been a funeral?”

  “It’s to be today at Finchbury Crossing. A private ceremony with only Sebastian and Thea in attendance. Then Alfred will be buried in the churchyard.”

  “I don’t think there’s any need for you girls to go,” Aunt Caroline said as she turned back to the sideboard. “A memorial instead of a funeral! I like to think of myself as progressive, not bound by tradition, but certain things are required. It’s ill bred to—to—dispense with them.”

  “There is going to be a funeral today, Mum. A private ceremony.”

  Aunt Caroline sniffed. “Not a proper funeral. Holding a ‘memorial’ as if this Alfred weren’t a bounder of the first order.” The night before, I’d told Aunt Caroline everything we’d discovered about Alfred.

  “Such bad manners people have today.” Aunt Caroline sat down at the table. “Imagine holding a funeral but not inviting anyone. Ridiculous! As I said, you have no obligation to attend a so-called funeral.”

  “Memorial.” Violet stood in the doorway in a powder blue dressing gown, her curls flattened to her head. “I’m going. I don’t care what you say. He was my fiancé.”

  “Yes, that’s true, darling, but you have no obligation to him now,” Aunt Caroline said.

  “I should be there. I’m going.” Violet looked at Gwen. “Are you coming? Or should I arrange for Ross to take me to Archly Manor?”

  Gwen, Aunt Caroline, and I exchanged glances, then Gwen said, “I’ll take you, and Olive can come along if she’d like. We can leave after lunch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The remaining papier-mâché figures that had marked the crossroads guiding guests to the estate for the previous week’s house party were gone. As silly as I thought the figures were, they had actually been helpful in navigating the deserted country roads. Without the colorful markers pointing the way, we’d taken a wrong turn, which lengthened the drive and had Violet on edge, thinking we wouldn’t arrive in time for the dinner, much less tea.

  “Ah, we are on the right road,” I said as the gates of Archly Manor came into view. “And no reporters, which is surprising. I’d have thought they’d have returned to cover the funeral.”

  Violet twisted around from the front seat. “That’s why Sebastian kept the funeral small. He didn’t want word to get out and have the place overrun with newspaper men.” Violet had spent some time on the telephone with Sebastian before we departed, planning a dinner in Alfred’s honor, which was to take place tonight.

  Violet had been tense with irritation after the wrong turn and had only spoken in single-syllable responses, but now she seemed to be in the mood to talk, so I asked, “Who else will be at Archly Manor?”

  “Lady P
amela is still there. She stayed on after we left. Monty says he’ll come, which I suppose means Tug will be there as well since Lady Pamela is. Sebastian said he’ll ask Hugh to make up the numbers.” Violet wrinkled her nose. “Although, I hope Hugh doesn’t cause trouble. You know how irritatingly priggish he is.”

  Gwen turned the wheel as the road curved through the parkland of Archly Manor’s grounds. “I’m sure Sebastian invited him for Muriel.”

  “Yes, poor thing,” Violet said. “I can’t imagine what she sees in stuffy old Hugh.” After a moment, she added, “And James, of course. He’s always at Archly Manor if Sebastian is there.”

  Our arrival was treated as casually as it had been the first time we arrived. No one came out onto the sweep to greet us, and Babcock informed us the gentlemen were in the old stable block admiring Monty’s new motor but should return momentarily.

  We were shown to the rooms we had occupied before. After we freshened up, I met Gwen in the upstairs corridor, where she said, “Violet’s already gone down.” She motioned to the doors to our rooms. “I find this odd, being in the same rooms. It’s like the Saturday-to-Monday all over again.”

  “Yes. There is a sense of déjà vu about it.”

  “Thank goodness it’s only for one night. We’ll be gone by lunch tomorrow.”

  The door across the hall opened. Lady Pamela surged out but stopped short when she saw us. Then she threw out her arms as if she were going to embrace us both at the same time. “Darlings, you’ve returned!” To my relief, she clasped her hands together and pressed them to her chest. She swayed as if she were on the deck of a ship as she said in a confidential tone, “It is so hard to stay away from Sebastian’s little gatherings. So compelling, you know.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and waltzed down the hall, weaving back and forth across the thick Aubusson carpet.