by Stuart Woods
“Charles has an excellent cellar. Was it on the list of items conveyed with the house?”
“There was an item saying, ‘the contents of the wine cellar, save two dozen bottles to be chosen by Sir Charles.’ I thought that fair enough.”
“I’ve noticed,” Susan said, “that you speak English with an American accent, but with English phrasing. Is that deliberate?”
“No, I have an imitative ear, so I tend to speak my own language as the locals do, wherever I am. I came away from a week in Germany once, speaking broken English.”
“That’s a handy gift. It will make the locals here more comfortable with you. The British upper class tends to view Americans as noisy people with cameras, until they are shown something different. They will like you for your phraseology, because they will understand you the first time you say something.”
“I draw the line at ‘shedule’ instead of ‘skedule.’”
They were having coffee on a sofa before the fireplace when there was a sharp knock on the door. Stone turned to see a small man in a tweed suit, who was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.
“Filthy weather,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrington?”
Stone rose. “Yes.”
“I am Deputy Chief Inspector Holmes,” he said, “as in Sherlock.”
“I hope that is not your Christian name,” Stone said.
“Fortunately not, but I’m often called that anyway, by those who are out of reach of my authority.”
“This is Ms. Susan Blackburn, who is the designer in charge of redoing the interior of the house.”
“I would like to ask you a few questions, perhaps both of you.”
“Of course, please sit.”
Holmes took an armchair next to the sofa. “Damned good idea, a mudroom,” he said, inspecting his shoes. “Saves tracking in the weather.”
“We ran into the weather on the motorway,” Stone said. “When did the rain start here?”
“Sometime last evening, according to the staff. I’d like very much to know more precisely. It is my understanding that you are buying this property from Sir Charles Bourne.”
“I bought it from him this morning, in London.”
“He was there for the completion?”
“Yes.”
“When did he come up to London?”
“I think yesterday sometime, but I’m not certain. It appears that we have a homicide on my front lawn.”
Holmes looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“You’ve pitched a tent over the corpse to preserve the crime scene,” Stone said. “And there are the vehicles.”
“You’re very observant,” Holmes said.
“It was hard to miss, and I was once a homicide detective, in New York City.”
“You were?” Susan asked, surprised.
“You were?” Holmes echoed.
“I was. Fourteen years on the NYPD, twelve of them in Homicide.”
“You made detective in two years?”
“It was easier then. We had more than four thousand homicides in the city the year I was promoted, as compared to a little over three hundred last year. Somebody had to investigate them, and there weren’t enough seasoned men per corpse.”
“Quite,” Holmes said.
Stone made a mental note not to say “quite” when speaking to Englishmen; they would think he was trying too hard, something the British abhorred.
“Had you visited this house before the closing?” Holmes asked, taking out a notebook and pen.
“Yes, I arrived in England three days ago, and I was staying with a friend across the river.”
“And who might he be?”
“She. Dame Felicity Devonshire.”
Holmes nodded. “Quite.”
“She showed me the house and introduced me to Ms. Blackburn, on my first day here.”
“And when did you meet Sir Charles for the first time?”
“At dinner that evening.”
“Dinner here?”
“No, in Cowes.”
“Where in Cowes?”
“At the Royal Yacht Squadron.”
“Just the two of you?”
“No, in the company of Dame Felicity. It was at that dinner that I offered to buy this property.”
“Having seen it only once?”
“I had two very good guides earlier that day.”
“Did you come to England specifically to buy the property?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know it until after I arrived.”
Holmes looked at him sharply. “Explain, please.”
“I was in Rome. Dame Felicity called and insisted I come to England, saying she had a surprise for me. The surprise turned out to be this house. I wrote a check for it that evening.”
“Then you must be a very wealthy man, Mr. Barrington.”
Stone smiled. “You are a detective, aren’t you?”
Holmes permitted himself a small smile. “Quite. And when did you depart London to return here?”
“About half past ten, from Berkeley Square.”
“And you were driving the German sports car?”
“I was.”
“Pick that up in London, did you?”
“I did. And another car, as well.”
“Didn’t see that one.”
“Ms. Blackburn had so much luggage it required another car. It should be here early this afternoon.”
“That is a calumny,” Susan said. She pointed at Stone. “He is the one with all the luggage.”
“I won’t get in the middle of that argument,” Holmes said. “Ms. Blackburn, do you believe that Mr. Barrington murdered Sir Richard Curtis?”
Susan thought about it for a moment. “Probably not.”
Holmes closed his notebook and stood up. “That’s good enough for me,” he said, “but Mr. Barrington, don’t leave town.”
Stone laughed. “I’m flying to New York on Monday morning,” he said, “unless you arrest me first.”
“I’m sorry,” Holmes said, “I made myself sound like Bulldog Drummond there for a moment, didn’t I?”
“Just a bit.”
“Let’s leave it at this: if you think of anything else that might help me with my inquiries, please call.” He handed Stone a card. “Is that better?”
“Much,” Stone replied.
“Good day, then.”
“Good day,” Stone said, and the man started for the door, but his journey was interrupted by Sir Charles Bourne entering the room, red-faced.
“Filthy weather!” he nearly shouted.
“Sir Charles,” Stone said, “may I present Deputy Inspector Holmes? Not Sherlock.” Then he turned to Susan. “Probably not? That was a ringing endorsement of my character.”
“Oh, well,” she said.
8
Sir Charles pulled a silken cord at one side of the fireplace, then opened a cabinet to reveal a very nice bar. “Must have a brandy and soda after that drive,” he said.
Elsie appeared, and Charles ordered lunch, then he sat down by the fire and took a pull on his drink. “Good. Now, what’s the mystery in the meadow?” he asked.
“It appears that a neighbor of yours has met an untimely death,” Stone said, “and Deputy Inspector Holmes is investigating.”
“What neighbor?” Charles asked.
“Sir Richard Curtis,” Holmes replied, watching Charles carefully.
“Good God!” Charles said. He took another swig of his drink and set it on a side table. “Why would anyone harm Richard?”
“That is the subject of our investigation,” Holmes replied, “that and who.”
“You don’t know?”
“Not yet. We’ve interviewed your staff, one by one, and they all appear
to have no involvement.”
“I should think not,” Charles said.
“Sir Charles, have you just arrived from London?”
“I have.”
“When did you leave this house yesterday for London?”
“Late in the day—I wanted to avoid the rush-hour traffic in London, so I timed it to arrive around seven.”
“And where did you go?”
“I keep a flat in London. I went there and made myself some dinner.”
“Were you alone?”
“I was. I read for a while, then went to bed. I had a meeting at nine this morning with Mr. Barrington.”
“Did anyone see you when you arrived at your flat?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I have a semi-detached, half a house. The people next door are away on the Continent, I believe.”
“Where did you park your car?”
“In the garage in the house.”
“And did you drive to your meeting this morning?”
“No, I legged it. It’s only ten minutes on foot. Inspector, I’ve watched enough television to know that you are trying to prove either my guilt or my innocence.”
“Quite.”
“I am innocent of any involvement in Richard’s death.”
“I’m glad to hear it. How long did you know Sir Richard?”
“Since first form at school. We were neighbors then, too. We were also at Eton together. After that he went to Cambridge, I to Oxford.”
“So you grew apart then?”
“Oh, no, we remained friends for our . . . his whole life. Have you a suspect?”
“Not as such.”
“But you have some idea.”
“Some. I can’t discuss it further at this time.”
Charles downed the remainder of his drink and made himself another. “Anybody else?” he inquired. Heads were shaken, and he sat down again. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Richard was in perfect health, he was supposed to outlive me.”
“Are you unwell, Sir Charles?”
“Very much so,” Charles replied. “I’ve got a few months, if I’m unlucky.”
“Unlucky?”
“I’d rather fall off the twig before getting sicker,” he said.
“I understand.”
“I very much doubt it.”
“Is Sir Richard married?”
“For more than fifty years. They met at Cambridge. Glynnis is healthy as a horse. I’d better go see her at once,” he said, standing. “Have you anything else to ask me?”
“I believe your wife died some years ago.”
“That is correct.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“A woman, you mean? I’m marrying one on Sunday.”
Stone was surprised. “Congratulations, Charles.”
“Thank you. That’s the real reason for the party. It’s not my birthday quite yet. Her name is Elizabeth Bowen. She’s a solicitor in the village. I thought we’d surprise everybody, then bugger off to Paris for a few days.”
“I congratulate you, as well, Sir Charles,” Holmes said. “And I have no further questions for you at this time. Perhaps we’ll talk again before Monday.”
“I have one for you, Inspector. How was Richard killed?”
“With a knife,” Holmes replied. “A rather large one, apparently. His head was half cut off.”
“Good God,” Charles said again, and sadly. “I’d better go and see Glynnis.”
“Will you dine with us this evening, Charles?” Stone asked.
“We’ve plans in the village, Stone, but thank you.” He left without anything further said.
“Sounds like someone took him from behind,” Stone said to Holmes. “Commando style.”
“Quite,” Holmes replied. “And we have four former Royal Marines within spitting distance, counting Sir Richard.”
“Major Bugg, then.”
“Yes, and Sir Charles, and Wilfred Burns.”
“Wilfred? Our hermit?”
“Quite. He grew up with Sir Charles and Sir Richard and was at Eton and Oxford. They were all serving senior officers during the Falklands War. Major Bugg was a subaltern in that one—he’s a good deal younger than they.” Holmes consulted his watch. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a corpse to clear off your meadow and a suspect to question.” He closed the door behind him.
“I love it,” Susan said.
“Love what?”
“Four Royal Marines, one of them dead, the others, suspects. And they all knew how to use a knife, didn’t they?”
“You have an evil mind.”
“I do, don’t I?” She stood up. “I think I’ll go have a nap before dinner.”
“Tell me,” Stone said, “where is the Lilac Room?”
“Never you mind,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek and left him alone in the library.
After a moment, Stone went to the desk and jotted off a note to Sir Charles, offering to fly him and Elizabeth Bowen to Paris the Monday after their wedding, and give them use of his home there during their honeymoon. He’d have to refuel between England and the Azores anyway, and the house was just sitting empty. After summoning Elsie and asking her to convey the note to Sir Charles, Stone headed upstairs.
9
Stone went up to the master suite, unpacked his things and arranged them in his dressing room, then he stretched out on his bed for a nap. Before he could close his eyes the phone on the bedside table rang. “Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington, it’s Mrs. Whittle. What time would you like dinner?”
“Seven-thirty?”
“Very good. In the library?”
“Yes, thank you.” He hung up and fell asleep. It was getting dark when the phone rang again. “Yes?”
“Where and what time are we dining?” Susan asked.
“Let’s meet in the library at seven, for drinks.”
“And what is the dress?”
“Since it’s in the library, I’ll wear a necktie.”
“That’s all the advice I need,” she said. “See you in ten minutes.” She hung up.
Stone looked at the bedside clock: ten to seven. He bounced out of bed, got into a blazer, gray flannels, and a striped tie, and walked down the stairs to the library, which he found empty, but with a fire alight and the card table set. The remaining half-bottle of the Batard-Montrachet was in an ice bucket beside the table and a bottle of Romanée-Conti La Tache was on the table, open and breathing. He was still trying to calculate the cost of the wine he was drinking that day when Susan swept in, wearing a black cocktail dress and gorgeous jewelry. “Evening, all,” she said.
“Evening. Drink?”
“You did such a nice martini at lunch, I’ll have that again, please.”
Stone mixed it, poured, and set it on a silver tray with his bourbon, then offered it to her. “Someone was kind enough to lay in a stock of Knob Creek,” he said.
“The staff are anticipating your wishes,” Susan replied. “It’s off to a good start, you are.”
They sat down on the sofa facing the fire, where a tray of canapés awaited them. “I’m beginning to feel at home already,” Stone said, “and it’s not even twenty-four hours that I’ve owned the house.”
“When I’m done here you’ll feel even more at home,” she said. “It’s a specialty of mine, making the owner feel at home in his house.”
“May I place an order with you?”
“Of course.”
“I like the king-sized mattress on my bed—very comfortable—but I would prefer a pair of extra-long twins that can be electrically adjusted. Also, I haven’t been able to find the television set.”
“Beds noted—I have a source. On your return from America, they will have been installed, and I’ll have fitted sheet
s for you, too. Do you like the Irish linen sheets?”
“Very much, as long as they’re changed or ironed every day.”
“I will convey that to Elsie. Mmmm, this is a very fine martini.”
“And the TV set?”
“It arises from a piece of antique furniture at the foot of your bed, and its remote control is in the bedside table drawer.”
“How long have you been working on this house?”
“About fourteen months,” she replied. “Of course, that includes waiting times for almost everything to arrive.”
“What have you done here that I can’t see?”
“Well, we’ve reupholstered seventy pieces of furniture, virtually everything except a dozen or so leather pieces that have worn well with age. We’ve replaced all the house’s main systems—boilers and air-conditioning system—refinished many of the mahogany and walnut pieces of furniture, installed a twenty-four-extension office-quality telephone system, new TV sets and DVRs in every bedroom, and in here, had the Steinway grand completely rebuilt and refurbished.”
“I didn’t know there was a piano. Where is it?”
“On a truck, on the way down, be here tomorrow. Where would you like it?”
“In this room, I think,” he said, pointing. “Over there.”
“It shall be done. Do you play?”
“A bit. I played my first gig in twenty years last Saturday night, in Positano.”
“Where in Positano? La Sirenuse, perhaps?”
“No, in a private house owned by a very important mafioso. My co-instrumentalists were a guitarist who is a policeman, a bassist who is an officer of the CIA, and a drummer who is the police commissioner of New York City. I also wore a false nose and mustache and pretended to be blind.”
She laughed. “That sounds like a fascinating story. Tell it to me, please, all of it.”
Stone gave her a fifteen-minute version of the events in Italy.
She couldn’t stop laughing. “Your girlfriend must be very grateful to you.”
“On the contrary, she punched me in the face at the first opportunity and hasn’t spoken to me since.”
