by Sara Rosett
“But if you just moved yesterday…” I didn’t want to finish the sentence.
“Yes, Sir Harold could have been the intended victim.”
I shook my head, not wanting to think it could be true…that someone would actually attempt to kill Sir Harold. “But he and Toby…they’re nothing alike—” I stumbled to a halt and Beatrice gave a ghost of a smile.
“I agree with you. Toby was the picture of a virile, healthy man, no matter if he had a heart problem or not, while Harold,” she lifted one shoulder a bit. “Harold and I are both a bit more mature, shall we say. And I know I look nothing like Monique, but if someone crept into a dark room—and the bed curtains would have made it even darker—and simply took it for granted that the male form in the bed was Sir Harold…well, they might not have realized what had happened until it was too late.”
I leaned forward. “But that is the weakness of the whole scenario. Why would someone plan to kill Sir Harold when you would be sleeping in bed with him? Surely, the…” I paused and then said the word, “murderer would know that they’d risk waking you as well.”
She shook her head. “I have had some terrible back pain for the last few weeks. Dr. Hathaway says I’ve pulled a muscle and must not garden anymore. The only way I’m able to get any rest is on the firmest mattress we have. For the last week, I’ve been sleeping in the Dutch bedroom down the hall.”
“Oh.” I sat back, stunned, but then leaned forward. “But if you’d moved to the Lodge then the staff would know about it. They moved you?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“And you were sure the person making these accusations was on staff. So if our poison pen person suddenly decided to up the game to murder, the killer would know not to attack you in Parkview itself, but in the Lodge.”
She shook her head. “This is a large staff. Some people would know about our move, but not everyone.”
At that moment, Holly rushed into the office area. “Oh, Beatrice. I just got your message. What can I do?” Holly asked, as her gaze skipped from Beatrice to me.
Constable Albertson reappeared in the doorway behind Holly. “Excuse me, but I need some vehicles moved.”
Beatrice stood. “Of course. Holly why don’t you come with me? This is Constable Albertson…” Their voices faded, and I tried to process everything that Beatrice had said. The thought that the attack could have been aimed at Sir Harold? No…surely it was the tiniest margin of possibility?
I sat for a few moments, mulling it over, my gaze fixed on the blotter on the desk in front of me, a monthly calendar, trying to work out why someone would kill Sir Harold. He wasn’t a businessman like Toby, but he did have influence in Nether Woodsmoor, and someone was upset with him, as all the posts and the note at dinner last night showed. But upset enough to kill him? What would that accomplish? Revenge, I supposed. But was revenge worth the risk of being caught and convicted of murder?
Absently, I picked up the postcard that Monique had dislodged from the computer monitor. She’d dropped it with the back facing up, so I could see that there was no inscription, only a bit of tape folded over to hold it in place on the edge of the monitor.
I pressed it back into place beside a small studio portrait of a woman who looked to be in her seventies or eighties because of her lined face and gray-threaded hair. The postcard was a picture of Cottage Lane, the lane where my cottage was located. I suddenly wished I had said no to Elise, and was back in my overheated cottage, trying to work out how to bond with a prickly twelve-year-old as my biggest problem.
I would have liked to call Alex and hear his voice, get his measured and thoughtful take on the whole situation. My gaze drifted back down to the desktop blotter, and I stared at it absently, wondering if I had time to slip back upstairs and get my phone, but then a pattern of small marks on the calendar caught my attention. It was probably because I was staring at it with an unfocused gaze that I noticed the small diagonal bar, almost a checkmark, at the top left of several of the dates. Notes of times, names of people, phone numbers, and email addresses were scribbled on various squares of the calendar, but the single diagonal bars were spaced along the dates in a strange pattern.
The first mark was on the first day of the month, a Saturday. The next week only had one date ticked off, the Wednesday. The next week had two marks, on Sunday and Thursday. Then this week had Tuesday, and yesterday, Friday, marked.
It was an odd pattern. I frowned and studied the marks. Was it a work schedule? But that couldn’t be it. No one worked only six or eight days a month. Maybe it was an overtime schedule, or, more likely, doodles.
The door opened, and Monique strode back into the main office. “I expect to be kept up-to-date, officer.” Her fuzzy, befuddled manner was gone. Her face was still blotchy from crying, but even without makeup and in my scruffy robe, she carried herself as if she were striding down a red carpet.
DCI Hopkins watched her go, his face expressionless, then he raised his eyebrows at me. “Ms. Sharp, isn’t it?”
I confirmed that was indeed my name and followed him into Beatrice’s office. “This is Detective Sergeant Cannon.” Hopkins motioned to a woman with a prominent jaw and tight ringlets of hair scraped back into a bun. She perched on a chair in the corner, a notepad in her hand. She gave me a brisk nod. Beatrice’s papers had been removed and now the desktop, a polished wood, was empty except for a notebook and the inspector’s phone.
Hopkins kept his gaze focused on his notebook as he took down my name and my reason for being included in the house party, which I gave as research for my boss, and spelled out Elise’s name. Cannon took down my answers, too, but Hopkins must have preferred to keep his own notes as well. He printed in careful capital letters, his short, chubby fingers gripping his pen, reminding me of a kid in kindergarten learning his letters.
I was glad when he didn’t ask for Elise’s phone number because the last thing I wanted was for her to get a call from the police about me. I’d had a little run-in with the police recently, which had nearly cost me my job, but he moved right on to asking about the discovery of Toby’s body this morning. I did wonder why Detective Inspector Quimby hadn’t shown up as he had during the previous times when there had been a serious crime in Nether Woodsmoor. Perhaps he was on vacation. Or I wondered if the name Toby Clay, which was guaranteed to draw attention, had meant the case went to Quimby’s superior.
Hopkins printed my answers, then asked, “You said several people entered the Mahogany bedroom after Mrs. Clay screamed?”
“Yes, Amanda, Beth, and Torrie arrived first, but they didn’t step inside until Simon appeared behind them. He sort of pushed into the room and forced them inside as well. Michael was next, I think, then two footmen and a couple of maids, and finally, the Funderburgs. They were the last before Beatrice asked everyone to leave.”
“And did everyone exit right away?”
“Yes, although Simon didn’t seem to want to go. He, well, lingered is the only way to put it,” I said, remembering how he’d craned his neck to see into the room, his gaze roving around every inch of the room until the last second.
“It made you uncomfortable.”
“No, it was just…odd.”
“And what was your opinion of the Clays?”
“I’d just met them,” I said.
“Nevertheless, Lady Stone says you have good instincts. What did you think of them?”
It would be too catty to say Monique behaved like a spoiled brat.
Hopkins raised his eyebrows, the most expression he’d shown during the whole interview. “Come now, Ms. Sharp. I need to know what their interactions were.”
“They didn’t seem happy. She threw a fit when Amanda caused her to spill her tea on her dress. Toby tried to smooth it over, but there was tension between them. Monique and Toby, I mean.”
Hopkins bent over his notebook again, and I wondered if I should mention the poison pen posts, but his phone rang. He listened for a moment, then told me I
could go with the phone still tucked under his ample chin. He was waiting for me to leave before he spoke again, so I opened the door and slipped out.
Holly was bent over the desk where I’d been sitting. She was rummaging through the drawers. She pulled out an older model flip phone from the back of a drawer and spotted me as she closed the drawer. “Oh, Kate. I didn’t know you were in there.”
“Sorry. DCI Hopkins is still in there, on the phone.”
“Oh. Good to know.” She snatched up her computer tablet and tried to slip the flip phone into her jacket pocket under cover of the tablet, but the phone caught on the edge of her pocket, and she had to force it inside. “So,” she said brightly. “Can I help you find your way back to one of the main rooms? I’m afraid most of the activities have been canceled today, but a cold lunch is being served on the terrace.”
“Lunch already?” I asked, looking at my watch. It was nearly noon.
“Yes. Let me take you there,” she said and motored away.
I caught up with her, and we moved along at a furious pace, the skirts of my dress swishing and flapping. “We’ll take the servant’s corridor. It’s much shorter.” She pushed through a door at the end of the hallway. The transition was immediate. Instead of silk-covered walls, decorative furniture, and paintings, this hallway had bare walls and a plain wooden floor.
“So what has happened? Are the police still working in the Mahogany bedroom?” I asked, wondering if I could even get to my room to change.
“Yes. They’ve blocked off the entire wing and won’t tell us when they’ll be done. Here we are.” She opened another door, and I followed her into the hallway near the drawing room. She moved across the tile floor to a set of glass doors. The doors led to a paved walkway that ran around the outside edge of the house. We passed the dining room, and I realized this must have been the path that Michael had taken when he came into the dining room before dinner last night. The path ran around an outcropping of the building to the smaller terrace where long tables piled with food sat in the shade near the house.
Gray clouds dotted the sky, and a cool breeze swept across the terrace, fluttering the tablecloths. The humidity had evaporated, and the sun was shining between the patches of clouds. Beth, Amanda, and Torrie sat at a café table, stacks of glossy magazines and several notebooks almost crowding their plates off the table. Audrey sat alone, wearing another beautiful Regency gown, her e-reader propped up next to her plate, a jarring counterpoint to her Empire waist dress and bonnet.
Michael, who had opted out of Regency attire, was in line for food, and I stepped behind him, but my gaze followed Holly as she nearly sprinted through the tables and trotted down the stairs to the formal gardens. The sound of a ringtone trilled, and she quickly removed a phone from her blazer pocket, but it wasn’t the flip phone. She pushed a button on a sleek smartphone encased in a hot pink cover and pressed it to her ear as she walked.
The faint click of a camera shutter pulled my attention back to the buffet table. Michael was hurriedly tucking his phone into a pocket of his cargo pants. He grabbed a plate and served himself cold cuts, cheese, and bread.
While I waited for him to move along the table, I glanced over my shoulder. Holly was moving through the formal gardens rapidly. Her bobbed hair swung out from her head as she checked behind her a couple of times. The lawns were soaked after the rain last night, and she kept to the gravel paths until she reached the end of the formal gardens. Her movements were quick and sharp. She wasn’t on a leisurely stroll. After another quick look around, she darted to the side, disappearing behind a tall hedge that enclosed the maze. She obviously didn’t want anyone around her. What was she up to?
“Kate,” a voice called, and I turned to see Alex crossing the terrace with Grace trailing along behind him. Her face was blank, but her head tilted back as she took in the imposing façade of Parkview Hall. Her gaze skipped back and forth over the architectural details of the triangular pediments over the windows up to the alternating statues and gold-edged urns perched on the roof.
“Alex,” I said. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“You look extremely fetching—” He broke off as soon as he stepped out of the sun and into the shade of the terrace and saw my face. “What’s wrong? Can’t get away for a little bit? It’s fine. Grace and I can explore the maze on our own.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I just completely lost track of the time.”
Grace rolled her eyes, and I thought I heard her say, “It figures.” She drifted to the stone railing and draped herself over it, peering down into the formal gardens below.
I said to Alex in a low voice, “There’s been a death—one of the guests. A murder.” I glanced worriedly at Grace. She spun toward me and stared, all attention, every trace of lethargy gone. I didn’t want to upset her, but there was no use trying to hide the news from her. I was sure it would be all over the village soon. In fact, I was surprised that she and Alex didn’t already know about it, but it was obviously news to both of them because Alex was shocked.
“I wanted to call you,” I said to Alex, “but they won’t let us back in our rooms, and that’s where my phone is. I could have used the one in Beatrice’s office, but with being interviewed…I completely forgot.”
Alex blinked. “A murder? Are you okay?” His face was concerned, all his concentration zeroed in on me.
“I’m fine. Well, I think we were all in shock, at least a little bit, this morning. It’s not something you expect.”
Grace found her voice. “A murder? Brilliant. All the girls will be jealous when I tell them. This will be just like Sherlock. Who was it? Did you know them? Had you talked to them? And, are those little cakes down at the end of the table? Could I have one, do you think?”
I glanced at Alex and suppressed a smile. So much for worrying about her delicate sensibilities. “Yes, help yourself. I’m sure Beatrice won’t mind.”
Grace quickly worked the length of the table, coming away with a plate layered with meat, cheese, and bread as well as a pile of fresh fruit and several squares of cake. Alex and I followed her, making more moderate choices.
“Let’s go down here.” I moved to the café table at the end of the terrace. We sat down, and I told them it was Toby Clay who had died, apparently asphyxiated during the night.
Alex choked, then swallowed. “Toby Clay?”
Grace said matter-of-factly, “Kind of like 4.50 from Paddington,” then frowned. “No, that was strangulation, not suffocation.”
“What are you talking about?” Alex asked, a concerned frown on his face.
“It’s an Agatha Christie book,” I said. “You like classic mysteries?”
“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “The school library has tons of them. Sherlock Holmes is good, too,” she added then polished off several sandwiches before moving on to the cakes. At least the news hadn’t scared or worried her…or affected her appetite.
Alex chewed a moment, then swallowed. “That’s unfortunate—for Beatrice and Sir Harold—that it was Toby Clay. The publicity.”
“Yes, I know. That’s not all they have to worry about…never mind,” I said, deciding that I shouldn’t talk about the poison pen posts in front of Grace. I tried to make a face that expressed I’ll tell you later to Alex, but I was new to this silent communication thing, and he just frowned at me. I shifted my gaze to Grace, who was licking icing from her fingers, and his face cleared. “Grace, did you know there’s a telescope at the end of the terrace, mounted on the stone railings?”
“No, I didn’t. Cool. Can I go look?”
“Sure.” She scraped her chair back with a screech and was out of earshot in a few seconds. I told Alex about the posts, the note at dinner, Beatrice’s suspicions about the staff, and how Sir Harold was the usual occupant of the Mahogany bedroom.
He made a low whistling sound. “What do the police think?”
“I have no idea. Quimby didn’t show up. It’s DCI Hopkins, and he’s g
ot the best poker face I’ve ever seen.”
“Play a lot of poker, do you?”
“Constantly.” I grinned at him. I was so serious all the time, I needed a little absurdity in my life.
A movement, something pale against the canvas of the surrounding green landscape caught my eye. I squinted. “I think that’s Holly,” I murmured.
“Who?”
“She’s the publicity person here at Parkview,” I said. “See that woman with the blond hair, moving beyond the maze up to the tree line? That is Holly.” I recognized the short cropped haircut and her navy blazer and skirt. The land rose above the maze to a ridge, and it didn’t look like it was easy walking in her pumps, but she crossed the ground at almost a run as if she didn’t want to be in the open too long. “She was acting strange earlier today. Very nervous.”
The artificial lake and the folly were beyond the ridge, but she didn’t disappear over the ridge. Instead she picked her way through the dense trees, moving farther away from the house. Her blond head was barely a speck at this distance, but it was a bright counterpoint to the shadows under the trees. Suddenly, her head dipped toward the ground.
“Did she fall?” Alex asked.
“I can’t tell.” I hopped up and crossed to the telescope. “Grace, do you mind if I have a look?”
“No, go ahead. You can see all the way down to the river.”
I swiveled the telescope toward the woods and squinted through the viewfinder.
It took me a few seconds to find her, but when I did manage to get the telescope aimed directly at her and focused, an image popped into clear view. Holly squatted near the ground, a palm-sized stone gripped in one hand. She brought the stone down on another rock firmly several times. I could faintly hear the sound of stone striking stone ring out. Her face was strained, and she glanced around a few more times, checking the woods between the blows.
I moved the telescope lower and focused. A crushed and mangled mess of plastic leapt into view for a second before her hands swept it up. It was mostly pieces, but I did recognize the hinge of a flip phone.
