A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  The warm summer air carrying the drowsy and hypnotic sound of late-afternoon birdsong was now accompanied by the soft chink of china and the rattle of teaspoons as Hollyoak and his attendants set about laying the table with the reverence that such ceremonies required.

  Clementine opened her eyes and observed a short, rounded figure whose shape somewhat resembled a large onion, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, approaching at an energetic pace. She closed the book on Althea’s letter and laid aside her plans for the family visit to the Highlands of Scotland.

  “Ah, tea,” Miss Jekyll said. “Gardening on a warm afternoon is such thirsty work.” She peeled off a pair of heavy leather gardening gloves and dropped them onto the lawn beside her chair. “I am glad to say that Mr. Thrower’s valiant fight to save the rose garden has been victorious, Lady Montfort. Not a sign of black spot anywhere; everything is thriving and quite healthy. He must be careful to spray again in autumn and again, to be on the safe side, early next year, before things start to sprout. But a capital job though, you have to admit it all looks quite splendid.” She turned to survey the immaculate rose garden stretching before them in formal beds that spilled a profusion of blooms in ivory, buffs, golds, reds, carmines, and pinks onto the smooth grass pathways intersecting each parterre.

  “When Thrower appeared at the end of April holding a leafless rose stem in one hand and a handful of black-and-yellow leaves in the other, I must admit I was close to panic.” Clementine would not forget the shock of seeing leaves that had unfurled in the first warm days of spring with the glossy gleam of vigorous health, curled and discolored two weeks later with a virulent case of black spot. Without hesitation she had written to Gertrude Jekyll begging for her help. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Jekyll, for coming to our rescue. Once one rose goes down with the disease, you live in dread that it will spread to the others before you have a chance to treat them.” And knowing what was expected of her, Clementine did not keep her guest waiting but sat forward on the edge of her lawn chair to pour tea.

  She was well aware how lucky she was that Miss Jekyll, old friend and very distant neighbor, was prepared to motor up from Surrey to spend a couple of days pottering around her gardens as their guest at Iyntwood. And knowing how much Gertrude Jekyll enjoyed her food, Clementine had been careful to instruct her cook to be lavish; Miss Jekyll’s time was much sought after. Clementine smiled as she thought that asking Gertrude Jekyll to come and advise her head gardener on cures for rose diseases was rather like asking the late King Edward to pop over and give some instruction to the butler on what port to lay down in the cellar.

  Miss Jekyll, now comfortably seated in a wide lawn chair, fixed expectant eyes on a Victoria sponge cake sandwiched with raspberry jam and thick yellow cream adorning the middle of the table on its crystal cake stand. And the two women fell into the most satisfying of topics, that of roses: the best breeds to cultivate and the benefits of different fertilizers.

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Lord Montfort, who came across the terrace toward them, followed by his dogs. Ralph Cuthbert Talbot, the Earl of Montfort, was a calmly mannered man, with the habitual leisurely air of the landed aristocrat. In looking up to greet her husband, Clementine noticed his preoccupied expression and suspected that all was not quite well in his world.

  “Lovely afternoon…” He put an affectionate hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Just heard from Harry; he wrote to say that he will join us at Wethergill, but only for a couple of weeks; he and Tom Sopwith are hard at work on testing a new aeroplane design.” Their eyes briefly met over Miss Jekyll’s head.

  Oh, dear, she thought, careful to keep any concern to herself, for any mention of their only son’s fascination with flight and exploring new innovations in aeroplane design with his engineering friend at Mr. Sopwith’s aeroplane manufactory always stirred a little anxiety in Clementine’s maternal bosom. Last winter Harry had been offered a commission by the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, to join the new Royal Naval Air Service and had added the rank of captain to his traditional title: Viscount Lord Haversham. “I am so glad he can get away,” was her response to this news; there was no need to burden their guest with their family problems. “Miss Jekyll has just been congratulating us on the success of our fight to save the roses from black spot.”

  Gertrude Jekyll laughed and lifted her second cup of tea to her lips. “Yes indeed, Lord Montfort, as you can see, the garden is certainly at its best.” Her dark brown eyes shone with health and good humor behind wire-rimmed spectacles. How old is she now? thought Clementine as she gazed at Gertrude Jekyll’s large, tanned face deeply lined from exposure to all weathers. She must be in her seventies and she has twice the energy of a woman half her age.

  Underneath her serviceable straw hat Miss Jekyll’s hair was quite gray, but her large, strong hands held her teacup with light delicacy and her movements were brisk and assured; there was no indication from her vital good health and abundant energy that this little tub of a woman had any intention of slowing down the tempo of her busy and purposeful life. She neatly wolfed down a couple of sandwiches as if by sleight of hand, and, with her mouth full, she nodded an enthusiastic “Yes,” to Hollyoak’s proffered slice of cake.

  Lord Montfort set down his cup and dropped a hand to offer the last bite of his sandwich to the dog lying closest to him, causing the heads of the other two lying on the grass at his feet to lift in immediate expectation. He reached for two more sandwiches, so as to avoid hurt feelings, and said in his quiet and unemphatic way, “I’m afraid I heard quite the most depressing news this afternoon.” He had their instant attention. “Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria has just declared war on Serbia. Apparently he does not believe that the Serbian government made a sufficient attempt to comply with his request to deal effectively with their anti-Austrian rebels. I was praying this wouldn’t happen after the assassination of his nephew in Sarajevo but, unfortunately, it has.”

  “I heard that his demands were wholly unreasonable.” Gertrude Jekyll’s profession kept her busy at the country houses of Britain’s top families in government, so she was well informed. “And what about the German kaiser? You can be sure he’s backing the emperor.” She put down her half-eaten piece of cake. This was indeed grave news.

  “The situation is just about as bad as it can possibly be. Serbia complied with the Austrian government’s demands the best they could—but they refused to have an Austrian police force maintain law and order in their country. So Austria has declared war. This means, almost inevitably, that Russia will rumble to her feet in defense of Serbia and in defiance of Austria and, if so, it would be impossible for Germany and France to refrain from lending a hand to one side or the other. So at the moment we are in measurable, or imaginable, distance of a real disaster in Europe.”

  “But we would not involve ourselves, surely?” Clementine felt a ripple of alarm as she reluctantly left the serene world of gardening and roses to join a greater one that suffered far more threats in this complicated day and age than simple black spot. “Surely it’s just a storm in a teacup?” she asked hopefully, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a sip of China tea.

  The ominous word war hung in the soft afternoon air. If Britain was pulled into war, Harry and his group of pilots would take off in their ridiculous flying machines to do something he often referred to jubilantly as “air reconnaissance.” She glanced at her husband’s serious face, no wonder he had looked so tired when he’d walked across the terrace to join them. “Surely it’s just Austrian bluster in response to what happened in Sarajevo? Isn’t that what everyone is saying?” She managed to remain calm as she said this, but underneath her polite suggestion alarm bells rang. Althea, sailing toward the Baltic Sea, was probably already putting ashore somewhere in Estonia. Oh good heavens above, they simply must put about and come home now; her fingers tightened on the fragile handle of the cup she was holding and she carefully set it down in its saucer on the table. It was out of t
he question that Althea continue on with this ridiculous junket if there was unrest in Europe. And she would write immediately to Verity and tell her to consider extending her month’s stay in England until this falling-out in Europe was well and truly over.

  Her husband sensed her alarm and hastened to reassure: “I have telegraphed to Clarendon to advise him to turnabout and head for home—with our daughter onboard, no matter how persuasive she is about exploring the Baltic. There is probably no real need to curtail their yachting holiday, but we should play it safe.” Clementine blessed her husband’s unruffled and farsighted view, and his ability to put a firm foot down where Althea’s gadding-about was concerned and only prayed that her cousin Clarendon had the strength of character not to be persuaded otherwise by their strong-minded daughter.

  Having reassured his wife of their daughter’s imminent arrival home, Lord Montfort returned to the possible crisis in Europe. “I hope it is a minor storm, but the assassination of Franz Ferdinand has given the Austrians the excuse they were looking for to bring Serbia fully under their control. And now we must all sit back and wait to see how things roll out from here.” His wife noticed that he did not add And pray they roll out smoothly, because she was quite aware that prayer would not help in this particular instance.

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Jackson discovered that she was not to be given the opportunity to ease her way back into the rhythm of her working day after her holiday. Early the following morning, once she had quieted Mrs. Thwaite’s vociferous complaints and soothed Mr. Hollyoak’s injured dignity, she was on her way to the linen press to check the inventory when she was stopped by the first housemaid.

  “Mrs. Jackson, there is a woman at the scullery door asking for you. She said she wanted a quick word, if you have the time.” Agnes’s round, pretty face expressed the deepest curiosity for Mrs. Jackson’s visitor.

  “And did she say who she was and why she was here, Agnes?” And then a sigh as the housemaid replied, “I’m sorry I forgot to ask her name, Mrs. Jackson, but she’s quite a respectable sort and she said it was urgent.”

  A caller belowstairs who was not known to the Iyntwood servants might be the bearer of interesting news. The working day was long and often monotonous and, as Mrs. Jackson knew only too well, any interruption would be greeted with hopeful enthusiasm by maids and footmen alike.

  “Very well, tell her I will be along in a moment, and next time please take the trouble to find out a little more before interrupting me.” Her ten-day absence had evidently been a holiday for everyone belowstairs, she thought as she took off her black apron.

  The woman who was waiting for her at the scullery door was not known to her, but she was, as Agnes had said, a respectable person. Mrs. Jackson’s glance took in her serviceable summer coat of reasonable quality, her hat tidy and suitable, and her darned but clean gloves despite the heat of the late July morning. It took less than a minute for the housekeeper to assess her visitor’s status and background: a middle-aged working woman from the respectable upper-servant class, or perhaps the wife of a farmer with a small holding.

  “Good afternoon, I am Mrs. Jackson, you asked for me?” She walked through the scullery door and out into the courtyard, leaving the door ajar behind her. No stranger, no matter how respectable he or she might appear to be, was invited into the house even belowstairs.

  The woman hesitated. There was a slight air of tension about her and Mrs. Jackson suspected that she had come to ask a favor, and one that she was not quite sure would be well received. To keep their conversation from being overheard by the kitchen maids, who were all crowded into the scullery and peering through its windows, she walked her visitor a little way out into the kitchen courtyard, and sat down next to her on a bench under the shade of the mulberry tree.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Jackson. You don’t know me, but my name is Beryl Armitage and my brother is Walter Armitage, who works here as a dairyman on his lordship’s estate.” Mrs. Jackson instantly recognized the familial similarity between brother and sister. Mrs. Armitage was stout of body and limb, with a sturdy strength about her. She had a round shiny face, a cascade of chins, and her deep-set blue eyes were clear and met Mrs. Jackson’s with the honest hope that surely help was in the offing. She couldn’t imagine why the dairyman’s sister was here to see her and she waited for Mrs. Armitage to state the reason for her visit.

  “I am, or rather I was, the cook over at Hyde Castle near Bishop’s Hever, Mrs. Jackson. I am here to ask for her ladyship’s help in getting to the bottom of something that happened at Hyde Castle and has been bothering me for some time.” Now that she had revealed that she was in need of help, Mrs. Armitage paused as if asking permission to continue. And the housekeeper gave it with a nod of her head.

  “It’s like this, Mrs. Jackson. Almost five months ago now, in early spring, the third of March it was, Mrs. Haldane had a group of friends staying at the castle and, all of a sudden like, one of them got sick and died. An accidental death, the doctor said it was. He said that Mr. Bartholomew, for that was the gentleman’s name, had died from food poisoning, most probably from a tainted dish of kedgeree at breakfast. To make a long story short, I was turned away without notice and with no reference.” It was evident that Hyde Castle’s former cook was still upset by the incident as her eyes filled with tears before they were quickly blinked away.

  Mrs. Jackson said nothing, knowing that there was more to come, but she tilted her head in sympathetic encouragement.

  “The reason why I have come here, Mrs. Jackson, is that I don’t believe it was accidental food poisoning at all. For I had some of that kedgeree myself before it went upstairs to the dining room. I believe Mr. Bartholomew’s death was planned by someone in the house and that he was…” Mrs. Armitage’s anxious eyes regarded her as she faltered, and then said with a rush of determination: “I am here to report a murder, Mrs. Jackson, the murder of Mr. Bartholomew.”

  Mrs. Armitage’s words sounded overloud in the quiet courtyard and Mrs. Jackson half turned to the open door of the scullery. She got up from the bench and went to close it. And when she returned she took a moment before she replied, “Have you been to the police about what you suspect, Mrs. Armitage?”

  “No,” the woman confessed, “indeed I have not. I am sure the police would disbelieve me. The doctor said Mr. Bartholomew died of food poisoning from something I prepared. And that was what was decided at the inquest too, even though I told them I had tasted the kedgeree, before it was sent upstairs, with no ill effects whatsoever. I am sure that the police would think I was just trying it on if I was to go to them with a story contrary to what the inquest had decided. Mr. Haldane is a very rich man, influential, so to speak.” She left it to Mrs. Jackson to see the futility of going to the police when Mr. Haldane had sacked her and had a death certificate clearly stating the cause of Mr. Bartholmew’s accidental death to be as a result of her negligence.

  Mrs. Jackson sat for a moment in thought. If a hand holding a red flag had appeared from behind the mulberry tree and started waving it she would not have been surprised. “But I don’t quite understand why you are telling me all of this,” she said, and she smiled because she didn’t want to appear callous as the poor woman was now perspiring freely even though they were sitting in the shade.

  Recounting the story of her hopeless predicament had caused Mrs. Armitage’s shoulders to slump in despair as she stared down at the toes of her sensible boots peeking out from the hem of her serviceable, navy blue skirt.

  “Just a moment, please, Mrs. Armitage.” Mrs. Jackson got up from the bench, walked back to the scullery, shooed a crowd of kitchen, house, and scullery maids back to work, and returned with a glass of water. Mrs. Armitage took a grateful sip and then went back to explaining the reason she was bothering Mrs. Jackson with her strange request.

  “There is a gentleman working for Mrs. Haldane who said that you and Lady Montfort might be able to help me. He is known to both of you
, he says. His name is Mr. Stafford and he sends his respects.”

  Mr. Stafford? Mrs. Jackson was so taken aback at the mention of his name that she stared at Mrs. Armitage in uncomprehending surprise. How on earth had Mr. Stafford become involved in this unhappy situation? And why had he, in turn, involved Lady Montfort? After a moment’s pause she guessed the answer. Mr. Stafford had worked for the Talbot family for the past eighteen months in designing and establishing Lady Montfort’s new sunken garden and planning an extension to the rose garden. He was a capable and likable man, a bit too outward in his manner, perhaps, but highly regarded by both Lord and Lady Montfort, and, if she was honest, by herself as well. Mrs. Jackson’s rather stern expression softened as she remembered how particularly sympathetic and helpful he had been during that ugly business a summer ago over the murder of Lord Montfort’s troublesome nephew. What a mess it had been until her ladyship had involved herself in the puzzling events surrounding that nasty boy’s death. Well, it hadn’t ended too badly after all, they had between them sorted things out, but Mr. Stafford had been most generous with his time in helping her look at people’s behaviors in a different way from that traditionally expected of position and duty. As a result, they had become quite good friends. She remembered the last time they had met, and then resolutely pushed to one side the memory of a pleasant afternoon spent at Kew Gardens. Mr. Stafford’s work took him all over the country and her life was here at Iyntwood, so she had not expected to hear from him again. But it was not really a surprise that his name had cropped up in offering Mrs. Armitage a possible solution to her problem by recommending she confide in Lady Montfort. Well, I suppose the very least I can do is listen to the rest of this poor woman’s story, she thought.