A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  Her housekeeper had never expressed any enthusiasm whatsoever in being asked to help her with their last two inquiries—even though she had been instrumental in their success. But she had been quick to draw her attention to Mrs. Armitage’s plight most probably out of a sense of duty, and not, sadly, because she was curious about what had happened at Hyde Castle. It was often rather difficult to gauge how Jackson felt about so many things; her professional role, it seemed, governed her most strictly. Ralph, on the other hand, was fully aware of why she was popping over to Hyde Castle and had had no trouble in telling her how he felt about it last night.

  “Clemmy, there is absolutely no need to pretend that you want to go and spend time with these wretched Haldanes. They will bore you to death. I can only suppose you are interested in what happened to that guest of theirs who was reported to have died of food poisoning while he was staying with them. I am afraid you are in for a disappointment, the inquest was quite clear—it was an accident.” He was laughing as he got into bed and lay down next to her. But she had said nothing as she turned her head on her pillow and they looked into each other’s eyes: she, measuring exactly how much disapproval she could hear in his voice for what he imagined she was up to; he, she imagined as he looked at her with that kindly and affectionate smile on his face, trying to gauge the strength of her determination to interfere in what was already a judicial fait accompli.

  “Not saying? Darling, you know I am putty in your hands—always have been—you can tell me surely?” He lifted his hand and stroked the hair off her forehead. “I know I have an eccentric wife”—he gave her a kiss—“who finds people and their murderous tendencies quite fascinating.” Another kiss, and Clementine smiled. “And who has developed a taste for pitting her clever brain against the odds. Your secret is quite safe with me.”

  Her husband’s appreciation of her quick wits and her original cast of mind did not always extend to his indulgence where her inquiries were concerned. He was even more disapproving of her involving their housekeeper. The Talbot family had occupied this corner of Buckingham and Oxfordshire for centuries; their arable farmland stretched in every direction from the country town of Market Wingley and provided a still rather feudal livelihood for countless tenant farmers. Ralph took his duty to those who depended on him most seriously—too seriously, Clementine often thought, as her husband struggled with the burdens of owning land in this new and progressive century. And it was her job first and foremost to conduct herself always as a countess and not as a carefree Mrs. Talbot.

  “What secret?” she asked and widened her eyes in pretended innocence, thinking that she was rather lucky that her husband did not view her just as an elegantly dressed, well-mannered appendage to his life, but clearly appreciated her for who she was. As long as I don’t let down the side, she reminded herself. As long as I maintain the status quo.

  Ralph gathered her into his arms.

  “That you dearly love a good puzzle—some people play charades and other silly parlor games to pass the time. But my wife likes to solve mysteries.” She relaxed. He was on board then, but there would be a stipulation, of this she was quite sure. Ralph might indulge her, but there was a limit. “And…” Ah, here it is. “You must promise me that if you find that things were not quite as they should have been, you will be prudent and call in Colonel Valentine.” He was referring to the chief constable for the county.

  “Of course I will, if I happen to turn up anything of suspicious interest. All I wish to do is help clear the name of a woman who might have been wrongly accused, and who has lost her living.”

  “Then we must do what we can for her if you find she was blamed unfairly and is in need of our help,” her husband had replied in a rather dismissive tone; he was often badgered by those dissatisfied with legal judgment on their lot in the county. “But I often find myself wishing that you would restrict your acts of charity to visiting the sick and in-need on the estate and not providing all comers with the benefit of your detecting abilities.”

  * * *

  Later, in the motorcar, sitting across from her newly appointed paid companion, Clementine decided that she had to accept her husband’s reluctance that she busy herself in other people’s business, just as she had to accept that her housekeeper was with her today because it was her job to serve the Talbot family, and that if Mrs. Jackson did not care for the task she would never have brought up the subject of Mrs. Armitage in the first place.

  Chapter Five

  Oh good Lord above, have we arrived at Balmoral? Mrs. Jackson thought as they drove through a pair of aggressively grand wrought-iron-and-gilt gates that marked the entrance to Hyde Castle. The Daimler continued on, up a long, straight drive through a small park to a tall, square stone house with pointed turrets at each corner and a crenellated parapet. It was a strangely overdone entrance, thought Mrs. Jackson, as she knew that there was no estate. The land had been sold off to pay the Rigby family’s debts long before Mr. Haldane had bought the castle, and the massive entrance gates that so portentously heralded their arrival were only to a modest park of some fifteen acres, which included the castle and its gardens.

  She was a little anxious about her role as a companion to Lady Montfort. She would be staying in the house as a minor guest, a paid appendage to her mistress, and would either eat her meals in her room or be invited to the occasional dinner or luncheon with the family. Any trips she made to the servants’ hall would be on errands for her mistress and she certainly would not be expected to eat belowstairs. But should she get out of the motorcar with her ladyship as it pulled up outside the entrance to the house, or should she remain in it to continue to the servants’ hall entrance with their luggage? Thankfully, her ladyship must have sensed her unease because she nodded for Mrs. Jackson to join her on the drive.

  The butler, Mr. Evans, was waiting for them on the threshold of his master’s house. Her first impression was that he was in his middle thirties; a tall man, with broad shoulders and impeccable bearing. His thick, dark brown hair was cut close, his arms were relaxed at his sides, and his gaze was fixed somewhere above their heads. He was at first glance a representative example of the well-trained upper servant. The man came down the steps to welcome them and she had a better opportunity to consider the only person at Hyde Castle who was willing to help them in their inquiry. It was evident that Mr. Evans was a prepossessing man; his features were well proportioned, but it was his eyes that were the most arresting feature of his face, they were large, well-shaped, and expressive and softened his large nose and strong jaw.

  She found the fact that the butler was willing to help them with their inquiry rather strange; in her experience, upper servants were loyal to their masters before anyone else, but as she had become aware in recent years, this was not always the case these days. She wondered why Mr. Haldane’s butler was willing to assist them in disproving that the cook had been sacked by his master for the negligent performance of her duties. She couldn’t imagine that Mr. Hollyoak would be so disloyal to a family he served, but then Mr. Hollyoak was from an older generation and the family he worked for was far more august than the Haldanes.

  “Good afternoon, m’lady. Miss Jekyll arrived ahead of you and has already gone up to her room.” The butler’s voice was low and pleasant, his manner correct—he did not seek eye contact—and his greeting was conventional and appropriate. Mrs. Jackson couldn’t fault his demeanor. So it was almost impossible for her to understand why she felt such immediate antipathy for the man.

  They followed him up the steps through the double, nail-studded oak doors into a large wood-paneled hall with a wide oak staircase and a heavily carved and ornamented balustrade leading up to the two floors above them. The exterior of the castle might look very much like a drawing of a castle in a child’s picture book, but inside it was simply another Victorian country house. How disappointing, thought Mrs. Jackson. I had so wanted to sleep the night in an ancient castle.

  She had not been qui
te sure what to expect of the Haldanes’ country house, as she did not run around the countryside with Lady Montfort on her many excursions to visit friends. That was Edna Pettigrew’s job as her ladyship’s maid; housekeepers stayed at home and ran things. So she was naturally curious as to what sort of house a man with “pots of money” but no name would own. And it was evident that there was lots of money to be had from the manufacture of tinned beef stew, for the castle was furnished in luxurious style; and from the little she had seen as they got down from the motor, the gardens that stretched out around the house were perfectly maintained.

  “Mrs. Haldane is waiting for you in the rose drawing room; her other guests will be coming up from the garden in just a few moments to join her for tea in the library.” The butler led them cross the hall and into a room with pink silk damask walls and cluttered with so much furniture, little tables and cabinets full of porcelain collections, that Mrs. Jackson immediately pulled in her skirt so that she didn’t inadvertently brush anything to the ground. The room was opulently appointed and gleamed with the gloss of recently acquired luxury, displaying none of the warm patina of old wood and the antiquarian collections that furnished Iyntwood.

  Mrs. Haldane was standing alone by the windows looking out across the well-kept lawns on the south side of the house. She was a tall woman, dressed in a pale pastel shade of aquamarine more suited to a woman of younger years. Two large, anxious eyes regarded them with considerable apprehension from a lined face framed by ornately dressed graying blond hair. The words fading into middle age struck Mrs. Jackson as apt in describing Mrs. Haldane. In her younger years she would have been a pretty woman, but there was overall something so insipid about her appearance that it was impossible to imagine that she had ever glowed with the radiant health of youth.

  Mrs. Haldane came toward them across the room, her hand stretched out in greeting to Lady Montfort. The contrast between the two women was marked. They were probably about the same age, and there all similarity ended. Lady Montfort’s skin was firm and unlined, and her glossy, bay-brown hair and brilliant dark eyes radiated vitality and purpose. Her figure was supple and still quite slender and she moved with the vigor and grace of younger years in her elegant afternoon dress and coat with her smart hat perched fashionably forward above her forehead. She made Mrs. Haldane look blowsy and tired, like an overblown rose at the end of summer, Mrs. Jackson thought as she watched the two women greet each other.

  “Lady M-M-Montford, I am Maud Haldane, so very pleased to meet you. How kind of you to come to our s-s-symposium and how generous of you to bring Miss Jekyll. We are indeed honored.”

  I have no doubt you are, thought Mrs. Jackson. Although she had no interest in gardens, she knew Miss Jekyll’s worth to those who tirelessly coaxed the earth to produce a profusion of flowers and shrubs in a weed-free but romantically natural state. Was Mrs. Haldane nervous of meeting her ladyship or was that a habitual stutter?

  Lady Montfort was cordial and quite at ease. “How very kind of you to invite us, Mrs. Haldane.” She turned to her housekeeper. “My companion, Mrs. Edith Jackson.” And Mrs. Haldane obediently walked to Mrs. Jackson and put her hand in hers and Mrs. Jackson gave it a gentle shake or two.

  “May I call you Edith?” The pale blue eyes fixed themselves earnestly on her face. Mrs. Jackson was appalled; she glanced at her ladyship, who was looking out of the window, her eyes shining in delight. “By all means, Mrs. Haldane,” she managed.

  “No, please call me Maud. Everyone does. We d-d-do not stand on ceremony at Hyde Castle.”

  More’s the pity then, thought Mrs. Jackson, wondering how she was going to cope with such a startling disregard for civilized convention. Would all the Haldanes’ guests be as informal and presumptuous as Mrs. Haldane? The use of her Christian name by a complete stranger made her feel most uncomfortable.

  “I expect you would like to freshen up a bit before tea time.” Mrs. Haldane could barely bring herself to look at Lady Montfort directly and appeared to be far more comfortable in addressing Mrs. Jackson. She is overwhelmed to have a countess in her house, Mrs. Jackson accurately assessed and felt immediate sympathy for the woman. She felt ill at ease herself masquerading as a paid companion when her rightful place was below stairs as a working woman and not standing around in a drawing room talking about tea.

  As the butler stepped forward to take them up to their rooms, the door to the drawing room opened and a large, middle-aged man came into the room. While he was not exactly tall, he more than made up for it with breadth of shoulder and girth. Mrs. Jackson realized it was Mr. Haldane, for it was without doubt the master of the house who came barreling into his drawing room, causing his butler to hastily step to one side, hands outstretched, his big fleshy face wreathed in smiles, and then seeing that there were two women in the drawing room with his wife, he stopped and looked to her for an introduction.

  “Lady M-M-Montford, may I present my husband, Roger Haldane?”

  Lady Montfort turned toward the man, her face composed in polite greeting, but Mr. Haldane rounded on his wife and said abruptly, “Montfort with a T, Maud, not Montford. Lady Montfort will wonder if you are aware she is the Countess of Montfort.” And he barked out a laugh as he tried to seize Lady Montfort’s hand in both of his large paws.

  He has fingers just like pork sausages, thought Mrs. Jackson as she viewed his familiarity with her ladyship with distaste.

  “Hullo-how-are-you, Mr. Haldane.” Lady Montfort, in the flat monotone she used when she was offended, neatly avoided being grasped by the hand and turned to Mrs. Jackson. “And this is Mrs. Jackson, my companion. We are very much looking forward to meeting the Hyde Rose Society.” She stood her ground, and Mrs. Jackson marveled at her poise in the face of this big red-faced man who squared up to her like a pugilist about to take a swing.

  He barked out another too-loud laugh, barely glancing at the paid companion, and closed the gap between himself and Lady Montfort. He was so close he could have effortlessly engulfed her in his arms.

  “I know how you ladies love your flowers,” he boomed in what he evidently fancied was the hearty manner of the country squire. “Pretty ladies always love their pretty flowers.” Another series of barks. “It is an honor to have you in my house, Lady Montfort. Met your husband a few years ago at a local magistrates’ meeting.” And then, turning to his wife, he chided her as if she were a girl who had wandered down from the schoolroom. “What are you thinking, my dear, you haven’t even offered Lady Montfort so much as a cup of tea.” He smiled as he scolded, precipitating his wife into simpering apologies, which he cut off with a custodial and heavy hand on her shoulder.

  “My dear,” he said. “Busy day ahead of me, but I will look forward to meeting your guests at dinner.” And with that he turned and strode from the room. Lady Montfort had the sort of expression on her face that Mrs. Jackson had seen when her ladyship caught naughty boys teasing the smallest and most easily intimidated little girl of the group in the nursery.

  As Mrs. Jackson watched Mr. Haldane’s broad back disappear through the door she noticed that however well cut his tweed Norfolk jacket, it was the most disconcerting shade of what was often referred to as a heather mixture. This particular blend had relied on the lavender hues a little too heavily, she thought. She also noticed with distaste that his fat, red neck bulged over the back of his shirt collar.

  Mrs. Haldane had been reduced to a quaking state of indecision by her husband’s interruption and his jocular admonishments about the lack of tea.

  “I d-do hope you don’t think I have forgotten about tea,” she said, her anxious eyes begging to be forgiven. “W-we will be taking tea in the library just as soon has you have had a chance to freshen up a little, if that is all right with you both. Or of course we could take tea now if you would p-prefer.”

  “How kind of you, Mrs. Haldane. We will join you momentarily in the library.” Her comfortable manner had its effect on Mrs. Haldane, for she visibly relaxed and
turned to her butler to show them to their rooms.

  And off they went, shepherded out of the room and up the staircase to the third floor of the house, to a wide landing where the butler turned and led them down a corridor to two rooms at its end. He opened the first door, and they stood on the threshold of a room that looked east onto perfectly groomed herbaceous borders and the side of the great lawn that stretched away toward a grove of trees at its far end. The room was beautifully appointed and sumptuously furnished with wood paneling and some heavy tapestries hanging from ceiling to floor on the far wall at the window end. There was a door in the right-hand wall and the butler opened it to reveal Mrs. Jackson’s corner room, which was opulently furnished with a splendid view of the drive and the towering gilded wrought-iron gates that they had driven through just moments ago.

  “Quickly, Jackson, let’s leave the unpacking until later, and wash our hands. I am dying to meet the rest of these people, and it seems that Mrs. Haldane has quite taken to you already.”

  “Do I come down to tea with you, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson had opened Lady Montfort’s large trunk and was lifting out her beautifully packed gowns, each rustling in layers of tissue paper. She prayed she would be able to return the trunk to Pettigrew as equally well packed, or there would be head-shakings and little tuts for days.

  “Oh yes, Jackson, please do. Unless you would prefer otherwise, I think it a good idea for you to join us for all the meals here. And I hope you do not mind if I call you Edith.” Lady Montfort’s eyes were shining with merriment.

  “Not at all, my lady. Apparently, everyone else is.”

  * * *

  Tea was being served to a talkative gathering in the library as Mrs. Jackson and Lady Montfort rejoined their hostess. Some half a dozen people were grouped around the short figure of Miss Jekyll, all chattering gaily and, in the case of the ladies, fluttering and crying out their praises at the wonders she had wrought in the gardens of some of England’s most beautiful country houses.