A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  “Yes, if we dare to cut them.” He laughed for the first time and Mrs. Jackson caught a glimpse of large, white, even teeth. His natural laughter made the man appear years younger and less studiedly flamboyant in his manner. “If you wish to put roses in here, then I would suggest you walk out to the rose garden. There are plenty of blooms there you may cut. I will send Charles up with some secateurs and gloves. He will also show you to Mrs. Haldane’s garden room, where you may arrange them.”

  “Will Mr. Haldane join the gathering?” she asked.

  “No, he will not, Mrs. Jackson. These are Mrs. Haldane’s friends, not his.” He said this as if he personally had forbidden Mr. Haldane to attend, and once again she sensed the butler’s dislike for his master and regard for his mistress.

  “Oh, then we need to remove a chair, we have one too many.”

  “No, we do not, Mrs. Jackson; Mrs. Haldane particularly wants her landscape designer to come up to the house for this talk. I believe he trained with Miss Jekyll and whatever she has to say might be helpful to his work here.”

  She felt alarmed only for a few seconds. This is why I feel so out of sorts, she thought, this is why I am feeling on edge and unsure. She was both dreading and looking forward to seeing Mr. Stafford again. She lifted her eyes and found the butler’s intense gaze fixed on her face, and he immediately averted his eyes. He is probably waiting for me to bring up this business of Mrs. Armitage, she thought.

  “Mrs. Armitage…” she said in a low tone and then stopped as he lifted a hand to silence her and turned to the footman. “Thank you, Charles, that will be all for now. Go downstairs and set up trays for coffee and ratafia biscuits. Mr. Urquhart and Mr. Wickham will join the ladies immediately after dinner, so please make sure we have port wineglasses on a separate tray.” And Charles, without a backward glance, left them alone together.

  “Yes, Mrs. Jackson, we must indeed talk about this very unfortunate business of Mrs. Armitage. What will become of her, do you think?”

  “I think her ladyship will find Mrs. Armitage a position in London, Mr. Evans. I hope she is a good cook.”

  “The finest.” This was said with such simple conviction that it made Mrs. Jackson lose some of her aversion to his rather florid manner. “She brought refinement to the dishes she prepared that far outshone anything I have had from French chefs in more prestigious establishments.” Then his showy manner reasserted itself: “You must understand, Mrs. Jackson, I worked for Lord Carmichael at Reaches for many years.” His large, dark eyes were fixed on her face as if waiting for confirmation that she was impressed. She said nothing. “And before that I trained as a footman in this very house when the Rigby family owned it. This was of course just before they lost their fortune and had to give up this lovely house. So I remember Hyde Castle as it was in its gracious days and I am familiar with how an establishment like this should be run for a family of quality, and also for the standard of food that should be served to them.” He stopped and stared at her as if waiting for her to acknowledge his credentials before continuing. Her face remained impassive as she nodded for him to continue. “Mrs. Armitage also worked for the Rigby family; she was a kitchen maid, training up to become a cook.” He smiled, and then to her surprise he said, “Mrs. Armitage’s talents were completely wasted on the boorish individual who now owns this lovely old house.” Another pause before he concluded rather dramatically, “In my opinion, Mrs. Jackson, our wonderful old traditions and our great families are rapidly becoming a thing of the past. I dread to imagine the future. Being in service is certainly not the same as it used to be in the old days, especially if we work for the likes of Mr. Haldane.”

  Good grief, thought Mrs. Jackson, it doesn’t get more honest or outspoken than that. She felt her cheeks color a little. There was a palpable animosity radiating from the butler. His face was without expression, but his eyes were blazing with the intensity of his meaning. She felt quite uncomfortable by this outward expression of emotion. In all her working life she had never heard an upper servant be quite so contemptuous of his master in such a dramatic manner. Why does he continue here if he dislikes his employer so much? Good butlers are hard to come by; it would be easy for him to find another place.

  “Mrs. Armitage did not use tainted fish in her kedgeree, Mrs. Jackson, I can assure you of that. She is a careful and conscientious woman and took pride in her work. Mr. Bartholomew was maliciously poisoned by someone staying in this house on the day he died, I am quite convinced of it. Mrs. Armitage was used as a scapegoat by someone callous and unprincipled enough to ruthlessly eliminate someone he called his friend. The doctor’s death certificate was a cooked-up lie and the inquest was a sham. And as a result, a hardworking woman was accused of being so slovenly in her work that she caused a man’s death.” To Mrs. Jackson’s acute discomfort, the butler demonstrated his outrage: his eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline, and his arms were stretched out on either side of him, palms upward, as if he were appealing for justice to a higher authority than the British legal system. As he struggled to regain his understanding of a world without integrity, he shook his head and turned abruptly away to straighten a chair just behind him.

  He means Mr. Haldane; he believes Mr. Haldane murdered Mr. Bartholomew by poison. Mrs. Jackson swallowed down her rising anxiety; the butler’s exhibition of his passionate dislike for the man he worked for was not only disturbing, it was distasteful.

  As if sensing her disquiet, he drew in a slow breath and continued more calmly. “Unfortunately, as I am quite sure you understand, this is the busiest hour of my day so I may not spend any more time with you. But I would like to invite you to tea tomorrow, belowstairs; we will be joined by Mrs. Walker, our housekeeper and, incidentally, she does not know the reason why you and her ladyship are our guests here. And afterwards I would be happy to answer any questions that you might have, so that justice can at last be brought to bear.” And on this rather dramatic note, the tall man turned and walked from the room, leaving Mrs. Jackson staring at the empty chairs that awaited the happy group of rosarians, so eager for their innovative lecture on garden design and color harmony, and for her to be reunited with her old friend Mr. Stafford.

  * * *

  To Clementine’s surprise, dinner turned out to be a far more interesting occasion than she had anticipated. After Mrs. Jackson had buttoned her into her evening dress and demonstrated her competence in dressing her hair, she came downstairs to the rose drawing room to find the company gathered in an excited group, all of them talking at once.

  “Good evening, Lady Montfort,” said Miss Jekyll, turning as she came into the room. “Awfully bad news, I am afraid. The situation worsens in Europe. It seems that Mother Russia is rumbling to her feet in defense of her ally, Serbia.” Miss Jekyll’s pleasant face was wrinkled in concern. “The Russian ambassador to London has just announced that if Austria does not back down with her intention to go to war with Serbia, then Russia will come to Serbia’s aid. Lord Montfort was right: the situation has grown into more than just a little tiff between neighboring countries.”

  What is the date today? Is Althea still sailing home from the Baltic Sea? Her hand hidden in the folds of her skirt, she counted off the days on her fingers with her thumb. It was the thirty-first, and her shoulders relaxed; the Bon Adventure would dock in Southampton tomorrow.

  “Without doubt Germany will declare on Russia, without doubt. And I hope they do. What Europe needs is a good housecleaning. Time we swept away all the degeneracy that is weakening Europe. We have to sweep away the scourge of socialism and trade unions, the unruly Irish and women who believe they are educated enough to vote, before it is too late. Too late I tell you.” Like all men whose emotions led their intellect, Mr. Wickham reiterated his stronger statements at least twice. It’s as if he is trying to convince himself, thought Clementine.

  “Nay, surely not, my dear Clive; we don’t want that kind of upheaval in our world.” But Mr. Urquhart’s gentle S
cots accent was drowned completely by a braying voice from the doorway, and there was Mr. Haldane, clad in white tie and tails that made him look even more strangely disproportionate than he had looked in his violently hued country tweeds.

  “Oh yes, there will be war, make no mistake. This is simply the beginning and tomorrow will bring us more news. Now, my dear…” He turned to his wife, who was hiding behind the chair of her friend Mrs. Lovell, whose expression bore such a strong resemblance to Clementine’s kind but no-nonsense nanny that she was not surprised when Mr. Haldane’s dictatorial tone was dropped abruptly as he acknowledged Clementine before addressing his wife again. “Tell Evans to bring my dinner to me in my study. I will be very busy indeed for the next few days.” He rubbed his large, clumsy hands together in pleasure and Clementine supposed that Britain’s being drawn into a European war held some useful significance for him.

  “Will you perhaps join us for…?”

  Mr. Haldane threw up his arm in dismissal of her invitation and Mrs. Haldane tittered nervously as if she were a silly little girl for even making any suggestion at all. Her husband swung away from her and, drawing ferociously on his cigar, marched to the door, leaving his flustered wife to wring her hands and girlishly exclaim over her now-unbalanced seating for dinner.

  Mr. Wickham made an attempt to reclaim his usurped position. “I have no doubt at all that Germany has an agreement with Austria, and if Russia doesn’t modify her aggression toward Austria then Germany will show her hand in the next few days.” But no one was listening; Mrs. Haldane’s friends were gathered around her to reassure their hostess that her dinner party would not be ruined.

  “Oh, we will make do, Maud,” Mrs. Bartholomew did her best to reassure. “Miss Jekyll can preside from one end and I will take your husband’s place. You can call me Albert.” She laughed at the masculine version of her pretty name.

  Clementine heard a sigh of relief from Mr. Urquhart, who had sidled up behind her as Mr. Haldane and Mr. Wickham had explained the European crisis to them. She turned to find him gazing at her from behind his round spectacles.

  “Dear Leddy Montfort.” He smiled gently. “We are at least spared Roger’s bellicose opinions on war for the rest of the evening. I do so hope the cook has remembered to provide me with steamed fish; there is so much red meat served in this house, and it has a very costive effect.”

  * * *

  Clementine, grateful that she would not have to sit next to her host for dinner, was disappointed that she was taken in to dinner by Mr. Wickham instead of gentlemanly Mr. Urquhart, where he proceeded to enumerate all the reasons why his hybrid tea roses would be found growing in every single suburban English garden for decades to come. His tedious pomposity had a rather stupefying effect on her and she was heartily grateful to turn to Mrs. Bartholomew to balance out his tiresome lecture on the dangers of grafting roses.

  “I understand from Mrs. Haldane that you are a plant collector, Mrs. Bartholomew.”

  “Yes, that is correct.” There was the faintest trace of an accent in Mrs. Bartholomew’s otherwise flawless English. She had an attractive voice, low in pitch, and her slight French accent was charming. “Every year I try to visit either China or Japan. Earlier this spring I was in the Hubei province of China.”

  “That must have been a wonderful experience.”

  “It was. Travel conditions are often difficult. We were in the west of the province, where the only access in and out of the area is by the river. The Hubei mountain region is full of deep ravines so when we were collecting we had to climb steep elevations all day. But it is a very beautiful part of China and there are some exceptional specimens to be found.” This would explain why you look so immensely fit, Clementine thought as she noticed the woman’s smooth, firm neck and shoulders and her supple and athletic grace.

  “And did you find any interesting new specimens?”

  “Yes, we collected some wonderful new species of ’osta and ’ydrangea.” The only indication that English was not her native language was that she habitually did not pronounce her aitches. “It is a plantsman’s paradise if you can tolerate the climate. In the spring season it often rains for days on end, then when the river floods it can be quite dangerous. Living conditions in the villages are primitive by our standards.” A slight Gallic shrug to her shoulders as Mrs. Bartholomew dismissed the danger and discomfort she had faced daily.

  “What a fascinating trip it must have been. How long were you away?” Clementine hoped she didn’t sound too nosy.

  “From the day we left France to the day we returned was nearly four months. I travel with my brother. He is the real plantsman; I am just there to assist.” She must have been gone about four weeks when her husband died, Clementine thought, mentally counting back through the months. Would Mrs. Bartholomew have been in the Hubei province on the third of March and was this why she had not returned home to England sooner? I must find an atlas, she thought, I have no idea where the wretched Hubei province is.

  “Is it safe to travel in China?” she asked.

  “Oh, do you mean the Wuchang Uprising and so forth?” Another slightly dismissive shrug. “But that was three years ago. Things became a good deal more violent when Emperor Puyi was forced to abdicate and then President Sun Yat-sen was kicked out. That was a terrible time for China. We made our collecting expeditions to Japan in those years. But now it is quite safe to travel in the republic. The people are most hospitable and we are always made very welcome.” She smiled as she shook her head as if things like revolutions were an inconvenient part of her daily life to be tolerated along with mosquitoes and damp clothes.

  “How exciting it would be to visit distant lands and explore such incredible places. But you must have felt quite cut off from the world.” Clementine pushed a little more, hoping that Mrs. Bartholomew would reveal her whereabouts at the time of her husband’s death and lament how inaccessible she had been when her husband’s friends had tried to contact her with the devastating news that he had died.

  But Mrs. Bartholomew merely gave her another polite smile. “Yes, the west of Hubei is very remote and several days’ journey from Shanghai, which is a most cosmopolitan city. Shanghai is often referred to as the Paris of the Orient. But I simply cannot understand why; it is a particularly unpleasant, vice-ridden rat hole.” This candid observation made Clementine almost choke with laughter on her fish; the last time she and her husband had been in Paris he told her daily he couldn’t wait to leave and had used the same words to describe the French capital.

  Evidently Mrs. Bartholomew was a reserved woman, because she made no attempt to continue their conversation as soon as Clementine stopped asking her questions. She fell silent, eating her turbot with precise, unhurried movements, rarely sipping wine from her glass.

  A massive roast sirloin was carried in with some ceremony and carved at the sideboard, and generous slices of meat were served. Before Clementine turned back to talk to Mr. Wickham she noticed Mr. Urquhart shudder and wave away the footman’s proffered slice of rare beef. Reaching for a water glass, he hurriedly produced an enameled Regency pillbox. Goodness me, thought Clementine, he is taking his medicine at the dinner table. Just the sight of beef has a ruinous effect on his system. And she smiled at the eccentricities of the dedicated valetudinarian as she turned back to Mr. Wickham, who was ready with more information for her on the business of rose breeding. Clementine was equally as ready for him. She fixed an unwavering gaze on his face and nodded her head at intervals as she listened in to the happy chatter on her left between Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Bartholomew. They are the best of friends, Clementine realized; they must have known each other for years. Mrs. Bartholomew’s natural reserve had disappeared completely and Mrs. Haldane sounded almost lively.

  * * *

  Mrs. Jackson ate an early dinner in her room and then went downstairs to the conservatory, which opened off the green salon. It was attached to the outside wall of the room, an incongruous Victorian addition to th
e castle’s adopted medieval style. Hexagonal in shape, its considerable height was capable of housing several ornamental palms. A pair of lead-framed glass doors opened inward from the salon into its humid interior, and an identical pair opened outward onto the terrace.

  When Mrs. Jackson walked into the conservatory she was immediately engulfed in the warm, clinging air of the great glass room. There was something breathless and claustrophobic in its suffocating heat and she felt oppressed by the rare tropical specimens towering above her and the riotous foliage and orchids crowding its transparent walls. In the center of the heated floor was a collection of deep wicker chairs with chintz cushions. She automatically counted them and found there to be more than enough to seat the Hyde Rose Society as they waited for their roses to be judged by Miss Jekyll.

  On a long, low trestle table were a collection of large, unglazed terra-cotta pots displaying the proud offerings of the Hyde rosarians. Mrs. Jackson was not a gardener but she knew that the still, damp heat of the conservatory was not one that made any rose particularly happy for long, and she wondered why the competition would take place in such an unlikely location. It must be because Mr. Urquhart feels the cold, she thought, remembering the elderly man’s cashmere shawl even though the July weather was particularly warm.

  She studied the roses on the table before her. She had never appreciated hybrid tea roses. She found them artificial and stiff, with their long, straight, thick stalks. They reminded her of the sort of scentless roses sold in florists’ shops. She walked along the table, glancing at the metal labels proudly proclaiming the name of the rose contained in each pot. Bending down, she read: Court Scarlet, Maiden’s Blush, Lovely Amelia. Her hand came up to her mouth and her eyes disappeared into delighted crescents of suppressed laughter. From behind her hand came a snort of muffled derision. Every rose on the table perfectly represented its creator. The only rosarian she had not yet met, nor ever would, was the breeder of Bartholomew’s Golden Girl, a splendid specimen of incomparable rich yellow with a scent as sweet and as delicate as ripe apples that was set slightly apart at the bottom of the table.