A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  But what she wondered at would have to wait for a moment or two because in her forthright and no-nonsense way Miss Jekyll was addressing the three savagely red roses that were the proud contribution to the world of the tea rose by Mr. Wickham.

  “From seed, Mr. Wickham?” Miss Jekyll’s gruff voice reached all of them easily.

  “Yes, the first two are crosses from…” and Clive irritably gave the lineage of his Clive’s Red, Wickham’s Justice, and the brash Court Scarlet. As Miss Jekyll continued to discuss Mr. Wickham’s roses, Mrs. Wickham broke away from Mrs. Haldane, sidled up to Clementine and with a self-conscious, girlish laugh said, “Clive worships his roses. He is far more interested in them than anything or anyone else.” Another little laugh and Clementine nodded and smiled without taking her eyes off Miss Jekyll in conversation with Mr. Wickham, but turned her right shoulder a little to invite more confidences.

  “But I don’t expect him to win,” Mrs. Wickham said with the conviction of the enlightened. “One does not spend one’s life married to a rosarian without being made aware of the many problems they grapple with when producing a new strain.” Again the affected laugh, but Clementine nodded in agreement to encourage more information.

  “Clive’s roses are very demanding,” she said. “They need masses of rich fertilizer to thrive and unfortunately Clive’s Red suffers from root canker, discovered too late and passed on to the other roses.” She spoke with happy enthusiasm, as if every failure along the way that caused Mr. Wickham a sleepless night was a gift to her.

  They were certainly quite the most oppressively horrid shade of red Clementine had ever beheld in a rose, more like the color of brick than the rich and deep hues that make the true red rose so breathtaking. Miss Jekyll evidently agreed because she was delivering a little lecture on the importance of clear reds and passed over Court Scarlet and Wickham’s Justice.

  “Told you so,” muttered Mrs. Wickham. “The only rose here worth its salt is Golden Girl.” She sighed.

  “Mr. Bartholomew’s rose?” Clementine prompted.

  “Yes; the scent is exquisite, the petals beautifully formed, the leaves glossy and bright, and its stem is strong and straight. Golden Girl is more like a…” She racked her brain, stuck for the term she was seeking.

  “Old Garden Rose?” supplied Clementine.

  “No, the French one.”

  “Ah, the Bourbon Rose.” Clementine, who had been impressed with the young woman’s knowledge, now realized that she was merely parroting a higher authority. Mrs. Lovell? No, it was probably her old flame Mr. Bartholomew talking about his own specimens.

  “Yes, that’s it, the Bourbon Rose—Rupert’s garden at Fairview is full of old roses. It seems he admired everything that was French,” she added rather sadly.

  Does this absurd young woman still fancy herself in love with Mr. Bartholomew? thought Clementine. I can’t say I am surprised; her husband is such a tetchy little worm. What misery it would be to be shackled to a man who believed his role in life was always to correct.

  Miss Jekyll had moved on and was now in discussion with Mrs. Lovell, who was standing with her head bowed to accept her verdict. Mr. Urquhart was quite right, both Lovely Amelia and Lovell’s Beauty were identical in shape and color, a particularly flat, rather pasty pink that put Clementine in mind of her Wood’s Cherry Tooth Powder, and, if Mr. Urquhart was to be believed, had no scent whatsoever. Miss Jekyll’s voice, pitched low for Mrs. Lovell’s benefit only, was inaudible to the group craning their necks to hear what she had to say.

  “No scent,” Mrs. Wickham informed. “I don’t think Miss Jekyll is particularly impressed with Mrs. Lovell’s roses. But they are healthy. Extraordinarily vigorous and only prone to powdery mildew if the weather is particularly warm and wet, and since this is England…” She laughed again and her husband looked up at her and frowned.

  Miss Jekyll’s conference with Mrs. Lovell was involved and Clementine noticed that Mrs. Lovell did not look particularly crushed. She nodded earnestly at Miss Jekyll’s suggestions and jotted down little notes on the back of an envelope, then thanked her at the end.

  “Now this will be interesting.” A sly little giggle as Miss Jekyll moved on to Mr. Urquhart. Really the girl is quite treacherous, thought Clementine, wishing she had not encouraged her to be so outpsoken, and she is behaving abominably.

  Mr. Urquhart was dressed for a chilly day. He was wearing a well-tailored frock coat and a silk tricot wrapped up high and tight around his neck. Gray suede gloves and a cashmere shawl carefully draped over his shoulders had been donned in case any draft should permeate his outer barrier of worsted wool and silk.

  No wonder he wanted to have the competition in the conservatory, thought Clementine, noticing the old man shiver. This fresh air must be playing havoc with the balance of his system, poor old thing. It was difficult for her to see Mr. Urquhart’s expression as his face was obscured by the shadow of his tall, silk top hat. But it seemed to Clementine that Mr. Urquhart was doing all the talking and Miss Jekyll all the nodding as she stared down at the pretty roses in their pots. To Clementine’s horror she noticed that their leaves were a little yellow.

  “Maiden’s Blush and Cupid.” Clementine’s face flushed with annoyance as Mrs. Wickham’s clear young voice rang across the terrace. She turned with her forefinger uplifted in the traditional admonishment reserved for the very young or the ill-mannered, but not quickly enough to silence Mrs. Wickham’s opinion.

  “Of course their scent is quite delightful. Oh, if only they had leaves.” She tittered, and Clementine, as she stared across the terrace to the far horizon, wondered if it was possible that this unfortunate young woman could possibly have been drinking. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her voice was extraordinarily loud. She glanced at Mrs. Wickham out of the corner of her eye and realized why she was commentating on the roses in such a pronounced fashion. After everything she said she glanced at Mr. Stafford, standing next to Mrs. Jackson, to see if she had his attention. What a little flirt, thought Clementine. Every group has its resident coquette and this young woman certainly sees herself as the adored member of the Hyde Rose Society.

  “I like Mr. Urquhart’s roses,” said Clementine rather repressively, because she did. They reminded her of the delicate Noisette roses of her first season in London. She had worn a coronet of Old Blush roses in her hair for her first ball, very like the pretty pink-tinted roses in Mr. Urquhart’s pots. “They are so pretty and natural and the color is quite delightful, the softest tint of dawn.” She hoped she had silenced the girl, but she hadn’t.

  “But unfortunately no foliage, isn’t that rather important?” A pert laugh as Mrs. Wickham glanced over at the only man under forty standing on the terrace.

  “But of course there are leaves,” Clementine persisted. “And I am quite sure that Mr. Urquhart will succeed in strengthening his strain.” She kept her voice as pleasant as she could but she caught the young woman’s eye and frowned at her. Mrs. Wickham bit her lip, like a scolded child.

  Having delivered her correction, Clementine turned back to the group around the table, thinking as she did so that if only this young woman would leave the nursery and take her place in the adult world, perhaps her husband would take her more seriously and she wouldn’t have to behave quite so outrageously for attention.

  It was now Mrs. Bartholomew’s turn to receive the expert opinion of Miss Jekyll on her late husband’s roses. She stepped forward and gravely listened to Miss Jekyll’s praise for Golden Girl. The yellow is quite charming, thought Clementine. There is such richness and depth to its color. It looks fabulously robust. And his unnamed white rose is quite perfect.

  “Rupert really understood the art of breeding roses,” said Mrs. Wickham, clearly anxious to regain Clementine’s good opinion. “Golden Girl’s scent is quite wonderful. I have no idea how he managed to contrive a rose with such a heavenly scent.” Despite the positive words of praise, Mrs. Wickham’s voice was still too loud. H
er husband glared at her from over the top of his garish rose hedge, his annoyance palpable.

  Miss Jekyll’s final remarks to the Hyde Rose Society and their exhibits were not a surprise to anyone. She opened her verdict by saying that she had given her notes to each of them to assist in their furthering the difficult business of producing a strain of hybrid teas that were primarily disease-free. And then she placed the roses in order of merit.

  Clementine had always disliked active competition; she held her husband’s distaste for men who counted their bag at the end of a day’s shooting and compared their numbers with those brought down by others. She found it hard to look at the Hyde Rose Society’s exhibitors as they waited for the results of their impromptu contest like a pack of hungry wolves as they fastened their eyes on the particularly plump and earnest rabbit who had so thoughtfully judged their offerings.

  “Given the difficulty of your quest to produce the best tea rose possible, I am happy to say that the late Mr. Bartholomew has certainly achieved sterling results.” Miss Jekyll turned to Mrs. Bartholomew, who bowed her head with a smile of thanks. And Mrs. Wickham, who was standing in front of the group, clapped her hands together with a little cry of joy.

  “And despite his serious problems with yellowing leaves, I believe this could be corrected with more iron in your potting mixture, Mr. Urquhart. Maiden’s Blush and Cupid embody everything we seek in a hybrid. Their color is subtle, harmonious with nature, and pleasing, their shape quite delightful, and what is more, you have contrived to produce blooms with a most delicate and pretty scent.” Mr. Urquhart bowed with an expression of such exultant triumph on his face that Clementine had to look away.

  “Now this leaves Mrs. Lovell and Mr. Wickham in a direct tie.” An exclamation from Mrs. Wickham interrupted her momentarily as the young woman turned to her husband and said, “At least it is a tie, darling.”

  Miss Jekyll continued as if Mrs. Wickham had not uttered a word. “Both of your specimens are quite healthy, this is a tremendous start. But color and scent are areas to work on. And I hope that my notes to both of you will be of some help in furthering your strains. I am sure I will see a tremendous improvement next year.”

  “In my opinion, Rupert’s new white rose is actually perfect,” said Mrs. Wickham. Her voice cut across the group on the terrace and heads turned in her direction. “And I hope it is named after him, as it should be.” There was a hysterical note in her voice and Clementine saw tears spring into her eyes.

  Mrs. Haldane, looking extremely distressed, said, “Dorothy, c-come now. Of course, you know it will be…” and walked over to lay a restraining hand on the young woman’s arm.

  “I don’t, though, because Albertine…” Mrs. Wickham cried, jerking her arm away. “Rupert was working so hard to perfect his white rose. He was so proud of it, it must be named after him.” And, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, she ran from the terrace.

  All eyes immediately turned from Mrs. Wickham’s tempestuous exit back to Mr. Wickham standing to attention behind his roses. His hands were clasped behind his straight back, his mouth pulled into a tight line of disapproval. He neither looked at his friends nor turned his head to his departing wife, but stared down at Court Scarlet. But the expression on his face was tight and angry, and Mrs. Jackson looked across the terrace to meet Clementine’s astonished gaze and she raised her eyebrows as if to say, What on earth was that about?

  Chapter Ten

  “Jackson, I am utterly overwhelmed by these people, I simply can’t make out what is going on.” Lady Montfort was sitting by the window of her bedroom looking more than a little pensive. “It seems to me that too much information too soon can rather make one’s head swim. Have you had a chance to make head or tail of it all?”

  Mrs. Jackson hesitated; her experience of the world was extraordinarily limited. For the first time in her life she was a guest within a great house, rather than a servant below its stairs, and it was taking all of her concentration to maintain a level of behavior that would not discredit her mistress. She suspected that her ladyship, whose life had been as correspondingly narrow and protected as her own, was completely at a loss as to how to cope with this outpouring of opinion, not to mention the competitive jealousy so publicly demonstrated by the Hyde Rose Society.

  People of Lady Montfort’s station might keenly experience similar emotions as those they had just seen betrayed on the terrace, but they simply did not reveal them. In polite society emotion of any kind must be kept firmly under wraps. And there was certainly no public display of self-indulgence tolerated among the Talbots’ servants. It simply was not done. The British middle classes, she decided, were as a foreign people who inhabited a distant land and spoke an entirely different language. But one thing she understood quite unequivocally was that all the quirks and foibles found in human nature were universal. No matter if one was king, commoner, or tinned-beef-stew manufacturer: hopes, fears, and jealousies were felt deeply no matter what background one came from.

  “I would say that they are a most unhappy group of people, m’lady—except perhaps for Mr. Urquhart and Mrs. Lovell. And certainly all this gossipy information is rather confusing. To help me make sense of it, I have written up some notes. Shall I read them to you, m’lady?” And she turned as if to leave the room.

  “Oh, if only you would, Jackson. Thank goodness for your practical and level head. The more I go through everything I have been told, the more muddled I become. I can’t believe we have only been here twenty-four hours, it feels more like as many days.” She laughed as she said this; perhaps embarrassed, her housekeeper suspected, that she had succumbed to voicing her own complaints. “I was wondering just now if perhaps we have taken on more than we can manage.”

  Her ladyship’s face was tired and it had occurred to Mrs. Jackson more than once this morning that she seemed almost despondent. On two occasions during their walk to the lake she had noticed that she had looked almost depressed, saddened even. Something else must have happened that she is not telling me about, she thought. She seemed to be coping quite well with all of them last night. Perhaps it’s all this talk of war.

  “After luncheon Miss Jekyll will make her getaway. The poor woman will probably never forgive me for involving her in this farce of a symposium. Goodness me, how striving they all are with their desire to compete and be awarded prizes—so unattractive. I was thinking that when Miss Jekyll leaves, this gives us a perfect excuse to go too. Even though Maud—oh my goodness they have got me at it too—Mrs. Haldane, has begged me to stay until the end of the week. But the thought of it fills me with dread. I think it best if we call it a day, Jackson, I really do. We can find Mrs. Armitage a post in London quite easily. There is surely no need for us to try to prove that one of these strange people actually murdered Mr. Bartholomew.”

  Mrs. Jackson, who had been on her way to her room for her notes, stood in the doorway and waited for further instructions, but none came so she said, “Of course, m’lady. I will start packing before you go down to luncheon. Then we will be ready to leave with Miss Jekyll after luncheon.”

  “And before we have to eat dinner with that dreadful Mr. Haldane.” Lady Montfort shuddered and Mrs. Jackson guessed that it was the presence of the master of the house that was making her ladyship want to run for the safety of Iyntwood.

  “I am not sure that I can bear any more talk of war in that horribly triumphant way he has. And the sight of his poor drooping wife’s anxiety that she might say the wrong thing.” Her eyes, as she stared across the room to the tapestry at the far end of the room, were particularly troubled. “I have come across some unpleasant men in my life, Jackson, but no one as despicably coarse as Mr. Haldane. It makes my heart wrench for that wretched woman as I watch her trying to gauge his mood and say the right thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he poisoned Bartholomew. I really wouldn’t.”

  Good grief, thought Mrs. Jackson, what is she on about? Mr. Haldane is certainly rather uncouth, and he is po
ssibly a bit of a bully to his rather feeble wife. But Mrs. Haldane does not seem to be particularly wretched and her husband provides very lavishly for her. Nevertheless, she obliged by summing up her thoughts on the master of the house based on the two things she had been told about him.

  “He was jealous of his wife’s friendship with Mr. Bartholomew, apparently, m’lady, and if we are to go to war, he will probably secure a government contract for his tinned beef now that Mr. Bartholomew is dead and his business in disarray. So Mr. Haldane has most certainly gained by Mr. Bartholomew’s death.”

  “Do you really think so, Jackson? Do you really think he might have killed Bartholomew?” Lady Montfort was sitting very straight in her chair, and she turned her head and fixed her gaze intently on her housekeeper’s face as she sought her opinion.

  Mrs. Jackson realized that their going or staying depended on her answer. If they left now, she could go back to Iyntwood and get on with her abandoned duties. There was much to do to ready the family for their journey north to Inverness. Certainly Mr. Hollyoak would resent her being absent at such a time, and it was not fair to make him struggle on alone when she had only just returned from her summer holiday. But there again, she was intrigued by this group of ill-assorted people, and she had spent such a pleasant morning renewing her acquaintance with Mr. Stafford, and their most pleasant reunion was perhaps the most puzzling part of the dilemma she faced.

  “If Mr. Bartholomew was murdered, m’lady, and we still can’t be sure he was, then with what I know at this moment, I would pick Mr. Haldane as my favorite suspect.” She said this firmly and met her ladyship’s eye as she thought, You have as good as sealed your fate for the next few days, my girl.

  “Give me your reasons, Jackson. Read me your notes.” And Lady Montfort reached for her own leather-bound notebook and searched on the table for her pencil, and Mrs. Jackson walked into her room and returned again with her neatly written thoughts.