A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  “What a pleasant interlude.” The butler smiled at her as he pulled her chair back for her. “Let us take a little walk into the kitchen courtyard so I can help you with your inquiries, before I have to oversee preparations for this evening’s dinner.”

  They stopped on the way to inspect the refrigeration system, in which Mrs. Jackson took a genuine interest as she had heard of the benefits of this innovation and hoped to convince Mr. Hollyoak that he should talk to Lord Montfort about buying one for Iyntwood’s kitchens. When Mr. Evans opened the door of the refrigerated pantry to a blast of icy air, she immediately decided to step up all efforts to have a similar model installed belowstairs at Iyntwood.

  “My goodness, Mr. Evans, how wonderfully cold it is. Like many old houses, we have blocks of ice on the larder floors to keep our perishables fresh. This would make things so much easier. How does it run?”

  “It is powered by gas, Mrs. Jackson, and that is the extent of my knowledge.” He swung the door closed and secured the catch. “Of course Mr. Haldane uses refrigeration in his factories for the meat, which is why we have this wonderful invention. It is a godsend, Mrs. Jackson, a perfect godsend, especially in a summer as warm as the one we are having this year. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that the haddock Mrs. Armitage used in that kedgeree was as fresh as it could possibly be.”

  The butler led the way up the main corridor toward the scullery door, which he opened for her.

  Once they were outside in the large kitchen courtyard, he quickly ducked around the corner into a covered passageway, which ran between the outer kitchen wall and the entrance to the dairy, where he came to an abrupt halt. And Mrs. Jackson found herself in near darkness, and quite uncomfortably close to the towering figure of the butler.

  Why on earth could we not have stayed in the larder and finished our conversation there? she asked herself as she sensed the butler’s tall, broad-shouldered frame looming over her in the confined space of the passageway. In order to demonstrate that this secretive meeting was for the butler to give her information, she stepped away from him and walked back to the entrance to the passageway before she spoke, making sure that her voice was neutral and her tone formal. “You mentioned yesterday that you thought the doctor’s death certificate was a cooked-up lie. What makes you think this?”

  If the butler guessed that looming over her in semidarkness had made her uneasy he gave no sign at all but answered her quite readily, in a low undertone, bending his head toward her ear in such a conspiratorial manner that she felt immensely irritated.

  “I think Dr. Arbuthnot was called in to give a death certificate for Mrs. Bartholomew because he is an old friend of Mr. Haldane. It was Dr. Arbuthnot who administered to the first Mrs. Haldane during a very difficult confinement. And it was Dr. Arbuthnot who was so drunk that night that he might have been responsible for the death of both mother and unborn child.” In the half-light she sensed that his dark, brooding eyes were fixed on her face, and she felt a little shiver of dislike. There is something very odd about this man’s demeanor, she thought. This hole-in-the-corner choice of meeting place made her think of furtive scullery maids sneaking out to meet their followers. And she sensed that the butler’s choice of this concealed place to talk demonstrated a complete lack of respect and propriety. She felt such distaste for the man that it was probably this that made her sound distinctly sniffy as she asked the butler to continue.

  “I believe, though I have no proof, that Mr. Haldane called in a favor when he specifically asked for Dr. Arbuthnot to come to the house when Mr. Bartholomew was found dead. I suspect that Mr. Haldane wanted a verdict of accidental food poisoning so that there would be no further investigation. Now, of course it might have been Mr. Bartholomew’s gluttony that killed him; I understand that his health was not particularly good…” a pause for effect, “or, that he was murdered by poison by someone staying in the house.”

  “How did you know his health was not good?”

  “Well, I suppose I don’t. He was not a particularly active man … he rarely moved a muscle if he could help it.”

  “What kind of man was he?” she asked, having formed many different opinions in the last twenty-four hours. “You say he was a glutton—was he grossly obese?”

  “No, he was not obese. On the contrary, he was a nice-looking man, very tall of course, well over six feet and large-framed. In his youth he might have been quite an athlete, but he enjoyed the pleasures of the table and he was no longer an active man, as I have said, so as he approached his middle years he was perhaps—er, softening a little.”

  He paused again and, annoyed by these long silences, she said, “Yes, please go on.” She didn’t want him to stop talking, didn’t want there to be silence between them in this ill-lit, narrowly confined place.

  “He was quite a well-setup man with thick, wavy brown hair that he wore unfashionably long and a luxuriant and well-kept mustache. He was always dressed well, with never a hair out of place … a complete gentleman and one who attracted the attention of the ladies,” the butler finished with a note of approval. A well-kept mustache and never a hair out of place does not necessarily mean that Mr. Bartholomew was a gentleman, but it certainly describes a man who would appeal to a certain type of woman, Mrs. Jackson thought, feeling the same sort of dislike for men who “attracted the attention of the ladies” as she felt toward Mr. Evans.

  “Was he pleasant to the staff?” She remembered Mr. Urquhart’s remark about pretty maids.

  “Oh yes, he had very nice manners. He got on well with everyone”—he cleared his throat—“especially the fairer sex,” and a playful little laugh as if she would also find Mr. Bartholomew attractive. Mrs. Jackson felt another stab of dislike. Mr. Haldane might bark at his wife and be a bit of a blustering lout, but he evidently did not fawn over and run after other men’s wives.

  “And Mr. Haldane, did he get on with Mr. Bartholomew?” She kept her tone cool and neutral.

  “Mr. Haldane is unfortunately a very difficult man, Mrs. Jackson. He is not a very likable individual, not popular—except perhaps with his wife. He married Mrs. Haldane when she was about twenty. She was such a pretty young lady then. Gentle, quiet, and one of the kindest women I know or ever had the privilege of working for. Not a lady by birth, you understand, but a gentlewoman nonetheless.” His loyalty to Mrs. Haldane softened the expression on Mrs. Jackson’s face for a moment, and it was as if the butler sensed it. He drew nearer and continued softly, “I was working here as a very young second footman when the first Mrs. Haldane died, not long after Mr. Haldane bought the castle. One of the reasons I stayed on was because Mrs. Haldane is such a kind and decent woman.”

  He was far too close; she could almost feel his breath on her cheek. Reflexively she straightened her back and lifted her hands, palms out, to ward him off. “Would you step back please, Mr. Evans?” And when he complied, “There now, that’s better.” She turned away from him and walked out from the entrance to the passageway into the courtyard. The sunlight fell on her face and she breathed more easily out in the open space of the yard. Mr. Evans joined her and stood at a respectful distance, his hands at his sides, the picture of the perfect butler. The contrast in his demeanor now that they were no longer in the darkened and cramped space of the passageway was almost absurd. He just tried it on with me, thought Mrs. Jackson. He was testing to see what I would do, what a low trick. Mr. Evans was the sort of cowardly male who waylaid young housemaids in dark corridors and inched up to them, watching closely to see their reaction so he might take advantage: a light touch to the upper arm, an absentminded pat on the bottom, or perhaps the more tender approach: smoothing a tendril of hair off a young forehead. She stared the butler down with a frown on her face, allowing him to see that she knew his type, that she was neither interested in him nor willing to be the focus of his attentions. It certainly had its effect: he straightened up and took another step backward, his manner immediately deferential. Ah yes, thought Mrs. Jack
son, I know your type all right, Mr. Evans, no wonder there are no young maids in this house.

  “Was Mrs. Haldane close to Mr. Bartholomew in a way that would cause her some trouble with her husband?” She didn’t really want to ask this question of a man who obviously had no sense of decorum, so she held herself stiffly upright and kept the expression on her face stern.

  The butler smiled at her. He had evidently played this game often enough to understand that she was not interested in him, and his tone as he replied was appeasing. “Mrs. Haldane was very fond of Mr. Bartholomew. And perhaps she felt tenderness for him, because he was a genuinely sympathetic man.” He said this, she thought, as if emphasizing that he was this sort of man himself. “He was a very different man from her husband, and this is perhaps why Mrs. Haldane sought Mr. Bartholomew’s company a little too often. But I can assure you, and as butler I would know, there was nothing improper between the two of them. Unfortunately, Mr. Haldane was obviously quite convinced otherwise. So you can imagine that this gave him a good reason to dislike Mr. Bartholomew, and he made this clear on several occasions. At one time he was so angry with what he perceived was improper conduct between the two of them that he threatened violence to Mr. Bartholomew. Not that anyone in the house was aware of this—their quarrel took place by the old dog kennels.” He threw out a long arm and gesticulated with a large, well-kept hand in the direction of the outbuildings on the other side of the kitchen garden that made up the stables and coach house.

  “And what about Mrs. Wickham, was she interested in Mr. Bartholomew?”

  “Mrs. Wickham naturally admired Mr. Bartholomew, as I said, he was a ladies’ man, and you have seen how Mr. Wickham treats her. But there was nothing between them.” His voice was quite dismissive and he offered no further comment on the giddy Mrs. Wickham. Which was odd, thought Mrs. Jackson, because Mrs. Wickham’s behavior on the terrace that morning would have led anyone to believe that she had cared for Mr. Bartholomew rather too much.

  “What can you tell me about Mrs. Lovell?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Lovell is a very respectable woman. She is a close and loyal friend to Mrs. Haldane. She has a very calming influence on the group.” So, nothing more than that? thought Mrs. Jackson. He has shared so much information about the Haldanes and Mr. Bartholomew and now he clams up about Mrs. Wickham and Mrs. Lovell. Am I being steered to suspect Mr. Haldane of murdering Mr. Bartholomew?

  “And Mr. Urquhart?” She wanted to be done with their interview; even in the open she found the man’s manner repellent.

  The butler laughed. “Mr. Urquhart is a gentleman of the old school, quite harmless unless you take away his toasted tea cake. And before you ask, I have nothing but the deepest respect for Mrs. Bartholomew.” He smiled, showing his large, perfect, and even white teeth, and into her mind sprang the image of the wolf in the fairytale who had waylaid the girl in a dark wood, looming out of the trees to stand too close and offer help.

  “Oh really?” she replied coldly. “Now why is that?”

  “Mrs. Bartholomew is an intelligent woman. She understood her husband very well, she knew he was harmless, and she managed him with tact and affection. He was lost without her when she went off on her trips.”

  “So what do you think happened here, Mr. Evans, on the day that Mr. Bartholomew died?”

  “I wish I knew, Mrs. Jackson, I really do.” The butler seemed to exhibit genuine concern now that she had touched on the reason for her questions. “It was a terrible thing to see Mrs. Armitage made a scapegoat in such a cruel way. I know the kedgeree was not spoiled—it could not possibly have been—but as to whether Mr. Bartholomew was murdered by poison, or simply died from a heart attack from his many excesses, it is not possible for me to say, of course. But I certainly had strong suspicions at the time that there was foul play. And Mrs. Armitage was convinced that Mr. Bartholomew was murdered.”

  Mrs. Jackson thought for a moment or two. From what they had learned so far from both Mr. Urquhart and the butler, there seemed to be motive enough for both Mr. Haldane and Mr. Wickham to have wanted Mr. Bartholomew dead. But she did not take that to mean they had murdered him.

  “How did Mrs. Bartholomew react when Mr. Bartholomew involved himself romantically with other women?” she asked, thinking of the fury of women scorned.

  “She was rarely here, Mrs. Jackson, when Mr. Bartholomew came to visit. Mrs. Bartholomew was gone for four months out of the year, most years. Her brother is René Barbier, a very well-known horticulturist in France. When she visited Hyde Castle with her husband Mrs. Bartholomew appeared to have a restraining influence where her husband’s many little weaknesses were concerned. He adored her, despite his flirtations, and he always behaved himself properly when she was around.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Evans, you have been most helpful. Lady Montfort would like you to write, to the best of your memory, where everyone was on the morning that Mr. Bartholomew died. Would you include in your list everyone in the house, both upstairs and down? It would be most useful to her.” And she walked out into the middle of the courtyard just as Mr. Stafford rounded the corner from the drive.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jackson.” Mr. Stafford offered the barest nod of his head in greeting to the butler. “The head gardener gave me the key to the orangery and I have been waiting there for you. Did you not get my message?”

  “Oh dear,” said the butler, smiling at Mrs. Jackson. “I was so wrapped up in our interesting conversation, I quite forgot to pass on Mr. Stafford’s invitation to show you and Lady Montfort the orangery. How forgetful of me.” And Mrs. Jackson, to her embarrassment and annoyance, blushed as if the time she had spent with the butler had not been quite aboveboard.

  * * *

  Clementine, on her way to the drawing room for tea, said good afternoon to Mrs. Wickham as the young woman came in through the front door of the house. “You must be looking for your companion, Lady Montfort.” Mrs. Wickham gave her such a knowing look that Clementine stopped.

  “Actually I wasn’t looking for Mrs. Jackson,” she said, rather puzzled.

  Mrs. Wickham’s soft girlish pout had quite disappeared; her lips were thin and compressed and her expression conveyed, thought Clementine, that in some way she felt insulted or perhaps slighted. Into her mind came an image of an Anglican missionary that Clementine had met years ago, at the vicarage garden fete, who had talked about “rescuing the unclad and immodest heathen of Africa from godlessness.” Her face had worn the same look of disapproval as Mrs. Wickham’s did now.

  Before Clementine could continue on in to tea, Mrs. Wickham asked, “Is your companion part of your family, Lady Montfort?”

  Ah, so it is Mrs. Jackson who has upset this rather ridiculous young woman.

  To Lady Montfort’s further irritation, Mrs. Bartholomew wandered out of the green salon and strolled across the hall toward the drawing room, where she waited in the doorway, her head turned slightly toward them. Clementine felt a momentary flash of apprehension. She wisely did not reply to the young woman’s remark, but waited for more from Mrs. Wickham.

  “I am sure it is none of my business…” Mrs. Wickham started to backpedal, or at least tried to give the impression that she was doing so. But Clementine decided that there was a point being made here and politely waited to hear what it was.

  “I rarely repeat gossip.” Clementine smiled. Why is it that those who enjoy the titillating buzz of rumor always declare their aversion to gossip before they indulge themselves? “Our fellow guests are rather addicted to a little chinwag now and then, I’m afraid, and they have mentioned that Mrs. Jackson seems to have formed an attachment to Mrs. Haldane’s landscape gardener in a surprisingly short time—I passed this off as harmless tittle-tattle, of course.”

  “Of course,” murmured Clementine, glancing at Mrs. Bartholomew, whose head was inclined in their direction, even if she was still facing forward into the drawing room.

  “I was in the herb garden just now picking some chamo
mile for Finley and I was quite surprised to see Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Stafford coming out of the orangery … there was something … not quite…”

  Clementine lifted an admonishing hand, and set about putting an end to this unpleasant chatter.

  “Mrs. Wickham, how kind of you to take the trouble to tell me this. I can understand your evident concern, but there is absolutely no need to worry yourself. Mr. Stafford is known not only to Mrs. Jackson and Miss Jekyll, but also to me. Lord Montfort and I count him as a friend of the family.”

  She watched Mrs. Wickham’s cheeks redden and her eyes slide away, no doubt searching for an exit; the one into the drawing room was blocked by Mrs. Bartholomew, who made no attempt to move, and Clementine had the corridor to the library and the salon covered.

  Mrs. Wickham apologized and said, as the malicious do when they have just tried to cause trouble, that her concern was kindly meant. And Clementine acknowledged her apology with the aloof dignity that her mother-in-law, the dowager Countess of Montfort, would have applauded.

  “Will you join us for tea, Mrs. Wickham?” she said in what she hoped was an affable tone of voice.

  “Not this afternoon, Lady Montfort. I have a headache.” And Mrs. Wickham turned and made for the only exit available to her—the staircase—leaving Clementine perplexed and a little alarmed. It would not help their investigation if the very people they were observing were also observing them—and, what was more, discussing them. They must be more discreet with their investigations.

  Mrs. Bartholomew, still standing in her drawing-room door, said, “Mrs. Wickham is by far the worst of the gossips here, Lady Montfort; I can assure you of that. And as for ‘forming attachments,’ that young woman is hardly beyond reproach.” They walked together into the drawing room, to be welcomed by Mrs. Haldane, who patted the place next to her in direct invitation to Lady Montfort. And Clementine was immediately aware that the group was a little less tense than they had been yesterday. Perhaps now that Miss Jekyll has left, and their competition concluded, they are falling back into the comfortable pattern found particularly among old friends. She took her place next to Mrs. Haldane and accepted a cup of tea and a thinly sliced cress sandwich.