A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  “Please tell me about your society, Mrs. Haldane; I understand from Mr. Urquhart you are the founder. When did you decide to start the Hyde Rose Society?”

  Mrs. Haldane set down her teacup in its saucer on the side table next to the sofa they were sitting on, and turned her full attention to her. “I do hope I can persuade you into joining our group, Lady Montfort,” she said. “It would be such an honor.” And receiving no immediate response, she continued, “Well, we founded our society in the year dear King Edward came to the throne in 1901. It’s hard to believe we have been going strong for thirteen years, isn’t it, Amelia?” She turned to her friend, who nodded as she bit into a scone heavily laden with jam.

  “Actually, it was Amelia and I who founded the society together that spring. We were in her pretty garden and she told me that she was trying to produce a tea rose of perfect pink.”

  Mrs. Lovell’s well-upholstered shoulders shook with good-natured laughter. “And I am still trying to accomplish that, Maud. It is not really the success of producing a perfect rose, it is the process of trying to do so that I find the most rewarding aspect of rose breeding,” she explained, wiping jam off her upper lip with her napkin. “It is such an absorbing hobby.”

  “You are very close, Amelia, very close.” Mrs. Haldane patted her friend’s hand. “Our next member to join us was Rupert Bartholomew. We met him through the Royal Horticultural Society.” Her eyes misted a little at the memory. “Dear Rupert was so enthusiastic to join us. Do you remember how serious our first meetings were, Amelia? He would set us such tasks. And whenever he could spare the time he helped us write up our bylaws and set ourselves up so that we would be recognized by the Royal Horticultural Society and become a proper organization with licenses and everything.” She nodded proudly, and Mrs. Bartholomew left her chair by the window and took one next to Mrs. Lovell. “Of course Rupert was still a bachelor then, struggling to understand the business of breeding roses. It wasn’t until two years later that he met our dearest Albertine. Where was that, dear, it was in France, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was in France. Rupert came to visit the Barbier brothers; my two uncles. He wanted to plant a rose garden of old Bourbon Roses. That is how I met him.” Mrs. Bartholomew smiled and shook her head in the pleasant recollection of old memories. “All those many wonderful years ago.”

  The group threatened to turn a little weepy at this point; Mrs. Haldane produced a delicate lace handkerchief, and Mrs. Lovell cleared her throat. Mrs. Bartholomew, whose eyes had filled with tears as she recalled her first meeting with her husband, patted Mrs. Haldane’s hand in a rallying sort of way. Clementine recalled them to task with tactful determination.

  “But what a simply beautiful rose he created. Golden Girl, such a very pretty name.” She looked in turn to each of the women sitting in front of her and wondered which of them was Mr. Bartholomew’s golden girl. Was it his wife, the dear friends Mrs. Lovell and Mrs. Haldane, or was it the young woman with the yellow curls upstairs in her room with a headache?

  “And Mr. Bartholomew’s other rose, what a perfectly pristine white: no hint of pink or yellow, such a difficult thing to achieve. Mrs. Bartholomew, is it really without a name? I expect you will come up with something quite lovely.” Mrs. Bartholomew turned a brilliant smile on Clementine and her eyes, which had clouded with tears, brightened, making her look in that moment quite incredibly beautiful.

  “Thank you, Lady Montfort, how generous of you to compliment the white rose. Golden Girl is a ravishing rose, but the white is my favorite too.” What a pleasant change, thought Clementine, to meet such appreciation in a wife for her husband’s efforts. What a contrast to Mrs. Wickham’s cruel little barbs to her husband and Mrs. Haldane’s woebegone passivity.

  “In fact,” Mrs. Bartholomew went on, “the five of us…” Having completely regained her composure she nodded to Mrs. Lovell, Mrs. Haldane, and Mr. Urquhart, who had finished fussing over his tea and was now enjoying an apricot jam tart cut into tiny pieces, and then she twisted in her chair to look for Mr. Wickham, who at this hour of the day was usually rustling through the evening newspapers to glean more news of the war in Europe. But neither of the Wickhams was taking tea with them today. “Well, anyway, all of the Hyde Rose Society are going to put their heads together to help me with a name for the white rose. We have to come up with something ravissant, don’t we?” She looked around the group and was answered by a trill of happy laughter from Mrs. Haldane and smiles from Mrs. Lovell.

  They are really quite nice when they are not quarreling in competition, thought Clementine, as Mr. Urquhart piped up, “We might even consult Henry Bennett, perhaps?” and when they laughed and exclaimed, “On no account,” he good-naturedly joined in the merriment.

  “And when did you join the society, Mr. Urquhart?” Clementine asked, keeping careful track of the chronology of their membership.

  Mrs. Bartholomew said, “Why, the year Cicero won the Epsom Derby, of course! Rupert made a packet on that race. And afterwards…” She turned to Mr. Urquhart, who willingly took up the story.

  “Afterwards Rupert invited me to dinner to celebrate, and that was when he suggested I join forces with all the leddies here. Of course my health was better in those days, easily nine years ago now.” He shook his head at distant but happy memories.

  “And then Mr. Wickham joined you,” Clementine prompted, her eyes on Mrs. Lovell’s face. She was rewarded for her vigilance by Mrs. Lovell’s rather resigned nod at the mention of Mr. Wickham.

  “Yes, Clive joined us the year afterwards. He wrote a formal letter of application and of course we were delighted to increase our number, especially to include a man of his experience. Clive has kept us to task all these years. Otherwise we might forget ourselves and have too much fun,” said Mrs. Lovell. She smiled as she said this, and Mrs. Haldane fluttered in evident embarrassment.

  Aha! I thought so, Clementine thought. Mr. Wickham is not really part of this group of old friends at all.

  “And, Mrs. Bartholomew?” she said, turning back to Albertine, who was sipping tea. “Surely you will take your husband’s place in the society.”

  The Frenchwoman shook her head to a chorus of “Of course she will” from the group.

  “I am afraid not, Lady Montfort, although I have come to regard the tea rose a little more favorably thanks to the Hyde Society, and of course I will always visit my friends here, especially for their annual rose symposium. But now Rupert has gone I will return to my family in France and help them with the business of introducing new plant specimens into Europe from the Orient.” Amid sighs and protestations she shook her head as she smiled at her old friends.

  “Dear Albertine,” said Mrs. Haldane, “you are almost one of us—and will always be an honorary member.” Which Clementine thought surprising as it clearly stated that Mrs. Bartholomew was the wife of an erstwhile society member and not formally recognized as part of the group yet. Was there jealousy here toward the wife of her old friend?

  Chapter Twelve

  Mrs. Jackson returned from her meeting with Mr. Stafford in time to help Lady Montfort dress for dinner. As she began the business of putting up her ladyship’s hair she recounted her conversation with Mr. Evans without revealing his unpleasant behavior.

  “I think we are on the right track, Jackson; it is evident that Mr. Haldane believed he had reason to hate Mr. Bartholomew. Everything we have learned from Mrs. Haldane’s guests is borne out by the butler. Now, did you ask Mr. Evans where everyone was on the morning that Mr. Bartholomew was in the dining room eating all the kedgeree?”

  “I did, m’lady. And he obligingly wrote up a list for me almost immediately—but he asks that we remember that it was nearly six months ago and we are relying on his memory.”

  “Yes, I understand. Will you read it to me, please?”

  Mrs. Jackson put down the hairbrush, pulled a single page from her pocket written closely in a schoolboy hand, and read aloud.

  “�
��The servants were all about their work as usual. Mrs. Walker the housekeeper was supervising the maids as they put the house to rights and took up breakfast trays to Mrs. Haldane, Mr. Urquhart, and Mrs. Wickham. Mrs. Haldane’s maid was with her mistress. The cook and her kitchen maids were of course all downstairs, and only the butler and Charles, the footman, were in attendance upstairs.

  “‘Mr. Bartholomew ate breakfast alone in the dining room at eight o’clock, waited on by the first footman and the butler. Mr. Evans left the dining room at one point, he can’t remember at what time, to fetch fresh coffee. Mr. Bartholomew finished his first plate of kedgeree and then helped himself to a second. Halfway through he complained of stomach pains and said something about indigestion. He mentioned as much to Charles, who reported this at the inquest. Mr. Bartholomew only ate a little of his second helping of kedgeree but he drank two cups of coffee, both of them poured by Charles from the fresh pot brought up by the butler. Mr. Bartholomew left the dining room at a quarter to nine and said he was going to ‘walk it off.’

  “At nine o’clock Mrs. Lovell joined Mr. Wickham in the dining room and they had their breakfast together. They arrived in the dining room some fifteen minutes after Mr. Bartholomew left for his morning walk. Mr. Wickham ate bacon and eggs and drank tea. Mrs. Lovell drank two cups of coffee, from the same pot enjoyed by Mr. Bartholomew, and ate a substantial breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast. There was no kedgeree left, the butler remembered Mrs. Lovell remarking on it. Mr. Evans was quite sure that the remains of Mr. Bartholomew’s breakfast had been removed to the kitchen when he left the dining room well before Mrs. Lovell and Mr. Wickham came down to their breakfast. The leftover kedgeree on Mr. Bartholomew’s plate was scraped into the scullery slop bucket for the pigs. Mr. Evans was clear on that point because after Mrs. Armitage was accused of accidentally poisoning Mrs. Bartholomew he made a point of checking with the scullery maid.” “How very thorough of him,” murmured her ladyship.

  “What about Mr. Haldane, did he join them? Where did he eat his breakfast?”

  Mrs. Jackson put the butler’s page of notes back in her pocket and picked up the hairbrush. “In Manchester, m’lady. He had spent the week at his manufactory—he has a service flat near to his office where he stays when he is there on business. So it seems he was nowhere near the house on the morning that Mr. Bartholomew died. Mr. Haldane left the house four days before Mrs. Haldane’s friends arrived, so he had no opportunity to see any of them. He returned to the house at half past eleven on the morning that Mr. Bartholomew died, just half an hour before Mr. Bartholomew was found in the orangery.”

  “Mr. Haldane was not in the house?” Lady Montfort turned her head, scattering hairpins in all directions, and Mrs. Jackson bent down to pick them up off the floor.

  “Don’t worry about those, Jackson, use some more … here … there are plenty of them.” She swept her hand across the surface of the dressing table and pushed some toward her. She is annoyed that Mr. Haldane was not in the house when Mr. Bartholomew was poisoned, thought Mrs. Jackson.

  “So, Mr. Haldane could not have poisoned the kedgeree if he wasn’t in the house.”

  “Perhaps he was, though, m’lady. Perhaps he came to the house earlier, unobserved, and hid somewhere and then poisoned the kedgeree when no one was around to see him do it. Before staging his return to the house at about the time Mr. Bartholomew died.”

  “My goodness, Jackson, where do you come up with these astonishing ideas? You are quite right, of course, he might have done it that way.”

  “It was not me, m’lady, who came up with that one, it was Mr. Stafford. I visited the orangery with him while you were taking tea. The building is a good distance from the house, but it has been kept locked up ever since the death of Mr. Bartholomew. The head gardener only goes in there to water the trees and sweep up a bit. Mr. Haldane says no one must go in there at all, ever again. Except of course for the gardeners.” Lady Montfort turned her head so quickly to look at her housekeeper that hairpins went flying again.

  “Really, Jackson? So Mr. Haldane has forbidden entry into the orangery and it has been kept locked up all this time.” Her ladyship’s face expressed only the greatest hope that Mr. Haldane was culpable in some way. And Mrs. Jackson felt the slightest little jab of concern that her ladyship’s thinking might be prejudiced against Mr. Haldane.

  “Mr. Stafford has Mr. Clark, the head gardener’s key and his permission to visit it, m’lady. He told Mr. Clark that he needs to create a view of the new lake from the orangery. Perhaps you would like to walk down there tomorrow morning, after breakfast?”

  “Yes, I would, Jackson. Let us both take breakfast together downstairs and then we can walk down to the orangery. And now when you have finished my hair I must go down to dinner. Are you planning on joining us?” There was a momentary silence before Mrs. Jackson said that under the circumstances she thought not.

  “I have told the butler that I will not join you all for dinner, if that is all right with you, m’lady. I would like to write up my notes of the happenings today.” After her busy day with Mrs. Haldane’s guests and her servants, Mrs. Jackson felt quite worn out. The thought of a quiet meal in her room and a good book was irresistible.

  * * *

  To say that any meal eaten in this house is a pleasant experience would be a colossal inaccuracy, thought Clementine. Mrs. Haldane had attempted to seat her guests around the table in some sort of semblance of precedence. And Clementine, to her dismay, found herself on her host’s right, with Mr. Wickham on her left. Mrs. Wickham had sent an apology that she would not join them for dinner as she was a little under the weather, and Mr. Urquhart, who obviously had experience of eating dinner with Mr. Haldane, was taking a light dinner on a tray in his room.

  Conversation was stilted, perhaps because of their host’s preoccupied presence at the top of the table and the diners’ reliance on the Englishman’s favorite topic for any uncomfortable social event: the weather. Clementine noticed with frank relief that any talk of war was evidently taboo. Her main concern was that Althea had now arrived safely home, and she would assume that she had, unless she heard otherwise from her husband.

  As the remains of a splendid summer pudding were taken away and Mrs. Haldane rose to her feet to invite the women to the Salon Vert so that Mr. Haldane and Mr. Wickham might enjoy their port, her husband left his place at the head of the table and said abruptly, “My dear, a moment if you please,” and left the dining room through the door that gave access to the back stairs.

  A tense, but obedient, Mrs. Haldane said she would meet her guests in the Salon Vert, and Mrs. Lovell, Mrs. Bartholomew, and Clementine left the room by the door leading into the hall.

  “I wonder what he wants,” Mrs. Lovell said and hesitated as if she would go back to join her friend. And from the other end of the corridor between the green-baize door to the back stairs and the service door to the dining room the aggressive tones of Mr. Haldane could be heard berating his wife.

  The women hurried away to the salon, Mrs. Bartholomew stern-faced and grim, and Mrs. Lovell casting a look over her shoulder that expressed her silent concern for her friend. Neither of them said a word, but Clementine suspected that when Mrs. Haldane joined them in the salon she would be a nervous and stuttering wreck. And so she was.

  “Roger will not be joining us after port,” she said to Clementine, as if she felt the need to justify her husband’s absence. “He is extremely b-busy at the moment.”

  “How about a nice game of bridge?” ventured Clementine, hoping against hope that they all knew how to play what had become her favorite game. She was to be disappointed.

  “I am most terribly sorry, but I don’t play, and I don’t think Albertine particularly enjoys cards.” Mrs. Haldane was almost tearful at having to deny a countess an evening of the fashionable card game. “You must forgive us, Lady Montfort, we are so very provincial.”

  Dinner with the uncouth Mr. Haldane had evidently been too muc
h for Mrs. Bartholomew. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I will retire early; it has been a long day and somewhat tiring.” Mrs. Haldane immediately rushed to console: “Of course we understand, how very th-th-thoughtless of us, it must be so hard to be here so soon after…”

  But with her customary poise Mrs. Bartholomew said apologies were completely unnecessary, that she had been made to feel most welcome by the rosarians. She wished them all a pleasant evening and left the three of them alone together.

  “Poor Albertine,” said Mrs. Lovell. “Rupert’s death has been a terrible blow to her; she struggles with the loss daily and selflessly still insists on contributing to the society, so I am afraid we selfishly forget she grieves most sadly for Rupert. Maud dear, why don’t you play for us?”

  But Mrs. Haldane, usually so compliant and eager to please her friends, said perhaps not, she was too tired tonight. And Clementine, remembering the unkindness she had suffered at her husband’s hands last night and his continued bullying outside the dining room, felt a moment of furious outrage toward the monster this poor woman was married to.

  They sat on together as an hour ticked away and until all small talk among them was exhausted, and then to Clementine’s relief, as she was practically nodding off her in her chair, Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Lovell decided to call it a night.

  As they rose to their feet to say good night and Mrs. Haldane dismissed the footman, there came a tremendous commotion from inside the conservatory. The heavy outer door to the terrace was thrown back with a tremendous bang and what sounded like a herd of large animals began crashing around among the wicker chairs in the center of the glass room. Clementine ran to the closed double doors to the conservatory and looked through its glazed panes into the half-dark of the room. She could just discern the figure of a woman collapsed among the disarranged furniture.