A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  “However, m’lady, Mr. Haldane did leave his study between the time he left the dining room and the time Mrs. Wickham came back to the salon after she was attacked. The housekeeper told me herself. There are two telephones in the house. One is in Mr. Haldane’s study and the other one is by the green-baize door to the back stairs. Unfortunately, Mr. Haldane threw his office telephone across the room a few days ago and it is no longer in working order.” She paused to enjoy her ladyship’s hearty peal of laughter. “So until the instrument can be repaired, Mr. Haldane has to leave his study and use the telephone by the door to the back stairs. The housekeeper saw him, not long after he and Mr. Wickham left the dining room, and she said he stayed on the telephone for quite some time, she could hear him quite clearly giving instructions to the managing director of his factory.”

  “And Mr. Wickham?”

  “After Mr. Wickham left the dining room he told the footman that he had some letters to write and went into the library. Charles took him coffee whilst he was in there. And he was still there when Charles went to find him to come and attend to his wife.” The servants’ hall had been seething with gossip and speculation about the attack made on Mrs. Wickham that gathering information about who was where had been simple enough.

  “Wonderful, Jackson, simply wonderful.” Lady Montfort jumped up out of her chair and clapped her hands together. “So either Haldane or Wickham could have gone outside to the orangery.”

  “But none of the servants saw either Mr. Haldane or Mr. Wickham leave the house after dinner, m’lady.”

  “Are you quite sure, Jackson?”

  Mrs. Jackson was more than a little irritated considering the patience it had taken to pump this information out of Mrs. Walker without her realizing she was informing on her employer, and it had taken even longer to wring these facts from the footman regarding Mr. Wickham’s movements.

  “Yes, m’lady, quite sure. The attack on Mrs. Wickham has been the talk of the servants’ hall all morning long.”

  “But Mr. Haldane despises the rosarians; why would he ask Mr. Wickham to stay in the dining room to drink port with him?”

  “I am afraid I don’t know, m’lady. But the housekeeper was quite clear that they drank their port together, then Mr. Wickham went to the library and Mr. Haldane to the telephone room.” She also did not add that Mrs. Walker was scrupulous in her detail. Mrs. Jackson could attest to that, having had to listen to every single one of Mrs. Wickham’s faults listed by that avid gossip.

  “But how would she know the goings-on upstairs at that time of night, I wonder?”

  Only perfect training and steadfast commitment to convention mastered the sharpness in Mrs. Jackson’s voice. “The footman, Charles, made a full report to the entire servants’ hall later that evening as they all speculated on who could have done such a thing to Mrs. Wickham, m’lady, since none of them believe the tramp story. And he said quite specifically that Mr. Wickham was in the library all evening after Mr. Haldane moved from the dining room to his study. And then Mrs. Walker saw Mr. Haldane in the little glass-fronted telephone room and instructed Charles to take in coffee to him in the study the moment he had finished, which was well after the time Mrs. Wickham returned to the house. Later on when the butler informed Mr. Haldane of Mrs. Wickham’s attack he had drunk the entire pot. I think, m’lady, we can safely say that until he went to search the grounds Mr. Haldane was in the house.”

  She watched her ladyship mull this one over and understood why she was so annoyed at this fresh information—her two most favorite suspects had alibis. “Mr. Wickham could have climbed out of the library window, Jackson.”

  “Yes, I suppose he could, m’lady.”

  “We should check to see if there are footprints or something in the flower bed under the library window.”

  “Yes, m’lady, we might do that.” Mrs. Jackson wondered if perhaps she was overtired, as her night had been a sleepless one and inspecting flower beds was something she had every intention of avoiding.

  “And Mr. Haldane could have cut his telephone call short and gone to the orangery without being observed by any of the servants.”

  Mrs. Jackson understood that Lady Montfort was hoping that it was either Mr. Haldane or Mr. Wickham who had attacked Mrs. Wickham in the orangery and that she was linking the identity of the attacker directly to the person who had murdered Mr. Bartholomew.

  “As you said earlier, m’lady, it would be uncharacteristic of Mr. Wickham to attack his wife if he found her with … another man. He would more than likely confront her and send her back to the house.” There was a long silence as her ladyship considered alternatives.

  “You are right, Jackson. But I am still puzzled by Mr. Haldane’s movements.” But surely there weren’t any movements? Mrs. Jackson tried not to sigh. She was quite aware that Lady Montfort had formed a complete antipathy to Mr. Haldane. Whenever he came into the room she could see by her ladyship’s face how offended she was, even though she was careful never to express her dislike; there is much to be read by the straight back and the averted profile.

  “That leaves Mr. Urquhart and Mrs. Bartholomew, and possibly Mr. Haldane and Mr. Wickham as the only people who do not have an alibi for the time of the attack. Did you by any chance manage to find out what the other two were up to?” Lady Montfort looked around for her notebook and Mrs. Jackson got up from her chair and brought it over to her from the table.

  “A housemaid took up a pot of hot chocolate to Mrs. Bartholomew ten minutes after she left the salon last night. She said that Mrs. Bartholomew was deeply asleep in her bed. She left the pot on the bedside table and it was still there, untouched, this morning when she went to clean the room. And apparently Mr. Urquhart was reading a book when his valet took him his late-night cup of peppermint tea and three pieces of shortbread.”

  “Both of them could have left their rooms after the servants left them, Jackson. But I can’t see either of them running off to the orangery for some reason or other and then attacking Mrs. Wickham. Oh, this is so frustrating.”

  Mrs. Jackson felt she needed a break from being the amateur detective’s trusted assistant and the bearer of bad tidings.

  “Will you be joining the company for luncheon, m’lady?”

  “Oh yes, I most certainly will. Goodness only knows what fun that will be. And I think you should come too, Jackson, it is important to mingle with our fellow guests and suspects.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Clementine and Mrs. Jackson went down to luncheon she was immediately aware of a considerable to-do coming from the Salon Vert.

  “Listen to that racket, Jackson, sounds like another catastrophe has occurred at Hyde Castle,” she said to her housekeeper as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stood looking into the room. “Mr. Haldane is no doubt haranguing his guests with more information on war in Europe. What can have happened now?”

  Mr. Haldane was standing in the middle of the salon, and standing in a cluster around him, their faces incredulous with shock, were the rosarians. The exclamations from the women and the wails of protest from Mr. Urquhart were so loud that Clementine and Mrs. Jackson arrived in their midst without being observed, and it was only when Clementine lightly touched Mrs. Lovell on the arm to gain her attention that she was given an explanation as to what all the commotion was about.

  “Germany has declared war on Russia and at the same time has mobilized its forces to invade Luxembourg,” Mrs. Lovell said.

  “It’s a disaster,” cried Mr. Urquhart. “The world has gone mad.”

  “Germany has declared war on both countries?” Clementine could not believe her ears. “Surely not both. But if Germany intends to occupy Luxembourg, it can only be because…” She felt her heart leap into her throat.

  “Germany will sweep through Luxembourg into Belgium. The French are quite ready for them; they were anticipating as much and they are completely prepared,” Mr. Haldane announced, his eyes shining with avarice.

 
; “But has Germany declared war on France?” asked Clementine, trying to stay calm. Could this really be happening? She saw Haldane’s red face, bloated with too much rich food and port, dangerously deepen in hue with the excitement of his news; she heard his bellicose roar and, in a higher register, the fussy, nervous twittering of Mr. Urquhart. She turned away from the group and went to stand by the window, as far away from them all as she could get. Her chest felt tight and hard, and she could hardly breathe. She reached out a hand to open the window; it was far too hot in the room.

  “Allow me, Lady Montfort.” Mrs. Bartholomew extended a hand and pushed down on the handle of the casement window. Cool air poured into the room and Clementine took in a long, slow breath. The two women stood side-by-side in silence, looking out at the glorious afternoon, peaceful in the sunlight; the song of a lark soaring in the sky above drowned out by the racket that was still going on behind them.

  “Let me get you a glass of water,” Mrs. Bartholomew said. “Charles … bring…” The clamor in the room lifted in volume, all words indistinguishable, but above the buzz of shrill excitement, it was Mr. Haldane’s voice that rode above all. Clementine’s ears started to ring and her palms felt clammy and cold. Her family was European. Her daughter was married to a Frenchman.

  “Here, m’lady, sit down,” It was Mrs. Jackson standing at her elbow; a steady hand on her upper arm, she tugged a small armchair around so that it was facing away from the crowd in the room and gently sat her down in it.

  “Is she going to faint?” Mrs. Bartholomew asked the question in an incurious tone of voice, as if she was inquiring after the well-being of a complete stranger, but she put a firm hand on Clementine’s shoulder, as if to anchor her to her seat.

  “No, I don’t think so; she will be all right in a minute.” Clementine heard her housekeeper’s cool voice and struggled to maintain calm. All she could think of was her daughter, her sweet daughter and her lovely babies sitting in her beautiful house in Paris, and the German army marching across the Belgian border. Her head swam. No, it couldn’t possibly happen, surely the French army would never let Germany invade?

  “Is she ill?” Mrs. Bartholomew’s voice interrupted Clementine’s inner vision of battles along the Belgian border with France.

  “No, she will be quite all right in a moment, thank you, Mrs. Bartholomew.”

  “It’s this talk of war … these men are so aggressive, so excited. It is a shock, though, for Germany to declare war on Russia…”

  “My daughter…” Clementine sipped water brought to her by the footman and summoned the energy to be coherent. “My eldest daughter lives in France; she is married to a Frenchman.”

  “Oh really, that is interesting, but where does she live?”

  “In Paris.”

  “Ah yes, that’s unfortunate…” A pragmatic response without sentiment or fuss. No Frenchwoman worth her salt would commiserate with anyone lucky enough to find himself living in Paris. Yes it is, because if the German army successfully crosses Belgium into France, they would be in Paris within a day.

  “The Belgian army is tiny and disastrously ill equipped, it can never hold the German army back…” Mr. Haldane’s exultant voice reached their ears.

  “You can almost hear him counting up the millions he is going to make,” Mrs. Bartholomew said, echoing Clementine’s thoughts almost to the word.

  “I don’t understand.” Clementine looked up at Mrs. Bartholomew. “When did all this happen? Has Germany actually declared war on France?”

  “No, but they might as well have, for they mobilized their army and are now in occupation of Luxembourg. But it is evident what their intentions are: they have decided that they will go to war both with Russia and France.” The Frenchwoman standing next to her was so quiet and her voice so low as she announced that her country was on the brink of war, that Clementine could hardly hear her. She needed more information. Looking over her shoulder, she caught the eye of the sensible Mrs. Lovell, who moved away from the group to join them by the window.

  “Mrs. Lovell, you are so much better informed than I. What do you know; is this fact or speculation?”

  “Early this morning Germany seized the main railway station in Luxembourg. From what I read in The Times, the German chief of staff, General Schlieffen, has apparently had his armies ready for over a week. When the German army took Luxembourg, King Albert of the Belgians made it clear that Belgium will remain neutral and he is forbidding access to either Germany or France. The German chancellor, Bethmann Hollweg, is saying there is no aggressive intent and that this is merely a precaution to secure the railways against a possible French attack. And the French ambassador in London met with our Foreign Secretary and reminded him that the Treaty of London signed by the Great Powers guaranteed Luxembourg’s neutrality. So if Germany makes a move to continue through Belgium to France…”

  “We will declare war with Germany?” Clementine asked, and Mrs. Lovell shrugged her shoulders and lifted both her hands, palms upward.

  “Perhaps, it is probably too soon to say. There are many in our government who are greatly opposed to our involvement in this mess. But Mr. Churchill ordered the grand fleet north to the Orkneys weeks ago. And France is asking us to secure the English Channel in case the German fleet move south to France. We are in a holding pattern right now, Lady Montfort. But it really doesn’t look good. We must pray that we will not be drawn…”

  “What are you saying?” Haldane rounded on them both. “We can’t let the Germans get away with this kind of bullying. If they invade Belgium to get to France of course we will declare war. To do otherwise would be preposterous.” Haldane’s eyes were bulging and he waved his cigar in Mrs. Lovell’s plainly disapproving face. “Schlieffen has been planning this for months … years probably. They will whip through Belgium and into France before you can say Jack-bloody-Robinson. And we will be the ones who will have to stop them.” He stood straddling his hearth rug, brows down; a bad impersonation of John Bull guarding the shores of England.

  And you will make a fortune out of equipping our army for war, with your nasty tins of beef. And our young men will have to go and fight. And my son will be among the first to be sent.

  Her son, Harry, and all the young men he had grown up with would go to war if Germany invaded Belgium. Their country would empty of newly trained officers all eagerly rushing off to do their bit, because that was what young men did. They put on uniforms and rallied to the flag, fully under the impression that what they were doing was heroic. She would not let herself think about the thousands who would die or return home maimed and scarred from the terrible waste that would take place on the battlefield. And then to make things worse she realized that her son would not march off to war, he would fly. She felt cold and quite uncomfortably clammy and carefully raised her glass to her dry lips and took a sip of water before looking up at Mrs. Jackson standing protectively between her and Mr. Haldane; her housekeeper’s face was particularly severe.

  “It will be all right, m’lady,” Mrs. Jackson said. “Lady Verity will come home to Iyntwood with her little boys and I am quite sure that Lady Althea is already there. Our prime minister will not let us be pulled into this mess, he is not a rash man. By the time the family goes north for the grouse shooting this will all have sorted itself out.” Clementine knew that she was being reassured, but she was in no mood to be lulled into a false sense of security.

  “You are very kind to try to bolster my spirits, Jackson,” she said. “But if Germany invades Belgium I somehow think Englishmen will not be shooting grouse—there will be no Glorious Twelfth this year, certainly not in the north of England and Scotland.”

  * * *

  “I do not think I will join our host for luncheon,” said Mr. Urquhart to Mrs. Jackson as Mrs. Haldane invited her guests into the dining room. “Come, my dear, we will ask Charles to bring us a little something on a tray.” Mrs. Jackson was gratified to see that Mrs. Bartholomew, hitherto rather distant with h
er ladyship, had formed a Franco-British alliance with her and was busy asking questions of whom the eldest Talbot daughter was married to and just how many hectares of vineyards the Comte de Lamballe owned in the Loire. And her ladyship, with her customary self-discipline and perfect manners, was doing her best to soothe Mrs. Bartholomew’s anxiety about her country being invaded by Germany. It seemed her ladyship was in good company and so she followed Mr. Urquhart into the conservatory.

  “Oh my goodness me, what a tempest in a teapot. Come, my dear, sit down and make yerself comfortable. No one will interrupt us, the conservatory is rarely used except by me.” Mr. Urquhart gestured to her to close the salon doors and sank down into the deepest wicker chair with the most cushions.

  “No war then, Mr. Urquhart?”

  “My dear Edith, I seriously doubt it. Our Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, will sort this out in no time at all. We are not interested in war with Germany. Now if it were France, that would be a different matter entirely. France has been our enemy in Europe since time in memoriam. And I believe that she is just as eager for war with Germany as Germany is with her. France will never forgive the Germans for taking Alsace-Lorraine from them in the last war.”

  “The last war?”

  “The Franco-Prussian War, or the War of 1870 as it is often called. I was just a young man then, of course. I expect the French are lined up on the other side of the Belgian border, waiting for the first opportunity to get at the German army.”

  “So we will declare war on whichever one of them invades Belgium first?”