A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

“Perhaps, and in that case, my money is on war with France.” His eyes twinkled approvingly at her quick grasp of the situation.

  “Now, Edith, I insist, no more talk of war. What have you been doing with yourself this morning?”

  She told him of her stroll in the gardens with Lady Montfort, and how beautiful the rose garden was.

  He turned to the table on his right and lifted a scrapbook that was sitting there onto his lap and pulled his cashmere shawl tightly around his shoulders, even though the conservatory thermometer was standing at an oppressive seventy-two degrees and Mrs. Jackson’s forehead was beginning to feel quite damp. He opened the scrapbook to display a carefully composed watercolor painting of his beloved rose Cupid, no doubt done by Mrs. Haldane.

  “I do hope you didn’t encounter a nasty tramp in the garden while you were out strolling.” If his words sounded a little malicious, there was no indication that he was being so from the playful manner in which he patted the cushion of the chair next to him in invitation, thought Mrs. Jackson, as she obediently sat down.

  “We encountered no one at all, Mr. Urquhart, it is quite a beautiful morning and the gardens are very pretty.”

  “Finley, please call me Finley, everyone does. I did not see the naughty little Mrs. Wickham among us just now.” He closed his book and looked at her expectantly, and she realized that he wanted to talk about Mrs. Wickham’s attack, so she said nothing and waited.

  “So, I sadly missed the fun last night,” he prompted, and she complied with a minimum of detail: “I wasn’t in the salon when she came back to the house, I had already retired for the night. It doesn’t sound as if she was too badly hurt but she must have been very frightened.”

  “Oh no, Dorothy is made of much sterner stuff than we might suppose. But those moonlight walks of hers will be her undoing, and the poor woman certainly doesn’t deserve to bump into some gentleman-of-the-road when she was hoping for a more pleasant encounter.” He was referring to Mrs. Wickham’s alleged attacker, she realized, and politely listened as Mr. Urquhart twittered on about the dangers of the unemployed tramping the country to find work. When his concern for the safety of the villagers, the gardeners, and the neighboring farmers and their daughters had been thoroughly expressed, she asked a question guaranteed to seize his interest.

  “You think she went to meet someone?” She wondered if the household knew of Mrs. Wickham’s interest in the Hyde Castle butler.

  The elderly man settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose and smiled at her, his eyes gleaming with interest.

  “My dear, let us not waste our time wondering who the new light of her life is today; tomorrow it will be someone else. Mrs. W. enjoys variety and can be counted on to surprise us with the array of different men whose company she enjoys. Poor Clive, we all knew when he married a much younger woman his would be a difficult life. Then we met Dorothy and it simply confirmed our suspicions that when an older man falls in love with a much younger woman, just how blinkered they can be about little things like suitability and ultimately the real reason why a much younger woman would consider allying herself to a man no longer in his prime.”

  Mrs. Jackson had been through all this an hour or so ago downstairs. But Mr. Urquhart was far better informed than even the most indiscreet of ladies’ maids.

  “Money?” she hazarded the obvious guess.

  “Yes, unfortunately, you are probably right. Dottie is very well heeled, you know. And Clive lost his money in the American railway crash.”

  Mrs. Wickham was the one with the money? This was indeed news. What on earth is the attraction in a husband who is fussy and correcting and, in addition, has no money? she wondered, and wasted no time in asking the impertinent question of Mr. Urquhart.

  “That is what we are all asking ourselves. Of course Clive has a position in society from a reasonably well-connected family; the Wickhams have been in Berkshire for many, many generations, whereas poor Dottie comes from trade. Her father owned draper shops and a cotton mill and left her a tidy sum, I can tell you—and she was his only child. So their marriage gave Dorothy status and it gave Clive the money he needed to breed those terrifying tea roses in those blinding colors.”

  And it was back to the old man’s favorite topic: the hybrid tea rose.

  As he happily enumerated all Mr. Wickham’s faults as a rose breeder—as if this were the one reason why his wife was no longer interested in him—Mrs. Jackson, left alone with her thoughts, wondered why Mrs. Wickham with all her money would choose to remain married to the irritable Mr. Wickham and then make the Hyde Castle butler the object of her affections. Which brought her around to speculate on who had attacked Mrs. Wickham in the orangery.

  It is far too hot to think in this room, she thought, and it is too late to go in to luncheon. I will ask for a tray to be sent to me upstairs. She put her hands on the arms of her chair preparatory to standing up, but Mr. Urquhart pinned her with a particularly determined look as he enumerated the many faults of Mr. Wickham’s roses, and she knew it would be poorly mannered to leave the conservatory too abruptly. She must wait until he had at least finished with his favorite subject and prayed that the end would not be too long in coming. If she remained seated, though, she would certainly drop off, so she got to her feet and, nodding in agreement to whatever Mr. Urquhart was saying, she wandered over to a small library in the corner of the conservatory. It was an informal collection of books on horticulture and the cultivation of roses. As she glanced along its shelves she noticed that every so often a novel, possibly left behind by a visitor to the house, had been picked up and slotted into the bookshelves at random. Henderson’s Dictionary of Rose Cultivars was nestled between Love Will Find a Way, by Polly Perkins, and Wildflowers in Britain, by Geoffrey Grigson. And farther along, to her delight, she found another castoff—probably from Mrs. Wickham: Romancing the Nymph, by Adelaide Peabody, was rubbing shoulders with Delights of the Hedgerow, and on its other side was Reproduction of the Deciduous Species. Smiling as her eyes traveled along the titles of other books, her eye was caught by a word that made her pulse leap and all drowsiness completely disappear. Gold letters on a leather spine announced: A Toxicology of Plants from Exotic Climes, by E. M. Phipps.

  A toxicology? Isn’t that the study of poison? This might very well be an interesting book to read. She pulled it out with some difficulty as it was tightly wedged and the humidity of the room had slightly warped the cover. As she opened the book she was aware that Mr. Urquhart had stopped babbling about tea roses and had joined her at the bookshelf.

  “Looking for something to read, Edith? Now what do you have there?” His voice was close to her ear and she froze. “Hmm, A Toxicology of Plants from Exotic Climes, an interesting title. I am unfamiliar with the author, but quite a handy piece of writing to have in a conservatory.” Finley took the book from her. “I didn’t know you were interested in the subtropical genus, my dear,” he said, his eyes lively with interest as he thumbed through the introduction, and Mrs. Jackson sat down in a nearby chair and waited patiently for him to finish his inspection.

  “Ah yes, Nerium, such pretty leaves and fruit. Deeply poisonous of course, there must be one in every conservatory in England. What nice illustrations.” Her interest piqued, she reached out to take the book from him. But he laughed and moved away. “Aha, now here’s an interesting plant: Persea americana. Hardly what we would call an exotic species, though. Ah, it is only the seed that is actually toxic, interesting…” He turned a page and then looked up. “Here is Charles with my luncheon.” And he popped the book back into her lap and walked to the heavy door into the salon. He struggled to get the heavy door open a crack before Charles came to his aid.

  “Bring it in here, Charles. What have you brought me? Oh how nice, a lovely little pot of Turkish coffee, and you have had the sense to bring lots of sugar, and two delicious fairy cakes and some shortbread. Set the tray down there.”

  And the elderly man settled himself in his favorite c
hair to enjoy his luncheon, leaving Mrs. Jackson to return to the book and stare at a slip of paper that had fluttered out of it when Mr. Urquhart had tossed the toxicology back into her lap. It was a list written in well-formed handwriting of what appeared to be plants: digitalis, laburnum, oleander, castor bean, belladonna, aconitum, tobacco. A line had been drawn through all the names listed except for castor bean and oleander.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Clementine found herself engaged in another walk directly after luncheon. Throughout the meal, Mrs. Bartholomew’s earlier composure had rapidly eroded to fretfulness at the endless speculation that the German army, having successfully secured Luxembourg, would no doubt continue on through Belgium to France and invade, according to Mr. Haldane, probably the day after next. She had been preoccupied when she went in to luncheon and her uneasiness had turned to outright panic the more Mr. Haldane talked about the importance of Britain’s preparedness for the coming war.

  Sensing Mrs. Bartholomew’s increasing anxiety, Mrs. Lovell had suggested that they take a walk past the new lake and onward to the edge of the property and then through the woodland to the very picturesque village of Bishop’s Hever and back.

  “It is a delightful walk and will get us out of the house and away from all this aggressive talk of war,” Mrs. Lovell said as they left Mrs. Haldane working on a watercolor painting of Mrs. Lovell’s rose in the company of a meek Mrs. Wickham busy with some embroidery. She turned to Clementine and said in what she no doubt imagined to be a low tone, but which carried quite clearly, “Poor Albertine’s family live in Orléans, you know; she must be worried to death.”

  “But of course I am anxious, Amélie—Orléans is within a day’s march of Paris.” Albertine’s accent was far more pronounced now that she had lost her customary self-possession. Her often serious expression had deepened and a frown creased her smooth forehead. “I cannot stay ’ere. I must return to Orléans before any travel becomes impossible. I must write to my brother this evening so we can make the necessary arrangements. Did you ’ear what Roger was saying about U-boats in the English Channel? Oh, why did I not return last month?” Clementine momentarily expected Mrs. Bartholomew to wring her hands as they walked down the lawn.

  “My dear Albertine, I think you might be overreacting just a little. You must try not to worry,” Mrs. Lovell declared but without much conviction. “I have absolute faith in our prime minister, Mr. Asquith; he will steer us through these choppy waters, I am quite convinced of it.” At this, Clementine had to look away. If any of these people, who spoke with such conviction that their government would find a way out of this mess, sat down to dinner with Herbert Asquith they would not be quite so ready to put their future in his hands. She remembered a recent dinner party where the gentleman had drunk an entire bottle of wine by the time the fish course was completed.

  Mrs. Bartholomew’s rising agitation was making it difficult for Clementine to maintain sangfroid. If war breaks out in the next few days surely Etienne will have the sense to send Verity and the children to the safety of their estates in the Loire Valley if she cannot come to us? Verity was probably packing at this moment, and Clementine resolved that as soon as they returned to the house she would instruct Mrs. Jackson to do the same.

  “I understand your concern, Mrs. Bartholomew,” she said to the distraught younger woman walking at her side. “Perhaps you might inquire about a crossing to France as soon as we get back to the house.”

  “I most certainly will. But what will I do if the German army invades before I can get back to Orléans?”

  “The French army will be ready for them, my dear, and we English will go to their aid. The German army is no match at all for the combined forces of Britain and France. But for now, I believe exercise is the best cure for nerves.” This was said in the sort of voice that rallied even the most faint-hearted, and Clementine smiled her approval of Mrs. Lovell’s no-nonsense attitude.

  They walked on, stopping to exclaim at Mr. Stafford’s excavation. And Clementine, in order to distract Mrs. Bartholomew, found herself enjoying a pleasant conversation with her about her husband, whom she evidently had cared for despite, if Mr. Urquhart was to be believed, his many failings.

  “Some of my happiest times have been on plant-collecting trips to the Orient, Lady Montfort. I often wished that Rupert would come with us, but he was not a man who easily tolerated discomfort. And of course we spent many uncomfortable nights in camp when the rain poured down for hours.” She laughed. “So he always stayed here when I went with my brother on our trips. He was very fond of Maud, and in her gentle way she kept him busy and he did not get into trouble. For my husband, you see, enjoyed the company of women and they always found him irresistible.” Mrs. Bartholomew laughed, and Clementine thought her attitude toward her husband and marriage quite charmingly typical of the French.

  Why is it, she thought, that Frenchwomen are so practical where their husbands are concerned? Her understanding was that French wives treated their husbands like children: they fussed over them, organized their lives, and then ushered them off to their mistresses every afternoon. No wonder her more amorous friends borrowed the expression cinq à sept for their pursuit of afternoon pleasure. In England, romantic arrangements outside of marriage were never referred to—ever. That sort of thing was kept firmly under wraps in an English marriage. Whereas she understood from Verity that the French were far more open about affairs of the heart. Vive la différence, she thought as she listened to Albertine talking about her husband’s flirtations as if he were a naughty little boy.

  There is nothing more relaxing than a walk in the English countryside on a fine day, and as Mrs. Lovell had promised, the winding path through the leafy beech woods, with its dappled shade and sudden sun-filled views over the Chiltern Hills, to the little village of Bishop’s Hever proved just the thing to restore spirits and lift the mood. Clementine felt a strong desire to be on the other side of those hills, sitting on the lawn with her husband to enjoy tea outside, and Althea recounting her latest travels. We will go home this evening, she thought. I must be with my family now. And with this determination in mind, turned to follow Mrs. Lovell back to Hyde Castle.

  “There now, I am really looking forward to my tea,” Mrs. Lovell said when they came within sight of the house. “Oh look, how charming. Maud has arranged tea on the lawn. Let’s hope that Finley has left us something to eat; I am quite hungry.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Jackson had taken the plant toxicology and the list up to her room and hidden them in her suitcase, and then pushed it under her bed. Unsure what to do next, she had spent the following two hours pacing up and down the lawn, waiting for her ladyship to return from her walk. She was relying on Lady Montfort to go up to her room to change her dress and wash her hands before tea, so she was frustrated to discover that when she walked up the lawn in the company of Mrs. Lovell and Mrs. Bartholomew, she obviously had no intention of doing either. She sat herself down next to Mr. Urquhart and teased him about catching cold on the lawn and ate a good few egg-and-cress sandwiches before enjoying a large slice of fruitcake.

  Unable to contain her impatience enough even to drink a cup of tea, Mrs. Jackson covered her impatience by helping the inefficient Mrs. Haldane pour tea, and because she could neither sit down nor stand still, she made herself useful offering cake and sandwiches to the gathering under the trees on the edge of the lawn, getting in the way of the footman and the butler and causing them great irritation.

  Finally everyone drifted off to busy themselves in the privacy of their rooms as they waited for the next gargantuan meal to be presented to them. And Lady Montfort got to her feet and announced that she had some letters to write.

  Once she had gained the sanctuary of their rooms Lady Montfort said, “I’ve been thinking things through, Jackson, and I really believe we are wasting our time here. Really I do. And I am worried that we might very well be embroiled in all this nastiness in Europe and be at war by the e
nd of the week. Perhaps we should go home tomorrow morning. I will let Mrs. Haldane know when we go down to dinner. I am sure she will…”

  She turned and caught sight of her housekeeper’s face and stopped in midsentence.

  “Now I can tell by the expression on your face that you have found something.”

  “Yes indeed I have, m’lady. If you will excuse me for a moment I will go and fetch it.”

  She was back almost immediately, clutching her plant toxicology in one hand and almost brandishing the list in the other. She waited until Lady Montfort had taken off her hat and washed her hands in the washbasin, and when she had seated herself Mrs. Jackson handed her first the volume on poisonous plants and then the list.

  “A list and a book. Which comes first?” Lady Montfort opened the book and then looked up at her.

  “I found the book in the small library in the conservatory, and inside it was the list.”

  A short silence and then her ladyship said, “No, we will not be returning to Iyntwood tomorrow, Jackson. Not after this monumental discovery.”

  “Do you think it is significant, m’lady?”

  “I most certainly do. Quickly let us send a note to Mr. Stafford, he is down by his lake with a crew of workmen. Tell Charles to take it to him immediately.” She got up and scribbled on a sheet of paper at her writing desk, so full of intention that she didn’t even bother to sit down.

  “There now, by the time Charles has run down to Mr. Stafford to summon him to the orangery, we will have had time to look up all the plants on the list in this very useful little book. So when we meet with Mr. Stafford we will not be completely ignorant and he can help us go forward to the next step of this investigation. Well done, Jackson. How on earth did you come across it?”

  “I think it would be more accurate to say that it came across me, m’lady. I was browsing among the bookshelves in the conservatory—and there it was.”