by Tessa Arlen
“I am guilty of being pigheaded,” Lady Montfort said. “I suppose I really wanted it to be Mr. Haldane because I dislike the man and I really like Mr. Urquhart. He reminds me of my uncle, who was an elderly bachelor fascinated by Eastern religions and most eccentric in his ways, especially about observing particular Hindu holidays and religious rituals. But unlike Mr. Urquhart, he loved to travel and was extraordinarily knowledgeable about Moghul history. Ah well…” She turned to acknowledge the larger thinking of her housekeeper, but Mrs. Jackson was still admiring the view and sat there as faraway from them in thought as if she had risen to her feet and walked away.
Lady Montfort and Mr. Stafford sat politely waiting for her to return to them. After a few moments she did. And she felt at that moment as if they had all three of them missed the point of their inquiry altogether.
“But why have we not included Mrs. Bartholomew on our list of suspects?” she asked.
“Because she was miles away when her husband died,” said Mr. Stafford.
“And she was such a good wife to him, almost like a mother. Everyone says so. Everyone says that when Mrs. Bartholomew was with him, Mr. Bartholomew behaved himself, especially, of course, where other women were concerned. But most of all she looked after him. She even worked on developing his roses for him.” Evidently Lady Montfort found it rather touching that Mrs. Bartholomew had cared so much for her husband that she’d even helped him with his roses. “That sort of kindness is selfless; I had a governess when I was young who always did my French conjugation for me, the kindest of women who could not bear to watch me squirming in my chair over the future tense of the verb être.”
“But is that real love, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson asked. “When you keep on rescuing someone? I can understand that a governess might want to do that for a child, m’lady. But we are talking about a married couple. Doesn’t that sort of love—if you can call it love—end up being a real burden to the one who always makes it right for the other?”
“Well, I suppose it might … I don’t think I would want to be married to a man who always needed propping up.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled at this, as Lord Montfort propped up the better part of two counties in England.
“Why don’t you have a sample of her handwriting?” Mr. Stafford asked.
They went over the game they had played to suggest the name of the rose.
“Well, I think it is a double coup to Mrs. Jackson,” Stafford said. “All you need is a sample of her handwriting to prove she wrote the list or that Mr. Urquhart did. Whoever wrote it is the killer.”
“But she was so fond of her husband!” cried Lady Montfort.
“Yes, that is what we have been told by everyone, m’lady.” Mrs. Jackson couldn’t imagine being shackled to someone for the rest of her life, let alone someone as spoiled as Mr. Bartholomew. “Sounds to me like she was a nanny to a very spoiled, self-indulgent, and selfish man; she even had to pretend it was his rose she had worked so hard to develop. And she was in a very strange mood last night when she announced that the white rose was not his but hers, and that it should not only be named after her but registered under her name as the breeder. And how much could she really have cared for her husband if he was always running after other women?”
Here was the conundrum, she realized. It was apparently considered quite normal for men and women of the aristocracy to indulge in clandestine affairs with one another’s mates. The late King Edward had made it fashionable to indulge in a bit of hanky-panky; at least it was certainly portrayed that way in London’s music halls. And then of course they all had far too much empty time on their hands. But what about the respectable middle classes with their love of doilies, putting-the-milk-in-first and other rather painful refinements—did they carry-on with one another’s wives? If Mr. Wickham and Mr. Haldane were examples of the male attitude to erring wives, it was certainly something that upset them very much. Men like Mr. Haldane appeared to believe that a wife was her husband’s property with a duty to ensure that his home was welcoming and comfortable and where his needs were considered above all others. She sighed; a truly happy marriage was a rarity, it seemed.
“I can’t imagine that Mrs. Bartholomew was happy in her marriage. Mr. Bartholomew sounded like a right babby.” Her Lancashire pronunciation came through in her contempt. And both Mr. Stafford and Lady Montfort laughed. “Is it possible for a woman to divorce her husband because she is not happy with him, m’lady?”
“I don’t know if she could, but I rather think that she would not,” said Lady Montfort. “Of course it is done, but rarely, and if they are people with land and assets then it is quite a business and inevitably means that they are ostracized from good society. There is such a thing as not letting down the side after all; we must set an example, you see. I mean where would we all be if we just gave up on marriage? But I am not sure about people like the Haldanes and the Bartholomews; I am not familiar with the new middle-class attitude to these things.”
“And if a woman has no money of her own and her husband is rich?” asked Mr. Stafford.
“She probably does not divorce him. A man may divorce his wife for adultery, but apparently it is much more difficult for a woman to divorce a man for straying outside of marriage; she has to have other reasons which she must prove, such as cruelty or desertion. Divorce is a sordid business and I am not familiar with the law. But Mrs. Jackson is right to suspect Mrs. Bartholomew,” replied Lady Montfort.
Mr. Stafford brought his hands palms-down on his knees to emphasize what he said next: “So if she had no money of her own and wanted to be rid of a rich but annoying husband, she might poison him.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Mrs. Jackson realized later that morning that she must talk to Hyde Castle’s butler. As much as she found his inappropriate behavior unsettling, she needed to ask Mr. Evan’s permission to speak to the footman Charles. She finally hunted him down in the silver pantry and as he rose to his feet with a polishing cloth in his right hand, she half bowed her head in acknowledgement of the many constraints there were on his time.
“Please don’t let me disturb you, Mr. Evans,” she said as he started to take off his apron and sleeve protectors. “I have a question that I am hoping you will help me find the answer to. No please, I think we can stay here.” She didn’t want to be spirited off to the alleyway next to the dairy again.
He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down at the table, and he resumed his seat.
“How can I be of help?” he said with commendable sincerity. “Are you any closer to determining how Mr. Bartholomew died?” His concern was quite genuine, she thought.
“Would it be all right for me to talk to Charles?” she asked, knowing how important it was to observe protocol about these things; to avoid causing muddles.
“How would you phrase your question, Mrs. Jackson?”
“Well, I would ask him if he had happened to notice whether Mr. Bartholomew took out a little blue medicine bottle at breakfast on the day that the gentleman died. It contained digestive powders and apparently he either drank it mixed in water or in his tea, or even sprinkled it on his kedgeree.” After a moment’s consideration the butler gave his permission. And suggested that he stay in the room with them, so that Charles did not feel awkward being questioned by a guest’s companion.
As soon as Charles was ushered into the butler’s pantry it was quite clear to Mrs. Jackson from the footman’s manner that he was uncomfortable. She decided that speed and clarity were of the essence in dealing with the young man’s unease; hedging about would make him even more nervous.
“Charles, on the morning that Mr. Bartholomew ate his breakfast kedgeree…” The footman’s eyes shifted, and Mrs. Jackson felt a little stir of anticipation. He knew something. She continued, “You waited on him, didn’t you?” A brief nod and the young man licked his lips. “Did he at any time take out a little glass bottle and…” Relief was quite apparent in the young footman’s face. Qui
te evidently he was used to powders and pills being consumed at mealtimes in this house.
“No, madam, not that I could see. But he often took digestive powders for his indigestion.”
“But not on the morning that he died?” She noticed that all tension had left the young man’s face. Charles was quite willing to answer her question about the little blue bottle. Why the initial anxiety then, what did he think I was going to ask him?
“Did you see him use his digestive powders that morning—maybe he sprinkled them on his kedgeree?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I just don’t remember, madam. Mr. Evans left to bring up some more coffee and I was busy sweeping up the rice and fish that Mr. Bartholomew had spilled on the sideboard—so he might have sprinkled something on his breakfast, but if he did I did not see him do it.”
“But would you have thought it strange if Mr. Bartholomew had produced a bottle of digestive powders and sprinkled it on his kedgeree?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“And what was the color of the bottle he kept his digestive powders in?”
“It was a blue glass bottle, ma’am, a little medicine bottle.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded and felt the immense relief that comes when something we suspect is proved.
“Thank you so much, Charles. There is no need for me to ask you not to repeat our conversation, is there?”
The young man came to full attention. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am; anything to help clear up the business of Mrs. Armitage’s wrongful dismissal. You can count on me.” His face was red with the earnestness of his statement.
* * *
Downstairs in the green salon, Clementine was witnessing a storm among the Hyde rosarians, which had been building since yesterday evening and was now threatening to break. She had been sitting in the Salon Vert with a book when Mrs. Lovell, Mrs. Haldane, and Mrs. Wickham returned from a stroll in the gardens where, apparently, Mrs. Wickham had confided that Mr. Bartholomew had talked to her privately about the name he would give to his white rose, and not once had he mentioned his wife as its creator or as someone he would name his rose after.
They were now sitting in the salon like a trio of flustered hens and after more discussion and argument had gone to consult with Mr. Urquhart in his quiet corner of the conservatory.
When they had finished their discussion with Mr. Urquhart and he, in some consternation, had relayed his concern directly to Mr. Wickham, Clementine decided to go upstairs and consult with Mrs. Jackson.
“Mrs. Haldane is pulling rank as chairwoman of the Hyde Rose Society, which does not include as its members Mrs. Wickham or Mrs. Bartholomew. They are going to convene a formal meeting—at which Mr. Urquhart, as secretary and treasurer, will take the minutes.” Mrs. Jackson turned from restoring order to her ladyship’s chest of drawers.
“And they are going to decide according to their bylaws whether to accept the name of ‘Albertine’ for Mr. Bartholomew’s rose. Because once they have decided on a name, the rose will be registered as a hybrid tea rose and be given a little metal tag with a number on it, and the name of the breeder of course, which this group all fully accept is Mr. Bartholomew and not his wife. I had no idea how seriously these amateur societies took themselves.”
“If Mrs. Haldane, Mrs. Lovell, and Mr. Wickham are dead against naming the rose Albertine, m’lady, then you can be quite sure that Mr. Urquhart will have no choice but to accept it, because it will come down to a vote.” She closed the drawer.
“Yes, that’s right, and what is more, if we are around and about we might be able to take a quick look at Mr. Urquhart’s handwriting in his minute book.”
Clementine suspected the society would sequester themselves away from ears and eyes, as surely they did not want a strong-minded and determined Mrs. Bartholomew to intervene and make trouble. How sneaky they are, she thought. It is quite incredible that they would make such a fuss about the naming of a rose. And they were obviously not in the slightest convinced that Albertine should even be considered as the rightful producer of the lovely white rose. No wonder she was so annoyed with them last night; she knew that they would not believe her.
“Cat’s among the pigeons now, m’lady, and it’s a good thing, when emotions are stirred; people show their true hand.”
“Yes, you are right, and the three ladies in question are rather steamed up.”
“And Mr. Urquhart?”
“Mr. Urquhart only said that the entire episode is very disturbing to his system.”
* * *
Clementine went back down to the salon just as the Hyde Rose Society left to meet in the privacy of the drawing room. Their meeting did not take long. They returned just as the butler started the ritual of bringing in the silver kettle, teapot, sugar basin, and milk jug and setting them in order on a white tea cloth. When all was ready, Charles appeared with plates of sandwiches, a cake stand with a pretty sugar cake, and chaffing dishes with anchovy toast and hot scones. As the Hyde Rose Society filed into the room, a vigilant Clementine noticed that Mrs. Bartholomew, who had been sitting alone in the conservatory, looked up at their faces as if trying to gauge how the meeting had gone. To Clementine’s interested eyes Mrs. Haldane was looking unusually flushed, Mrs. Lovell upset and embarrassed, and Mr. Urquhart as unconcerned as ever.
Mr. Wickham was saying loudly, “I will make arrangements to register the rose under the name Rupert’s White Dove, and then we can be done with this business.” He brushed past Mrs. Jackson, who was holding the door open for the footman, and Mrs. Haldane, catching sight of Clementine’s cold expression, wailed.
“Oh dear Lady Montfort, I truly hope this little contretemps will not put you off joining our society.” And Clementine, who had no intention of joining in the first place, said “Not at all, Mrs. Haldane, not at all.”
“Unfortunately we have had to vote against Mrs. Bartholomew naming the rose. She is not a member of the society and according to our bylaws may not…” Mrs. Lovell trailed off, looking rather ashamed. And Mr. Urquhart, trying to juggle his shawl, the book of bylaws, and his minutes book, started to interrupt a little pettishly and then, overcome by the burden he was carrying, dropped his shawl to the ground. Mrs. Jackson was across the room to help him.
“Ah, Edith, thank you, my dear. Such a lot to carry and I am … Oh dearie me.” Mrs. Jackson had dropped both books and Mr. Urquhart’s pen on the floor. “Not to worry, at least the inkwell did not take a tumble, and it is always easy to mend a nib. Thank you, my dear Edith, so kind of you. Would you mind carrying them for me? I should take them up to my room immediately.”
And as Mrs. Jackson followed the elderly man out of the room, she caught Clementine’s eye and shook her head. Mr. Urquhart had not written the list of poisonous plants that had fallen out of the plant toxicology.
* * *
Lady Montfort met Mrs. Jackson at the foot of the stairs as she came down from Mr. Urquhart’s room.
“Well, Jackson, not his writing, then?”
“Most certainly not, m’lady, his writing is completely different, very sprawling really. I simply can’t believe that he is not our murderer.” She felt not only tired but thoroughly irritated.
“Come on, Jackson, brisk walk in the grounds, I can’t bear the thought of taking tea with these people. Let’s walk to Bishop’s Hever and back, that will give the Rose Society time to deal with a very angry Mrs. Bartholomew. If anything has convinced me never to join a society, this afternoon’s little charade certainly has. The pettiness of people who form groups, make up rules, and then fuss over them is completely beyond me.”
And off they went into a pretty afternoon with a freshening breeze, and the clouds scudding away to the south. The sky was darkening to the north and the far horizon was the color of dull pewter.
“Storm coming in,” announced Mrs. Jackson in the triumphant voice the English always adopt in the face of bad weather.
“I know we have given up on Mr. Haldane as our suspe
ct, but I went to the post bag a moment ago to include my letter to Lord Montfort to reassure him that we will leave tomorrow. and there was Mr. Haldane filling the bag with letters of his own. He most certainly did not write that list of poisons, his handwriting is quite ill formed; such a pity.” And Mrs. Jackson marveled that when her ladyship admitted final defeat, she did so with grace and good humor.
They walked on in silence together, opening the gate at the edge of the gardens that took them out to the footpath to the beech woods.
“Let’s play a game, Jackson. Let us imagine all the ways that Mrs. Bartholomew introduced poison into a bottle of her husband’s digestive powders, and made sure that he dosed himself from that particular bottle when she had been gone nearly three months.”
“Perhaps he had had no need of the powders until then, m’lady,” suggested Mrs. Jackson, to be sternly corrected.
“Mr. Urquhart says Mr. Bartholomew customarily suffered from indigestion due to his overindulging at the meal table and that he took these powders often. And you said that Charles was used to seeing Mr. Bartholomew’s blue bottle at breakfast time. So we must assume for the moment that this was a new bottle he had opened that morning. If Mrs. Bartholomew is our culprit, how did she organize that part?”
Mrs. Jackson thought about this, but the list of plant poisons was bothering her and kept diverting her concentration back to it. She tried to remember the order in which the poisonous plants were listed.
Foxglove was the first one. What was the second? Ah yes, laburnum. She kept on until she thought she had all the plants on the list. She was counting on her fingers. What was the last one? She couldn’t for the life of her remember.
They came to the stile at the entrance to the beech woods. Lady Montfort bunched up her skirt and climbed over, leaving Mrs. Jackson on the path staring down at buttercups growing along its grassy edge.
“Jackson?”
She looked up. There was her ladyship standing on the other side of the stile with a particularly inquisitive look on her face.
