by M C Beaton
“Well, that’s true for sure,” said Albert. “But Lord Chesworth got his wife’s money by way of a marriage settlement and she, Lady Chesworth, don’t get the bulk of her mama’s fortune until Mrs. Harrison dies.”
Amy Grange rattled the dishes thoughtfully. “But you say Mrs. Harrison’s not in good health and someone is trying to kill her daughter. So who gets the money then? They haven’t any children.”
Albert Grange looked at her with a startled expression. “Now why didn’t I think of that. Although the old girl looks so crazy these days, she might have left the whole lot to a home for aging cats.”
“Now eat your supper and forget about the whole thing until tomorrow,” said his wife.
Albert rubbed his thinning hair so that the oiled strands stood up in spikes. “I can’t, Amy. I better run down to the Yard and get a message to Cowes. I’ve got to find out the name of Mrs. Harrison’s solicitor.” And he rushed out of the kitchen, leaving his wife to look at another ruined meal.
It was late by the time Mr. Grange left the Yard. But the little detective did not go home. Instead, he walked along the Embankment, his head sunk in his collar. The participants in the case danced through his head like the lights on the water. He would just call on Lord Chesworth. For some reason he trusted that young man.
His lordship was in the library, sunk in melancholy, reflecting on his disastrous marriage and worried to death about his wife. He practically dragged the little detective into the room. “Any news of my wife?”
“Her ladyship is all right as far as we know,” said Mr. Grange. “But my good wife has just come up with a bit of an idea.” He outlined Amy’s suggestion about the will. “Like I see it, my Lord, I don’t know as I should be talking to you like this. If the money goes to you, then you’re in trouble.”
“I can set your mind at ease,” said Peter. “Mrs. Harrison hates me. She would never leave me a penny.”
“Maybe your Lordship would like to accompany me to the solicitor tomorrow. We should have his name by then.”
“Of course,” said Peter. “I only wish we didn’t have to wait until then. It’s going to be a long night.”
Albert Grange groaned. “Give me a good old knifing in the Mile End Road any day, my Lord. These high-society crimes are a pain in the neck. I’ve got the Commissioner breathing down my neck every step of the way. ‘Got to handle these people with kid gloves,’ he says. Pah! Murder is murder whether it’s in Limehouse or Mayfair.”
After the detective had left, Peter Chesworth sat looking out at the dark, London sky. What if Mrs. Harrison hadn’t made a will? Then they would be back where they started. Unless the murderer were found, his marriage was finished. He picked up a book and prepared to sit out the night.
It was after nine o’clock the following morning before the little detective appeared. “I’ve got it,” he said bursting into the library without ceremony. “Her solicitors are Fordyce, Fordyce & Bramble of Cheapside. Grab your hat and coat, my Lord, and let’s go.”
Peter Chesworth called for his carriage and the two men sat tense and silent on the road to the city. What a lot of confounded traffic there was, thought Peter Chesworth savagely. Fleet Street seemed to be jammed from the Temple to Ludgate Circus with buses and hansoms and four-wheelers. If he ever got out of this mess he would buy a motor car and to hell with tradition!
But at last they reached Cheapside. Mr. James Fordyce himself would see them. Peter Chesworth realized why the astute detective had brought him along. Mr. Fordyce was inclined to hem and haw about disclosing the contents of his client’s will to a “person” from Scotland Yard. Peter Chesworth realized with some surprise what a lot of social snubs people like Albert Grange had to put up with. But the little detective ignored it and said, “I’m sure Lord Chesworth—you know Baron Reamington, I’m sure—will support me when I say that it is a matter of life and death.”
An oily smile creased the lawyer’s unlovely features. “I did not realize we had such distinguished company, my Lord. But of course if you say it is all right, my Lord, then, my Lord, I see no reason to hesitate.”
He rang a bell on his desk and told the clerk to bring the Harrison papers. “What an unconscionable time the old fool was taking coming to the point,” thought Peter savagely. The lawyer hemmed and hawed and “yes—yessed” for what seemed an age and then he suddenly looked up.
Ignoring the detective he said, “What it amounts to, my Lord, is that all Mrs. Harrison’s fortune goes to her daughter in the event of her death. If her daughter should die childless, then the whole estate goes to… Lady Amelia Henley.”
He stared in surprise as the two men sat as if turned to stone. “Yes, yes,” he said fussily. “It’s all here…‘to my dear friend and companion, Lady Henley.’”
The detective and Lord Chesworth got to their feet as if rising from a dream. Then Mr. Grange sprang into action. “The railroad station, my Lord, quick!”
They caught the train just as it was moving out. Peter sank back in the carriage and stared at his companion. “But that fat old glutton. It’s incredible!”
But Mr. Grange felt on his home ground. The bizarre case had taken on a comfortable everyday appearance.
“I was a bit confused because of all the society people involved, my Lord, but when you get down to it, this sort of murder happens all over London. Greed for money knows no social barriers, my Lord.”
His lordship suddenly smiled at the little detective. “Since we’re going to be spending a bit of time together, you may as well call me ‘Peter.’”
Mr. Grange scratched his head under his bowler hat in perplexity. “Well, it’ll seem a bit strange and forward-like but well—here goes. Peter.”
“That’s the ticket, Albert,” said Peter, dazzling the detective with his most charming smile and picking up his newspaper.
Albert Grange sat sucking on his empty pipe and staring into space. A lifetime of social snubs melted before his eyes. “Peter.” Just wait till he told Amy.
Lord Chesworth tried to concentrate on the headlines of the Daily Telegraph but they seemed to dance before his eyes. He put down the paper with a groan.
“Pray to God we’re in time, Albert. Just pray to God we’re in time.”
CHAPTER NINE
Lady Henley sat up in her bed at the Thackerays’ Cowes home and watched her maid, Jenkins, packing the trunks.
“Can’t you move any faster, girl?” she snapped.
“I’m doing that best I can, my Lady,” said Jenkins sulkily.
Lady Henley stuffed another slab of toast into her capacious mouth. “I don’t know what servants are coming to these days,” she said grumpily.
“Nor I, my Lady,” said Jenkins, eager to impart gossip and turn attention from herself. “They’ve got two new footmen downstairs and you never saw the like.”
Lady Henley put down her cup and surveyed her maid with interest. “Something strange about them?”
“Oh, definitely, my Lady. They don’t do any work and just lounge about the place asking questions. The butler wanted them fired on the spot but Mr. Thackeray, he says to leave them alone.”
The bedclothes started to fly in all directions as the huge mass that was Lady Henley heaved herself out onto the floor.
“Get me dressed immediately, girl. And then finish that packing in double-time. And if you can’t do it fast enough, get one of the housemaids to help you.”
Jenkins began to dress her mistress, wondering if she would ever get over the feeling of distaste that this part of her job caused her. First the huge corsets which must have taken every bone out of a whole whale had to be fitted on and the sagging fat pushed into place. Then the lacing which strained every muscle. Then the silk stockings had to be strained onto the massive legs and the suspenders stretched down over the bulging thighs to meet them. And then at last the enormous drawers of crepe de chine and the worst was over, bar the arranging of Lady Henley’s hank of thin, greasy hair.
Jenkins dreamt of finding a job with a slim, young, fashionable mistress but she knew it was impossible. She had done time in Holloway Prison for theft and Lady Henley had found her through some charitable organization which helped women prisoners to find work on the outside. In return for this, Jenkins had to suffer being treated like a dog for a yearly pittance. But at least she was housed and fed, particularly well fed, since Lady Henley spent all her money on food.
Having decided at last that her hairstyle was satisfactory, Lady Henley crammed an enormous crimson toque down on it and waddled from the room.
She found Kitty in her bedroom arranging her own packing and sobbing over a cravat of her husband’s.
“Now, my dear,” said Lady Henley, “you must pull yourself together for your husband’s sake. I’m sure he is innocent. Let me ring for a couple of girls to do this packing and we’ll be on our way.” She rang the bell and bustled about with surprising energy.
Kitty was too numb with misery to take any part in the proceedings. In no time at all, she was hustled out of the house and into the carriage which was directed to the railroad station.
“I thought we were just going along the coast,” said Kitty in surprise, surfacing briefly from her despair.
“And so we are,” said her large companion. “I’ll tell you why we’re going this way when we get on the train. Leave the baggage in the carriage.”
Kitty complied and Jenkins looked at her mistress thoughtfully. She had been witness to an interesting scene in the kitchen before she left. The butler, harassed by complaints about the new footmen from the other servants, had finally called them all together and confided that the two new servants were in fact gentlemen from Scotland Yard who were employed to guard the Baroness. Jenkins had noticed the two gentlemen in question following them in another carriage at a discreet distance, and felt oddly reassured.
To Jenkins’s surprise, Lady Henley bought three first-class tickets for London and insisted that she accompany them instead of traveling third class as usual.
As the train started to move out of the station, Lady Henley turned to Kitty.
“Now, my dear, I don’t want to frighten you more than need be, but why we are traveling this way is because I noticed two very rough characters following us.”
Jenkins opened her mouth to explain about the plainclothesmen and closed it again as she received a vicious, warning look from Lady Henley.
“So, my dear,” her ladyship went on, laying a pudgy hand on Kitty’s knee, “just to be on the safe side, I’ve thought of a little ruse. I’ve sent the carriage with the luggage on to the next station to wait for us. We’ll wait till the train is just pulling out and then jump out—not onto the platform but onto the tracks on the other side of the train.”
Kitty was too tired after her sleepless night and too frightened to do more than nod. All she wanted to do was get away somewhere safe with the reassuring figure of Lady Henley and to have time to think.
Jenkins looked at her mistress in puzzled alarm. She began to feel uneasy. There could only be one explanation of why Lady Henley wanted to avoid the men from Scotland Yard. But then perhaps Lady Henley did not know they were from Scotland Yard.
The train chugged into a quiet country station and the three woman waited anxiously in the corridor. At the sound of the guard’s whistle, Lady Henley said, “Now!” and opening the corridor door, nipped down onto the tracks with surprising agility.
In the next compartment on the train one of the plainclothesmen drew his head in as the train started to move. “No one got off here,” he said to his companion. “Waste of time, this, if you ask me. I’m sure the husband’s the one who’s behind all them murder attempts. Him and that fancy woman of his.”
His companion nodded in agreement. “At least the Baroness is all right with Lady Henley. Now, Lady Henley—she’s top-drawer—not like that there Mrs. Jackson.”
Both settled back comfortably, enjoying the rare luxury of a first-class compartment, and the train steamed off.
The three women picked their way in silence across the tracks. The little station was deserted. With Jenkins pushing from the back and Kitty pulling from the front, they managed to heave Lady Henley’s bulk onto the platform.
They made their way to the carriage and with a crack of the coachman’s whip, they traveled down to the coast and started to follow the road along the shore. The day was in keeping with Kitty’s low spirits. Both sky and sea were a uniform gray. There wasn’t a breath of wind and they seemed to be the only moving thing in the landscape for miles.
Then the carriage suddenly swung off from the main road and bumped along a country lane that was bordered on either side by huge thorn hedges.
“This house has been in my family for a long time although I hardly ever use it,” said Lady Henley, breaking a long silence. “It’s a little neglected but I’m sure you won’t mind, Kitty. All you need is a bit of a holiday with your old friend.”
Kitty gave her a weak smile. “Please don’t think I’m taking all this for granted, Lady Henley. It’s just that I’m so upset….”
“I know, I know,” said Lady Henley soothingly. “We’re nearly there.”
The carriage turned and twisted up a rutted driveway, hedged in by uncut bushes and tangled undergrowth. Suddenly, they rattled into an open clearing. “Well, there it is,” said Lady Henley. “It’s called Pevvy Chase, though that’s a pretty grand name for such a poky place.”
The house was a redbrick Georgian gem with a shell-shaped fanlight over its pillared door. The door was opened by a thin, scrawny housekeeper and Jenkins stiffened like a cat, suddenly aware of danger. She knew that kind of woman better than anyone. Prison left its mark on the hands and eyes. Well, she supposed Lady Henley must be in the habit of recruiting ex-prisoners and paying them cheap. Who was she—poor Jenkins—to get so uppity?
Kitty exclaimed in delight at the charming hallway with its delicately molded doors. The housekeeper led the way up a slim-balustered staircase lit by an oval window, to the bedrooms above. “Here you are, my Lady,” she said, throwing open the door and bobbing an awkward curtsy. “You get a fine view of the water.”
Running to the window and looking out, Kitty saw with surprise that they were again at the seaside. The road had twisted and turned so much, hidden by its high hedges, that she had assumed they must be well inland. But the uncut lawn sloped down to a small terraced garden with redbrick steps, that lead to a small beach hedged on either side by woods growing right down to the water’s edge.
She jumped as she heard Lady Henley’s voice in her ear. “You can go for long rambles, my dear,” said her ladyship. “Get the color back in your cheeks. Now, I know you’re tired and have been a long time on the road and so I think we should have an early dinner and then retire. Jenkins will help you dress since you haven’t a maid of your own. Remember, Jenkins, no chattering.” She wagged a plump finger playfully at the maid who, to Kitty’s surprise, cringed as if Lady Henley had waved her fist.
After Lady Henley left, Jenkins deftly set about getting Kitty dressed for dinner. Kitty was pleased and surprised at her calm, impersonal efficiency. She had only known the cold, insolent touch of Colette’s fingers when it came to being attended to by a maid.
She sat down at the dressing table and let Jenkins arrange her hair. “You don’t need to use these pads, my Lady,” said Jenkins. “You’ve got plenty of lovely hair. See, I’ll just arrange it in a simple style. It will look just as good and feel ever so much more comfortable.”
Kitty smiled up at the maid. “I think you’re a treasure, Jenkins. I feel like stealing you away from Lady Henley.”
“I wish you could,” said Jenkins bitterly, and then bit her lip. “I’m sorry, my Lady, I didn’t mean to say that. You won’t tell her Ladyship on me, will you?”
“No, of course not,” said Kitty surprised at the girl’s fear. Jenkins gave a correct curtsy and left the room.
How odd, thought Kitty. As if anyon
e could be afraid of Lady Henley! There was no gas or electricity in the old house but plenty of candles and oil lamps. Feeling as if she were living in the eighteenth century, Kitty picked up a candle and made her way downstairs to the dining room.
During the meal, Kitty began to wonder if living in close proximity to Lady Henley’s gluttony was going to be bearable. Her Ladyship had abandoned her massive stays along with any of the restraints of good social behavior and ate… well… like a pig, thought Kitty. She chomped, she slobbered, she gulped, her eyes taking on a glazed look as the dessert was served.
Lady Henley obviously kept a very good cook. The dessert was wild strawberries soaked in kirsch topped with whipped cream and served in wafer-thin meringue shells. But Kitty dropped her fork after the first mouthful. The sight of her hostess was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. Instead of using her fork, Lady Henley was cramming the meringue confections into her mouth whole. Meringue powder floated around her like incense around the body of an obese buddha.
Then came the savory of grilled bacon and oysters on toast. At least she can’t make much mess with that, thought Kitty, and gave a sigh of relief when dinner came to an end. Picking her teeth with a goose quill, Lady Henley eyed her guest. “You know something, Kitty? I’ll tell you something, I ain’t told anyone else. I eat too much.”
Kitty smiled faintly. After the exhibition at dinner, how was she supposed to reply?
“So-o-o,” said her hostess, impaling a sliver of food on her toothpick and looking at it with interest, “I’ve decided to do some walking. Don’t want to die before me time, heh!”
She gave a Falstaffian laugh which sent the candle flames dancing and the shadows of her great bulk running around the room. Kitty wondered why people considered candlelight romantic. Why, it made the genial Lady Henley look positively sinister.
