“Thank you, madam.” The cook beamed. “I take it your trip this afternoon went well?”
“Yes, better than expected, actually.” Hazel sat back slightly as Maggie set a bowl of homemade minestrone soup in front of her. She picked up her soupspoon and took a tentative sip. Warm and spicy with just a hint of sweetness from the tomatoes. “Inspector Gibson says hello and sends his thanks for the lovely cake. He thinks you’re trying to fatten him up.”
“That man don’t need any extra bulk. He looks just fine the way he is. Such a charmer, that Inspector Gibson.” Alice blushed, well and truly smitten with the chief inspector, if her pink cheeks were any indication.
Hazel’s cheeks heated a bit too as she remembered him greeting her in nothing but his shirtsleeves, and how well he’d filled out said sleeves. Charles had always been more on the slim side, resembling a dashing dandy from one of the silent Hollywood films. Whereas Michael looked more rough-and-tumble, more outdoorsy and rugged. Both were appealing, in their own ways. Alice gave her a knowing look and smile then headed back into the kitchen to bring out the next course.
Dickens sashayed into the dining room and twined around the staff’s feet as the ladies and Duffy cleared away dishes. Hazel finished her soup and nibbled on a fresh-baked roll while Shrewsbury carved the beef on the sideboard. Every so often, she spied him slipping the cat small chunks of meat when he thought Hazel wasn’t looking, and she couldn’t help but smile. For all his mystery and bluster, the butler was as soft as butter at heart and full of contradictions. Someday she’d love to learn more about him.
Once her main course had been served and the staff were all present again, Hazel swallowed a mouthful of the melt-in-your-mouth roast beef then dabbed her mouth with her linen napkin. “I will say that after speaking with the inspector, I can conclusively say that Doris’s death was definitely not a suicide.”
“Really, madam?” Maggie said, her somber expression brightening. “I’m so glad you were able to convince the police of that.”
“Amazing,” Duffy added. “Wouldn’t have thought those coppers would do right by one of us, a mere maid.”
“Actually, Michael was on the same page as I was once we discussed it. About Doris being pushed, anyway. We still have some differences as to who might be responsible. But Maggie, I swear to you that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure justice is done for poor Doris.”
“Well done, madam,” Shrewsbury said, refilling her water glass. The trust in his eyes warmed Hazel’s heart more than she could say. The fact he’d been a close confidant of her dear Charles made it all the more touching that he’d put his trust in her too. She’d always known there was a divide between the aristocracy and the servant class, but she’d never realized how much until she’d visited Farnsworth earlier. Now, she vowed to do everything in her power to make sure she kept her word to these people. Regardless of Lady Wakefield’s rules about fraternizing with her staff, these people were all the family Hazel had now, and she wanted to do right by them.
“Glad to hear it, madam.” Alice offered her more vegetables—a succulent mix of potatoes, carrots, and peas—which Hazel turned down, unfortunately. She’d had two servings already and felt ready to burst at the seams. “What’s the first step then, on the case?” the cook asked.
“The first thing I need to do is learn as much about Doris as I can. I’ve got a lot of conflicting information, but from what I can tell, it’s quite possible she was having an affair with Lord Wakefield or someone else in the Farnsworth household.”
“Hmm.” Shrewsbury frowned, his silver brows knitting. “Perhaps she was blackmailing Lord Wakefield or another member of the family.”
“Or maybe she had more than one lover and they pushed her over the side of the roof in a jealous rage,” Duffy said, ignoring Maggie’s glare from across the room. “If she was as… err… friendly as people are suggesting.”
“Anything is possible, I suppose.” Hazel finished her last mouthful of roast beef then pushed her plate aside. “Though I’ve yet to figure out why she was up in that third-story room. The housekeeper said it wasn’t one of Doris’s duties to clean it, and it was rather gloomy and musty.”
“Meeting a lover?” Duffy suggested again, drawing a growl from Maggie this time. “What?” he asked. “I’m just going with the prevailing theory.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do with your theory—” Maggie balled her fists at her sides. “Doris was a good girl, I tell you. I won’t have her memory besmirched.”
“Besmirched?” Duffy flashed her a wide smile. “I’m delighted by your vocabulary, Mags.”
“Why, I’ll give you vocabulary, mister—”
“Watch yourselves,” Alice interceded, giving each of the younger staff members a stern look as they cleared away the dirty dishes. “Why do you think it’s Lord Wakefield, madam?”
“Because his alibi is in question, I’m afraid,” Hazel said, glancing between the cook and Shrewsbury. “Detective Gibson said Lord Wakefield told the police he was at his club when the accident occurred, but then Lady Wakefield told me today that her husband was at home in his study when they heard the scream.” She twined her fingers together and tapped the tips against her mouth, her gaze narrowing. “It’s impossible for a man to be in two places at once.”
“Very true, madam.” Shrewsbury gave her a hint of a smile. “Even one as rich as Wakefield.”
“So now I just need to work out who Doris might have been dallying with, where they might have been sneaking off to, and why she would have been killed over it.”
Maggie returned with a generous helping of Spotted Dick and custard for Hazel. “I’m sorry, madam, but I stand by my gut and my friend. Doris was not the type to have an affair.”
“How about a boyfriend then?” Hazel asked.
“I’m just not sure.” Maggie compressed her lips. “Like I said, we fell out of touch for a while, but we were very close as children.”
“Is there anyone else you know who might have stayed closer with Doris over the years?” Hazel took a mouthful of the stodgy sponge pudding. “Someone who might be able to fill in the missing pieces?”
“Well...” Maggie frowned. “I could ask my mum, I suppose. I could pay her a visit.”
“Excellent.” Hazel smiled then looked to her chauffeur, who was slouched against the wall in the corner. “I’m sure Duffy will be happy to drive you.”
“Madam.” The driver tipped his head to her then winked at Maggie. “Happy to drive you anywhere, Mags. In fact, if we leave now, I can drop you at your mum’s then pop off to the pub and pick you up on the way back tonight.”
“Oh, but I can’t go now, madam.” Maggie seemed a bit flustered, her cheeks flushed as she looked anywhere but at Duffy. “All this food needs to be cleared away, and—”
“Nonsense.” Alice pushed the younger maid toward the door, shaking her head. “I’ll clean up. We’re all working on this together, remember? And while you’re out, I’ll pay a visit to my friend Jane too after I’m done here. Her daughter works in the kitchen over at Farnsworth Abbey. Maybe I can find something out from her too. Jane loves to gossip.”
Shrewsbury cleared his throat, his posture straight as always, and his dark eyes sharp. “And I’ll check that Lord Wakefield was really at his club as he claimed. I’ve certain connections there who can corroborate his story. People who wouldn’t necessarily want to speak with the police.”
“Connections?” Hazel asked the stately butler, wondering not for the first time exactly what the man’s past was. She’d always suspected he might have been a secret agent or an informant or something for her husband.
She could just as easily picture him with a cloak and a dagger in a dark alleyway as she could in his pristine butler’s uniform, catering to her guests and the needs of her household. His accent was a bit muddled too, part cockney, part British upper crust, and part something she couldn’t quite place—Indian perhaps?
She decided
to pry a bit, even though chances were slim to none she’d learn anything new about the man. His secrets seemed to be locked up tighter than the crown jewels. Yet her late husband had trusted Shrewsbury implicitly, and that was good enough for Hazel. “What kind of connections?”
Shrewsbury smiled mysteriously and gave her a slight bow, the glow of the lights glimmering off the top of his bald head. He clicked his heels, the leather of his black boots sticking slightly. “A good butler never reveals his sources, madam.”
Chapter Seven
Hours later, Hazel finally stopped working on her book when she heard the Sunbeam pull up in front of the house. Duffy was back, which meant she needed to see what he’d discovered at the pub. She stretched and gave Dickens a good scratch behind the ears then headed downstairs to see what her staff had found through their various sources.
Reaching the first floor, she wandered into the sitting room and saw Shrewsbury and Alice already waiting for her. Duffy and Maggie soon joined them. Hazel took her regular seat in her favorite chair by the window, and Dickens soon strolled in and jumped up onto her lap.
The staff hovered near the walls, looking uncomfortable, until Hazel insisted they sit as well. They all exchanged looks before doing as she asked. Apparently, she’d crossed another of those family-staff boundaries without realizing it, but they’d just have to get used to it, because she considered them more than employees now. Besides, she’d get a crick in her neck from looking up so much.
Shrewsbury and Alice took a seat on the settee across from her, and Dickens promptly jumped down from her lap to sit between them, while Duffy and Maggie pulled up chairs on opposite ends of the settee. Hazel winced as she imagined the cat’s cream-colored hair all over her mysterious butler’s crisp black suit, but he never said a word, just looked supremely dignified as he stroked the feline’s fur—a master of espionage and animals too. Dickens purred loudly, as if receiving the best massage of his life, and stretched out beside Shrewsbury.
“What did you all find out?” Hazel asked, biting back a laugh at her errant kitty.
“Well, madam”—Duffy removed his black driver’s cap and twisted it between his hands—“I got the gossip from George Duncan, the under-butler at Farnsworth Abbey, while I was at the pub, though it’s not my usual practice to talk out of turn. George said he saw Doris sneaking into the Farnsworth garage a couple of times over this past summer to slip notes to Alphonse Ash, the family’s chauffeur. Then, about three weeks ago, he said, she stopped visiting the garage entirely, right after George overheard the two of them having a loud argument.”
“A lover’s quarrel perhaps?” Hazel asked, toeing off her shoes then slipping her feet beneath her on the chair. She’d changed from her lovely green dress into a cozy robe for the evening, but with the weather getting chillier, her feet still got cold.
“Could be,” Duffy said, avoiding Maggie’s pointed stare. “George suspected hanky-panky, and I’d have to say I agree. Seems the most logical reason why a maid would be visiting the garage.”
“I don’t know, madam,” Alice said, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t be too hasty there. My friend Jane told me that last Wednesday, several of the staff accompanied Lady Wakefield and the twins on a shopping trip in town. While they were there, Jane’s daughter said she happened to see Doris in a cozy tête-à-tête with the Wakefields’ son, Thomas, near the train station—and that wasn’t the first time she’d seen the two of them meeting secretly, either.”
Hazel frowned. Maybe what Mrs. Crosby had suspected was true. Maybe Doris was having an affair with more than one man at a time, both Thomas and the chauffeur. From the sound of things, it seemed like a sordid love triangle straight from the pages of Peg’s Paper magazine novel. And if that scenario proved true and Doris had tried to break it off with one of her lovers, then it was possible the scorned man had decided if he couldn’t have her, no one else could.
“For what it’s worth, madam,” Shrewsbury said, looking up from Dickens to her, his grey eyes sharp, “Lord Wakefield wasn’t at his club that night.”
“So he could have been home then, just as Lady Wakefield told me?”
“He could have, yes.” Shrewsbury’s gaze narrowed. “But why not say so to the police?”
“Odd,” Maggie said. “Why wouldn’t he run out like everyone else when Doris screamed?”
“Good question,” Hazel said.
“Well, if you ask me”—Duffy crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful—“the lord wouldn’t need to run out to see who was screaming if he was the one who pushed her.”
“Pushed her?” Hazel raised a brow, frowning. “You think Lord Wakefield shoved a maid off his roof? That sounds rather drastic to me. What motive could he have?”
“Nothing’s impossible, madam. History’s full of instances where the aristocracy have done much, much worse,” Shrewsbury added. “On a different tack, perhaps Doris was having an affair with him too, then attempted to blackmail him. That would put Wakefield in a difficult position and make him more inclined to push her.”
“How ghastly!” Hazel scrunched her nose and placed her hand on her chest in horror. “An affair with a father and son both? Not to mention their chauffeur? That’s beyond sordid. That’s insane. How could she keep track of them all? I’m sorry, but that sounds too far-fetched.”
“Agreed.” Maggie scowled, her chin raised defiantly. “I told you, Doris was not like that. And when I talked to my mother tonight, the only thing strange she said poor Doris had done over the past month or so was talk about going on a trip. And my mum only found it strange because as far as she knew, Doris didn’t have the money to travel.”
“A trip?” Hazel sat forward, her instincts telling her the location might be important. “Where?”
“Mom said Doris never mentioned a specific location.” Maggie shook her head. “Only that it was some place up north, because at the time Mum wondered why anyone would go there with winter approaching. The weather’s bad enough here in Oxfordshire, for goodness’ sake.”
“Hmm.” Hazel sat back. A trip to a remote location at the most inhospitable time of year. It didn’t sound like her kind of romantic getaway, but perhaps if the lovebirds were desperate, any port in a storm was better than none. If she were writing one of her mysteries, the next step would be to collect alibis and follow up with the staff members she’d already spoken with at Farnsworth Abbey. The trick, though, would be returning to the Wakefields’ estate without looking too suspicious. What she needed was an excuse to get back in there, something they wouldn’t question, something she could use to her advantage…
“What’s our next step, madam?” Alice asked, straightening her skirts and giving a snoozing Dickens beside her a side glance.
“I need to get back into the Wakefields’ home.” Hazel shoved her hands into the fuzzy pockets of her robe and smiled. “I’ll do that tomorrow.”
“Any idea how?” Duffy asked. “If they’ve got a killer hidden amongst them, they might close ranks and keep visitors out.”
“True.” Hazel cocked her head and looked over at her latest manuscript, realizing the perfect solution had been sitting before her all along. “But I have an excellent idea to get into Lady Wakefield’s good graces.”
Chapter Eight
“Ah, Mrs. Martin,” Lady Wakefield said, greeting Hazel in the grand hall at Farnsworth Abbey the next day. Harrison, the butler who’d let her in, bowed slightly to Hazel then disappeared into the background as Lady Wakefield brushed past him as if he weren’t there. “To what do we owe the honor of a second visit?”
“I’m so sorry to show up again on your doorstep without notice, but I wanted to make sure I got the acknowledgment in my book worded exactly how you wanted it. And if it wouldn’t be too much bother, I was also hoping to check one more tiny detail on the third floor for my mystery plot. The whole thing really does rely on the specifics.”
At the reminder of the book’s acknowledgment and inclusion of her famil
y name, Lady Wakefield went all fluttery with anticipation, and her smile widened. “Well, certainly, Mrs. Martin. Whatever you require. Please, do go upstairs, and I’ll be with you momentarily. You remember the way, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember. Thank you.” Hazel followed the path Mrs. Crosby had led her on the day before and eventually ended up in the same gloomy hallway on the third floor outside the turret room. Except this time, instead of stopping at the middle door, Hazel walked straight to the end of the hall and the intriguing second door she’d seen the day before. After checking to make sure she wasn’t seen, Hazel inched the door open, the metal knob cold in her palm. Wind whistled outside the walls, and dust swirled in the hazy sunshine streaming in through the window in the turret room. As the door creaked open, Hazel held her breath. She’d expected to see perhaps a second set of stairs or another form of escape route for Doris’s murderer. What she found behind the door, however, was an attic—a sealed attic at that, with no other exit—which meant whoever pushed Doris wouldn’t have been able to run down a back staircase to avoid being seen.
Darn it!
Hazel had just started to peer around the dim space cluttered with old furniture, steamer trunks, piles of clothing and furs bunched in a corner, as well as other remnants of the past, when footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her, and her heartbeat quickened. Time to go. Hazel hurried to close the attic door and rushed down the hall to the turret room, doing her best to look as if she were inspecting the tiny space. Lady Wakefield appeared moments later, her placid expression from the grand hall now harried and upset.
“I just don’t understand about this murder business. I thought this would all be over and done with by now and we could move on from such tragedy,” she said, clasping the long string of pearls around her neck and twining them around her fingers. The pale peach of her day dress only served to wash out her already pallid complexion and made her dark eyes look nearly black. “Detective Chief Inspector Gibson was here earlier too. He informed us the police were now considering Doris’s death to be murder.” She shook her head, her voice dropping to little more than a scandalized whisper. “A murder. Can you imagine? I shudder to think what the other families are saying about us behind our backs. It’s all got me so unsettled. I’ve no idea why the police are putting so much effort into the death of a little tart.”
Murder by Misunderstanding Page 5
