Murder by Misunderstanding
Page 12
The lord lowered his head, some of his bluster dissipating under his wife’s heated glare. “Yes, I was there. I’m sorry, Constance.”
Lady Wakefield huffed and turned away from him, clearly not in a forgiving mood.
“That also means, Lord Wakefield, that you couldn’t have been in your study the week before, arguing with Doris, either, because you actually were at the club that week.”
He looked back up at Hazel, his expression confused. “That’s correct.”
Hazel took pity on the beleaguered man whose marriage was crumbling before her very eyes. “Davis, your interim chauffeur, was kind enough to detail your Thursday-evening timetable for me. You alternate your trips to Grove Street with visits to your club, every other week.”
Lord Wakefield grunted in acknowledgment then slumped back into his seat.
“And Thomas.” She turned to the son next. “Were you in your father’s study, arguing with Doris, a week before she died?”
Thomas shook his head, still stunned after the revelation of his father’s affair, apparently. “No, madam.”
“I’m sorry, but haven’t you done enough damage here, Mrs. Martin?” Lady Wakefield dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin then stood, her irritation giving way to full-blown outrage. “You accuse my husband of infidelity, you hurl insults at my children. And still you’ve yet to get to your point. Please do so now, Mrs. Martin, or I’ll be forced to ask you to leave.”
Hazel leaned back slightly to glance out into the hall. No sign of Betsy yet, which meant she needed to stall for more time. Michael gave her a get-on-with-it look, which she did her best to ignore as she faced down the table full of Wakefield family members once more.
Sending Betsy up to the attic had been a risk. If the proof she needed wasn’t there, it could blow her whole theory. Hazel swallowed hard against the constriction in her dry throat and forced a confident smile she didn’t quite feel. “Lady Wakefield, I remember you showing me the beautiful shawl you’d made and explaining how you were lucky enough to be the first to happen upon the silk that had just been delivered by train. You said you bought it from Madam Pinkerton’s haberdashery shop?”
“Yes.” Lady Wakefield crossed her arms and tapped the toe of her black shoe against the thick Persian carpet. She’d dressed all in black today—the color of loss and mourning—fitting for what was about to happen, Hazel supposed.
“And that shop is directly across from the train station, isn’t it? You said yourself that you could see the station clearly through the gigantic plate-glass windows where they display all the new fabric at the front of the shop. I believe it looks directly at the ticket office, isn’t that correct, Lady Wakefield?”
Color flushed Lady Wakefield’s cheeks, made even more apparent by the somber hue of her clothing, and she glanced at her son before answering. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. But I still fail to see your point.”
Hazel turned back to Thomas again. “You were at that train station that day, weren’t you? Perhaps buying tickets and maybe meeting with someone?”
“What if I was?” He looked away, his face red and his expression embarrassed. “I certainly did not kill Doris.”
“I know you didn’t,” Hazel said, her gaze narrowed. “On the night of the murder, Mrs. Crosby testified to me and the police that she was in the dining room when she heard Doris’s scream and saw Betsy run past the doorway from the library. She followed behind Betsy. At the top of the stairs on the third floor, she met Lady Wakefield heading down. And by that point, Betsy, Mr. Donovan, George, and Harrison were all in the turret room. Mrs. Crosby also reported that you, Thomas, came up the stairs right behind her, which means it would have been impossible for you to kill Doris then have time to run out of the turret room and all the way downstairs without being seen.”
“My son would never have killed that maid,” Lady Wakefield said, her tone emphatic.
“Agreed,” Hazel continued. “The true killer, however, found themselves in a bit of a dilemma. Because Doris’s scream sent people running up the stairs almost immediately and because that lone stairway is the only exit from the turret room. Thus, the real murderer was trapped upstairs, unable to get away without being seen.”
Lord Wakefield rested his hands on the table and leaned forward, his dark gaze narrowed. “So what you’re saying is it must have been someone who was still in the turret room?”
“Well, sir, I did consider that, but it is incorrect.” Hazel slowly started walking around the table, passing by the twins first. “You see, there was another place the killer could go and hide to not be seen. The attic.”
“Then the killer could only be someone who was not seen in the turret room or on the ground or on the stairs?” Lord Wakefield narrowed his eyes as Hazel brushed by him.
“You are very nearly correct, sir.” Hazel glanced toward the dining room door, relieved to see Betsy finally poke her head around the frame. She cocked her head to indicate the maid should wait, and Betsy nodded, stepping back from the door again.
Hazel continued around the table. “I almost didn’t solve the case because none of the original suspects could have pushed Doris. Alphonse Ash had moved too far away by then to have made it back in time for the killing. Eugenia was in her room on the other side of the house and also then too far away. Lord Wakefield was not at home at the time of the murder, and Thomas came up the stairs behind Mrs. Crosby, eliminating him as a suspect.” She stopped by Lady Wakefield. “But there was one person who was going down the stairs, not up, right after the murder.”
Lady Wakefield gasped loudly, her hand fluttering to her chest as she realized the full extent of Hazel’s statement. “Now wait just a minute, Mrs. Martin. Whatever are you suggesting? I told you that I was in my sewing room when poor Doris fell. I was nowhere near that turret room.”
“Ah, but that’s not true, now is it, Lady Wakefield? You couldn’t have been where you say you were, you see.” Hazel blinked as the woman’s pasty complexion slowly mottled an unflattering shade of crimson. “If you had been in your sewing room as you’d claimed, then Mrs. Crosby would have either seen you rush past the dining room on your way to the kitchen, or you would have come up the stairs behind her, as Thomas did.”
Lady Wakefield stared at Hazel, her mouth flapping to form words that didn’t come.
“At first I thought you had lied about being in the sewing room so that you could claim Lord Wakefield was home even though you knew he wasn’t. I imagine you didn’t want his affair with Mrs. Pommel revealed.” Hazel caught the shocked look on Lord Wakefield’s face. Had he really thought he could hide something like that from his wife? In Hazel’s experience, the wife always knew. She continued, “But now I realize you had another reason.”
“Well, I never. That doesn’t mean anything,” Lady Wakefield hissed. “There was so much confusion that night. No one’s entirely sure of who they saw and when or where.”
“Ah, but Betsy was entirely confident about exactly who was in the room. You may have been in the turret room earlier, but the maid didn’t list you as one of the people she saw there after Doris fell because you weren’t there. That’s because you’d hidden yourself in the attic when you heard all the people rushing upstairs.” Hazel glanced back to the dining room door again and nodded for Betsy to enter. “Plus, you had a prop to get rid of as well.”
“Prop? What?” The color in Lady Wakefield’s cheeks began to drain away, leaving her slightly grey as the maid approached, holding out a bunched-up black sable stole. “That’s not a prop. That’s my very expensive, ruined fur. This is absurd.”
“Not absurd at all. This is what you used to lure Doris out the window isn’t it, Lady Wakefield?” Hazel took the item from Betsy. “Funny how it looks almost exactly like Norwich’s fur. And you knew Doris had a soft spot for that cat. Mrs. Crosby even told me she put herself in danger, climbing trees and even retrieving him from the gazebo roof. It would have been a simple trick to bunch it up and push it ov
er to the side so one could barely see part of it. It would easily be mistaken for Norwich. Then you simply got Doris to climb out of that third-floor window to rescue the cat she loved. Then, once the maid was on the ledge, you pushed her, poor thing. Afterward, you pulled your stole back inside before anyone could see it.”
Hazel ran her fingers through the thick, plush fur, indicating the area where a patch was missing. “Trouble was, you left a bit of evidence behind. There’s still a tuft of it stuck on the guttering. That’s what finally alerted me to what had happened. Well, that and your conversation with Eugenia about your damaged fur at the restaurant that day.” Hazel smiled, small and sad. “Anyway, afterward, you hid this stole in the attic, and when the pound of footsteps on the stairs stopped, you sneaked back out into the hallway, thinking the coast was clear. I imagine you’d thought you’d just rejoin the people in the turret room and pretend you’d also just come up the stairs. But it didn’t work out that way, did it? Unfortunately for you, Mrs. Crosby and Thomas were almost at the landing, and you couldn’t risk them seeing you enter the room from the wrong end of the hallway, so you panicked and made for the staircase instead to make it look as if you’d already been in the turret room and were now leaving.”
Jaw tense, Lady Wakefield gave a derisive snort. “Well, that’s a very entertaining tale, Mrs. Martin. You’ve forgotten one very important detail, however. I have no motive whatsoever. Why in the world would I want to kill that poor maid?”
Hazel glanced up at Michael and saw his slight nod, so she continued. “Actually, you did have a good reason for wanting the maid gone, one very important to you. You’ve always been extremely concerned about the tarnishing of your family name. You’ve told me yourself on several occasions that you had your sights set on a marriage between Thomas and the Tewkesbury girl and wanted to match your Eugenia up with an earl this season. Having your beloved son involved with one of your household staff was bad enough. Then the fact you thought he’d got the girl pregnant and was going to run away with her by train was completely unacceptable.”
A chorus of loud gasps filled the dining room, from family and staff alike.
Michael’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of the pregnancy that wasn’t real, but Hazel prayed he trusted her enough to go with it. Luckily, he watched her closely but remained silent.
She turned back to Lady Wakefield. “At least, I imagine that’s what you thought when you saw the receipt that was delivered here from Etienne’s a few days later, right? After all, you said you sort through all the household mail. And after glimpsing your son and Doris conspiring together at the train station the day you bought the new silk material for that shawl, you must have fit those pieces together into a tidy, if false, puzzle.”
“No! I—” Lady Wakefield gripped the edge of the table tight, her knuckles white. “I swear I never—”
“Don’t bother denying you saw them, Lady Wakefield,” Hazel said, halting her protest. “But you see, their meeting at the station that day wasn’t what you thought. They weren’t conspiring to elope together. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
Lady Wakefield visibly deflated at those words, cracking at last, as her shoulders slumped and her head lowered. “That little floozy was only after my family’s money. At that stage, I wouldn’t have put anything past her.”
“You even tried to bribe Doris, didn’t you?” Hazel said, rounding on the woman again. “It was you she argued with in Lord Wakefield’s study a week before her death, wasn’t it?”
“If she’d only taken my offer, then she’d still be alive.”
“Doris refused your money, though, didn’t she?” Hazel said, her throat dry and her pulse pounding from adrenaline. She felt like Detective Archibald Fox in her books at that exhilarating moment when all the clues fell into place perfectly. “She refused because she was innocent of all the horrible things you’d accused her of. You shoved an innocent maid, sending her plummeting to her death.”
“You’re wrong,” Lady Wakefield said, her tone now desperate as she backed toward the wall, her gaze darting between the other people in the room. “Our family would’ve been ruined because of that girl and her bastard child.”
“Wrong again, I’m afraid, Lady Wakefield,” Hazel said, feeling almost sorry for the woman. Almost. “You see, it was never Doris who was pregnant.”
“What?” Pressed against the wall, Lady Wakefield was visibly shaking now. “But—”
“Mother,” Eugenia sobbed, “is it true that you pushed her? Doris was my friend.”
“I was only trying to protect this family, protect you, from that gold digger.”
“No! She was never after our money. She was a good person.” Eugenia swiped the tears from her cheeks, anger sparking hot in her pale-blue eyes, her spirit rallying at last. “And Mrs. Martin is right. It wasn’t Doris who was pregnant, Mother. It’s me. I’m pregnant. By Alphonse Ash, who ran out on me right after I told him. Doris was only trying to help me out.”
Another gasp echoed through the room, and Hazel gave Michael a knowing look.
“It’s true,” Eugenia continued. “That’s why my brother fought with him. He did it on my behalf to get him to own up to his responsibilities.”
Lady Wakefield’s face crumpled with disgust. “The chauffeur is the father of your baby?”
“Yes, he is. I loved him.” Eugenia squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, looking calm and confident for the first time in Hazel’s recollection. “It was never my intention to ruin the family name, but I thought he cared for me too. Once he made it clear he had no interest in our child, I was hoping to leave before anyone found out about my condition. Doris and I were going to run away up north so I could have the baby in private, and then she was going to bring up the child as hers. Thomas was helping us make the arrangements.”
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Wakefield rushed around the table and took her daughter’s stiff form into her arms, having an apparent about-face—or a last attempt to elicit clemency for herself. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I had no idea. A grandchild?” She squeezed her daughter tight then looked at Michael and Hazel over the girl’s shoulder. “Though I imagine I’ll never get to see him or her now, since you’ll arrest me.”
Michael cleared his throat, glancing at Hazel, who nudged him toward the guilty party. “Uh, yes. I’m sorry, madam. But I’m afraid I must take you down to the station. You are hereby under arrest for the murder of Doris Carmichael…”
As he stepped forward to take Lady Wakefield into custody, Hazel glanced down to find Norwich by her feet, meowing loudly as he watched Lady Wakefield with his knowing green eyes. Apparently, Dickens wasn’t the only feline who could sniff out murder.
Chapter Twenty
Three days later, Hazel was back in the kitchen at Hastings Manor. Alice, Maggie, Duffy, Shrewsbury, and Michael were all gathered around the table with her, and they were enjoying Alice’s latest treat du jour.
“How’s that Madeira cake, Inspector Gibson?” Alice asked.
“Delicious, as always,” Michael said around a large mouthful. “Thank you.”
Alice blushed profusely at the compliment, and Hazel had to smile. It seemed her cook was so smitten with the inspector she’d failed to notice Dickens sneaking into the room. The cat twined around Hazel’s ankles, and she scooped him up onto her lap, scratching behind his ears.
“Well, it looks like you were proven right in the end, Maggie,” she said. “Your friend Doris really was a nice girl.”
“Yes, madam.” The maid smiled. “Thank you for clearing her name. I knew you would.”
“What I still don’t understand, though, is how you finally knew it was Lady Wakefield,” Alice said. “All from one clump of dark fur.”
Hazel kissed the top of Dickens’s head and smiled. “I’m actually embarrassed how long it took me. That clue was there from day one. All I really needed to do was just see things in a different way.”
“How so?” Duffy aske
d.
“Well, for so long, I was fixated on the idea that someone wanted to kill Doris because of her pregnancy. Later, when we found out there was no baby, then I assumed she must have been faking the whole thing for monetary gain. I even made the false assumption that she’d bought that pregnancy corset for herself, when in reality, she’d been buying it for Eugenia. That also explains why it was too big.”
“I don’t know, madam,” Alice said, shaking her head. “Still seems like an awfully big chance for Lady Wakefield to take.”
“Not really, Alice. When you consider how concerned she is with appearances and her family name.” Hazel shrugged and glanced at Michael, who was finished with his slab of cake. “Her pride clouded her judgment. And she most likely thought the police wouldn’t pay much attention to the death, since Doris was only a maid. Turns out she was wrong about that, thankfully.”
Michael wiped his mouth with a napkin then pushed his empty plate away. “And that was her second mistake. We do our best to treat every victim with the same urgency, no matter their class or profession. At least I do. Perhaps not all the detective inspectors are quite as diligent.”
“What was her first mistake, besides killing Doris?” Hazel asked him, curious.
He winked at her and smiled. “Letting you into Farnsworth Abbey that first day to snoop around.”
Heat prickled her cheeks at the warmth in his eyes, and she quickly focused on Dickens instead. “Well, she did go to great lengths to make Doris’s death appear to be a suicide too,” Hazel added. “She even primed Mrs. Crosby with those thoughts and assured her she should talk to the police about them.”