Murder in the Manor

by Fiona Grace

  Lacey blushed. Gina was making it very obvious she was attempting to get the two of them together. Lacey felt like a teenager being match-made by an aunt or something.

  “Tom’s way too busy,” Lacey said.

  “Paul’s in today,” Tom said quickly, pointing through the window at the young trainee chef he occasionally gave work to. “He can cover the shift.”

  Lacey knew very well that Tom only ever drafted Paul in when he was planning on redoing the window display. Obviously helping her was more important to him than his infamous macaron sculptures. The thought warmed her.

  “Besides, I’ve hurt my ankle,” Gina continued, fake-wincing while rubbing her leg.

  “Okay, okay!” Lacey said, caving. She’d had more than enough of Gina’s cajoling and bad acting.

  She did want to spend time with Tom. But she didn’t really feel like getting abuse from the townsfolk today. The interaction with Taryn and Keith the handyman had left a sour taste in her mouth and she wasn’t sure how much more bitterness she could stomach.

  She took the tote bag of posters from Gina, flashing her a discreet I-know-what-you’re-doing look as she did—to which Gina grinned widely in response—then she and Tom went up the high street.

  They only went inside the stores that hadn’t been outwardly hostile to Lacey, and Lacey was surprised that people were still showing interest in the auction despite her obvious involvement. Tom has a soothing effect on everyone he meets, Lacey thought.

  They went into the children’s toy store. The woman behind the counter—a portly thirty-something who gave off jolly-teacher vibes—had been nice enough to Lacey when she first arrived in Wilfordshire, though their paths hadn’t crossed since Iris’s death. But as she noticed Lacey, her encouraging smile turned into an anxious grimace.

  “Oh,” she said, before shaking herself. “I mean, hello!”

  Lacey felt her stomach clench. The woman wasn’t being hostile toward her, she was scared of her. The feeling was awful. Lacey actually preferred the aggressiveness of the coffee store clerk to this trembling. She could cope with schoolyard bullies, but she couldn’t cope with being perceived as one.

  Tom handed the clerk a poster, his smile bright. “Hi, Jane. Would you be able to put this poster up in your window? It’s for Wilfordshire’s very first antiques auction, and everyone’s invited.”

  Jane looked at Lacey with a timid expression. “You’re hosting it?”

  “It will be in my store, yes,” Lacey said, a little evasively. Percy, Mayfair’s Finest, was going to be present at the auction, but she was the one conducting it.

  “I’ll think about it,” Jane replied, taking the poster.

  “Everyone else has put them up,” Tom added. “It won’t hurt.”

  Jane looked even more tense. “I don’t usually put anything in the windows…”

  That was a lie. When Lacey arrived in town she’d noticed a poster for last summer’s fairground was still in the window.

  Tom was about to say something, but Lacey rested a hand on his arm and spoke out the side of her mouth. “Come on, let’s go.”

  He obliged. Lacey glanced back briefly as they left, just in time to see Jane throw the poster in the bin.

  “This was a bad idea,” she said, her stomach swirling with disappointment.

  “Not at all,” Tom told her. “We’ve put loads up. Are you worried about Jane?”

  “She was frightened,” Lacey sighed. “Of me. It’s a horrible feeling.”

  Tom paused and took her by the shoulders, the weight and warmth coming from his palms grounding her. “Jane’s scared of everything. Spiders. Moths. Fireworks. Open-toed sandals…”

  Lacey laughed.

  “You think I’m joking?” Tom said, grinning. “I promise you. I went in there once with my toes on display and she nearly fainted. The point is, the way other people perceive you really has nothing to do with you and everything to do with themselves. Some people see the world through very skewed lenses.” He shrugged.

  “Huh,” Lacey said. “That’s pretty good advice. Although open-toed sandals are a fashion crime for men. You do know that, right?”

  Tom laughed.

  Buoyed by the pep talk, Lacey felt a renewed sense of purpose, and she held her head high as they continued along the high street distributing their posters. Some people were receptive, others weren’t, but Lacey didn’t let their opinions get to her. It was as if Tom had handed her a bulletproof jacket and she could deflect any blows thrown at her. Besides, she was about to realize a dream—to hold her very own auction! And it wasn’t just her dream, it was her father’s dream too! She was about to achieve something for the both of them, despite the difficulties and hurdles she’d faced on the way. That was something to be extremely proud of.

  They reached the Coach House Inn at the end of the high street and went inside. It was very quiet. Brenda the baby-faced barmaid looked bored out of her mind to be working the dead early shift, with no one but her usual drunk snoozing at the bar to keep her company.

  “Morning,” Lacey said, approaching the bar.

  Brenda flashed her a skeptical look. But then again, she always looked wary. Working in a bar had probably made her cautious of everyone.

  “Yeah?”

  Lacey rummaged for a poster. “We were wondering if we could display this?” she asked, unfurling it to show Brenda.

  The girl shrugged nonchalantly, not even looking at what it said. She gestured to a wall that was crammed with posters.

  “Help yourself,” she said blandly, her lips smacking loudly from the gum she was chewing. “You can take down anything that’s out of date.”

  Lacey and Tom exchanged a glance of amusement, then went over to the wall of crowded posters. Hers would surely get lost in the fray.

  As Lacey searched for old notices she could discard, one caught her eye. The words ARSENAL v WOLVERHAMPTON had been crossed out with a big black marker pen. Underneath, someone had scrawled: Not showing! Pub closed! Sorry for the inconvenience!

  “Tom!” Lacey exclaimed, yanking it off the wall and shoving it at him. “Look at this!”

  Her heart was starting to race as she watched Tom’s eyes scan the notice. When he connected the dots, he looked up at her, eyes wide. “I don’t believe it. The pub was closed—”

  “—at the time my store was robbed.” She nodded vigorously.

  “But Brenda was the witness that gave an alibi to—”

  “—Ben and Henry! Exactly!”

  They stared at one another, searching each other’s eyes as they attempted to calibrate the new piece of information. If Ben and Henry weren’t in the pub, witnessed by Brenda, on the evening the store got robbed, then they were back on her suspects list and there was a glimmer of hope that Nigel wasn’t her guy after all!

  “Let’s ask Brenda,” Tom said. “And see what this is all about.”

  He seemed energized by the clue, and hurried to the bar. Brenda was now lazily flicking crumbs off the tables with a dry dish cloth.

  “Brenda, what’s this notice about the pub closing for the day?” Lacey asked, showing her the poster.

  “That was last week,” the barmaid said with an air of irritation. “You can throw it away.”

  “But what happened?” Lacey pressed. “Why was the pub closed? Why didn’t you show the match?”

  Brenda frowned. “A faulty beer pump flooded the basement and it was all hands on deck to sort it out.” She sounded defensive, like she was being accused of something. “So?”

  “So Superintendent Turner said you gave a witness statement for two men on that day,” Tom said.

  “Huh? I haven’t even seen Superintendent Turner. He’s not even allowed in here.”

  Lacey’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, what? Why?”

  “He got signed off. A perp broke both his knees and then he turned into one of those.” She pointed at the drunk sleeping at the bar. “But he cleaned himself up and got therapy for his PTSD and now h
e’s back. Top of his game.”

  Top of his game seemed a bit rich, but Lacey was glad to hear the man had confronted his demons. She felt a bit more sympathy for him now that she understood some of what he’d been through. It didn’t excuse him breaking her bell and screwing up her poster, but it did explain why he was so quick to temper.

  You really never know what a person’s been through, Lacey reminded herself.

  “So no one came in and took a statement from you about two men being in the bar on that day?” Tom asked.

  Brenda tugged at the big bun of blond hair piled onto her head, in an attempt to make it look even more messy than it already did, a style that was, inexplicably to Lacey, very popular amongst British youths. “Like I said. Pub was closed. I think the match was shown at Carol’s as well, so maybe that’s where they were seen. But it definitely wasn’t by me. I was on my knees in the basement getting soaked in beer.”

  Tom and Lacey exchanged a look. Their suspicion was confirmed, straight from the horse’s mouth. Benjamin and Henry had no alibi for the robbery. Either one of them could have been the one who broke into the store. The brothers were back in the frame.

  They left the pub, stunned by what they’d learned.

  “Superintendent Turner lied to me,” Lacey said once they were back on the cobblestone sidewalk outside the inn. The sea was very gray today, the weather having taken a chilly turn over lunch.

  Tom didn’t look concerned by Lacey’s accusation. “He was using deception to try and provoke a spontaneous confession from you.”

  Lacey raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like lawyer speak.”

  Tom smiled sheepishly. “I guess I’m a mommy’s boy.”

  But Lacey was suddenly lost in thought. Had the detective lied to her, or had he been duped by the brothers? Had he been given an alibi that he’d then failed to check up on; perhaps out of shame, as he wasn’t allowed into the Coach House to follow it up?

  “What is it?” Tom asked, presumably in response to Lacey’s sudden silence.

  She held up a finger to pause him. Mind racing, Lacey searched her memories, trying to recall what DCI Lewis had told her about Brenda’s supposed statement, the one she now knew to be false.

  “The brothers were seen there from kickoff to final whistle. We have a witness statement. The superintendent has been working on all the alibis personally.”

  “That’s it!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers.

  Tom frowned, looking perplexed. “Want to let me in on your lightbulb moment?”

  “Superintendent Turner has been personally taking charge of all the alibi statements,” Lacey explained, echoing what she’d heard from DCI Lewis. “Not just for the break-in, but for the ones related to the murder as well.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t using deception to provoke a spontaneous confession. He dropped the ball!”

  Tom looked more even more confused. “I’m lost. What are you getting t?”

  “I’m saying we shouldn’t take any of the alibi statements as truth. Superintendent Turner’s been doing some sloppy work.” She lowered her voice, aware she was in a public place slandering a generally well-respected police officer. “Think about it. Clarissa was Henry’s alibi during the murder. And he hers. Well, what if they were lying? Covering for one another? And Superintendent Turner for whatever reason failed to properly corroborate their statements. What if they weren’t scrutinized properly?”

  “Then they’d be back in the suspect pool.” Tom paused, as if contemplating the ramifications of her words. “Wait. Why were Henry and Clarissa one another’s alibis in the first place? I thought they hated one another.”

  Lacey recalled what Nigel had told her about the relationship between the three Archer children. Henry and Ben were the tag team, not Henry and Clarissa. He’d even said she’d given the alibi for him begrudgingly.

  “You’re right. And yet, they were supposedly together at Clarissa’s house in London at the time of the murder. Clarissa couldn’t have hated Henry that much if she let him into her home.”

  “Perhaps they were finally old enough to let bygones be bygones,” Tom suggested. “People change. Rifts heal.”

  Lacey considered his words. Maybe she was barking up the wrong tree. But it was certainly odd. And whatever the truth of the matter was, the revelation of Brenda’s statement being uncorroborated by Superintendent Turner had blown her suspect pool wide open again. Nigel may not be her perp after all. And the Archer children were back in the frame. That little glimmer of hope buoyed Lacey. Anything that hinted Nigel might not be her guy was a relief to her. She missed him and wanted her old friend back.

  “We have to get the children to come to the auction,” Lacey said. “That’s the only way we’ll be able to see whether one of the brothers has a dog bite.”

  They’d been keeping the fact the furniture of the auction belonged to Iris out of public knowledge—nothing made Lacey look more guilty than to be selling the valuables of the woman everyone thought she’d murdered, after all—but now she realized if they didn’t make it obvious then Iris’s children would never come.

  She got out her cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Tom asked.

  “Nigel,” Lacey replied. “I’m going to ask him to tell the kids about the auction.”

  She felt herself tremble with nerves as the call connected to her former friend turned suspect turned, well, who even knew anymore? All Lacey could cling to was that there was hope for him after all. But hope for Nigel meant the pendulum had swung back toward an even crueler reality; that Iris Archer was murdered by one of her own children.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  A black taxicab pulled up outside Lacey’s store, and from the back seat emerged a familiar face. Lacey hurried from behind her counter—Chester leaping up, mirroring her excitement—and ran to the door.

  She heaved it open and waved eagerly at Percy Johnson. The old man was looking exceptionally professorial today, in a smart brown tweed jacket and gray trilby hat, which he tipped to Lacey as a way of greeting. He paid the cabby through the window, tucked his folded newspaper under his armpit, then doddered across the uneven cobblestones toward her.

  Lacey felt giddy with excitement. She’d spent so much time on video calls with Percy—him imparting his vast knowledge to her in the soothing voice of a BBC presenter—they’d formed something of an almost familial bond. He’d become so much more than just her Mayfair contact during this whole debacle over Iris’s furniture, he’d become a mentor and confidant to Lacey. Seeing him again in the flesh rather than over a fuzzy, lagging webcam was like being reunited with a friendly grandfather.

  She hugged him.

  “Hello, dear,” he said, patting her back, his plummy voice croaking. “How are you?”

  She pulled away. “Relieved to have you here. I’m a bag of nerves.”

  “First auction,” he said with a nod. “I’m not surprised.”

  Lacey smiled in response to his warm encouragement. “Come inside. Tom’s made a Victoria sponge.”

  “My favorite!” the old man replied.

  “I know,” Lacey said, grinning.

  They headed back into the store, where Lacey had laid out a spread of Tom’s most delicious pastries. He’d also loaned her some of his finest English Blue China crockery for the occasion, and the Victoria sponge was on a beautiful display dish that wouldn’t look out of place on Lacey’s shelves. She was extremely grateful for all the help Tom had given her; his continued involvement in everything happening in her life made it very clear where he’d like to stand with her, but he was gentleman enough to leave the ball in Lacey’s court when it came to crossing over the line into romance. It only made her like him more, but with the divorce so fresh in the back of her mind, a relationship seemed incomprehensible right now. Not to mention the fact she was trying her best to solve a murder at the moment. To say she was distracted was an understatement.

  Percy whistled as
he glanced around at the store. “Very nice. It all looks quite professional indeed.”

  Chester trotted up to the man, who reached down and petted him like they were already firm friends.

  Lacey poured Percy a cup of tea—something she was still no expert at but had certainly gotten the hang of—placed a slice of cake onto a pretty floral plate with a silver fork, then led him into the auction space.

  Getting the room ready had been a challenge, but she’d enjoyed it. It reminded her a lot of the work she’d done with Saskia—of how best to organize a room for maximum usefulness without compromising on aesthetic value. She was proud of what she’d done, of the red velvet chairs she’d rented from the town hall, and how she’d utilized Iris’s Japanese shōji screens, made of bamboo lattice, to hide all the various items to be sold behind. The room was a combination of modern and vintage, just like Lacey liked, and she was pleased to have injected some of her own personality into it, rather than just going along with what was considered standard in the world of auctioneering.

  “Oh, I like this a lot,” Percy said with a tone of pride and admiration. “You must be expecting a lot of attendees?”

  Lacey looked at the row of chairs. She’d borrowed fifty from the town hall—the stock was usually used in their civil service ceremonies—but she had no idea whether she’d overdone it. Percy must’ve thought so, and she chewed her lip with uncertainty.

  “I’m not sure. We flyered almost every store on the high street, and put posters up all around the town. But everyone knows it’s Iris Archer’s stuff I’m selling, and since most people in town think I killed her for her riches, well, I have a feeling it will put a few people off.” Her voice trailed away as the heaviness of that reality settled on her shoulders once more.

  “So the ruse is up?” Percy asked. He’d been privy to all the goings-on in Lacey’s complicated life and was well aware of the cover-up mission.

  Lacey sighed. “Yeah. We had to make it obvious we were selling Iris Archer’s belongings in order to lure her sons and the valet here.” She shrugged. “If it’s only the three of them, it’s worth it to clear my name. I’m certain one of the three of them is the murderer.”