by Sara Rosett
Calder’s eyes narrowed. “You know quite a bit about dead bodies, do you?”
“I’m a scientist. I’ve studied decomposition, Inspector Calder, and recognize it.”
Calder stared at her a moment, then seemed to give up on his attempt to come up with a reply. He turned his goggle-eyed gaze on me. “And you, Miss—er—Belgrave? You walked the path and passed directly by there. What did you notice this morning?”
“I didn’t go close enough to see down to the river at that point. When I came to the fallen tree, I circled around and went up into the woods.”
Serena took another cigarette from the box and tapped it against her thumbnail. “Who was it, Inspector Calder?”
He cleared his throat again. “Well . . . can’t really say at this point . . . haven’t made a formal identif—”
“It’s Mayhew, isn’t it?” Serena’s flat statement cut across Calder’s equivocation.
Calder blinked, tugged at his earlobe, then glanced out the window. “It does appear to be the person who inhabited East Bank Cottage.”
“You found something identifiable?”
Calder hesitated.
“Oh, come now, Inspector Calder. Who else could it be? Everyone else in the village is accounted for. If anyone had left or gone missing from Hadsworth for several days, it would be common knowledge.”
“Could be someone from the golf course.” Calder’s tone was almost belligerent. “We get a lot of holiday people.”
“But they rarely cross the river, carrying a suitcase. If it were a golfer, I would expect a bag of clubs to be buried with the body, not a suitcase.”
I silently applauded Serena’s logic and her clear statement. I didn’t think it could be anyone else either, especially after seeing the state of East Bank Cottage.
“You are accounted the brainy one, Miss Shires,” Calder said in a tone that was far from complimentary. “Yes, the suitcase labels as well as some papers inside it indicate it was Mayhew.”
Serena lit the cigarette and leaned back against the chair. “So Mr. Mayhew was a woman,” she said, not with surprise or shock, but as if she were contemplating how to work out a complex equation.
“It appears so.”
“Why dress as a man? She lived here for years and no one knew.”
“Too soon to say—can’t make any assumptions now—”
“Did you find his tin mask?” Serena asked.
Calder scowled. “Yes, it was near the suitcase.”
Now was the time to speak up. I drew a breath to tell Calder what I’d seen in the cottage, prepared to confess my snooping, but before I could continue, Serena said, “The mask was a disguise.” Serena turned, angled her arm along the back of the chair, and said to me, “Could you see her face when you looked?”
“No, it was turned away. Well, except for the temple.”
“Yes, took rather a knock there, by the look of it. But I could see her face when I came across the river. It was undamaged.” She shifted back to Calder. “The mask must have been a blind to get people to leave her alone. The question is, why did she want to be left alone?”
“Since she met with an accident, we may never know,” Calder said.
I moved to the sofa and took a seat. “Then you think it was an accident?”
“That section of the path has always been hazardous. It should have been cordoned off long ago.” He turned his attention back to Serena. “How much contact did you here at the Hall have with Mayhew? Let’s call her that. It makes it simpler.”
Serena tapped ash from the cigarette. “None. No contact at all. I rarely saw . . . Mayhew. Once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of . . . her. She took long walks around the countryside. But those were only fleeting glimpses, usually from a long distance away. We never stopped to chat.”
“And when was the last time you saw Mayhew?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She lifted the cigarette to her mouth. “Several days ago, I suppose. I was buying stamps in the village. I remember it because I didn’t see her around the village much, only occasionally, but everyone has to buy stamps at some time or another, I suppose. Let’s see—that would have been late Tuesday afternoon, I think. I turned away from the counter, and Mayhew was behind me in the queue.” She stilled, her arm suspended in the air as she focused on the plaster medallion above the chandelier. “No, that’s wrong. A friend came down from London to discuss my paper on decay rates for The Journal of Forensic Studies. She stayed overnight, then we played a round of golf the next morning before she returned to town. We made up a foursome with two ladies from Yorkshire who were on holiday. It was early on Wednesday morning last week when I saw Mayhew.”
Calder leaned forward. “Mayhew was on the golf course?”
“No, across the river, on the path. The fairway drops down from the trees and takes you right up to the edge of the riverbank. No trees at that point, and the view is open to the river. A movement caught my eye. Mayhew was walking along the path, holding his hat. It was breezy that morning. He waved, and I waved back. I knew it was him because I saw the flash of that cheery red tie.” Her words slowed. “That same tie I saw today. I must have seen him right before . . .”
Calder asked, “Did you hear any noise or see him fall?”
Serena put the cigarette down on the edge of the ashtray and rubbed her scalp, causing her already disarranged curls to stand out around her head even more. “No, we played through to the next hole. I never looked back.” She cleared her throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Mayhew favored bright ties and pocket squares—red, yellow, and even purple. I didn’t see Mayhew often, but the few glimpses I did catch of him—er—her, she always had a brightly colored tie and coordinating pocket square.”
“What else did you notice about Mayhew that morning?”
“She wore a tweed jacket.” Serena closed her eyes. “A flat cap and dark trousers.”
Lady Holt swept into the room. “Bower informs me there’s been an accident near the river.”
Calder stood. “Good morning, Lady Holt. Yes, your ladyship, it seems a few days ago, an unstable portion of the path collapsed and a—er—person went down with it. A further collapse—a landslide, if you will—covered the body, burying it until this morning, when an uprooted tree shifted the earth, exposing the body.” Calder paused to draw a breath.
“It was Mayhew,” Serena said.
Lady Holt looked at her blankly. “Mayhew?”
“The person who lived in East Bank Cottage,” Serena said. “And he was a she. Mayhew, I mean.”
Lady Holt blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Serena said, “The wounded man—the one with the mask. Surely you saw Mayhew on the estate grounds or in the village occasionally. Mayhew was a woman dressing as a man, and she didn’t need a mask either. Her face was completely normal—well, as normal as it could be after being buried for several days.”
The color drained from Lady Holt’s face. Her perfect posture didn’t change, but she sank into a chair. The constable approached and murmured something to Calder, who didn’t see the change in Lady Holt’s complexion. The constable retreated, and Calder said, “Lady Holt, what can you tell me about Mayhew?”
“Nothing,” she said, her words as precise as her posture. “I’ve never had any interaction with her.”
“No?”
“No, all the details about letting the cottage were handled through the estate steward. I don’t have anything to do with that sort of thing—a lady shouldn’t involve herself in trade or investments, you know. Both Lord Holt and I leave all that sort of thing to our estate steward.”
“I’ll need to have a word with your estate steward later.”
Was now the time to mention Mayhew was a well-known novelist writing under a pen name, or should I keep quiet? How far would the investigation into this death go? Having just been involved in the incident at Archly Manor, I knew if the police thought Mayhew’s death was suspicious, they’d probe into
every aspect of Mayhew’s life. But it didn’t appear Calder would look too deeply into Mayhew’s death.
Calder seemed to think it was an accident, but he’d have to check Mayhew’s cottage. Would the police find my fingerprints there? I’d never been to Hadsworth, so I couldn’t be considered a suspect in the death—if it turned out to be foul play—but having my fingerprints found at East Bank Cottage would be embarrassing. Snooping was incredibly bad manners. It was just not what one did when one visited a country home.
Lady Holt’s color was returning to normal. “I expect your people to finish by lunch, Inspector.”
“Yes, my lady, but we have to investigate the death.”
“Investigate?”
“Determine what happened, if it was accidental or . . .”
“Of course it was an accident. This person was found beside the river in a landslide of some sort, you said?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then it was an accident. Unfortunate and terribly sad but an unpreventable occurrence. I’m sure you’ll find that’s what happened.”
“But we must determine—”
“Nonsense. We can’t have a hint of anything disreputable going on at Blackburn Hall, or we’ll have those horrible gossip sheet reporters down here, clamoring to get in. And neither I nor Lord Holt want that sort of attention. Is that understood?”
Calder seemed to shrink under Lady Holt’s gaze. “Yes, my lady. But we do have to investigate, and there will have to be an inquest.”
“Oh, an inquest. As long as it takes place in Hadsworth and the verdict is death by misadventure, it will all be fine. Just keep Blackburn Hall out of it. Make sure you describe the incident as taking place near Rosewood Hills Golf Course, not Blackburn Hall.” Lady Holt stood, which meant Calder had to rise as well. Lady Holt said, “I know you will do all you can to clear this up with as little fuss as possible.”
Lady Holt rang for Bower, and Calder was shown out. Calder had barely left the room when Zippy came striding in through the French doors. “What’s all the commotion down at the river?” Zippy took a cigarette from the box. “I just came off the course, and everyone’s saying there’s a dead body.”
“For once, the gossip is correct,” Serena said. “It’s the person who lived in East Bank Cottage—Mayhew. And that’s not all. Mayhew was a woman.”
Zippy spoke around the cigarette as he lit it. “You don’t say.” Zippy closed the lighter with a snap. “Well, that will set the gossip mill churning.”
“Apparently, no one knows who she was or why she was masquerading as a veteran with a mask,” Serena said.
He dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa from me, reclining back and crossing one leg over the other. “Obviously, she wanted to be left alone.”
“But why?” Serena asked. “There has to be a reason.”
“Aunt Serena, you’re far too analytical. Not everything can be traced back to a reason—or, at least, we can’t always find out the reason.” Zippy rested one arm along the back of the sofa. “Besides, it’s nothing to do with us, you know.”
“Very true,” Lady Holt said. “But it will be a great inconvenience, I’m sure. All of these people tramping back and forth. I instructed Calder to clear up everything this morning. I expect that to be the last of it.” She turned to me. “We must get on with the manuscript. Are you ready to continue, Miss Belgrave?”
“Yes, of course,” I said as I realized that I hadn’t even thought about how Mayhew’s death would impact Hightower Books. I needed to contact Mr. Hightower.
But not even a death could distract Lady Holt from our review of her manuscript. Two hours later, Lady Holt straightened the edges of the pile of paper in front of her. “I think we’ve done quite well for today. I have an appointment this afternoon and won’t be able to continue going over the manuscript. We should be able to finish tomorrow.”
I eyed the remaining pages. “Yes, I think that will be possible.” I’d had a difficult time focusing on Lady Holt’s concerns. My thoughts were taken up with Mayhew’s death and my visit to East Bank Cottage. I should have spoken up immediately and told Inspector Calder I’d been inside the cottage.
But Lady Holt was so forceful, and she’d been clear that she expected the incident to be considered an accident and wrapped up quietly. If the police never checked the cottage for fingerprints, they’d never know I was there. Why bring it up and endure all the embarrassment it would cause? Not to mention it would mean I’d have to confess that the examination of the manuscript was a ruse. When Mr. Hightower offered me the job, I envisioned being long gone before Lady Holt learned of the duplicity. A slightly seasick feeling hit me at the thought of what her reaction would be to that news.
No one else joined Lady Holt and me for lunch. Lord Holt was still on the golf course, Zippy had gone into the village, and Serena had sent word she was working and would have a sandwich sent up. Lady Holt and I talked of books and mutual acquaintances in London. I continued to mull over my actions during lunch, and by the time dessert was served, I knew what I had to do—visit the police station in Hadsworth. My embarrassment was a small thing compared to a person’s death.
With my course set, I felt lighter as the plates were cleared. “I do apologize for the disturbance this morning,” Lady Holt said.
“There’s no need to apologize.”
“Nevertheless, it’s not something one wants a guest to experience.”
“No, but it couldn’t be helped.”
Lady Holt waited until the door closed behind the servant who was carrying our plates away. “And it would be disappointing if any hint of this were to get into the newspapers. I know no one in the household will mention it to them.” She turned her long face to me and gave me a searching look I’d seen when she looked for mistakes in her manuscript.
I suppressed the flare of irritation I felt at her assumption she needed to warn me, but I kept my face impassive. “I have no interest in sharing the news with reporters.”
“Good.”
Once lunch was over, I went upstairs for my hat and gloves. I needed to telephone Mr. Hightower and let him know what had happened to Mayhew, but first, I wanted to go to the village and visit the solicitor’s office on my way to the police station. I intended to gather all the information I could about Mayhew before I contacted Mr. Hightower. I hoped with the solicitor back in his office, he could either tell me when Mayhew’s manuscript had been mailed, or—better yet—perhaps he still had it in his office.
I flexed my fingers inside my gloves, working them into place as I left my room. The murmur of voices floated down the hall, growing louder as I neared an open doorway, where two maids were making up a bed. My hat slipped, inching down over my eye. I pushed it back up. As I passed the open door, the maids’ conversation paused for a few seconds. My hat slipped again, farther this time, and I stopped in front of a gilt-edged mirror on the other side of the open door to adjust it.
The snap of linen being shaken out cracked through the air like the report of a gun, then a voice floated out of the room. “A woman wearing men’s clothes. Shocking, that’s what it is.”
So the word was out that Mayhew was a woman. I wasn’t surprised the servants already had all the details. I twitched a flower on my hat back into place.
A different deeper voice, an alto, asked, “How can they be so sure it was Mayhew?”
“She was wearing Mayhew’s clothes and had the mask. No one’s seen Mayhew since last week, poor lad—er—girl. She must have been on her way to catch the train—she had a suitcase—but the station master and porters never saw her. No one in the village did. Well, except Miss Serena when she was golfing.”
The deeper-voiced woman said, “The mistress will have nothing to worry about now when it comes to her son visiting East Bank Cottage.”
I froze, elbows in the air as I adjusted the brim of my hat. Nothing good ever came of eavesdropping, but after Lady Holt had gone white as plaster at the news of Mayhew�
�s death, I was too curious to walk away.
“What do you mean?”
“Her ladyship was upset with Mr. Edward. I heard them arguing a few weeks ago out in the garden. He’d returned from a walk, and she told him she knew he’d been to East Bank Cottage. She forbade him to go there again.”
“No! Why?”
“It weren’t natural, she said.”
“Not natural? What does that mean?”
Fabric rustled. The maid with the deeper voice said, “You are an innocent, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are if you don’t know what her ladyship meant.” Fabric snapped again. “She meant some men like other men instead of women.”
A few beats of silence followed, and then the other maid said, “No.” Her tone indicated she thought the other woman was joking.
“Yes. But now Lady Holt won’t have to worry about it. Straighten that corner there, and then you better do the other room before . . .”
I moved away, the thick carpet muffling my footsteps. Perhaps Zippy hadn’t been as unaffected by the news of Mayhew’s death as he’d seemed?
Chapter Eight
Besides the half-timbered pub, the Norman church, and the brick inn, Hadsworth’s High Street consisted of a row of connected shops, each with its own stepped A-frame roof, which created a sawtooth pattern against the sky. I was curious to see if Zippy still had his careless air about him, but I didn’t see him strolling down the road or across the green.
I made my way around the village green and passed a cenotaph topped with a Celtic cross. When I entered the police station, the constable looked up from his typewriter.
“I’d like to speak to Inspector Calder.”
“He’s at the golf course. Not playing,” he added quickly. “He’s asking questions about Mr.—Miss—er, about the death. He should be back soon if you’d like to wait.”
The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the tiny room listening to the rat-tat-a-tat of the typewriter. “No, I’ll stop back later.” I closed the door of the police station behind me and set off around the cenotaph again. I went into the village shop and asked for directions to the solicitor’s office.
