by Sara Rosett
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Mayhew was actually a woman.” Colonel Shaw didn’t want Mayhew’s identity as Veronica May broadcast, so I kept that bit of information back, but the news that Mayhew was a woman was all over Blackburn Hall already, which meant the whole village would probably know within a few more hours, if they didn’t already. The silence stretched. “Mr. Hightower? Are you still there?”
“A woman? What—? Are you sure?”
“I saw the body myself. It was definitely a woman dressed in men’s clothing.”
“Well, I’ll be.” He laughed suddenly. “No wonder Mayhew didn’t want to come up to London and have dinner and meet everyone.”
“And it explains the horrible picture too,” I said. “She disguised herself so no one would recognize her.”
“What an interesting twist. Mysterious author, living incognito.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I tend to get a little carried away when it comes to business, which is not at all what should be the focus right now. Poor chap—or lady, I suppose I should say. Poor lady.”
I didn’t want Mr. Hightower to ask any more questions about Mayhew’s real identity, so I moved the conversation back to the death. “Yes, apparently when she fell, a cascade of earth covered her, hiding her body until a storm came through this week. A waterlogged tree fell over, unearthing the body.”
“Horrible. Just horrible.” A sigh came over the line. “Of course this will mean the end of books from Mayhew. I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it.” He spoke under his breath, and I thought he was probably jotting notes as he talked. “Extra large print run for Murder on the Ninth, and reissue all the other titles in special editions. That’ll hold us for a while, I suppose.” His voice returned to its normal pitch. “Sorry. That’s something to think about another time. Thank you for your information, Miss Belgrave. Hand off Murder on the Ninth to Leland, and then finish out your stay at Blackburn Hall.”
As I rang off, Lady Holt came down the stairs. “Did you hear the news, Miss Belgrave? Mr. Hightower is sending his associate from Hightower Books down with a contract for the etiquette guide. I think a celebration is in order. Perhaps another little dinner party. I know it’s not quite the done thing, considering what happened to . . . um . . . the occupant of East Bank Cottage, but Mr. Busby will be our guest. I must provide some entertainment for him. You’ll stay on, won’t you?”
“Yes, that would be lovely.”
“Excellent. I’d like you to look over the last few chapters before Mr. Busby arrives. I think we can go over at least one more chapter before tea.”
I flipped the last page of the etiquette guide over, putting it facedown on the stack of completed pages. “And we’re done.” My brain was full of information about introductions, invitations, and etiquette at meals, including the proper way to eat a banana if one was served at dinner—remove the skin, place it on the dessert plate, and cut it into small pieces with the blunt edge of the fork.
A wrinkle appeared between Lady Holt’s eyebrows. “Perhaps I should include a chapter on lesser-known situations.”
I tapped the pages to even the stack. “I don’t think so. You’ve covered everything in great depth, and I’m sure Mr. Hightower will be pleased.” Lady Holt didn’t look convinced, so I said, “Perhaps let Mr. Busby look over it and then ask his opinion?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s the best plan.”
I scooted my chair back before Lady Holt could change her mind. The deep timbre of male voices sounded, then Zippy entered the drawing room. “Hello, Mater. I’ve brought a few chaps for tea.”
I blinked when Jasper Rimington strolled in behind Zippy’s broad-shouldered form with Monty Park at his side. Monty and Jasper weren’t exactly close friends, and I was surprised to see them together. Under Monty’s thatch of dark hair, his face was set in what I’d have called a pout if he’d been a girl. He greeted everyone perfunctorily while Jasper lingered over Lady Holt’s hand. Jasper turned to me, and I said, “What a surprise. You should have told me you were coming to Hadsworth.”
“I didn’t know it myself until this morning. Felt like a day on the links.”
“I see. And you—all three—played together?”
“Yes,” he said as we moved to the chairs grouped around the fireplace. “An enlightening experience. I find there’s no better way to get to know someone than participating in a sport together.”
Monty’s pout deepened. “I believe you’re misquoting Mark Twain. And he was speaking about travel, not golf.”
Jasper smiled. “Was he? You’re probably right about the quote—never was good at memorizing trivia, but I stand by the gist of my statement.”
Lady Holt poured out the tea, and I accepted a cup. I’d already had afternoon tea with Anna, but social conventions had to be observed. I stirred my tea, my glance going back and forth between Jasper and Monty. Jasper looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world, while Monty looked as if he’d like to hit something. Lady Holt asked, “How was golf today?”
Jasper lifted his teacup in a salute to Zippy. “Your son outdid us all, Lady Holt.”
“That’s what comes of living so near a course,” Zippy said. “I’m able to play often.”
I studied Zippy, thinking of the hints I’d overheard this morning that Zippy had been involved with Mayhew. Now that I knew Mayhew was a woman, the conversation took on a whole new meaning. But Lady Holt apparently hadn’t known Mayhew was a woman. Lady Holt had been upset because she thought Zippy was visiting a man’s cottage. But had Zippy known Mayhew was a woman? Perhaps they’d been in love and were meeting secretly?
Zippy lounged against the arm of the settee, his sandy hair windblown from the day on the course, sipping tea and eating sandwiches. He certainly didn’t look like he’d just learned a secret love had died. Sunburned and relaxed, he looked like a man whose biggest concern was how soon he could get back on the golf course . . . so perhaps Zippy hadn’t known Mayhew was a woman. I thought back, trying to remember if Zippy had singled out any girls during the season. I couldn’t remember any. He’d always been sports-mad, not girl-mad. Had Zippy been . . . interested . . . in Mayhew?
Monty shifted in his chair. “I still say there must be something off with my three iron.”
I selected a sandwich of cress and cucumber. “How is your golfing holiday, Monty? Are you enjoying it?”
“Disappointing. The greens at Lightway left a lot to be desired.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Have you played anywhere else?”
“Yes, Dowly, but the links were terribly overcrowded.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have gone on a Saturday.” Jasper said.
“Says the man who only plays golf twice a year.” Monty’s tone was sharp.
“Yes,” Jasper said in his easy manner. “I only play occasionally. Can’t say I find the sport that compelling—chasing a small ball around and knocking it into a hole. Fatiguing, really.”
Monty banged his teacup into the saucer. “Then the finer points of the game have completely eluded you.”
“Must have,” Jasper said in the same slightly bored tone, but I knew him well enough to recognize he was goading Monty. “Although I have to say, I did admire Zippy’s long putt on the last hole.”
Jasper and Zippy kept up a light patter of conversation. Monty ate sandwiches mechanically and didn’t participate. I wondered if anyone would mention Mayhew, but Lady Holt kept a firm hand on the conversational reins, guiding us from golf to mutual friends. Watching her orchestrate the discussion, I wondered how she would react when she learned Scotland Yard was taking over the investigation into Mayhew’s death. I was sure she’d try to manage whichever detective inspector arrived and ensure the whole incident went away. Indignation flared through me. It wasn’t right to brush away someone’s death—to act as if they had never existed.
The click of Jasper putting down his cup as he shifted forward in his seat brought me back to the conversatio
n. He said, “I’d like to take a turn around your beautiful gardens, Lady Holt.”
“By all means.”
Jasper looked at me. “Care to accompany me?”
“I’d like that.”
We strolled away from the house along the gravel path in silence. I drew in a deep breath of the flower-scented air, glad to be out of the stilted atmosphere of the drawing room. Low boxwood hedges on either side of the path enclosed swaths of flowers laid out with geometric precision. I asked, “What’s wrong with Monty?”
Jasper turned down a path that forked off the main walkway. “What do you mean?”
“He seems out of sorts.”
“Oh, that. He’s sulking. Sees himself as some sort of athletic paragon on the golf course, but he played badly today. Sliced on nearly every hole. Blames his clubs.”
I shifted to the left so I was walking in the shade of one of the tall hedges. “Well, anyone can have a bad day.”
“You mean he doesn’t behave like that all the time?”
“No, he’s usually charming and funny.”
“Hmm . . . must only extend himself to do that for the ladies. He’s never charming or funny when it’s only us blokes.”
I stopped to smell a pink tea rose in full bloom. “I didn’t know you and Monty were well acquainted. Have you joined him on his golfing holiday?”
“No, I happened to meet him and Zippy as I arrived at the course this morning, and we agreed to play together.”
“But somehow I feel that your arrival in Hadsworth isn’t quite so accidental.”
Jasper clasped his hands together behind his back. “Why do you say that?” His tone changed, losing a trace of his nonchalance.
“Because you’re usually far too languid to indulge in athletic activities. At least recently. I do remember when you and Peter played cricket from sunrise to sunset at Parkview during your holidays. But golf doesn’t fit with your laconic façade.”
“Everyone needs a spot of exercise now and again. I also had a desire to see how your commission for Mr. Hightower was progressing.” We paused beside a fountain of nymphs. “I heard about the discovery of Mayhew’s body. Sad situation.”
“Tragic. Have you heard the whole story—that Mayhew was a woman masquerading as a man?”
“That’s the bit that gets told first, don’t you know. It’s the most salacious part.”
I wanted to tell him about the background and the reason why Mayhew was hiding out and dressing as woman, but I couldn’t. I’d promised Colonel Shaw I’d stay silent. “When you spoke to Mr. Hightower, how specific was he about the situation?”
“Mr. Hightower only gave me the barest details. No names, but when I heard the name Mayhew . . .” He shrugged. “I knew you were going to Blackburn Hall to look for a missing author. Hightower Books publishes the R. W. May novels. With the similarity in the surnames . . . I wondered if there was a connection. It seemed a logical conclusion.”
The wind shifted, and the fine spray from the fountain prickled across my face. I stepped back. “The good news is Mayhew’s last book will be published. I located a copy of it for Mr. Hightower.”
I turned to retrace our steps back to the section planted with rosebushes in shades ranging from apricot to blood red. Jasper fell into step with me.
“Excellent. I’m sure Mr. Hightower was pleased. Does that mean you’re returning to London?”
“I intend to stay on a few days.”
“Why? You found out what happened with Mayhew and recovered the manuscript.”
I fingered the velvety petals of a rose. “Because Mayhew is dead, and I’m interested in finding out exactly what happened.”
“That’s the police’s patch, not yours.”
“If we all took that attitude, the world would be a terrible place.” I released the rose and paced down the path. “And Lady Holt is pressing for Mayhew’s death to be declared an accident. She’s so forceful. I wouldn’t put it past her to go over the head of the person in charge. She’s the sort who cultivates contacts and knows exactly who to call to make sure the investigators back off.”
“I think you overestimate her power.”
“Then you haven’t been around Lady Holt long enough to fully understand her.” I sighed, thinking of Mayhew’s cottage—homey and comfortable, it looked as if someone had stepped out for a moment and never came back. “There’s more going on here than what you see on the surface—I’m sure of it.”
I walked on, picking up my pace. “It’s not right that Mayhew’s death be hushed up because it might reflect badly on Blackburn Hall. I can’t walk away. Someone has to care about Mayhew. Besides, you know me. I’m incredibly curious. I want to know the whole story.”
“That worries me more than anything else.”
“It’s sweet of you to worry about me.”
I was a few paces down the path when I realized Jasper had stopped walking. I turned back. The sun was glinting off his blond hair, and his hands were still clasped behind his back, but his face was different, tighter, as if he wanted to say something and was fighting to get the words out.
“What is it?” I asked.
He released his hands and quickly closed the distance between us. After a quick glance around the garden, he lowered his voice. “I do worry about you. You haven’t stated it outright, but you suspect Mayhew was killed, which means someone around here is a murderer.”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“And that’s why I’m worried.”
Irritation simmered through me. “Stop treating me like a child. We’re not climbing trees and wading in the river at Parkview. You don’t have to protect me.”
“I never said you were behaving like a child.”
“No, but you want to hem me in. You’d hustle me back to London if you could, wouldn’t you?”
“You rush in headlong without thinking. That could be . . . dangerous.”
“So I’m impetuous and shortsighted?” More words bubbled up, but I pressed them down. “There’s so much I want to say to you right now, but I’m keeping it inside. I don’t want to regret it later—and that’s hardly impetuous or shortsighted. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Jasper looked away and ran his fingers through his hair, causing the hair around his forehead to spring up. “I sent you to Hightower.”
“And I didn’t have to take the job, but I did. That’s on me, not you.”
We stared at each other for a moment. Somehow we’d squared off and now stood on opposite sides of the path. I breathed out a sigh and crossed to him. “Don’t let’s fight. You’re the one person I always want on my side. It would be much easier to go back to London, but I wouldn’t be able to forget Mayhew. If I can contribute in some small way to getting to the truth of Mayhew’s death, I’m going to do it. You might as well accept that. Besides, I have to give the manuscript to Mr. Hightower’s associate, who’s coming down tomorrow. Lady Holt has asked me to stay on for a few days, and I’ve agreed. Truce?”
He gazed out over the garden, his eyes narrowed for a few seconds. “On one condition. If you’re going to play Sherlock, I’m your Watson.”
I reared my head back. “You’d be my Watson?”
“Well, I’d prefer Sherlock, of course, but that role seems to be taken.”
“I see what you’re doing, you know. It’s an excuse to keep up with me.”
“That blatant, am I?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t be opposed to having a partner,” I said slowly. “Someone to bounce ideas off of.”
“Well, then.” He extended his arm.
I slipped my hand around his elbow, and we strolled on, our steps slow and tentative as if we weren’t sure how to move forward on our new footing. We strolled in silence, and my thoughts returned to the quiet little cottage and Mayhew’s solitary existence. “So . . . um . . . partner, how well do you know Zippy?”
“As well as one can know a chap who’s a few years younger than oneself. We’ve met
occasionally, but I wouldn’t say we’re especially close.”
We walked on to the next set of roses, which were crimson like blood. “Would you say he’s one of the sort of fellows who . . . um . . . prefers men to women?”
Jasper halted. “Olive, you shock me. Young ladies are not supposed to know of such things, much less speak of them.”
I laughed. “Jasper, I’ve had a classical education.”
“So you have. I’m afraid to ask why you want to know.”
“Just one of those odd things that tend to nag at me. I’d like it sorted away.”
“One of the reasons that you’re staying on?”
“You know me too well.”
“I see.” We began walking again. “Well, in that case, I would say no, Zippy is firmly in the camp of men who prefer women.”
“You’re sure?”
“Let’s just say he’s been known to be extremely friendly with at least two dancers from certain popular shows. And I won’t be more specific than that. It wouldn’t be fair to the ladies involved.”
“I don’t need names. Just his proclivities.” We drifted toward the yew walk. “That’s interesting. I wonder if his mother knows?”
“His proclivities for dancers? I should hope not. That’s the sort of thing a chap keeps from his mother.”
“I suppose so. That may be part of the problem.”
Chapter Eleven
Dinner was a quiet affair, with only Lord and Lady Holt and myself. After Jasper and I returned from our walk in the garden, Jasper and Monty departed to have dinner with a mutual friend in Sidlingham, a neighboring village. Zippy said his throat felt scratchy. Lady Holt declared it was the pollen—it always caused Zippy’s allergies to act up.
“Nevertheless, better safe than sorry,” Zippy said. “I’ll excuse myself in case I am coming down with something.” When Zippy bowed over my hand as he said goodnight in his best gallant manner, I’d noticed neither his eyes nor his nose were red. I hadn’t heard him sniff once all day either, but I wasn’t about to call him out. Perhaps he did feel bad . . . or perhaps it was his way of escaping his mother’s managing personality for a few hours.
