by Sara Rosett
Lady Holt was almost giddy and shared all her plans for the publication of the manuscript during the four-course meal. Lord Holt contributed little more to the conversation than an occasional grunt or rumbling noise that I took to be agreement with Lady Holt’s plans for a dinner party the following evening. Serena hadn’t come down for dinner either, sending a message that she was at a critical point and couldn’t stop working.
Before I went down to dinner, I’d explored the upper floors of Blackburn Hall and found Serena’s workroom. I’d followed a loud whirring sound to a paneled door, which was open a few inches. I’d raised my hand to knock, but then the whirring sound cut off abruptly. A thud sounded. “Worthless piece of dross.” The words trailed off into muttering with a definite angry overtone.
I decided it was not the ideal time to ask to see Serena’s work.
After dinner, once coffee was wheeled in and placed on the table in the drawing room, where we could help ourselves, I made my excuses, saying that I had to compile a report for Mr. Hightower. Upstairs in my room, I wrote out a summary of the etiquette book for Mr. Hightower, describing what I felt were its strengths as well as a few places where it might be improved with some trimming of the content. I would let someone from Hightower Books bring up that subject with Lady Holt—I wasn’t about to do it.
I set aside the report, then curled up in an armchair with the manuscript box on my lap. I removed the lid and flipped over the title page. The book was dedicated to “A. F.” and the line underneath it read, This wouldn’t have been possible without you. I turned to the first chapter and was immersed in the story after a few pages.
While the names were different, the setting of the book was clearly modeled on Hadsworth and Rosewood Hills Golf Course. This book featured Lady Eileen Dunwood and her chauffeur, Nick Fitzhugh, the detecting duo from the set of the Bright Young People who had made their appearance in the first book of the series. In Murder on the Ninth Green, Lady Eileen goes to the country for a golfing holiday. With Nick acting as her caddy, she’s enjoying a round of golf, but then she finds a dead body on the ninth green, and they become embroiled in a murder mystery. I snuggled deeper in the chair, enjoying the story. Jasper was right—these stories were entertaining.
Chimes from the clock on the mantelpiece sounded, and I looked up. Two in the morning? Could it really be that late? Goodness, I’d been swept up in the story. Even though I wanted to find out why the course groundskeeper had disappeared, I marked my place. There was something about the book that teased at me—some interesting scrap of a thought that flitted through my mind while I was reading, but I was so engrossed in the story that I hadn’t stopped to think about it, and I couldn’t bring it back. Now that I’d stopped reading, my eyes felt heavy, and I yawned. The elusive thought or impression or whatever it was would probably come to me in the morning when I wasn’t so exhausted. I replaced the manuscript in the drawer of the writing desk, crawled into bed, and switched off the light.
The curtains hadn’t been pulled completely closed, and a gap of the night sky showed between the panels. I pushed back the covers and went to close the curtains. The sunlight would wake me in the morning, and I wanted to get as much sleep as possible since I’d read far past when I should have been in bed.
My room had a view of the back of the house, and I paused to admire the formal gardens before I swished the curtains closed. A sliver of the moon showed among a layer of clouds, whitewashing the garden in monochrome shades. Something flickered at the corner of my eye, and I shifted my attention from the gardens to the swath of blackness that bounded Blackburn Hall’s grounds. A golden beam cut through the darkness for an instant, then was gone. Another brief flash, a bobbing yellow streak, lit up the path that ran beside the river from Blackburn Hall to East Bank Cottage, then it was dark. I gripped the fabric of the drapes in either hand and watched the path, letting my gaze skim back and forth along the dark section beside the river, but the light didn’t flash again.
I closed the curtains and crawled into bed. Why would someone be on the path at two in the morning? It was a little late for a nighttime stroll. And why not use the torch all the time? It was certainly dark enough to need it on a cloudy night with only a slim slice of moon showing.
I turned on my side and curled up. I must have dropped into sleep right away because I awoke in that same position, instinctively knowing something had woken me. I reached for my wristwatch on the bedside table and titled it so I could see the radium-painted face. Three in the morning.
A floor board creaked in the corridor, then the faint sound of whistling penetrated the panels of my door. The whistling grew louder, then faded. I slid out of bed, padded to the door, and inched it open. A little way down the hallway, a door opened, and the light inside a room was switched on, throwing a bright bar across the hallway that highlighted Zippy’s sandy hair and threw a monstrous shadow of his bulky frame across the hallway carpet. He stepped into his room whistling the last bars of Ain’t We Got Fun. The door clicked closed, and the corridor went dark.
My night-owl behavior caught up with me the next morning. I was the last one to arrive in the breakfast room. I filled my plate then sat down across from Zippy. “How was your evening? Late night?”
“No. Turned in early, and I feel much more the thing today.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Speaking of hearing, do you have a ghost?”
Zippy paused, spoon poised over the marmalade. “A ghost?”
“Does Blackburn Hall have one, I mean? Is it haunted?”
Zippy spread the marmalade. “No, nothing so romantic. Mother would never stand for it.”
“That’s odd. I thought I heard whistling last night.”
Zippy focused on distributing the marmalade to the edge of his toast. “I’ve—ah—never heard of anything like that happening.”
“I must have dreamt it.”
Lady Holt sailed in. “Oh, you’re finally down, Miss Belgrave.” I opened my mouth to apologize, but Lady Holt went on, “We’re all set for a small dinner party this evening in honor of Mr. Busby. We’ll have Dr. Finch and Anna, the colonel and his wife, Victoria, as well as that nice young man Zippy brought yesterday, Mr. Rimington. I invited the other young man as well, Mr. Park, wasn’t it? But he’s leaving today.”
“I won’t be here.” Zippy ate half of his toast in one bite. “I’m meeting a friend in Sidlingham.”
Lady Holt frowned. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? I could have arranged everything for tomorrow night. Who invited you for dinner?”
“Oh, it’s not a dinner.” Zippy popped the last of the toast into his mouth.
Lady Holt’s forehead smoothed. “Oh, good. You can join us for dinner and slip out afterward.” Lady Holt paused, repeated the names as she ticked them off on her fingers, then added, “And Don and Emily will be here as well.”
Zippy saw my puzzled look. As he pushed back his chair, he said, “The solicitor and his wife.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” I laid my silverware across my plate and checked my wristwatch, then twisted in my chair. “Bower, could you have the Morris brought around?”
“I’ll see to it.”
“Off for a drive?” Zippy asked.
“Only to the village. I want to visit the solicitor during his shortened office hours. I tried yesterday but was too late.” Taking the Morris would save me a bit of time, and I should make it before he closed his office. In case Lady Holt might want to sidetrack me, I added, “At Mr. Hightower’s request.”
Lady Holt said, “Don won’t be in his office today. Emily promised to keep him home all day so he can rest for tonight.”
“Oh.” I was already striding across the room. I stopped. “Well, I suppose I can chat with him at dinner tonight.” It wouldn’t be ideal, but since I hadn’t been able to run him to earth, I’d better take the opportunity this evening and speak with the solicitor then. I’d have to make sure Lady Holt wasn’t nearby. It would be terrible manners to mix b
usiness with a social occasion.
A few minutes later, I nearly collided with Bower as I came out of the breakfast room. I hadn’t realized he’d left the room earlier, but Bower had a tendency to drift along as silently as a ghost. “Pardon me, Miss Belgrave.”
“It’s my fault—” I broke off, noticing the man with light brown hair and a thin mustache trailing along behind Bower. “Inspector Longly. I wondered if it would be you.”
“Miss Belgrave.”
I remembered in the nick of time not to extend my right hand. Longly’s right sleeve was empty and pinned against his jacket—a war injury. We shook hands left-handed, which felt awkward. It had to be difficult for him since the simple social interaction of shaking hands highlighted his injury. Longly said, “I read your name in the statements and wondered how long it would be before you popped up. I should have known you’d be front and center.”
My sympathy melted away at the trace of weariness in his tone. “I’m only here by coincidence, Inspector.”
Longly tilted his head side to side, disagreeing with my words. “More than that, I think. I’d say peripherally involved. I must remind you, Scotland Yard is always happy to hear any theories, Miss Belgrave. Just make sure they remain theories this time, shall we? No taking matters into your own hands.”
I flushed. The cheek of the man, essentially telling me to mind my own business when he’d closed the case at Archly Manor only because I’d nudged things along. Before I could answer, Longly said to Bower, “Never mind about Miss Shires. If Miss Belgrave will give me a moment of her time, I’ll speak to her first.”
He’d phrased his sentence as a question, but that was only a formality. “Of course I have time to speak to you, Inspector Longly,” I said tightly.
Bower said, “Very good. Lady Holt has said you may use the small sitting room.” Bower escorted us into a room I hadn’t been in before. It was on the west side of the house and shadowy in the morning. A busy old-fashioned wallpaper of birds and flowers covered the walls while mismatched furniture of different styles filled the room. Bower switched on several lamps.
Longly surveyed the room, which didn’t contain a desk. His lips twitched to one side briefly, obviously not happy with Lady Holt. I was sure the choice of interview room was intentional—a subtle message to Longly that he wasn’t welcome at Blackburn Hall. Longly picked up a Hepplewhite chair and moved it in front of the cold fireplace. He gestured for me to sit on the sofa. “Please have a seat,” he said and sat in the chair.
As I sank into the sofa and crossed my arms over my chest, I considered asking Bower to have a fire lit. Even though it was summer, the dim room was chilly. But that would only prolong the time I spent with Longly, and I didn’t want to do that. I’d rather shiver a bit and be out of here in a few moments.
Longly had positioned the chair so a side table was on his left. He placed his notebook and pen on the table and laid a folio across his lap. “Let’s begin with what brings you to Blackburn Hall. You’re working for Hightower Books now?”
I’d forgotten how thorough Longly was. His questions took me from my meeting with Mr. Hightower to the discovery of Mayhew’s true identity. I squirmed a bit as I described entering Mayhew’s cottage, but Longly seemed to take it in stride, noting down what I described but not asking any further questions about it. He was more interested in the discovery of Mayhew’s body. By the time I described Serena’s appearance on the path in front of me, my toes and fingers were cold.
I didn’t keep anything back except Mr. Hightower’s true reason for wanting to keep Mayhew’s disappearance quiet. If Mr. Hightower wanted to share that his company was stretched a little thin, that was up to him. I shifted a little, burrowing back into the corner of the sofa in an effort to stay warm. “Have you been able to determine if Mayhew’s death was an accident?”
“I can’t comment on that. The results of the post mortem haven’t been made public.”
His cageyness made me think he was considering Mayhew’s death suspicious. “Lady Holt won’t be pleased.”
He made eye contact without lifting his head, which was bent over his notebook. “Why do you say that?”
“Lady Holt wanted the Hadsworth police inspector to declare it an accident and forget the whole thing.”
“Then I suppose Lady Holt will have to be unhappy.”
A few seconds ticked by as Longly’s pencil scratched over the paper. I pushed my hands down into the cushions, preparing to stand. “Would you like me to have Bower send in Serena?”
“Yes. If you remember anything else relevant, I’m putting up at The Crown in Hadsworth. One more thing, Miss Belgrave.” He focused on his notes as he asked, “Your cousin, does she plan to join you here?”
“Violet? No, she’s in France at the moment.”
“No—I mean your other cousin, Gwen—er—Miss Stone.”
Was that a flush creeping across Longly’s cheekbones? Longly had seemed taken with Gwen at Archly Manor, but since Gwen hadn’t mentioned him again, I’d assumed his brief interest had fizzled . . . but it seemed that wasn’t the case. “Oh, Gwen. She’s in France as well. Aunt Caroline thought a holiday would do them all good.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”
“So, no, there are no plans for Gwen to visit Blackburn Hall,” I said. “Next time I speak to her, I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”
“Don’t do that.” Longly ran a finger along one side of his collar. “I mean, no need. Don’t go out of your way.”
“All right. I won’t mention it,” I said.
Longly seemed both sad and relieved at the same time. I turned to the door, and Longly said, “One last thing.”
I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “You already said that.”
Longly cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. Well, this is my last question. Where did you put the envelopes?”
“Envelopes?”
“Come, Miss Belgrave,” he said, his voice returning to its normal confident cadence. He tapped the folio. “You mentioned the envelopes in your statement to Colonel Shaw. You’re here as a representative of Hightower Books. It would only make sense you’d gather up all of Mayhew’s written material you could find so you could give it to Mr. Hightower. Although, I am surprised you’d be so sloppy as to mention it in your statement and think it would be overlooked.”
“The envelopes in East Bank Cottage?”
“Yes. You stated that you saw them.”
“I did. They were on the rug inside the front door. I left them there.”
“I’ve just come from East Bank Cottage, and they’re gone. I understand you’d want to retrieve them for Mr. Hightower, but breaking a window is going a little bit far, don’t you think?”
Irritation shot through me. I didn’t feel cold anymore. “I’d never break a window. I used the key on the window frame when I looked for Mayhew and replaced it when I left. That’s in the statement too. If I wanted to get back into the cottage, why would I break a window? I’d use the key again.”
“So—for the record—you don’t have the envelopes?”
“No. Are they important?” I asked as my mind raced. Anna had said Mayhew had sent her a note when she left town. I couldn’t remember her exact words, but I thought she’d said the note said to continue typing the next book. And Anna had been clacking away at the typewriter when I arrived at her house . . . that large stack of pages beside her typewriter. Surely it was too big to be notes from one of the meetings she occasionally typed for the WI?
She’d been jumpy when I told her Mayhew was dead. It would be disconcerting to learn a man you were working for had died several days earlier—and that the man was a woman. If Mayhew had sent her several chapters, and she’d been typing them up and dropping them off as she completed them, it would explain the pile of envelopes inside the cottage as well as her nervous reaction to the news Mayhew was dead.
Longly spoke, pulling me back to the present. “No idea.”
“If you don’t know if the envelopes are important, why accuse me of taking them?”
“To see your reaction. Don’t worry. You passed with flying colors, and I’m convinced you don’t have them. They’re a side issue, anyway.”
“Then why are you concerned about them?”
“Loose ends, Miss Belgrave. I don’t like them. In my experience, they can come back to haunt me.”
Chapter Twelve
When I left Longly, Bower intercepted me and said Lady Holt wanted to see me. I followed him to the morning room, where Lady Holt sat at a round table with stacks of papers spread in front of her across the polished wood surface.
“Oh, good. Miss Belgrave, I’d like your advice.” Bower faded away as she indicated the chair beside her. “I’ve decided the etiquette guide is too short. It would benefit from the inclusion of at least three additional chapters. I’d like your opinion on which of these articles I’ve written would be the best to include.”
“But your book is thorough as it is.”
“It will be the definitive guide to proper behavior. I must explore every possible topic. What do you think of this one on etiquette for children?”
Lady Holt was not to be distracted. In her opinion, the book needed at least three more chapters, and she would find three more chapters to include. I sat down and took the article she held out.
She kept me busy as we discussed the positives and negatives of including various chapters. We took a short break for lunch, then returned to the task. It was after three o’clock before Lady Holt was pleased with the selection of new chapters, their content, and the arrangement of the chapters within the manuscript. I escaped after tea and went up to my room, saying I wanted to rest until dinner.
As I worked with Lady Holt, part of my mind had been on Longly’s questions about the envelopes from Mayhew’s cottage. It seemed to me that there were two likely candidates who’d taken the envelopes—Zippy and Anna. Why on earth Zippy would want them, I couldn’t imagine. Could he have known Mayhew was writing crime fiction? It didn’t seem likely, but I didn’t know why he’d been around East Bank Cottage so much that Lady Holt had become aware of it.
