Death Sits Down to Dinner

by Tessa Arlen

  “And poor little Miss Gaskell looked so unwell on the night of the dinner party. How is she faring, can she be of any help to you at all?” Lady Montfort probed, her eyes fastened intently on her housekeeper’s face.

  “She’s rallying nicely, m’lady, but she’s quite reduced by what happened.”

  “Reduced?” prodded Lady Montfort. “If she is rallying, what could have reduced her?”

  “She was doing quite well until the senior housemaid informed her that a policeman from Scotland Yard, Inspector Hillary I think she said his name was, would be coming to ask a few questions about the incident in the house.”

  “You must be referring to the murder of Sir Reginald Cholmondeley.”

  “Yes, m’lady … the murder.” Mrs. Jackson suppressed a smile. “They don’t speak of it at all at the house, the subject is definitely out-of-bounds. When Miss Gaskell was told that the police wanted to question her, she fell to pieces, carried on quite dreadfully.”

  Mrs. Jackson was quite aware of the particularly penetrating gaze her ladyship adopted when she was especially interested in an idea. And she set about the business of updating her on every single thing that had transpired since her first day at Miss Kingsley’s house: the no-talk policy on the subject of the murder, the inability of the butler to remember who she was from one hour to the next, and the framed photograph that had been hidden behind the pillows of Miss Gaskell’s bed in the morning, which had disappeared completely by the afternoon. She rounded this off with a description of Miss Gaskell’s near hysteria before she had left.

  “That is all remarkably interesting, Jackson. Who was the man in the photograph, I wonder?”

  “He was of late middle age, maybe forty-five, barrel-chested, fashionably dressed, with the sort of side-whiskers worn by the late prince consort.” She could see the image quite clearly in her head.

  “Oh really, side-whiskers? How delightfully old-fashioned! Great heavens, Jackson, I think that was a likeness of Sir Reginald Cholmondeley. No one really wears side-whiskers anymore, unless of course the photograph was taken over twenty years ago. But you say he was dressed in an up-to-date fashion.” And when Mrs. Jackson acknowledged that he had appeared to be, Lady Montfort jumped to her feet, clapped her hands lightly together, and then held them. “Jackson, I’m sure that photograph is of Sir Reginald! Now I must go in to dinner, but afterwards will you please come straight back here. Oh very well done, Jackson, very well done indeed!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The servants’ supper belowstairs at Montfort House that evening was a convivial affair, with Cook presiding from the head of the table. Convivial? Mrs. Jackson thought not. Boisterous was a far more apt description for this racket. The noise around the table was considerable with high-pitched shrieks of laughter from the roundly pretty second housemaid. Both footmen had joined them after serving upstairs dinner and were shouting each other down to gain the girl’s attention. Mr. White was still upstairs waiting on Lady Montfort and would no doubt have seriously have disapproved of this din. But if Cook thought their behavior inappropriate, she did nothing whatsoever to call them to order.

  Mrs. Jackson, constitutionally more phlegmatic than Miss Pettigrew, whose face wore a pinched look of disapproval, lifted her spoon to eat her fish soup. It was good: robust, complex in flavor, and fragrant with herbs, served with thick slices of crusty homemade bread. Mrs. Jackson lifted her voice above the roars of laughter.

  “This soup is delicious, Cook, such flavor, but tomatoes at this time of year?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jackson, I’m glad you are enjoying it. The stock is made from fish heads and bones with onions, simmered all day. Tomatoes dried and preserved in oil, from the end of the summer. The rest is plain old North Sea cod, such a nice fish for a soup like this.” And the cook turned to laugh at the second footman’s joke about a one-legged jockey.

  Mrs. Jackson had to secretly applaud the energetic resourcefulness of a young woman who had the time to make such an excellent meal just for the servants’ supper, as well as produce a six-course dinner for the upstairs dining room, even if it was beyond her to keep the lower servants in order.

  Another gale of laughter ended in a piercing shriek when someone at the table, more than likely the plump housemaid, was pinched by the second footman. Sensing that Pettigrew was about to fall apart, Mrs. Jackson bent a look of stern censure on the first footman, who had the grace to lower his voice and nudge his second-in-command. For a moment there was a lull in the uproar. Mrs. Jackson remembered her appointment with her ladyship and rapidly spooned down the last delicious drops of soup.

  * * *

  Lady Montfort had picked her way through a few of the superb courses laid before her and was sipping a small glass of brandy when Mrs. Jackson returned to the drawing room.

  “Now then, Jackson, sit down there on the sofa because I want to show you something.” And Lady Montfort put into her hands a sheet of foolscap paper that when turned sideways showed a series of vertical columns, each headed by a name. The names, Lady Montfort explained, were those of everyone in the Chester Square house on the night of the murder, both upstairs and down. On the left-hand side was a list of hours and minutes. It was just like a Bradshaw’s train timetable.

  “Look at this, Jackson.” She pointed to the column on the far left. “The women left the dining room at the end of dinner, at ten o’clock, to leave the men to their port. All of us went upstairs to the salon, they call it the little salon I think, but the doors to the large salon were open because Lady Ryderwood was to sing for us.

  “And here is the interesting part.” She tapped the next column. “Not all of the men came up to join us at the same time when they left the dining room. Here are Lord Montfort, Captain Wildman-Lushington, and Sir Henry Wentworth.” Her finger moved to the corresponding columns. “They were first to join us in the salon at about a quarter to eleven; I know this because Lord Montfort remarked that perhaps Lady Ryderwood would not sing for too long and mentioned the time to me as he was anxious about the weather and getting home as soon as possible. They were followed by Sir Vivian Hussey, a good five minutes later.” A long index finger tapped to indicate Sir Vivian’s arrival in the salon.

  “Now look here, this is interesting. At eleven o’clock, or close to it, Captain Vetiver arrives; mind this is twenty minutes after the men have started to come upstairs, Jackson. He reminds Jennifer Wells-Thornton that Miss Kingsley’s nephew, Mr. Tricklebank, is waiting for her in the outer hall, as they are going on. She says her thank-yous to Miss Kingsley, and leaves. Nota bene, by the way, Jackson, what was Trevor Tricklebank doing all that time after everyone started to leave the dining room?

  “Then there is a little calamity in the salon: the footman spills coffee over Marigold Meriwether’s skirt and there is a big bustle in response.” Her finger traced back to the columns for each of the women. “Miss Kingsley sends the footman off for vinegar to stop the stain spreading, and then she sends off Miss Gaskell for some pure spirits. Then, on Lady Wentworth’s suggestion, Miss Kingsley leaves to get Epsom salt or baking powder. All this to-ing and fro-ing goes on for about fifteen, maybe even twenty, minutes. You see? At this time I seem to remember Mr. Greenberg comes up from downstairs, having kept Mr. Tricklebank company, so he tells us, as he waits for Miss Wells-Thornton in the outer hall. And a minute or two later, Miss Gaskell returns with the white spirit and is told to leave the skirt alone, as it is time for music.” Lady Montfort took a moment to sip her brandy and marshal her thoughts.

  “So here we all are, gathered in the salon. We take our seats, and this must have been between fifteen and twenty minutes past eleven. Lady Ryderwood sings her first and, as it turns out, her only song. I have checked my libretto for the opera and Lady Shackleton’s score for Madama Butterfly and the song lasts about four minutes, which is not a long time when you are listening to a voice as richly perfect as that of Lady Ryderwood. Then at the end of the song or nearly at the end, in comes Mr.
Churchill, who has apparently been speaking on the telephone in the library all this time to his secretary at the Admiralty. He arrives to interrupt the evening’s music, and at this time Miss Kingsley and I hear the butler’s loud cry from the hall. And off we go.” She paused to allow her housekeeper to take this all in.

  Mrs. Jackson realized that all the time she had been busying herself with the charity event at Chester Square, Lady Montfort had been working away at this list of where everyone was on the night of the murder, and had made this beautifully organized little chart. She was doing this as she waited for me to join her in an investigation, thought Mrs. Jackson, and she felt a guilty little thrill of pleasure, because this is exactly what they were doing. She quickly ran over the times again and then she looked up at Lady Montfort, who was positively beaming down at her, hands clasped, as she hovered over her housekeeper expectantly.

  “Miss Gaskell was absent from the room for over fifteen minutes,” Mrs. Jackson said.

  “Yes, more like twenty, and Miss Kingsley was absent from the room for several of those minutes, too.”

  “Would that give Miss Gaskell time to go downstairs and kill Sir Reginald?”

  “I would have thought so.”

  And here Mrs. Jackson finally acknowledged to her ladyship that she had joined her in what was to be their second murder investigation together. “I could time myself, m’lady,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I could time myself leaving the little salon to go down the stairs, enter the dining room, wait there, and then walk back.”

  “Sir Reginald was seated at the bottom of the table, Jackson, at the far end,” Lady Montfort reminded her. “And don’t forget the search for white spirit.”

  “Yes, m’lady, I could wait in the dining room for a while to account for the time. I wonder how long it takes to stab someone?”

  “Not long, done in the blink of an eye.” This came too quickly for Mrs. Jackson’s comfort.

  “But wouldn’t the murderer have blood on them, m’lady?”

  “Not if you were quick! Well actually I really don’t know!” Lady Montfort had the grace to look embarrassed.

  If someone was stabbed in the heart, surely there would be blood everywhere? Mrs. Jackson asked, “Was it all over the dining room, m’lady?”

  “The front of his evening clothes had a saturated patch around the handle of the knife, not as much as I would have thought.”

  “Was there blood on the walls and the carpet, m’lady?”

  “Good heavens no, Jackson,” Lady Montfort exclaimed at the splashy vulgarity of the idea. “And no sign of a struggle either. All this is beside the point really; perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves.

  “What we need to find out is why Adelaide is so frantic about talking to a policeman. Why she concealed a photograph of Sir Reginald under her pillow, if it was Sir Reginald, and why it took her twenty minutes to go downstairs, pick up a bottle of white spirit, and return to the salon. And also,” she pointed to her timetable, “we need to know exactly where the servants were between a quarter to eleven and half past eleven. You see I have gaps here for the servants, except for the Clumsy Footman and the butler. And we really should fill them in.”

  Mrs. Jackson could quite see why Lady Montfort wanted to know these things; she wanted to know them too. But the little she knew of Miss Gaskell had made a strong impression.

  “Is it possible that someone as young and scared as Miss Gaskell would have what it took to stab her employer’s oldest and closest friend in the middle of a dinner party, m’lady?” she asked.

  “Perhaps she had fallen for Sir Reginald and he wouldn’t have her, which might explain the photograph under her pillow. Although how a lovely young thing like Adelaide could be interested in a dull as ditchwater old fogy like Sir Reginald rather eludes me at the moment,” Lady Montfort said.

  Completely missing the point, thought Mrs. Jackson, that Sir Reginald was exceedingly rich and without a wife, whereas Adelaide Gaskell was exceedingly poor with only the prospect of a life of servitude and devotion to one old lady after another to look forward to, unless she married.

  But Lady Montfort needed her attention: “And now I come to the strangest part of this situation, and something which might or might not have anything to do with this distressing business. Captain Wildman-Lushington, who was also at the party, if you remember, Jackson…” her fingertip beat a rapid little tattoo on the chart next to his name, “was killed yesterday when he was trying to land his aeroplane. He was thrown clear, but his body was found yards away with a broken neck. But we’ll leave that aside for a while until I hear from Lord Haversham about the aeroplane and whether it was tampered with. I merely wanted to keep you informed that there might be another murder.”

  Quite likely this aeroplane crash was just an accident, thought Mrs. Jackson. Opinion among her fellow servants at Iyntwood was loud and sure on this particular point: flying was dangerous. “Did,” she ventured aloud to her ladyship, “the flying accident tie in with the murder?”

  “I’m not sure at the moment. It might perhaps be a cover-up, especially if the murder had been observed by Captain Wildman-Lushington.

  “Now to work, Jackson. Let’s divvy up our tasks. Did you bring your notebook? Well then, here is paper and pencil. Let’s assign what each of us must do.”

  And with all the youthful enthusiasm and gaiety of someone who is about to play a parlor game, Lady Montfort was up out of her seat and produced the necessary materials for their list-making.

  “I am to find out whether Mr. Greenberg and Mr. Tricklebank provided an alibi for each other downstairs in the outer hall after they left the dining room. Then I have to think a bit more about Captain Vetiver, as he is the only person with a connection to Miss Kingsley’s party, Eastchurch, and the RNAS, except of course for Mr. Churchill, and he doesn’t seem to count in this investigation.

  “It would be useful to find out about blood. As you so sensibly pointed out, wouldn’t the murderer be covered in it? Perhaps I should ask Detective Hillary when I have the opportunity.”

  On occasions like this, Lady Montfort always reminded Mrs. Jackson of a little bird. Propelled by the energy of her thoughts, she moved lightly about the room as she discarded ideas and picked up on the threads of others. Every so often she stopped short and seemed almost to burst into song when she had a breakthrough in her thinking.

  “Now, Jackson, what about you?” Lady Montfort alighted next to her on the sofa. Mrs. Jackson was pleased that she wasn’t being told what to do. At least I may come up with my own list then, she thought.

  “Well, m’lady, I will find out how Miss Gaskell’s morning with the police inspector went, and perhaps I can get her to talk about that photograph and find out if it is actually Sir Reginald. I will also check how long it takes to go between the salon upstairs and the dining room. I wonder too about Miss Kingsley at that time, as they were both away from the salon together for about five minutes.

  “And then tomorrow afternoon I have to go to Kingsley House in South London and meet with the matron there. Several young boys are selected each year to be pages for the charity evening and it is usually Miss Gaskell’s job to interview them and choose three or four. But I am to do it in her place, so that might be useful.” Mrs. Jackson was quite pleased with her list. She paused, pencil poised, to see if Lady Montfort had anything to add to it.

  “Oh indeed it will, Jackson. Do you think you can possibly find out where all Miss Kingsley’s servants at Chester Square were at the crucial time? Will it be difficult if they don’t talk about what happened?”

  “Well, I’ll do my best. This might take a bit longer, m’lady, as I don’t want to upset anyone. They are such a closedmouth lot,” she said as she added a note to her list.

  They both studiously jotted down their directions to themselves. And Lady Montfort said, more to herself than to her housekeeper, “This is all very jolly.” She did some underlining and then looked up. “And I’m going to the Roya
l Opera House with Lady Ryderwood and Mr. Greenberg tomorrow evening. We will be in Lady Shackleton’s box, so nice for us. It will be interesting to have a little talk with them and see if they can remember anything unusual about that evening.”

  “Is Miss Melba singing, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson wanted to show off her newfound knowledge.

  “Sadly not, she rarely sings at the Royal Opera House these days. She’s in London en route to her native Australia to settle in Melbourne. No, it’s Luisa Tetrazzini singing the soprano role, and we are all thrilled to bits because Enrico Caruso is to be ‘Pinkerton.’”

  “What opera are you going to, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson wondered if one saw or listened to opera.

  “Madama Butterfly, so there won’t be a dry eye in the house.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The comfortable circumstances of the Chimney Sweep Boys charity were apparent in the well-kept grounds surrounding Kingsley House and its warm, clean, and well-furnished interior. Mrs. Jackson, who was a snob about architecture, living and working as she did in one of the most gracious Elizabethan houses England had to offer, could think of no better purpose for the overly ornate and architecturally hideous redbrick house than to house the young people lucky enough to be rescued from the degradation and fear provided by a life of poverty. It had been built in the neo-Gothic style so popular in the mid-1800s to gargantuan proportions, according to Miss Gaskell, for a retired West Indian sugar baron who had drunk away his fortune.

  The resident matron for the charity was waiting for her in the heavily paneled hall. She was a tall, wide woman, with a well-fed red face and big arms crossed tightly in front of a bosom as wide and as deep as a bolster. She was tightly constrained within a navy-blue serge dress and a crisp white apron. For some reason she had chosen to include, as part of her uniform, a complicated white-starched and winged wimple of the sort worn by hospital nurses in religious houses, which stood out in crisp wings around her large head.