Murder at Cleeve Abbey

by Anita Davison

  Flora stood in front of the cheval mirror, both hands braced on either side of her waist. ‘I’m afraid I need your help to dress,’ she said, her head turned toward him in anticipation of a ritual she looked forward to each morning.

  Beatrice had dropped heavy hints that it was about time Flora engaged a lady’s maid, but thus far she had resisted. Despite the inconvenience, she was unwilling to allow a stranger into their bedroom, which she saw as her and Bunny’s private domain.

  ‘Don’t apologize.’ Bunny aimed a lascivious grin at her reflection in the mirror. ‘I quite enjoy being your personal abigail.’ He wound the laces round his hands, then gave them a strong, slow pull that emptied Flora’s lungs of air. ‘I wonder if Lord Vaughn performs this service for Lady Venetia.’ He leaned closer, a smile in his voice, his warm breath caressing her ear.

  ‘I very much doubt it.’ The silk slid with a gentle whoosh as he adjusted the ladder of ribbons with deft fingers. She closed her eyes, her neck arched in invitation.

  Although married a year, she was still shy about certain aspects of their intimate life, and initiating his touch was one of them.

  On this occasion, Bunny obliged and his lips traced a spine-tingling line from her hairline to her collarbone.

  ‘About that newspaper report,’ he whispered suddenly into the hollow where her neck met her collarbone, his fingers stilled against her back. ‘I heard that some estate workers became ill after the summer fête. Rumour says it was either food poisoning or an abundance of free beer. I only mention it because perhaps your father thought there was more to it, thus the newspaper clippings.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing myself.’ She tipped her head back and to one side to receive his kiss on her neck. ‘Might the beer have been contaminated? Like in Manchester?’

  ‘The coincidence occurred to me, but here as well? That doesn’t seem likely.’

  ‘What about deliberate poisoning?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to poison a field full of people?’ Bunny snorted. ‘Seems a bit far-fetched. Hold still, I’m almost finished.’

  She released a gasp as his last pull on the ribbons drove her up on her toes. She pursed her lips and exhaled in a slow, silent whistle.

  ‘It could have been accidental.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Then a thought struck her, and she stiffened. Father had fallen from his horse not far from the house of a man who owned a brewery.

  ‘Sorry, was that too tight?’ Bunny asked. ‘You flinched.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ Flora took an exploratory breath. The corset creaked but barely moved. She wouldn’t be able to eat much at dinner. ‘You’re good at this.’

  ‘I’m getting lots of practice. Turn around,’ he instructed.

  Flora obeyed, her arms raised as he crossed the loose ends round her waist and tied them into a slip knot at the front.

  ‘It’s worth a discreet question or two in the right places, don’t you think?’ she asked, coyly tilting her head, aware the boned corset pushed up her breasts.

  ‘Depends what you mean about the right places.’ His eyes drifted downwards as he tied the knot with a final sharp pull. He took a step closer, ran his hands along either side of her cinched waist and across the exposed skin of her back, pulling her into his arms.

  Her eyes fluttered closed as sparks lit her nerve endings, spread through her limbs and into her lower belly. She nuzzled the open neckline of his shirt, where she luxuriously inhaled the herbaceous fragrance of his Eau Impériale cologne he had applied after his second shave of the day.

  ‘I have to finish dressing,’ she murmured, though there was no conviction behind it.

  ‘We have at least half an hour.’ He removed his glasses and laid them absently on the nightstand at his side. ‘All we’ll miss is the sherry.’

  She made a half-hearted effort to dart away, but he stepped sideways, caught her in mid run, and swivelled her towards him. Her squeal of laughter dissolved into a soft moan when his arms tightened round her, while he pressed small kisses along her neck and up to her ear.

  She braced her hands flat against his chest, then slid her arms upwards, her fingers laced behind his neck. ‘I wish you had thought of this before I put the corset on.’

  ‘What would be the fun in that?’ he murmured, as gently but firmly he eased her backwards onto the soft mattress.

  Before her senses took over and she responded to his demanding kiss, Flora resolved to find out more about the beer served at Lord Vaughn’s fête.

  Later.

  10

  ‘Everyone must already be in the dining room,’ Flora said, when the only evidence of recent occupation of the sitting room was the numerous dents in the sofa cushions and an open, discarded magazine.

  ‘The dinner gong went a while ago.’ Bunny slid an arm round her waist and guided her along the deserted corridor. ‘If anyone asks,’ he lowered his voice outside the door, ‘which I doubt, we’ll blame our lateness on the inefficiency of the water geyser.’

  ‘Bunny.’ Flora halted him with a hand on his sleeve. ‘You don’t think it was, well wrong to do what we— I mean, with my father lying in the mortuary, we—’

  Her conflicted emotions during their lovemaking had confused her. When sated desire had turned to quiet sobs, Bunny had silently held her without offering trite platitudes until her composure returned.

  ‘No-I-don’t.’ He put emphasis on each word and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You have no reason to feel guilty. If anything, we affirmed that life goes on by our love. Your father would want you to grasp every moment of happiness, especially now he isn’t here to care for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Flora fought back welling tears. ‘I knew all that in my heart, but I needed you to tell me.’ She slipped her hand into his as they entered the dining room, passing Scrivens on his way out, who gave them both a hard, insolent stare.

  Confused by his hostility, Flora turned to watch him, his shoulders set as he strode back along the corridor.

  ‘Ah, there you two are.’ Lord Vaughn cut through Flora’s garbled apology and ushered them inside. A table designed to seat thirty people sat in the centre of the vast room. Multi-branched candelabra had been set at intervals down its length, interspersed with bowls of fruit, nuts and flowers in a rainbow of colour across the snow-white cloth.

  ‘I want you to meet our guest this evening,’ Lord Vaughn said as she and Bunny took their seats. ‘Mr Graham McCallum, this is Flora Harrington and her husband Ptolemy, otherwise known as Bunny.’

  The newcomer rose from his place between Lady Venetia and Jocasta. He wore his dark wavy hair brushed forward from the crown onto his forehead and cheeks, falling short of his neatly trimmed side whiskers. A strong brow, narrow straight nose, and slightly upturned brown eyes fringed with thick lashes completed a face which would draw all female eyes in any company. No wonder he had stood out from the normal train of visitors to the house that day, even though Flora had only caught a glimpse of him from the staircase.

  ‘Please accept my condolences, Mrs Harrington,’ he said once Lord Vaughn had completed the introductions. His rich, deep voice had a hint of a Scots burr. ‘I had a deep and admiring regard for your father.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ He made no effort to release her hand, so she had to tug hard to release it from his grip. His sentiment pleased her though surprised her at the same time. Her father had not mentioned Mr McCallum in his letters, so the fact they were acquainted surprised her. She doubted theirs could have been a friendship, but mutual respect perhaps?

  ‘I can see why Lady Amelia’s head was turned,’ Bunny murmured as he held out her chair.

  ‘I thought you disapproved of gossip,’ Flora whispered back, rewarded when his eyes flashed behind his spectacles.

  ‘We were just discussing the coronation of the king.’ Lady Venetia projected her voice across the room for Flora’s benefit, while at the same time signalling the footman to serve the fish c
ourse.

  ‘I don’t know much more than I read in the papers,’ Flora said. ‘Other than the ceremony had to be postponed so he could have an operation.’

  ‘They did it on a table in the music room,’ Eddy said through a yawn.

  ‘Spare us the details, Ed.’ William winked at his nephew, evidently much at his ease since there was no sign of Mrs Mountjoy. ‘Suffice it to say he survived and is on the mend. He’ll be back to his decadent ways in no time.’

  ‘It was a poor show as it turned out,’ Lady Venetia said. ‘Most of the foreign dignitaries who went home when the king fell ill didn’t return for the ceremony. They sent their ambassadors to Westminster Abbey instead.’

  ‘No tragedy to my mind.’ Lord Vaughn gave a disdainful snort. ‘Kept the proceedings short and made it an entirely British occasion.’

  ‘Mary Penniman is still livid every time the subject is mentioned,’ Lady Venetia said with a trace of glee. ‘She rented an apartment overlooking the route and they wouldn’t refund the rental. An exorbitant amount she paid too, and to see absolutely nothing. She’s threatening to sue.’

  ‘I should imagine quite a few people found themselves in that position,’ Mr McCallum said.

  ‘The ceremony was a fiasco by all accounts.’ Lord Vaughn spoke between mouthfuls of salmon. ‘Archbishop Temple put the crown on the king’s head back to front. Once down on his knees the poor old fool couldn’t get up again. The king and several bishops had to haul him to his feet. Darned old fool.’

  ‘The bishop, or the king, Papa?’ Jocasta’s eyes went wide and innocent. Flora brought her water glass to her lips to hide a smile as the same thought occurred to her.

  ‘The bishop of course,’ her father huffed.

  ‘In case you hadn’t guessed, Mr McCallum,’ Jocasta said, toying with a sapphire pendant at her throat, ‘we weren’t exalted enough to have been invited to attend the coronation, thus we’ve reverted to carping and criticism.’

  ‘Jocasta, really.’ Lady Venetia sniffed, though her mouth twitched.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Mama. I adore the Royal family,’ Jocasta said sweetly. ‘I’m only sorry poor Bertie has been made to wait so long to become king.’

  ‘Despite his reputation with the ladies, I believe Edward the seventh will make a better sovereign than either of his parents believed he would.’ Mr McCallum relaxed back in his chair, his benign gaze resting on each of the ladies in turn. A round of ‘Hear, hears’ went round the table and crystal clinked musically together.

  ‘The traditional St Edward’s Crown was too heavy for him,’ Eddy said, evidently determined to educate everyone. ‘They used the State Imperial one instead. Did you know Cromwell sold the original regalia after the civil wars? Flora taught me that.’

  Flora smiled, embarrassed at this unexpected praise, and turned her attention to the subtly dill flavoured cold salmon. Having missed the first course, she discovered she was ravenously hungry.

  ‘Thank you, Eddy.’ Lord Vaughn laid an affectionate but restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘I shall expect top marks in your history exams next term.’

  Eddy blushed furiously as a ripple of polite laughter went round the table.

  ‘You taught young Edward then, did you, Mrs Harrington?’ Mr McCallum asked.

  Flora looked up to find his steady gaze on her.

  ‘Oh didn’t I say?’ Lady Venetia said loudly. ‘Flora used to be Eddy’s governess. She grew up here at Cleeve Abbey.’

  Saved from answering, Flora continued her meal, though was aware of their guest’s scrutiny throughout the rest of the course.

  The conversation took another tack and Flora recalled what Jocasta had said about Mr McCallum as a businessman with an atavistic attitude towards women, which struck her as being in stark contrast to the handsome man with the kind smile. He wore his affluence with discreet style, the only evidence a diamond pin in his tie. With his overt good looks and the way he commanded not only Lady Vaughn’s attention but Jocasta’s, Flora understood how Lady Amelia and Caroline Mountjoy had both succumbed to his charm.

  That the lady was conspicuous by her absence indicated her exclusion from the party had been deliberate in order to avoid tension between Caroline’s old flame and the one she planned to ensnare. But that there was no animosity between McCallum and William appeared accurate, as the two men had plenty to say to each other, punctuated by frequent laughter and an easy banter.

  ‘I believe you now own the brewery at Battledown, Mr McCallum?’ Flora asked when the entrée was served, instigating the conversation she had played in her head since she had arrived at dinner and found Mr McCallum in attendance.

  ‘Indeed, yes.’ He sprinkled salt liberally on his vegetables. ‘The place took some work to get up and running again. The previous owners had allowed it to become abysmally run down.’

  ‘I gather you’ve made the business profitable now?’ Flora summoned her blandest smile, while she tried to work out how to bring up the subject of contaminated beer.

  He helped himself to a portion of potatoes from the plate the footman held out. ‘I now supply a majority of the public houses in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘I’m so glad your business didn’t suffer from the rumours at all.’ Flora sensed Bunny had gone very still, and broke off his conversation with William.

  ‘Rumours?’ McCallum’s eyes sharpened and his water glass halted mid-way to his mouth.

  ‘About those men who became ill after the fête?’

  ‘Your father had already asked me that.’ He slewed a sideways glance at her.

  ‘I assumed he must have done,’ Flora lied, pushing peas round her plate with her fork. ‘We found some clippings about an incident in Manchester last year where sugars—’

  ‘—had been contaminated from sulphur used to treat the hops against blight thus creating arsenical acid. I’m aware of the incident.’ He cut her off with a raised hand and passed the tiny silver tray with the salt and pepper pots along the table. ‘Maguire showed them to me. In fact, at first I wondered if he didn’t have a point.’

  ‘You did?’ Why this information should have surprised her she wasn’t sure. ‘Did you take the matter further?’

  ‘I would have done, had Dr Fairbrother not refuted everything I said. His opinion was those men were all heavy drinkers and spent their lives in The Red Kite, therefore neuritis was the most likely diagnosis.’

  ‘Was this before or after my father spoke to you about the Manchester incident?’

  McCallum thought for a moment. ‘After, I believe. I got the impression he didn’t agree with the doctor either, but the men had recovered by then so the cause of their illness was of little interest.’

  ‘Did you check your brewing processes, Mr McCallum?’ Ignoring Bunny’s hard stare she asked. ‘I mean, in case your barley was contaminated by accident?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ McCallum frowned. ‘Naturally I couldn’t have misinformation about my brewery going about.’ He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, leaned toward Flora and patted her hand that lay on the table. ‘I apologize if you feel I’m being disrespectful to the dead. However at the time, even though I harboured the same doubts myself, I resented Maguire’s implication I used tainted sugar in my brewery.’

  ‘That Manchester incident was quite a scandal at the time,’ Lord Vaughn joined the conversation. ‘Nasty business all round.’

  ‘Did you see the articles as well, my lord?’ Flora asked, surprised he had been listening.

  ‘Maguire mentioned something of the sort.’ Lord Vaughn took a slow sip from his wineglass before continuing. ‘He was worried the same thing had happened here, but there was no evidence to indicate that.’

  ‘I see.’ Flora dipped her head to her plate.

  ‘The logic doesn’t make sense anyway.’ William was openly dismissive. ‘There were at least eighty men at the fête, and only six of them fell ill.’

  ‘One of whom died,’ Flora reminded him.

  ‘An el
derly man with a heart condition, which the doctor will confirm should you be inclined to ask him,’ McCallum said. Opposite her Bunny visibly flinched at his tone, while several pairs of eyes snapped up. As if he realized his remark was inappropriate, McCallum coughed and adjusted his tie. ‘I apologize if I sound curt, but wouldn’t want anyone to think I was responsible for a death.’

  ‘Fairbrother’s a doddering idiot.’ Lord Vaughn sniffed. ‘I doubt he could recognize a mass poisoning had the entire town succumbed.’

  ‘Might we change the subject?’ Lady Venetia interrupted. ‘I really don’t think this is a suitable conversation for the dinner table.’

  ‘Not that I’m in a position to contradict anyone,’ her husband continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I have no idea what causes neuritis. Perhaps we should invite that new female doctor to dinner. I would enjoy hearing her opinion on the matter. I heard she’s quite an intelligent woman with strong opinions.’ He waved his hand in a signal to the hovering nearby footman to replenish his wine glass.

  ‘Oh, George, don’t be ridiculous,’ Lady Venetia scorned. ‘A woman cannot possibly be a real medical professional. That’s a man’s province.’

  ‘Is there really a lady doctor in the town?’ Flora asked, intrigued. Without even knowing the woman Flora couldn’t help silently admiring the courage and tenacity it must have taken her to succeed in such a sphere. She wondered how she might contrive the chance to meet her.

  ‘There is indeed, my dear.’ Lord Vaughn ignored his wife. ‘Her name is Dr Grace Billings, and she has set up a surgery at her home in Pittville. Not that the good citizens of Cheltenham have taken her to their hearts, as yet. Though I’ve heard she’s excellent with lady patients who require discretion.’