Dancing with Death

by Amy Myers

  Peters froze. Where was this leading? ‘Yes, sir. He died for his country at Ypres.’

  ‘As did so many. Was it through his recommendation that you’re butler here?’

  Peters breathed a little more easily now. ‘Yes, sir. His Lordship was good enough to employ me after I’d done my bit.’

  The inspector had seated himself and was looking around the room as though there were clues in every corner. Thankfully, as this was the steward’s office photographs and mementoes were strictly of the Ansley family and their famous guests.

  ‘Is that our prime minister?’ Inspector Melbray asked curiously.

  ‘It is, sir. Mr Baldwin values Wychbourne for its peace and quiet.’ Too late, it occurred to him that these weren’t the best words to use in view of what had just happened, but the inspector did not comment. Instead he turned his attention to another photograph.

  ‘As does His Majesty too, I see.’

  ‘More rarely, but we are sometimes honoured with a visit from King George and Queen Mary.’

  ‘Did you know Charles Parkyn-Wright?’ The inspector switched subjects in the same casual manner.

  ‘Yes, sir. Not,’ Peters added hastily, ‘exactly knew. But he had been a guest at Wychbourne on many occasions and also at the London house.’

  ‘In Eaton Square, I understand.’

  ‘Correct, sir.’ Peters was growing uneasy again. Why all these questions, which had nothing to do with the sort he had expected, such as ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘How often had he come here?’

  ‘I really can’t be sure, sir.’ Peters decided some stiffness would be appropriate in order to show his solidarity with Wychbourne and its family. No telltale servant, he. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil – that’s what a butler should do. He’d keep gossip to himself. ‘Perhaps half a dozen times a year,’ he finished.

  ‘For dances or just to stay with the family?’

  ‘Both, sir.’

  ‘Were you at the door to greet him on his arrival yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He drove his Hispano-Suiza down from London and Miss Elise Harlington was with him.’

  ‘She is still a guest in the house, I’m told, as was Mr Parkyn-Wright.’

  ‘She is.’ Peters hesitated. Perhaps he had been too stiff, which wouldn’t do at all in his position. He might draw attention to himself. In the circumstances he would venture a little further, therefore. ‘Miss Elise is not altogether popular’ – too late, he remembered that Lord Richard was sweet on her and solidarity with the Ansley family required reticence – ‘and nor was Mr Parkyn-Wright, although I cannot understand why. He always seemed to me a most charming young man. He was Lord Richard’s best friend.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. You like Miss Harlington too?’

  He tried to repair the damage. ‘She is always very polite to me, sir.’ A touch of woodenness might help.

  ‘You kindly provided a list of the guests to the party for me, as well as of the guests who are staying in the house. The local police also gave me one that they had compiled as soon as they arrived here. Did all the guests on your list arrive?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Peters answered.

  ‘Including a Mr Hugh Beaumont?’

  ‘Yes, sir. One of Lady Sophy’s friends from London, so she told me.’

  ‘He wasn’t on the list compiled by the police on their arrival. Nor was another guest, a Lady Warminster.’

  ‘She was on the ghost hunt, sir. I saw her.’ Peters decided it was time to be anxious. ‘I believe one or two motor cars left before the local police arrived.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Regrettably, I cannot say. I am not responsible for matters outside the house itself. You should speak to Mr Ramsay who manages our stables and garages. You’ll find them beyond the east wing. You’ll see a line of high bushes shielding the kitchen yard, and the stables and garages are beyond that.’

  ‘Were all the motor cars parked there?’

  ‘Some were left in the forecourt, sir. Against Lord Ansley’s wishes, but youth will be youth.’

  Peters metaphorically mopped his brow when the inspector left. On the whole, he thought he had done fairly well. After all, it would be the guests on the ghost hunt on whom the inspector would be concentrating, not the servants. He was relieved to be considered one of the latter.

  Luncheon had passed surprisingly well, Nell thought, especially considering Mrs Fielding had a hand in choosing it. The roasts had been ample enough to satisfy the additional dozen or so guests as well as the family and a visit to the vegetable garden had produced enough to provide ample sustenance; the meal had been crowned with ice creams and desserts left over from the night before. It was basic food but no one’s mind would have been on haute cuisine – including her own. Nell’s usual eagle eye had wavered from time to time. As the dinner menu too was already chosen and in hand, Nell decided she could relax in her chef’s room – her own retreat.

  She would read a novel to take her mind off the murder, but the one she chose, Mrs Christie’s Murder on the Links, took her straight back to the world of murder and detection, which was but a small step to worrying about the task hanging over her and what she could effectively do to help the Ansleys. The police, she reasoned, would find all the tangible clues which should lead them to the person who had killed Mr Charles. Without knowing whom they suspected, however, how could she explore the full story of what had happened?

  Perhaps, she thought, she could come to the puzzle from the other direction. Why had he been murdered? For money? Sexual reasons? Through jealousy? Or fear?

  Before she could explore this angle further there was a knock at the door. It was probably Miss Checkam calling her to Lady Ansley’s side. Or was it that inspector again or his sergeant?

  It was none of these. It was the dapper Mr Fontenoy. Amazed at this departure from normal procedure, she leapt up to greet him.

  ‘Pray do sit down, Miss Drury,’ he said. ‘I propose to do the same if you have no objection.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you the wrong side of the green baize door,’ she said lightly, wondering what on earth had brought him here.

  ‘One doesn’t expect murders at Wychbourne Court either, yet they happen,’ he pointed out. ‘Besides, barriers are fast vanishing in these modern times and I am here on a mission.’

  This sounded ominous. ‘For what?’ Nell asked cautiously.

  ‘I was told confidentially by Lady Ansley that you’re trying to ensure that the police collar the right fellow for this murder and that they don’t tread on too many toes while doing so.’

  She was very cautious now. ‘I’d like to help – and I won’t get in anyone’s way. Nor will I throw in any red herrings. Is that what’s worrying you?’

  ‘It is not and I thoroughly approve of Gertrude’s suggestion. However, every Sherlock needs a Watson, Miss Drury. Have you considered myself from that angle?’

  She had not and it had not occurred to her that she should do so. ‘Were you planning to be Watson or Sherlock?’ she asked carefully. She couldn’t have her movements tracked, checked or changed by someone who might have his own axe to grind. Was this a plan by Lady Ansley to put someone on her tail, a double check?

  ‘Watson, my dear Miss Drury. I’m far too old and far too unpopular with some members of the family to be a Sherlock.’

  ‘That inspector is Sherlock,’ Nell pointed out.

  ‘No, no, no. He’s Lestrade. It is we outsiders who see most of the game.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ Nell said firmly. ‘He’s not only a dark horse but a clever one.’

  ‘All the more reason that you need assistance in your role. I do not jest, Miss Drury. Nor has Lady Ansley requested me to check your movements. This is my own idea since I have a great affection for the Ansley family and wish to see justice done with no harm coming to it. I believe I have a role to play by working with you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ She eyed him carefully,
though. She had always liked Mr Fontenoy. Not only was he invariably polite to her and seemingly tolerant of the dowager’s unrelenting antipathy to him, but she had noticed how careful he was to support the family without seeming to intrude.

  ‘Society,’ he observed, ‘is becoming more equal, although hardly heading for communism. This is England. However, barriers still exist. You are a most discreet lady, Miss Drury, and therefore the family may undoubtedly confide in you with safety. Nevertheless, some members might not take kindly to your questioning them over private matters. On the other hand, you are admirably placed to have both an objective view of Wychbourne and the family and of the servants’ hall. It seems to me I might be a useful adjunct in your quest. For instance, have you heard of Charlie’s dance or dancing?’

  ‘No. What’s so special about that?’

  ‘I cannot tell. It’s merely a whisper that I overheard but one that you might not have come across.’

  Nell thought fast. Could he have his own reasons for offering his services? Only scoring a point against Lady Enid, perhaps. Could he have had a grudge against Mr Charles or know who had killed him? Could he have killed him?

  ‘Before you condemn me, Miss Drury,’ he continued, clearly amused, ‘I was not the perpetrator of this dreadful deed. Much as I believe I have a duty to protect the family – even Lady Enid – it would not extend to murder on its behalf. In any case, I was for the entire duration of the ghost hunt partaking of supper with a most delightful young gentleman who had elected not to go on the hunt. Several footmen also observed my presence and my rapt attention to this guest. How do you view the matter now?’

  Increasingly favourably. Mr Fontenoy had a point, Nell realized. He might indeed have access to some people who would not speak freely to her.

  ‘What would you be looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘Tell me first what you would be looking for, Miss Drury.’

  She liked that approach. ‘The reason for his death.’

  ‘Would you agree that more than one person might have had cause to kill him even if they did not pursue it?’

  ‘Yes, although he seemed very popular both with his friends and with the servants here and I never heard anything bad about him.’

  ‘At least one person, you would agree, kept their dislike well hidden.’

  She followed his line of thought immediately. ‘And where there is one secret, there might be more?’

  ‘Correct. Wychbourne, as Lady Clarice can testify, has over the centuries hidden many secrets from the world and doubtless the twentieth century is no exception.’

  ‘There were a lot of guests here last night,’ she pointed out.

  ‘But only a limited number who could have committed this crime and knew this house well enough to commit murder.’

  ‘And,’ Nell added, ‘knew that Charlie was behind that screen.’

  ‘I agree. Shall we work together on the exchange of information then? I should consider it an honour.’

  She took the plunge. ‘I should like that.’

  ‘Then to you I am not Mr Fontenoy but Arthur, and I hope a friend. My dear, I have but little entertainment in my old age. My small role in assisting you in your efforts will not lessen the horrific nature of this murder, but I trust it might lighten the journey to its solution.’

  He was right. Already the path before her seemed less daunting than it had earlier. ‘We shall need to meet – Arthur,’ she said, struggling with the informality of using his Christian name. ‘Anywhere in this house or even your home might be too conspicuous. What about the old dairy? It’s sufficiently hidden from the house not to attract notice.’

  ‘Perhaps too,’ he suggested, ‘we have need of a Baker Street Irregular to pass messages. Telephone calls are too public. I hesitate to suggest the lamp boy but he is well acquainted with both of us and with both houses – and you have no need to fear for his well-being as far as I am concerned. The late Mr Oscar Wilde did a great service to drama but a sad disservice to us poor lesser mortals.’

  Nell laughed. Using Jimmy was a good idea. ‘Agreed, Arthur.’ It came more easily now. ‘For the moment, you could concentrate on the family and remaining guests and I on those from the servants’ wing who had access to the main house?’

  ‘The upper servants, as they are traditionally termed?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Peters, Mrs Fielding, Miss Checkam – and Mr Briggs.’

  ‘That dear man.’ Arthur sighed.

  ‘And Robert the footman.’ She frowned, thinking this through. ‘It won’t just be a case of talking to those we think had reason and opportunity to kill Charlie, but anyone who was there that night or who knew him. Even the guests who were here for just that one night.’

  ‘There was that bandleader,’ Arthur observed. ‘The one who joined us on the balcony when we discovered the body.’

  She was grateful for the ‘we’. ‘Mr Ellimore,’ she said. ‘I used to know him. He wouldn’t have known about that screen.’

  ‘Unless he was told – news about the impending joke on poor Lady Clarice could have travelled very quickly during the dance.’

  ‘That broadens the picture,’ Nell said. ‘Anyone could have joined either group in the darkness. And no one would have noticed if someone had switched groups temporarily.’

  ‘That, unfortunately, is true. How relieved I am that I am only Watson.’ A pause. ‘Do you have a secret plan, Nell? I do hope so. It does seem a rather difficult task we’ve taken on.’

  She pulled a face at him. ‘Sizzling swordfish, Arthur, you can’t give up now. We haven’t even started. What would Lady Enid say?’

  FIVE

  ‘The maître d’ sees the best of the banquet; the diner only sees what’s before him.’ That’s what someone had once remarked cheerfully to her at the Carlton. That, Nell thought, was her role in this murder and she wasn’t sure she was suited to it. Or was it reluctance on her part, bearing in mind that there was a murderer at large whose aim would be to avoid discovery and would probably go to any lengths to do so?

  If she ignored that aspect and went ahead, she had to struggle with the same questions: why would anyone want to kill Mr Charles here at Wychbourne Court and who had done so? Even after a whole night’s sleep, Monday morning had so far thrown no more light on the puzzle. The likelihood was, Nell reasoned, that the murderer was on the ghost hunt. There had been far too many people around in the great hall after eleven forty-five to have killed him before the hunt actually began, and in any case the groan from above after it started ruled that out. Mr Charles must have gone up to the gallery before the hunt equipment was handed out from a quarter to twelve onwards, and during the time that Lord Richard and Lady Helen were bringing in the equipment from the boot room.

  Next thought: Mr Charles’s killer would probably have been in the first group led by Lady Clarice but wouldn’t Mr Peters, who must have been in the great hall throughout this period, have seen if anyone had doubled back to attack Mr Charles or if anyone else had gone up those stairs? There were two spiral staircases to the gallery, of course, one at each end; the one at the near end would be right under Mr Peters’ eye as he stood inside the open door to the great hall and the staircase rose from the corridor just beyond it. What about the far end? Still surely too much of a risk of being seen by Mr Peters.

  Where did that take her?

  First get your barrow and then set off to market to gather the goods, she told herself. She recalled the sound of her father’s barrow scraping along the cobbles, the only noise in the quiet of the darkness, and then the growing racket as they reached the bedlam of the market itself – people jostling, jesting, shouting, excited, angry. Once inside they had a part to play. It was the first step that was so daunting. As now.

  Get into that market, Nell, she told herself. Where better to begin on a Monday morning than the servants’ hall lunch? Everyone had been quiet at dinner last night, both in the servants’ hall and in the main dining room. The police presence at Wychbourne C
ourt had been all but invisible, but nevertheless it was casting a shadow. Meanwhile, there was luncheon for the Ansley family and guests to think of.

  ‘Turbot à la Tartare,’ Nell decreed. ‘You take care of the sauce, Kitty, and you, Michel, the fish. Sorrel and potatoes with black butter sauce.’ Nell paused. ‘Have the police been here to interview you?’

  ‘The sergeant, Miss Drury,’ Kitty told her. ‘He wanted to know where everyone was on Saturday night.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Charles except by sight?’ she asked cautiously. ‘He seems to have been a popular chap.’

  Michel hesitated. ‘Some liked him, some did not.’

  ‘He was not nice at all,’ Kitty said. ‘He thought he was the cat’s whiskers and he tried to tumble Polly. He locked her into his bedroom – it was only because someone heard her screaming that he let her go. And she wasn’t the only one.’

  Nell was horrified. Polly was one of the chambermaids and not the sort of girl to make this up, so if this was Mr Charles’s standard behaviour pattern it showed a vastly different side to him than the one Lady Helen and Lord Richard knew.

  There was no sign of either Mr Peters or Mrs Fielding in the butler’s pantry where the upper servants sometimes took lunch together, but she was in luck because Miss Checkam was there. Miss Checkam often took lunch in Lady Ansley’s dressing room if she was busy with laundry or clothes repairs. Mr Briggs was also present today but was eating his meal in silence, as was his habit. Whatever she had to say to Miss Checkam would probably pass right over his head.

  In all the twelve months that Nell had been at Wychbourne Court, she had never sized up Miss Checkam. She couldn’t be much older than Nell – in her early thirties, perhaps – but with her long, dark brown hair severely drawn back into a bun and her mid-calf-length skirts in a dowdy brown that didn’t suit her, she seemed to stem from a different age even though her face was quite attractive. Despite her willingness to impart gossip, Miss Checkam was, it always seemed to Nell, at one remove and sometimes it was hard going.

  ‘You must be very upset. You’re so close to the family,’ Nell sympathized with her.