by Amy Myers
How to raise the question of Lady Helen? ‘I know from my Carlton days,’ Nell began tentatively, ‘that there’s a difference between someone on a high and just normal high spirits. Like soufflés – up one minute, down the next.’
Lady Ansley looked at her sharply. ‘As Helen is now. My worst fear, Nell. Perhaps she didn’t have her dance with Charlie last Saturday judging by her behaviour since,’ she continued steadily.
‘Does Lord Richard realize what’s wrong with his sister?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s too besotted with Elise to notice. He has no idea what that woman is really like. She’s a bully, not a magnet of beauty.’
‘He was so friendly with Mr Parkyn-Wright – it’s good that he didn’t become a client himself,’ Nell said tactfully.
‘Yes. I cannot believe that of Richard. He pretends to be so worldly-wise but he hasn’t the least idea of what’s going on around him. Sophy is far more perspicacious, but I don’t think even she suspects what’s wrong with Helen. The girl needs medical help, Nell. I’ve spoken to Gerald and it’s all arranged. We cannot both leave Wychbourne at such a time, so Arthur Fontenoy is coming with me tomorrow, instead of Gerald, to take Helen to a doctor Arthur has recommended in London. We shall stay at a discreet hotel and be away a day or two. Thank goodness Rex is staying on. He says he can take a train to London each day if his work requires it.’
‘That sounds a splendid arrangement.’
‘Yes, but this murder, Nell, brings an even greater fear,’ Lady Ansley said hesitantly. ‘The inspector means well but Helen, Richard and Sophy were in that first group on the ghost hunt which means …’
‘And Inspector Melbray,’ Nell said levelly when Lady Ansley halted, ‘might assume that drugs lie behind Mr Parkyn-Wright’s death and that one of his clients killed him.’
In other words, Lady Helen, she thought, trying to see it from the police point of view. Lord Richard too, if he had decided that Mr Charlie was ruining Elise’s life. He could fly off the handle so easily and if he had found out about the drugs and believed that Miss Harlington and his sister were innocent martyrs to Mr Charles’s fiendish plan, he might have seized that dagger and killed his best friend.
No wonder Lady Ansley was worried. After all, who better to know about that dagger on the wall than those who lived in this house? Then there was Arthur. He must know about the drug issue but he had not yet passed this information to Nell. He hadn’t yet had time, she thought uneasily. Nevertheless, trust no one, the inspector had said.
A more comforting thought came to her. There must have been other clients here that night and Inspector Melbray would be aware of that. They could have had good reason to kill Mr Charles and could well have discovered his whereabouts on the gallery and crept up there by that far staircase after the first group had passed on its way. No matter what Mr Peters said, the suspect list must surely be based on that possibility – unless, she forced herself to consider, Mr Peters himself had wielded the dagger. But that came back to the same question: why?
‘Where do you think they are going, Richard?’ Sophy asked anxiously. Richard didn’t look as worried as she felt, but he ought to.
‘Ma said they were going to see some old friends in London,’ he answered offhandedly. He seemed more interested in the Country Life magazine he’d picked up in the hall at breakfast time.
‘That’s what she told me too.’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘You don’t think Helen could have an urge to go on the stage, do you? Follow in Mother’s footsteps? It’s just the sort of silly idea she would have to get over Charlie’s death. That would explain why Pa isn’t going too.’
‘No. She’d have to work too hard,’ Richard said dispassionately. ‘My guess is that she’s going to see some doctor – woman stuff.’
‘Why not our usual one, then? He’s not exactly court physician standard but he’s pretty good.’
Richard’s turn for an idea. ‘Do you think Helen could be in the pudding club?’
Sophy gaped. ‘Helen? She wouldn’t be so daft. Anyway, Rex wouldn’t think it proper.’
‘Charlie might have. Helen was keen on him, remember,’ Richard said darkly.
Sophy shot him a scornful look. ‘He was your chum, Richard. He’d be nuts to seduce your sister, even if Helen was all for it.’
‘He was my chum,’ Richard said bitterly. ‘Until he marched in and took over Elise from me.’
Sophy tossed up whether to comment on this or not. Oh, well, he had to be told some time. ‘I don’t think that Elise gets taken by anybody. She does the taking.’
‘You don’t know a thing about her,’ Richard retorted angrily.
‘Nor,’ said Sophy, ‘do you. She just does her impenetrable I’m-a-superior-flapper-of-mystery act and you all fall for it.’
‘I know her. I’ve asked her to stay on here, poor little girl. She’s suffering from shock after Charlie’s death. She needs looking after.’
Sophy decided to say nothing this time. That ‘poor little girl’ was a tiger disguised as a pussy cat but Richard never saw it. Sophy had her own ideas about Elise and Charlie but her soppy sister couldn’t see two inches in front of her dainty Chanel court shoes. Sophy would have put this visit to London down to a dress-fitting appointment at Jays of Regent Street if it hadn’t been for the fact that Arthur Fontenoy was going too.
Meanwhile, Elise was going to be a problem. Poor little girl indeed. So far she hadn’t made too much of a nuisance of herself, except for yesterday’s picnic fiasco. She had stayed in her room sulking while Father went round the village apologising to all and sundry. Sophy was glad that Mother was going away with Helen as even Elise wouldn’t play tricks on Father or on the police. She had too much to hide. It wouldn’t surprise her if Elise was on dope.
Sophy paused uneasily. Dope? What about Helen? Could that be why she was so up and down, and could that be why she was being swept off to London? The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Poor Helen, though. Sophy was fond of her sister, and the idea that one of those drug dealers had got at her was terrible. Maybe Elise was on drugs too. And Charlie. Was that why he was murdered? If so, that meant Helen might be under suspicion. Sophy was appalled at where this line of thought was taking her. But Helen wouldn’t have killed Charlie? Nor would Richard of course, but maybe Elise might have done.
Sophy clung to that idea, caressing it in her mind. If Elise came to her with any more hints and questions as to who ‘Hugh Beaumont’ was just because he had sat next to Sophy at dinner, she would bat them away like ping pong balls. For her ‘Hugh’ had only been a joke, but as for him, he had been terrified that night. She had changed the seating arrangements so that he would be further away from Lady Warminster – and look how she’d bungled that. She hadn’t checked the guest list properly and only saw Lady Warminster’s name at the last minute. That had meant changing the seating plan if Lady Warminster wasn’t to be close to ‘Hugh’ and even then she had glowered suspiciously at him once or twice. ‘Hugh’ hadn’t gone on the ghost hunt because he thought Her Ladyship might tackle him. He’d just pretended to go but actually he’d rushed off home. She, the stupid woman, had gone on the hunt, and then driven off afterwards to Stalisbrook to check if her under-gardener was at home.
It had begun as a harmless joke on her delightful but stuffy parents to see if they or anyone else would notice if one of their guests, the so-called Hugh Beaumont, was actually a servant of sorts. Provided he was dressed properly and spoke properly, Sophy was convinced he would have no problem. And he didn’t, until he saw Lady Warminster there. Her Ladyship would have thought William was at home in his cottage. Sophy had had lots of chats with him when Her Ladyship ordered him to drive her to Wychbourne for discussions with Mr Fairweather over gardens and their design, but that Saturday night wasn’t a garden visit and Madam decided to drive herself in the Delage. Perhaps she liked to keep her visits to Wychbourne secret from everyone at Stalisbrook because she had her eye on Cha
rlie, Sophy thought savagely. Or perhaps she was on dope too?
‘Do you know where Helen’s gone, Elise?’
Rex Beringer was concerned. Lady Ansley had asked him to stay despite the fact that she and Helen would be away for a few days, but he had the impression that there was some mystery about it. He couldn’t press them further as he was a guest here, but quite apart from this murder something was afoot. Helen had kept to her room this past day or two save for her appearance at the inquest yesterday. He’d tried to talk to her at the picnic and at one point he had thought she wanted him to do so but then she changed her mind. He had stayed on here so that he could help her after the shock of the murder, and it was strange that she was going away with the police still in the house investigating Charlie’s death. As to that, good riddance, Rex thought.
‘Should I know?’ Elise replied, reclining in one of the conservatory armchairs.
‘She’s your friend,’ Rex said evenly.
‘Ah.’ Elise smiled and Rex inwardly shrank. He’d put himself in her power. ‘I suspect poor darling Helen has had her wrist slapped,’ she drawled. ‘And perhaps her lovely face too. Hauled off to London for the cure.’
‘What cure?’ Rex asked sharply. ‘Is she ill?’
‘Not more than one usually is when one’s missed a bindle.’
‘A bindle?’ he queried blankly.
‘Her little package, Rex. Didn’t you know? Helen’s been missing her sniffs.’
Rex still didn’t understand – except that Elise was gloating. But he had to know what this was about. ‘Sniff what?’
‘Cocaine, Rex. Surely you knew that Helen was a user?’
‘No,’ Rex said slowly. ‘I didn’t.’ But he began to understand now. Poor, poor Helen. ‘I take it it came from Charlie?’
‘Don’t blame the messenger, Rex. Darling Charlie was just trying to make an honest living.’
‘If I’d known I’d have—’ He held back. This woman was just as dangerous as Charlie, who must have told her about his past. She knew about him, he realized.
‘Killed him, Rex?’ she finished for him. ‘How very adventurous of you. Perhaps you did. You remember we had a little chat as we returned from my picnic yesterday. You were so upset, even though I assured you it was Charlie’s and my little secret and we never share them. Why would we?’
‘Yes,’ he said painfully, ‘I remember.’
‘We must have another little chat shortly. Such a pity Charlie was killed. Everything was spiffing. And I do like everything to be spiffing, don’t you, Rex?’
Why did Arthur have to go to London just at this very moment? Clarice Ansley wasn’t pleased now the Wychbourne ghosts were entering an active period. Arthur was a pleasant companion and a shield against her mother, but now Mother would be hurrying round to interrupt her Great Project. Clarice was convinced it was time to move forward on her contribution to the Ansley family history. She would have the finished work bound in leather for the library as well as having copies available for the public. There would be a wide public for it with today’s interest in the subject. Mr Harry Price himself had expressed an interest in it, as well as the Society for Psychical Research.
After Jasper had been killed in the Boer War, Clarice had put aside all thoughts of marriage and motherhood. Family history had proved much more exciting in the form of A Guide to the Ghosts of Wychbourne Court. She was progressing nicely with the tales, many of which she had found so easily in the library that one might almost think the ghosts themselves were eagerly pushing their stories to the front of the shelves. Every so often her brother opened the Wychbourne grounds to the public. May Day was one such occasion but she had pleaded for Halloween to be another. Gerald had meanly put his foot down, however. The house might be opened during the day but not at night.
‘When else do you expect the ghosts to appear?’ she had demanded.
‘My dear Clarice,’ he had replied, ‘I don’t expect them at all.’
Unlike Clarice, Arthur had thought this most amusing and regrettably so had Mother, although Mother had become more understanding after she discovered Arthur did not believe in ghosts. In vain, Clarice had pointed out to Gerald that the very name Wychbourne was derived from the Old English wicca, and that there was something mystical about the place which meant it was a suitable home for ghosts. Her brother had pointed out that Wychbourne could equally well derive from the Anglo-Saxon word for farm or farmer, and as Wychbourne was deemed a farm in the Domesday Book that was good enough for him.
The Guide had only reached the sixteenth century so far. That nice Nell Drury had been very helpful in small ways and it occurred to Clarice that, in Arthur’s absence, she might be persuaded to read some of the sections, particularly the one she had just worked on. She had revised the tragic story of Sir Thomas and would seek Nell out now. She was sure to be around somewhere and would surely help. After all, Nell had had the distinction of finding Charlie Parkyn-Wright’s body, whose ghost Clarice was looking forward to meeting – and so his story could be written from first-hand sources.
Why was Lady Clarice hurrying towards her again? Nell wondered. Luckily she didn’t think it odd that for the second time Nell was emerging from the old dairy. She’d hoped to see Arthur there but he had obviously already left for London. Perhaps it was as well to have breathing space to mull over what the nice inspector had said to her – and unfortunately what she had replied.
‘Miss Drury, I wonder if I might ask a small favour of you?’
‘Of course,’ Nell said guardedly, but Lady Clarice was not waiting for her assent. A huge pile of typescript was being thrust into her arms.
‘Just read through this, if you will. It’s my guide to the Wychbourne Ghosts. It’s so important to convey the right spirit in both senses, both the ghost of the tale together with the way in which my humble pen has narrated it. I must do them justice.’
Nell summoned up her courage. ‘I’m reluctant to take it all,’ she replied with all the tact she could summon. ‘The risk if any pages are lost would be too great.’ To her relief, Lady Clarice looked horrified. ‘One ghost at a time?’ Nell suggested.
‘You are right, Miss Drury. Such a pity I cannot yet add Mr Parkyn-Wright as he and Sir Thomas are kindred spirits.’
‘But Mr Parkyn-Wright isn’t a ghost,’ Nell pointed out.
‘He soon will be,’ Lady Clarice informed her. ‘I would not wish to offend any of them so I would be grateful for your critique.’
‘Let me do justice to Sir Thomas first,’ Nell said firmly, to Lady Clarice’s disappointment.
Sir Thomas was a devoted but absentee husband, Nell remembered as she returned to her room ready to do battle with the gentleman after supper in the servants’ hall. In Crusading days he had been a gallant and highly regarded military man. Even if the place of the two deaths was the same, Mr Charles had been a far from gallant man; he was a dope dealer. How did the spirits of the two men become kindred? she wondered.
The page was headed ‘Sir Thomas Ansley, Earthly life: 1157–1192. Current life: 1192—’
Ah, what a story lies here. He rode forth to war on the Third Crusade with His Majesty King Richard I to fight for his King, his Pope and the Holy Land. His lovely wife, Eleanora, full of tears, remained at their home at Wychbourne. There Eleanora sobbed alone, sorely missing him. For comfort she listened to a minstrel’s songs of love written for the simple village maiden he loved. Even as he sang songs of valour in Sir Thomas’s honour he was thinking of her and not of Mistress Eleanora. But the call of passion is strong. Who can tell when sin entered their hearts, but as time passed Mistress Eleanora beckoned and he stepped into her chamber.
Sir Thomas, ah, what anguish filled your heart when you returned home victorious to find a mere minstrel had usurped your bed and your wife had falsely given herself to him. What fear entered the minstrel’s heart when you strode valiantly into the chamber and he ran for safety, snatching a dagger in his hand but hoping to hide on the galler
y where their passion had first been lit by his songs. When you reached him there, he plunged the dagger into your noble heart. The minstrel fled, his songs to be heard no more, and you, Sir Thomas, rail still at your cruel fate as you wait for justice to be done.
Crackling cauliflowers, Nell thought. Sir Walter Scott lives again. Young Lochinvar wasn’t a patch on this hero.
Something odd had caught her attention, though. There was something familiar about the story, although certainly Sir Thomas wasn’t going to be making any complaints about it. It reminded her of an elderly general in Mesopotamia and Lady Warminster leaving the ghost hunt so promptly. Her Ladyship, she thought, displayed an eagerness for conformity rather than a desire to shock and was unlikely to be taking drugs. She looked all too happy with her current way of life but could there be a minstrel in it? Even if there was, why would that cause her to dash away from the dance so quickly? There were no obvious minstrels around in Wychbourne Court (except for Guy’s band), and she couldn’t see Lady Warminster developing a fancy for Mr Peters. She did have her own staff, of course. A chauffeur and that under-gardener who drove her around, but she hadn’t wanted either of them to drive her that Saturday evening. So there might be someone …
Nell, she told herself, you’re over-sugaring the pudding again.
It was true the world was full of married women laying themselves open to blackmail, just as younger women did the same through taking illegal drugs. A dispute over their supply must be what Inspector Melbray thought was behind Mr Charles’s death, but there was another angle, wasn’t there? The dope could be a weapon for blackmail. And if Mr Charles was a blackmailer over dope, couldn’t he have gone further than that? The whisper in the ear, the threat in casual conversation, all to feed his love of power over people? And where better to gather it than at parties such as the one at Wychbourne Court?
