by Amy Myers
‘Visitor for you by the yard entrance, Miss Drury,’ Mrs Fielding announced disapprovingly on Thursday morning, as though Nell was in the habit of entertaining guests for coffee during working hours.
Who was this? Nell wondered crossly. Mr Fairweather’s queries had been settled and the butcher’s order had been placed. What else?
It was Guy. Now what was she to do? Her lips had to remain sealed over the matter of his alibi. He didn’t look in need of comfort, however. In fact, he looked remarkably cheerful.
‘Time for a chat, Nell?’
‘Of course. I can chat all day. Lunch and dinner will wait while I do it,’ she said, irritated.
‘Ah, well, it won’t take long. I thought I’d let you know that I’m off the hook. Whoever killed Parkyn-Wright, the police are satisfied it wasn’t me.’
The inspector had relented after all. Good. ‘Come into Pug’s Parlour,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make you coffee after all.’
‘Where?’
‘The butler’s pantry. It’s an old name for it.’
‘That gardener chap, Foster,’ he explained, ensconcing himself in the best chair, ‘has finally come clean and admitted he was talking to me at the time in the supper room, just as I said. He told the police the reason he hadn’t confirmed it earlier too. Not sure what that was, but it’s clear I’m not a murderer. Thought you’d like to know.’
‘That’s good news,’ she said. ‘Does Lady Warminster know what’s happened? Has she sacked him?’
‘No idea. He’s told the police and that’s all I needed.’
That was Guy all over, she thought. Odd how one could after a time still feel an affection for someone but also see the failings one missed the first time. Guy had always put himself not only first, which might be natural enough, but second and third too. And here he was, the same old Guy.
‘Are you free to leave Wychbourne? Where are you heading next?’
‘Stalisbrook Place. That party’s coming up so soon that I won’t bother to shift. After that I’ll take off, though. Any chance of your coming with me?’
‘Chained to my job, Guy,’ she told him quickly.
‘Doesn’t the idea of Paris attract you? Pruniers, the Eiffel Tower, the Folies Bergère …’
‘One day.’
‘You’re a stay-at-home by nature.’
‘You think Wychbourne Court is my home?’ she rejoined. ‘Smashing. I’ll have some calling cards printed.’
He laughed and clasped her hand in his. ‘Seriously, Nell, the offer’s open. What a team we would make. You could still be a chef. Why not? We’d hire out our services for every grand ball in London and Paris. Music by Guy Ellimore, cuisine by Nell Drury. And at night we’d be two married turtle doves. Doesn’t that appeal?’
He was more persistent than usual. He really meant this, she realized. How to deal with it, though? Keep it light, she thought. ‘Guy, there’s a time for everything and ours was either in the past or hasn’t yet come.’
He was silent for a moment but then he shrugged. ‘You always did know the best recipes, Nell. Are you giving evidence at the inquest?’
Inquest? Hopping haddocks, she’d been so preoccupied with ghosts that she had forgotten there would have to be an inquest on Miss Harlington. She had heard no word about it yet. Would her parents come here? There’d been no talk of it so far.
By the time she had persuaded Guy to leave and returned to the kitchen it was once again in turmoil. Instead of everyone quietly getting on with their jobs, they were talking in twos and threes with someone making the occasional quick dash to the scullery or ovens. Rumours were buzzing around like bluebottles and she tackled Kitty to find out what on earth was happening. It turned out that Mr Peters had been interviewed again, as had Mrs Fielding and Miss Checkam too. Even Jimmy had been grilled once more. Where was Miss Checkam, though? She had not appeared in the servants’ hall for the whole of yesterday, nor this morning. Lady Ansley had murmured that Miss Checkam was spending a lot of time with Lady Enid but even so she seemed to be keeping out of their way. Typical of the dowager, Nell thought. Power depended on control and the dowager achieved it by maintaining her grip the old-fashioned way – at a distance. So far Nell had had little to do with Lady Enid but she had no doubt that her friendly terms with Arthur had been duly noted.
Once lunch was over and Nell had restored the normal working pattern to the kitchen, her plans were again disrupted when she was summoned by Lady Ansley. What now? she wondered. She had discussed the menus with her this morning, so this must be something new. At least she wasn’t being hauled up in front of the inspector again. It was true he was friendlier now, which must surely mean she was off the suspect list – or did it? Perhaps that was one of his techniques – to put people at their ease and then pounce. Nonsense, Nell, she told herself briskly, but she remained uneasy.
When she reached Lady Ansley’s room she saw she was not the only visitor. Surprisingly, Mr Beringer was present. No sign of Lady Helen, though. She took the seat Lady Ansley indicated, noting that their eyes were fixed on her in the same way as Guy’s had been: as if in her lay some kind of answer. Nonsense, she told herself once more. You’re getting above yourself, Nell Drury, thinking you’re so important. She was a chef not a magician. As a child she had once seen Maskelyne and Cooke’s automaton Psycho, and marvelled at the way it answered the questions thrown at it by the audience. She, alas, was no Psycho.
‘We were hoping,’ Lady Ansley began, ‘that you could tell us what’s happening over Elise’s death. Gerald is as much in the dark as we are, and you seem to get on so well with the inspector.’
‘Me?’ Nell squawked in surprise.
‘That’s what we’ve heard,’ Rex said apologetically.
‘I don’t get on with him well. I’ve had several grillings from him but he doesn’t talk about the investigations. Either of them. He couldn’t do so.’ She had had to bend the facts a little in view of the Guy episode but it was essentially the truth.
‘Even your impressions would be valuable,’ Lady Ansley said pleadingly. ‘I know you’ve been doing your best to help.’
Nell thought hard. What could she say? ‘He seems to be interviewing everybody again,’ she tried, ‘which might mean that he believes the two murders are connected, just as I imagine we all do.’
It wasn’t much of an offering on her part but at least it gave Mr Beringer something to seize upon. ‘I told you, Lady Ansley,’ he said, ‘this is all about drugs. I’m sure of that. Charlie supplied them and Elise was a client.’
‘That’s possible,’ Nell said diplomatically. Mr Beringer’s contribution merely took them right back to the beginning but perhaps, it occurred to her, that’s just what he meant to do. Was he clinging to this explanation for reasons of his own? Arthur had passed on the suspicion that he might have secrets in his past.
‘Look what he did to Helen,’ Rex continued. ‘Helen thought the world of that rotter but all he wanted to do was to sell her dope. Thank heavens he was caught before it was too late for her. Elise was a victim too, of course,’ he added, rather too hastily in Nell’s view. Rex was very definitely eager to push the drugs angle but how would guarding Miss Harlington’s reputation help that? He wasn’t suggesting that she was a confidante of Mr Charles’s – far from it.
‘The evidence they gathered after her death has to go to scientists to be examined, just as they did with Mr Charles’s,’ Nell pointed out. ‘That takes time.’
‘What evidence?’ he shot back at her sharply.
‘The usual,’ Nell said firmly, crossing her fingers that she wasn’t talking rubbish. ‘Footprints and collecting items. Scientists can detect all sorts of things from hairs and bits of fluff and so on.’
‘Did they do that for Charlie’s death?’ Rex demanded.
‘They must have done.’ Nell was feeling more and more like little Jack Horner, trapped into a corner, but in her case there would be no plums to pull out of the Christmas pie.
‘That will pass,’ Nell said stoutly. She hesitated but decided she should warn Lady Ansley about the ghosts in case this was the first she had heard of it. ‘Lady Clarice,’ she began, ‘feels that the ghosts are gathering in discontent.’
Lady Ansley sighed. ‘That’s only to be expected of her.’
‘She has told Inspector Melbray that the ghosts will appear together shortly to indicate their displeasure at the police’s progress.’
‘They didn’t appear when Charlie died,’ Rex pointed out.
‘This is bad news, Nell,’ Lady Ansley said seriously. ‘Clarice is of course eccentric in her views about our so-called ghosts, yet there’s something about this house that gives some weight to her beliefs. It’s warm and welcoming most of the time, a house of love, but occasionally it feels like it’s giving itself a shake, as if all those people in the portraits looking down on us have come together and decided something was amiss.’ She glanced at them and smiled. ‘You must think I’m dotty too, Rex,’ she continued. ‘Even you, Nell.’
‘You’re not,’ Nell assured her. ‘I felt it when I first came here. I put it down to the way Monsieur Antoine behaved as chef and, indeed, that might have had something to do with it. It seemed a house at war with itself, as if the old house resented the two newer wings. Perhaps it’s for a different reason now but perhaps something is wrong and we’re all fastening on to the police investigation as the cause.’
‘No, houses take their cue from people,’ Rex replied. ‘You said so yourself, Miss Drury. They don’t have a separate life of their own. If there’s an odd feeling about the house, it’s picking it up from us and, when we’re at peace again, so will it.’
‘And that can’t happen until the person who committed these murders is found,’ Lady Ansley said despairingly.
What on earth was wrong now? Nell thought. Yesterday had been bad enough with unexpected visitors and Lady Ansley’s distress but Friday was boding no better. Nell had returned from the daily menu discussion to find that there seemed to have been a strike in the kitchen for no one was working. No one was attending the ovens and the entire kitchen staff was clustered at the kitchen table, regardless of the clock ticking by towards the time for lunch. The reason quickly became clear. Mrs Fielding was crying bitterly with Mrs Squires’s arm round her. The faces of the rest of the servants looked stricken.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nell asked in alarm.
For once, Mrs Fielding forgot Nell was the enemy.
‘It’s Freddie,’ she sobbed. ‘They’ve gone and taken him off. Dragged him out. Arrested him for murder.’
Mr Peters? Nell couldn’t believe it. There must be a mistake. Mr Peters couldn’t have anything to do with high society drugs. Then she remembered her blackmail theory and that it seemed to her that he might have a secret, perhaps dating back to his wartime years. Moreover, he had been talking to Mr Charles in the supper room and he had had the opportunity to have killed him. For about twenty or more minutes, she thought in growing dismay, Mr Peters had been the sole person on guard in the great hall while Mr Charles was upstairs, with the dagger and the dark photographer’s cloth within his reach to shield him from blood. But that was theory and she couldn’t believe it had actually happened that way.
There had been no hint while she had been with the inspector to suggest he was on the point of arresting someone. It was true he had talked generally of the responsibility of possibly arresting the wrong person, so did that mean Mr Peters was already in his sights, now that Guy was in the clear?
She couldn’t plead with the inspector for more information or discuss it with Arthur because she had been forbidden to carry out any more detective work. It occurred to her, however, that the inspector had specified not conferring with other people. Even Inspector Melbray couldn’t stop her conferring with herself.
She gathered from Kitty that Mr Peters had been taken to Sevenoaks police station, and when she went into the great hall there was no sign of the police in the morning room. The east wing butler’s room would be empty today, she thought, with Mr Peters gone and Mrs Fielding indisposed. Right, she decided, I’ll confer with myself there instead of lunching in the servants’ hall. She gathered a tray of food for herself and took it to this chosen refuge, but it wasn’t empty after all. Miss Checkam was there, and it looked to Nell’s practised eye as though she wanted to talk.
‘Have you heard?’ Miss Checkam asked anxiously the moment Nell put the tray down.
‘I’ve heard a lot of things.’ She tried to look encouraging. After all, she had wanted to talk to Miss Checkam. ‘Do you mean the news about Mr Peters?’
‘Yes. I just can’t believe he would murder two people. He went through the war and that should be enough, although I suppose they got used to seeing death.’
Nell decided not to take her up on this argument. It was the other way round in her view. Men who had been through the war had, like Guy, indeed seen enough of death, too much for them to want to see any more. Instead, she murmured something sympathetically.
‘Madam would like to see you,’ Miss Checkam said diffidently. ‘Lady Enid.’
‘What about?’ Alarm bells went off like rockets. Arthur had mentioned that the dragon was waking and it seemed she had. ‘Mr Peters?’
‘I think about the murders in general.’
Not again. ‘I know no more about what the police are doing than anyone else,’ Nell replied carefully.
‘Everyone seems to think you do and that you see it from all sides.’
Useless to fight this, Nell thought, and Miss Checkam had been through so much with Charlie that she couldn’t turn her back on her. Miss Checkam wanted help and there must be a reason for that. She braced herself to tackle the problem. ‘If you’re afraid the police might suspect you because of your friendship with Mr Charles, you’re wrong. They can’t do that because Mr Peters was there all the time that Mr Charles was probably murdered. He would have seen you or anyone else on the gallery.’
‘Someone did it,’ Miss Checkam muttered. ‘If Mr Peters was there it must have been him that killed Mr Charles – and that’s why they’ve arrested him.’
‘They would have to have other evidence too.’
Miss Checkam grasped at this eagerly. ‘You’re right. The police must be certain he did it.’
Were they, though? Nell wondered, recalling Inspector Melbray’s strange question. Was he convinced that Mr Peters was guilty? Meanwhile, the dowager was demanding her presence. ‘When does Lady Enid want to see me?’ she asked in resignation.
‘Three o’clock.’
Super. Just when she should be beginning dinner preparations.
‘I have,’ the dowager informed Nell an hour later when she arrived promptly at the Dower House, ‘maintained silence over these terrible events at Wychbourne. However, the time has now come for me to intervene.’
With her old-fashioned long skirts and hairstyle she looked as formidable as Queen Mary, Nell thought. She had great presence and an implacable air of being right about everything. Nell liked this house with its Jacobean grandeur, and Lady Enid was a splendid chatelaine for its stateliness.
‘I’m told,’ the dowager continued, ‘that you know a great deal about what is going on here.’
For the umpteenth time, Nell denied it. ‘Far less than Lord and Lady Ansley.’
‘Of that I cannot say, but you have the advantage of having an ear to the ground in the servants’ hall as well as among my family.’
‘I am a servant,’ Nell pointed out uneasily, hoping she wasn’t expected to relay gossip.
‘Some might regard you in that way. I do not. I h
ave a high opinion of your intelligence.’
Buttered bananas, what was this all about? ‘Thank you,’ Nell murmured.
‘My views of this outrageous situation are these,’ Lady Enid swept on, ‘and I should be glad to know if you are of the same opinion. Firstly, I wish you to understand that these rumours of drugs are ridiculous. My granddaughter was merely indisposed for a few days. If Charles Parkyn-Wright took pain relief for some ailment, that is or was his own affair.’
Nell knew she would be falling at the first fence, but she had no choice. ‘I can’t share that view, but I can respect it.’ She mentally crossed her fingers.
‘Very well.’ The dowager’s shrewd eyes fastened on her. ‘We differ. Next, Elise Harlington, poor, unfortunate girl. She knew who had killed Charles and was brave enough to confront the murderer. Do you agree?’
‘That is a possibility,’ Nell said, relieved to be able to agree with her up to a point.
‘Next, Miss Drury. If we accept that there were no illicit drugs in use, there must be other reasons for either or both these deaths. Melodramatic as it sounds, I suggest blackmail.’
Nell’s opinion of Lady Enid shot up. ‘I agree.’
‘Blackmail of whom is the question. May we assume that Charles was the blackmailer himself and not a victim threatening to spill the beans, as I believe the American phrase goes?’
‘Yes, I agree,’ Nell said weakly. The dowager was in full Boadicea mood now.
‘Then we must ask ourselves whom he blackmailed. I have to tell you that Miss Checkam was one victim, although in a modest way. It appears from what she tells me that Charles made advances to her, to which she was foolish enough to respond. She tells me he threatened to inform Lady Ansley of their liaison which would, in a household of such good reputation as Wychbourne Court, have brought about her dismissal. Murder, however, would be an inappropriate method of dealing with that problem.’
‘Yes,’ Nell agreed again, but fear of dismissal must surely be outdated in this day and age. ‘Although it could be that—’
