“Can we not discuss this now?” Marielle said.
While the family bickered, Nigel had picked up the tray and made the rounds of the room, stopping at each person.
“I’ll have another cup,” George told him when he’d worked his way to us.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Much better, Nigel. Thank you for asking.”
“Our sincerest apologies for your regrettable introduction to Castorbrook Castle.”
“No apologies necessary. I’m just sorry for the family’s loss.”
“Have the authorities been notified?” George asked.
“Yes, sir. Someone from the constabulary is expected shortly. I’m afraid there will have to be an inquest.”
“Isn’t that standard procedure when someone dies of unknown causes?” I asked.
“It is, but it’s awkward timing with the ball tomorrow evening. Time is precious. With so much to prepare, the staff hope the business will be concluded before the start of the festivities.”
“And the family must wish that, too, I imagine.”
“I’ll see if I can help him along,” George said, lowering his voice. “Please let me know when the officer arrives.”
“Of course, sir. And thank you for any service you can provide.”
“Can you really speed up the inquest, George?” I asked softly when Nigel had moved away. “Won’t the police have to interview everyone in the house? I understand the pressures of the social occasion, but after all, a woman has died, and she deserves the appropriate investigation.”
“I would never interfere with the local authorities or their proper procedure. I hope you know that. But given the state of affairs, perhaps I can convince this gentleman to delay some of his inquiries until the day after the ball. Or, if he allows it, assist him in organizing his analysis so that it doesn’t interfere with the efficient workings of the house. After all, that lady most likely died from exposure, which you very well might have done if I hadn’t found you.”
“And this lady, who is very grateful for your rescue, begs to differ with you. Without an autopsy, how can you say that was the cause of her death?”
“I’m not saying it emphatically. Heart attack, stroke are also possibilities. In fact, that’s probably what felled her in the first place. But once she was incapacitated, hypothermia is not an unreasonable conclusion, given the circumstances. It only needs to be ten degrees centigrade—that’s fifty in Fahrenheit—for a body to cool to dangerous levels. She was careless. The weather was wet. She was inappropriately attired to venture out of doors, yet she made that decision.”
“And she got locked out, as did I. Are you saying that I was careless, too, George? I was inappropriately dressed for the outdoors.”
“Of course not. Completely different scenario. Clearly she must have had some infirmity and was unable to return inside. Unfortunately, no one on the staff thought to look for her.”
“Neither did anyone in the family. Why didn’t Lady Norrance ask after her? She sent her on the errand in the first place.”
“Agreed. However inattentive everyone was, I don’t see it as an instance of willful negligence. Whether from the elements or from lack of medical attention to a fatal malady, the lady collapsed and died. Can you really come to any other conclusion?”
I felt as if our exposure to the family’s squabbles had become contagious, and George and I were now communicating—or rather miscommunicating—in the same manner. I took a deep breath and sipped my tea. “It’s entirely possible that she died of hypothermia, of course.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, lass.”
But I didn’t.
Chapter Three
“So, Mrs. Fletcher, you were the one to discover the body of the deceased?”
“Yes, Detective Sergeant Mardling. I noticed the purple fabric of her dress when I looked out my window. Then George—I mean Chief Inspector Sutherland—and I ran downstairs to try to find the garden. I reached it first, but it appeared that she’d been dead for some time.”
“Yes, well, when she died—the time of death—is yet to be determined.”
“Of course.”
There were five of us gathered in a ground-floor room down the hall from the greenhouse. The space was not much bigger than a walk-in refrigerator and equally as cold. Standing wooden shelves that ringed the room held cans and jars of preserved fruits and vegetables as well as crates of root vegetables. Mrs. Beckwith’s body had been laid on a long wooden table and covered with a white tablecloth.
Detective Sergeant Mardling pulled it aside. “What’s her age? How old was this lady, Mrs. Beckwith, as I believe you said?”
“Yes, sir, Flavia Beckwith,” Nigel replied. “I believe she was in her fifties, but I cannot say with certainty. She was guarded about her personal information. I can ask the earl if he knows.”
“Well, I can ask the earl myself, if it comes to that. Will have to speak to the earl at some point, won’t I?”
Dudley Mardling was not the kind of police officer I expected, although I couldn’t say exactly what an English detective was supposed to look like. He was short and plump with pink cheeks and curly sandy hair. Dressed in a green canvas jacket, he wore a gold watch and had buffed fingernails. His assistant, Constable Willoughby, was his physical opposite in every way. She was six feet tall, as narrow as he was round, with stick-straight hair brushed back from her face. Her uniform was wrinkled, and the grease marks on her hands suggested that she might be an avid weekend car mechanic.
“And who removed Mrs. Beckwith—or rather the body—from the garden and brought it to this room?” Mardling looked down at the table that held the deceased.
“I did, with the help of another member of the staff,” Nigel replied.
“And you are Mr. Gordon, if I remember correctly?”
“Yes, sir. Nigel Gordon, butler to Lord and Lady Norrance.”
“And the other staff member who assisted with the removal of the body? Is he here?”
“Not at the moment. That would be Angus Hartwhistle, our gardener. We couldn’t leave her where she’d fallen. It was raining.”
Mardling grunted.
Nigel rushed on. “Angus suggested this space because it is stone lined and the temperature is consistent. We use it as an auxiliary larder for vegetables. We trusted that this would serve you better.”
“It was a well-thought-out decision,” George said, nodding at Nigel. He turned to Detective Sergeant Mardling. “The garden is next to the conservatory, but that area is maintained as a warm, moist environment, which would have been conducive to more rapid decomposition.”
“Appreciate your input, Chief Inspector. Do you have any official capacity in this matter?”
George coughed. “Not at all, Detective Sergeant. I am a guest of the earl and his countess, as is Mrs. Fletcher. It was simply our misfortune to find this poor soul.”
“I certainly am aware of your rank with Scotland Yard, but since this is my investigation, I’m sure you won’t mind if I continue the questioning.”
“By all means.”
“What do you suppose caused this?” Mardling gestured at the red coloring on the deceased’s fingers. “Anybody know?”
“Perhaps a stain from berries in the garden,” Nigel ventured.
“Did she like to cook Indian food?” Willoughby asked. “Some of the spices can leave you with marks on your hands.” She looked at her own discolored fingers and quickly tucked her hands behind her back.
“I understand there is to be a big do here tomorrow night,” Mardling said.
“A New Year’s Eve ball,” I put in.
“How many are expected?”
George and I looked to Nigel.
“One hundred forty-five, precisely, plus six musicians.”
“All staying here?”
“Twenty-two guests have been invited to stay at the castle. The rest either reside in the neighborhood or are putting up at nearby es
tablishments.”
“Would have thought the castle had more than twenty-two bedrooms. Do you have more than twenty-two bedrooms, Mr. Gordon?”
“We have nearly fifty, sir, but many of them are not suitable to occupy as yet. The earl intends to redecorate as funds and time allow. The building is more than three hundred years old. A bit hard to keep up.” He sneaked a peek at his watch.
I noticed that Nigel’s cuffs were frayed and wondered why the earl skimped on uniforms when he was willing to host an elaborate ball. Of course, if Nigel had to pay for his own formal clothes, the butler might be trying to save money, but he seemed such a proper man, that didn’t ring true.
“Were all twenty-two overnight guests in-house when Mrs. Beckwith went missing, Mr. Gordon?” Mardling asked.
“No, sir. Only these guests had arrived—Mrs. Fletcher and the chief inspector. Others have come since then, and more are expected momentarily.”
* * *
A half hour earlier, my British publisher, Griffin Semple, had joined our group with a lovely young friend, Ruby Miller-Carlisle, who appeared to be an acquaintance of the earl’s daughter, Jemma. On their heels, an artist, Elmore Jackcliff, whose name I wasn’t familiar with, turned up. Lady Norrance seemed especially delighted at his arrival, although the earl did not, but he brightened when his business affairs manager, Lionel Fitzwalter, walked in with his wife. With the entrance of these guests, the family had put aside the contentious behavior they hadn’t held back in front of George and me, and welcomed the newcomers with good cheer. The earl was regaling them with funny stories when Nigel alerted us that the police were here. We slipped out of the drawing room and followed him downstairs to the unheated storage chamber on the ground floor.
* * *
“How many work here? How many in staff?”
“Seven permanent, full-time staff.” Nigel cocked his head at the body. “Now six. About a dozen part-time. But we hired on more from the village for tomorrow night, as we usually do for events. I wonder if you would be so kind as to excuse me. We’re short-staffed tonight, and my service is needed upstairs.”
“We’ll detain you only a little longer, Mr. Gordon. Willoughby, use your mobile to call for the coroner’s lorry.”
Willoughby pulled out her cell phone but was unable to receive a signal. “Maybe it’ll work outside.” She flung open the door, surprising a woman in a long white apron who had her hand on the doorknob.
“Oh, my goodness, you gave me a start.” The woman looked to each of us nervously. “Beg pardon, Mr. Gordon. Didn’t know you had a meeting going on in here. I just need to collect the basket of onions. We’re halfway through the coquille, and we’ve run out.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Estwich. May she come in, Detective Sergeant?”
“Who is this, please? Your name?”
“Clover Estwich, sir. I’m the cook.”
“Come away then,” Mardling said, standing back. “Get what you need.”
Clover scuttled in and grabbed a crate of onions, but the basket almost fell from her hands when she saw the body on the table. “Good heavens, Mr. Gordon. A body in my larder?”
Nigel grimaced.
“Did you know the deceased?” Mardling asked.
“Yes, sir. She was Mrs. Beckwith. We heard that she was found—dead.”
“And how well did you know the deceased?”
Clover backed toward the door with her basket. “Not well, sir. She was kind of private, like, didn’t mix much with the rest of the staff, not even for meals. May I go now?”
“Willoughby, take her name. We’ll question you again, another time—Mrs. Estwich, was it?”
Mardling seemed to be bumbling along, repeating himself and asking questions twice. Yet I noticed that he remembered every name he heard without taking notes, and clearly wanted to be seen as in charge.
Clover spelled her name for Constable Willoughby, and she gave Nigel a baleful look. “Are you taking her out soon? I’ll have to scrub down this room before we use it again. Of all times to put a body in my larder.” She peered down at the onions with a dubious expression. “I don’t know if I can use these now.”
Nigel looked pained. “My apologies, Mrs. Estwich. We thought it for the best.”
Clover sidestepped out the door. “Best to put a body in my larder? And use one of my finest table linens,” she muttered as she hurried down the corridor.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I’d like to see where you came upon the body.”
“Certainly, Detective Sergeant Mardling. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you.”
The five of us trooped down the hall, past the elevator and back stairwell to the conservatory. The hiss of the steam heating system was audible as we pulled aside the drape that covered the entrance to the greenhouse. Nigel went ahead of us to turn on the lights.
I hadn’t really paid attention to the space my first time there. I’d been so intent upon finding the victim, and afterward upon getting inside to warm up, that I couldn’t have given Detective Sergeant Mardling a very good description. Now my eyes roamed the room, noting the high glass walls and arched glass ceiling with a center ornamental cupola. The whole was supported by a framework of decoratively forged steel, the patterns cut into the beams making the structure appear light and airy despite the weight and strength of its construction.
A variety of exotic plants, some in flower, were arrayed on narrow tables that hugged the glass walls. Tall palm trees, as well as large pots of Norfolk pines, red and silver balls dangling from their branches, were arranged around a small furniture grouping, which included a metal table with a pineapple base, four matching chairs, and a garden bench. It was very appealing, despite the threadbare cushions, and I could imagine Lady Norrance entertaining her friends there. Yet, even though I hadn’t familiarized myself with the greenhouse earlier that day, I had the distinct feeling that there was something I was missing.
But what?
It was pitch-black outside now and still raining, although the wind had died down. The only light in the garden came from inside the greenhouse. Nigel held the door while I pointed out to Detective Sergeant Mardling and Constable Willoughby where Mrs. Beckwith had lain.
“Willoughby, do you have a torch?” Mardling asked.
The constable pulled a flashlight from her belt and shone its beam on the puddles on the ground, but I couldn’t see anything that would have been helpful to them. Shivering, I pulled my shawl closer, and George wrapped an arm around my shoulder, drawing me into the warmth of his side.
Mardling came back into the conservatory and shook raindrops off his jacket, while Willoughby stayed in the garden, turning in circles as she tried to get a connection on her cell phone.
“What do you think she was doing out there?” the detective sergeant asked.
“It seems Mrs. Beckwith was looking for something for Lady Norrance,” Nigel told him.
“Ah, and how do you know this?”
“Lady Norrance mentioned wanting a sprig of holly for her hair to wear to the ball,” I put in. “Apparently Mrs. Beckwith was sent on this errand.”
“We speculated that she may have gotten locked out, collapsed in the garden, and been unable to rise to call for help,” George said. “After Mrs. Fletcher discovered the body, this door locked behind her as well. There was a brisk wind at the time, and it was quite arctic, and she nearly became a victim of the elements. Happily, we found her before anything dire occurred. Mrs. Beckwith was not so fortunate.”
Mardling grunted. “So it would appear. We’ll have to confirm all this, of course. Cannot simply accept your analysis, even from someone as esteemed as a Scotland Yard inspector. Have to follow our own procedures.”
“Of course.”
George was convinced that there was no mystery in how Mrs. Beckwith had died, and I didn’t want to embarrass him by disagreeing in front of the police. If they did their jobs well, as I hoped they would, they might come to the same conclusion. It wasn’t that I believed
Mrs. Beckwith had been murdered. She may have died exactly as George had assumed—of natural causes or from the cold. Since she was lying in a puddle when I found her, it must have rained. Between the cold and the damp, hypothermia was a good possibility. Even so, the victim of an unexplained death is entitled to a thorough investigation, not a quick assessment.
I’ve always been uncomfortable when people jump to conclusions. I can’t count how many times I’ve argued with the sheriff of my hometown in Maine about this very thing. As Cabot Cove’s chief law enforcement officer—and as a former New York City policeman—Mort Metzger had worked on many criminal cases, quite a few of them homicides, and I’d had occasion to help him. We’d butted heads whenever I felt he’d come to his conclusions before all the facts were in.
And all the facts were not in about Flavia Beckwith. Who were her friends? Did she have any enemies? Why had she gone into the garden without a coat or jacket? Was it possible that someone closed the door behind her, knowing that it would block her escape from the cold? Was it possible someone closed the door on me as well?
I looked at George, who smiled and squeezed my shoulder.
I dropped my eyes, ashamed. You’ve been involved in too many murders and too many novels, I scolded myself. Your imagination is running wild. Of course George isn’t jumping to conclusions. As he said, he’s merely speculating on what might have happened, and he could very well be right. Every death is not suspicious. Why are you fussing over this one?
“What are you dreaming about, lass? You’ve been very quiet.”
“Just feeling sorry for Mrs. Beckwith. What a miserable way to die, alone and cold.”
“That it was. And you, are you warmed up now?”
“I am, but I’m also feeling tired and cranky. I’m sorry if I’m not good company.”
“You’re always good company, but you’re probably hungry. We never got to sample those French pastries made by the new chef. You’ll feel better once you’ve tucked into a good meal.”
Willoughby grinned as she came back into the greenhouse. “Finally got through. They’re on their way.”
“We’ll have the body removed, Mr. Gordon,” Mardling said. “That’ll give Mrs. Estwich a chance to clean up. I may want to spend some more time here after I hear from the coroner. We’ll probably come back tomorrow to see this place again in daylight.”
Death of a Blue Blood Page 3
