Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And if I can help in any way, I’m at your disposal,” George said.

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector. We don’t get too many Scotland Yard higher-ups out here. We’re just simple country police. Good to have your expert analysis on this case.”

  I thought I detected a tinge of sarcasm in Detective Sergeant Mardling’s comment, but George smiled and held out his hand. “It was my pleasure. And if I may offer my congratulations on a capable service, I’ve read of the commendations given your constabulary. Well done!”

  Mardling all but twisted his foot like a young girl receiving a compliment. “Thank you, sir! That’s fine praise from a Metropolitan chief inspector.”

  George and the officers walked out of the greenhouse. Nigel pulled the plant on the rolling stand back to its usual position and put his hand on the light switch.

  I lingered, my eyes roaming the room.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “No, thank you, Nigel. I’m ready to go.” I sighed. There was something I was missing. I was sure of it. If only I could remember what it was.

  Chapter Four

  Dinner at Castorbrook Castle was a festive, if haphazard, affair, with the kitchen furiously preparing for the ball the following day and with houseguests and piles of luggage arriving with regularity. A buffet had been set up in the castle’s state dining room, a cavernous—and chilly—hall with a gilt coffered ceiling and red velvet walls as backdrop for eighteenth- and nineteenth-century oil paintings. A long mahogany table, easily able to accommodate forty or more, was set with round leather mats beneath the Christmas tree–patterned bone china plates. Sideboards on opposite walls were decorated with evergreen bunting, fat gold candles, and spray-painted pinecones in between the platters of cheeses, cold meats, boards of whole and sliced bread, and a choice of three hot entrées to which guests were to help themselves. Nigel and another tuxedoed helper poured wine and refilled water glasses as a rotating round of diners entered, ate, and departed.

  Lord and Lady Norrance had greeted most of their guests before retiring to another part of the house, probably to have a quiet meal together.

  George and I sat next to my publisher, Griffin Semple, and the lady I assumed was his date, Ruby Miller-Carlisle. Griffin was the son of Archibald Semple, who’d brought many of my mysteries to the British public and had widened sales of my books to the European market. Archie had been a shrewd promoter, but he lived a self-indulgent lifestyle, eating and drinking to excess, which eventually led to ill health and if not exactly an early grave, at least a premature one. He died at sixty-three following a banquet hosted by the British-American Publishers Alliance.

  Archie’s son had taken over the business. While I doubted Griffin was gifted with his father’s commercial talents, he had the good fortune to have inherited a thriving business and a knowledgeable staff.

  As we ate, Ruby chattered excitedly about arrangements for the ball, the jazz band (“very modern”), and the food (“the chef used to work in a restaurant with a Michelin star”), and what she was planning to wear (“silk organza from Amanda Wakeley—she designs for the Duchess of Cambridge”).

  “I understand you’re a friend of the earl’s family,” I said.

  “His daughter, Jemma, and I share a bedsitter in town. We met at boarding school, but we were never close then. She’s part of the horsey set, while I’m more of a ‘Sloane ranger.’”

  “I think I’ve heard that term before,” I said, “but remind me what it means.”

  “A Sloane ranger is someone who likes to shop at Sloane Square in London, and everywhere else, for that matter. We’re great fans of country sports and the clothes that go with them. I adore riding costumes, but I’d never get on a horse.” She wrinkled her nose. “They smell.”

  Griffin set down a plate piled high with a generous portion of everything offered on the sideboards. “Has Rupert talked to you about his project yet?” he asked me.

  “I didn’t know that the earl’s son was working on a project.”

  “Well, I don’t know how far he’s gotten. I think a lot will depend on you.”

  “On me?”

  Griffin laughed. “You didn’t think we were invited to the New Year’s Eve ball out of the goodness of their hearts, did you?”

  “I understood that I received an invitation because you and the earl have a relationship, and you thoughtfully asked that George and I be included on the guest list.”

  “We do have a relationship, sort of. Dad used to sell off selected works from the earl’s rare-book collection whenever Norrance was short in the pocket. My father knew many antiquarian booksellers who paid top dollar for sixteenth- and seventeenth-century first editions. Those sales probably put a roof on this château.”

  “But what does this have to do with me?”

  “Rupert fancies himself a film producer and has been casting around for properties he can bring to his former mates at Oxford to finance. They have a production company, but no scripts to film.”

  “I’m beginning to see the connection.”

  “Thought you might. Rupert asked me to suggest books that would make good movies. I thought of you. After all, several of your mysteries have been translated to the screen.”

  “And not all of them happy experiences. Didn’t it occur to you that I might like to know about this in advance, Griffin?”

  He shrugged. “Americans are always excited about meeting members of the aristocracy. I figured it would be a good trade-off. You get to attend a ball, and Rupert gets—”

  “Yes? What does Rupert get? Did you promise him anything?”

  “Only an introduction, Jessica. I wouldn’t commit you to something without your knowledge.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “Now don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’s going to be a great occasion. Norrance is planning a splendid fancy-dress ball, complete with French dinner service and fireworks at midnight. You’ll love it. And, thanks to me, you and the inspector get to stay in a genuine English stately home, one that’s not been taken over by a hotel chain yet. Might provide inspiration for your next book.”

  “Not everyone is invited to spend the night in Lord and Lady Norrance’s home,” Ruby put in. “Griffin and I are down the road at the Muddy Badger. Nice inn, mind you—isn’t it, Griff?—but hardly Castorbrook Castle.”

  Griffin looked up sharply when Clover Estwich entered, carrying another platter. He stood. “They’ve just brought in more trout. I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, I’ll come, too,” Ruby said, popping up. “I love trout.”

  I sighed.

  “A bit of a disappointment, is it, Jessica?” George said.

  “Why didn’t I remember that there’s a price to pay for everything? I have to admit I have no one to blame but myself. I should have questioned Griffin more closely when he first broached the topic. I’m embarrassed to say I was swept up in the idea of having the opportunity to take you somewhere special, after having once stayed at your family’s castle in Scotland. Pretty self-important of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Now, don’t be down on yourself. Much as I love the Sutherland family seat in Wick, it can’t begin to compare with the elegance and sophistication of this hall.”

  * * *

  I’d been introduced to the castle in Wick during a trip to London with friends from Cabot Cove. George had invited us—all twelve of us—to spend time at his family home on Scotland’s North Sea coast. Accommodating our group wasn’t a problem; the castle now functioned as a hotel and had fourteen guest rooms, only two of which would be occupied by paying guests. It promised to be an idyllic holiday for me and my friends, and an opportunity for me to become reacquainted with George. It would have been all those things had I not encountered a woman in white in the hallway on my first night there. Her eyes were the color of copper, and a red stain grew on the bodice of her gown. I said something to her, but sh
e was gone as suddenly as she’d appeared. That was my introduction to Isabell Gowdie, Scotland’s most celebrated witch, who, it was alleged, haunted the Sutherland castle.

  “Meeting” Isabell was upsetting enough. But when a local lass was found dead, killed with the same kind of weapon that had felled Isabell Gowdie, a pitchfork rammed into her heart, our holiday took a dramatically different turn. Despite that jarring intrusion into our vacation, a vision of the Sutherland family’s dramatic castle, sitting starkly on a high, rugged cliff, an angry sky its scrim, and the dissonant strains of a bagpiper welcoming us, has remained with me forever.

  * * *

  “I must say, it is a treat to see firsthand, rather than on the television, how the members of the British aristocracy live,” George said, “although with all their trappings of wealth, they don’t seem to be any happier than the average Scottish burgher.”

  I smiled. “No, they don’t, do they? I was surprised they spoke so candidly in front of us, given the English reputation for being reserved.”

  “I think they forgot we were there, tucked into a corner as we were. But such disharmony is not surprising. Families everywhere have their troubles. Don’t know a one without. We simply were privy to the woes of the privileged.”

  Ruby returned to the table, her arm linked through Jemma’s. “Have you met Lord and Lady Norrance’s daughter? Mrs. Fletcher is the author I was telling you about, Jem. Jemma’s going to write for Nag and Dog magazine.”

  Jemma rolled her eyes. “It’s really called Horse and Hound, and I don’t have the job yet.”

  “But she will. So, writer, meet writer.” Ruby’s smile was smug.

  “We met Jemma this afternoon at tea,” I said, “when we met you, Ruby.”

  “Oh, silly me.”

  “That’s right,” Jemma said. “You two found Mrs. Beckwith. Poor old thing.”

  “What happened?” Ruby asked.

  “She dropped dead in the garden.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Was she a relation?”

  “She was my governess.”

  “But you haven’t needed a governess for years.”

  “She was my governess when I was little. After we were shipped off to school, my mother kept her on as lady’s maid, but I think my father would have been just as happy if she’d retired to the country somewhere. She should have.”

  “Why do you think that?” I asked.

  Jemma shrugged. “He didn’t like her, or she didn’t like him. I can’t remember why, if I ever knew. She mostly kept out of his way. But if she’d retired, she’d probably still be alive. I don’t remember hearing that she was sick or anything.”

  “I remember now. Is she the one you used to call ‘the tortoise’?” Ruby asked.

  Jemma laughed. “She lived in an apartment in our old nursery on the fourth floor. My brother Kip said the only time she’d come out of her shell was when the House of Lords was in session and our father was away.”

  “Kip’s such a clown. Will you miss her?”

  “She’s been around my whole life, but I didn’t really know her well. My mother knew her better. They would play cards or watch the telly together.”

  “Does your father still attend the House of Lords?” I asked.

  “He comes up to London on occasion, but I think he’s more interested in meeting with his marketing people and finding craftsmen who can fix things. I shouldn’t say it, but this castle just gobbles pounds and shillings. Too bad we don’t have a movie or television show using us as a setting. They pay well.”

  “Maybe your brother could write a script and set the story here,” George put in.

  “Rupert? He barely knows how to write his name.” Both girls laughed at Jemma’s comment.

  “Do you happen to know if Mrs. Beckwith liked to cook for herself?” I asked.

  “What a strange question. I’ve no idea. I hadn’t seen much of her lately, in any case. I live in town when my parents aren’t entertaining.”

  “So Ruby was telling us.”

  “She was?” Jemma turned to her roommate. “What else did you say?”

  “Only what’s clearly obvious—that you like to ride and that you hurry home each weekend to exercise your horses.” Ruby winked at us. “There may be another attraction in the stable, too. A tall, blond-haired one.”

  Jemma blushed. “Ruby, you’re making things up again.”

  “Why not? I like the idea of the princess and the groom. It’s such a romantic story, like a fairy tale.”

  “I’m not a princess, and he’s not a groom. He’s a licensed trainer. Anyway, we’re just old friends, and please don’t let my father hear you talking about us.”

  “The earl is very proud of his stable,” Ruby told us as Jemma nudged her to keep quiet. “Do you ride, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “What about you, George?”

  “The closest I’ve been to a horse was at Epsom Downs ten years ago for a charity fund-raiser.”

  Ruby sighed. “I love to get dressed up and go to the races.” She turned to Jemma. “I got the sweetest wrap dress last week. I forgot to show it to you.”

  “Did you bring it with you?”

  “No. It’s a bit small, but I should fit in it by next June in time for Royal Ascot. But for now, I’m a free woman. Do you think there’s any sticky toffee pudding left? I’m famished.”

  The young women excused themselves and drifted toward the buffet. Griffin had neglected to return to his meal, but I spotted him at the other end of the table having a serious conversation with Rupert.

  I folded my napkin and placed it next to my plate.

  “Feeling better, Jessica?”

  “Much. You were right, George. I was hungry. Too bad it’s so dark out. I could use some exercise now to work off this meal.”

  “There are miles of corridors in this house,” George said. “Let’s investigate some of them.”

  “I wonder if we could find Mrs. Beckwith’s apartment.”

  He cocked his head and squinted. “Curious to discover if she cooked for herself? I wondered why you asked about that.”

  “She didn’t take her meals with the staff.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Clover Estwich, the cook we met this afternoon, said Mrs. Beckwith didn’t eat with the staff. And just now, Jemma said she didn’t get along with the earl, so it’s unlikely she ate with the family. I’m just wondering where and with whom, if anyone, Flavia Beckwith ate her breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  “Maybe there’s a take-away shop in the village.”

  “That could explain an occasional dinner, but would she eat out or order in for every meal?”

  “Well, it’s not unheard of.”

  “True,” I said, “but with Castorbrook Castle having hired a French chef and still keeping its longtime cook, it would’ve been a shame if the family’s former governess never benefited from the culinary expertise of the Grant family kitchen.”

  “Maybe Clover was exaggerating.”

  “Or maybe Flavia helped herself to whatever was in the refrigerator before or after others had eaten.”

  “That doesn’t sound probable, but now you’ve piqued my curiosity about the lady.”

  I grinned at George. “I have to admit I’m curious about her in general.”

  “I think I see a trip to the fourth floor in the offing. Let’s take that walk you’re yearning for.”

  Chapter Five

  The fourth floor of Castorbrook Castle had been the servants’ quarters when the house was fully staffed. These days, however, while a few of the doors along the narrow corridor were locked, most of them opened into unoccupied rooms. Some were still furnished with low iron beds; narrow mattresses were rolled up on top of the springs, looking like the shells of giant snails.

  The hallway lacked the patterned carpet that softened our footsteps one floor below. Instead, George and I walked carefully, conscious of the creaking boards and thin layer of dust that coated the l
evel surfaces of the paneled wainscoting. In daytime, dim light would likely reach the long passage from the windows of the empty rooms, but at night, the only illumination came from brass sconces set high in the wall every fifteen feet. We’d found the switch for the lamps outside the door from the back stairwell when we’d taken the elevator as high as it would go, and then walked up the stairs from the third floor in search of Flavia Beckwith’s apartment.

  “So many empty rooms,” I said softly. “Where do you suppose their employees live?”

  “They probably commute from town,” George replied in an undertone. “Supporting a staff round the clock—meals, laundry, utilities, and all else it entails—is a chore.”

  Whether it was the eerie nature of the deserted floor or guilt that we were trespassing in private territory, George and I hesitated to speak in normal tones.

  “It must be an overwhelming responsibility—not to mention expensive—to manage a building this size,” I said. “Still, the earl certainly spends a lot to maintain places the public—or at least his family and guests—will see, if the drawing room and state dining room are any example. I’m sure the ballroom tomorrow night will be spectacular, too.”

  “And don’t forget the earl’s stable, another costly luxury.”

  “With all that wealth, you’d think his wife’s personal maid would live in a nicer part of the castle. This paneling could use a good dusting.”

  “Not a pleasant space, I agree. Are you certain we’re in the right wing?”

  “I’m not, but Jemma said the old nursery was on the fourth floor, and this is the only fourth floor we’ve found, so we may as well explore a bit.”

  George twisted a knob on a closed door, but it didn’t open. “Even if we can determine which room was hers, don’t be disappointed if it’s locked.”

  “I won’t be, but see that French door down there on the left? It’s ajar. Maybe that’s the former nursery.”