Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  We approached the open door, one of two glass-paned panels covered on the inside with sheer white curtains. I pushed the door all the way open and poked my head in the room, calling out. “Hello! Anyone in here?” Silence.

  George felt around for a wall switch and flipped it up, turning on a bare bulb in a socket set in the ceiling and surrounded by a carved rosette.

  “This must be it,” I said. “Look at the wallpaper.” A faded pattern of children riding ponies, sailing on ponds, and building sand castles filled the walls’ empty spaces. In addition, an arched marble fireplace, centered on one wall, appeared to have been used recently. Half-burned coals, now cold, cradled new ones in the metal grate. Facing the hearth was a sofa covered in faded chintz with a soft woolen throw folded over one arm. A book was opened facedown on one of the cushions, probably taken from the bookcase to the left of the fireplace, where some of the volumes seemed to have been shoved in haphazardly, their spines to the wall instead of face out. Along with shelves of books—many of them children’s books—a toy truck and stuffed rabbit sat next to framed family photos. I pulled one down and peered at it in the weak light. It was an old picture and had probably fallen off the shelf at one time; the frame was taped together. I showed it to George. “This looks like her, doesn’t it?”

  “At least twenty years ago,” he replied. “She was quite pretty. Are those the earl’s children, do you suppose? There are four of them.”

  The three boys and a girl were all dressed in blue jeans, barn jackets, and rubber boots; only the girl’s long hair plaited into braids identified her gender. “Hard to tell at that age,” I said, “but this one definitely looks like Rupert. Look at that curl on his forehead. His hair hasn’t changed. Perhaps one of the other boys is a relative or friend.”

  I replaced the photograph and let my eyes scan the rest of the room. To the right of the fireplace was an efficiency kitchen with a half-size refrigerator under a wooden plank that served as a counter. There was barely room for the metal single-burner hot plate and a dish drainer next to the sink. Folded in the drainer was a linen dish towel with a picturesque view of an antiques shop and beneath it the words Chipping Minster. The label, still attached, said it cost one pound, which was less than two dollars and a reasonable price for a souvenir dish towel, although I wondered why she would buy a souvenir of the town in which she lived.

  I knelt down to open the refrigerator and mentally catalogued its spare contents: a pint bottle of milk, several jars of condiments, a bag of almonds, two wedges of cheese, and a package of sliced ham.

  “If she was preparing meals for herself, they were modest ones,” George said.

  “You’re thinking of what Constable Willoughby said about the stain on Mrs. Beckwith’s fingers.”

  George nodded. “I doubt she was experimenting with Asian cookery up here.”

  I agreed, but just to be sure looked through the salt and pepper shakers and jars of spices lined up neatly on a shelf above the hot plate and sink that also held four plates, cups and saucers, a frying pan, and two electric appliances, a teapot and a rice steamer.

  George sank down on the sofa, picked up the book, and began paging through it.

  Behind the sofa, just beyond a table holding a small Christmas tree and a stack of greeting cards, was a door. “Do you think that’s the bedroom?” I asked.

  “Go on in and see for yourself. I haven’t read Robert Louis Stevenson since I was a lad.”

  I opened the door and stepped to the side, allowing the light from the main room’s ceiling fixture to overcome the darkness. “Oh,” I whispered. I groped along the right side of the wall, hoping to find another switch, but there was none.

  “George, do you have a flashlight?”

  “No.”

  “A lighter or match perhaps?”

  George put down the novel and patted the pockets of his tweed jacket. “I have a lighter for my pipe. Will that serve?”

  “I think so.”

  He reached over the back of the sofa and held it out to me.

  I took it from him. “I think you may want to see this, too.”

  “Something wrong? What have you found?” He rose and came around behind me.

  I held the lighter aloft, my eyes searching for a lamp. If my hometown sheriff, Mort Metzger, had been standing beside me, he would have said the room had been “tossed,” police jargon for a ransacking. The place was a shambles. Drawers had been pulled from the dresser and spilled. Linens had been dragged from the bed and piled on the floor. The bedside table and lamp had been knocked over.

  “Appears someone was looking for something,” George said wryly. He stepped over the debris, righted the nightstand, and placed the lamp on it, straightening the shade before turning it on.

  “They may have found it,” I said, closing his lighter and handing it back to him. “The other room hasn’t been ransacked.”

  “Perhaps the person was interrupted midsearch and abandoned the scene. I think we’d better not handle anything else. I’ll alert Mardling that he should examine the deceased’s living quarters, if this is indeed her space.”

  We walked back into the living room, closing the door on the mess behind us.

  “Does this shine a different light on the case for you?” I asked.

  “I’ll reserve judgment on that,” George replied, smiling. “Of course, someone could have simply taken advantage of the situation to hunt for money or jewelry. Thieves have no respect for the dead.”

  I returned his smile. “I may be mistaken, but in a castle occupied by an earl and countess, I would think there are far more sources of precious items than the modest rooms of a lady’s maid. Think of the silver downstairs, the antiques, and priceless paintings. The countess must have beautiful jewelry. A thief could have a field day.”

  “What are you doing up here?” a sharp voice said from the open French doors.

  George and I turned to see the housekeeper, Mrs. Powter, hands on hips and a frown on her face.

  “This is a private home, not a public museum. Guests are not at liberty to wander anywhere they feel like. I’ll thank you to leave this place at once and return to your rooms.” She grabbed the doorknob and pointed to the hall. “Out! Now! If you please.”

  “We were looking for Mrs. Beckwith’s apartment,” I said as George and I exited the room. “Is this where she lived?”

  “I do not have to satisfy your curiosity. This is not a tourist attraction. Imagine! Invading the home of a poor woman who’s no longer here to protect her privacy. Is nothing sacred? I’ve a mind to call the constabulary right now.”

  I was about to declare that a police officer was standing right in front of her, when I felt George squeeze my arm. He shook his head slightly, and I held my tongue.

  “Our apologies, madam,” he said. “We were out of place. We’ll leave straightaway.”

  “Indeed, you will. And don’t think I won’t let His Lordship know how some of his guests repay his hospitality.” She followed us as we made our way back toward the stairwell. “You may find yourselves escorted outside tomorrow. I warned Her Ladyship of this very thing.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Of what comes of inviting strangers into the sanctity of your home. A New Year’s Eve ball! A waste of staff time, and never mind squandering funds that could be set aside for other, more important things.”

  We reached the stairwell, and Mrs. Powter stopped at the door, watching as we descended the stairs. “I’m going to tell Mr. Gordon to count the silver before you leave.”

  Chapter Six

  It was still dark when I awoke on the morning of New Year’s Eve. In December, the sun doesn’t show its face in the Cotswolds until after eight. Accustomed to being an early riser, I was showered and dressed by seven thirty and eager to get the day started. A sheet of paper that had been slipped under the door overnight promised light refreshments in the library for those who came downstairs before the morning meal was scheduled to
be served. The paper offered a rough map of the castle and the surrounding property. Even though it was late in the season, fly-fishing was permitted on the lake for those who had brought their own tackle. Guests were invited to visit the stable but not to ride. And for hardy souls who enjoyed a good hike, a portion of the 102-mile Cotswold Way abutted the property, although the leaflet cautioned that signage—a wooden post with an acorn symbol—was not always easy to find.

  George’s door was open when I went into the hall. He was pacing in his room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. “The superintendent knows that I’m on holiday. We agreed I was to be called back only for an emergency.” He covered the lower part of the phone with his hand. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” he whispered.

  “If I’m not there, I may have taken a walk to the stable.” I waved the leaflet at him.

  He nodded. “I’m confident Morris can handle that on his own,” he said into the phone. “Ask Atkinson to lend a hand, and while you’re at it, pass along my congratulations on his becoming a father. Eight puppies, you said? Very impressive for a first litter. All right, I’ll hold, but I can assure you I won’t change my mind.”

  I walked down the corridor to the broad central staircase we’d climbed the day before. Mrs. Powter was not about, and I breathed a sigh of relief that the redheaded housekeeper was not there to scold me again for wandering around places in which I had no business being. I’d been astonished that she would speak so curtly to us since we were guests of the earl and countess, but I couldn’t blame her for being upset. She was right. George and I had trespassed in a part of the castle not open to visitors. If I found someone strolling around the second floor of my home uninvited, I would be offended, too. That my motives were pure—well, at least not harmful—wasn’t really an excuse. She was being protective of the family. I only hoped that she hadn’t kept her promise to inform the earl of how rudely his guests had behaved. At least I had the excuse of George being a chief inspector for Scotland Yard, although he’d kept me from revealing that fact when Mrs. Powter came upon us in Flavia Beckwith’s apartment. I wasn’t sure why, but perhaps he wanted to save her embarrassment.

  The library was on the ground floor to the right of the staircase. I knocked before entering but hadn’t needed to. No one was inside, although a fire crackled in the hearth, and a round table in the center of the room held two pots, one for coffee and the other for tea, platters of buttered toast and croissants, both plain and chocolate, and small dishes with an assortment of jams. I poured a cup of tea, cut a plain croissant in half, and picked up one of the newspapers that had been neatly folded on the desk in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase.

  “Anything of interest there?” said a voice behind me. “There isn’t usually.”

  I turned to see the earl cross the room, take a piece of toast, and slather on jam. He poured himself a cup of tea. He was a nice-looking man, dressed this morning in heavy corduroy slacks and a white cable-knit sweater. Apart from an air of confidence, there was nothing in his appearance or manner to suggest he was a member of the aristocracy. He looked simply like a well-fed, middle-aged gentleman dressed for a weekend in the country.

  “Good morning, Lord Norrance.” I cleared my throat and read the headline to him. “It says ‘Badger Cull Protesters Picket Local Farmer.’ What’s that about?”

  “Big controversy,” he replied, taking a bite of toast and waiting to reply further until he’d swallowed. “The National Farmers Union are trying to protect their members’ cows from bovine tuberculosis, a disease carried by badgers. The government permitted the farmers to conduct a cull earlier this year. Brought their numbers down considerably. Apparently, one of my neighbors is still out hunting, and the animal society people are expressing their disgruntlement.”

  “Don’t badgers hibernate in the winter?”

  “I believe not.”

  “The article says two protesters from the Somerset Badger Patrol were arrested for aggravated trespass and theft after they climbed over a barbed wire fence and into a pasture.”

  “Hope you don’t see my daughter’s name among them.”

  “No. It names Archer Estwich and Maura Prenty.”

  The earl gave a soft snort and took a sip of tea.

  “Is Archer Estwich related to your cook?” I took a sip from my own cup and polished off my half croissant.

  “Her son. Didn’t know he was an animal lover. Didn’t think he cared about anything other than his hair and what time the pub closes.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, smiling, “on which side of the badger controversy do you come down?”

  “I think it’s a sad but necessary measure,” he said, finishing his toast and dusting the crumbs off his fingers. “It worked in Ireland. They lowered their bovine TB numbers over there. My complaint about badgers is that their holes can trip up my horses. Hasn’t happened yet, but I live in fear.” He took another taste of tea, making a slurping noise.

  “Could the badgers give your horses tuberculosis?”

  “Never heard of a case, so I doubt it. Problem seems to be with cattle. Are you interested in horses?”

  “I have a niece who was a jockey,” I said, not that my response answered his question.

  “Then you might like to see our stables. I’m going over there now. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Thank you. I’d be delighted.” It was fortunate I’d already told George that was where I might be.

  The earl cocked his head at the newspaper. “Anything in there about yesterday’s incident?”

  “You mean the death of Mrs. Beckwith?”

  He nodded.

  I looked through the pages and shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Good! Let’s go before all the others come downstairs and we get waylaid.” He grabbed a chocolate croissant from the tray, wrapped it in a napkin, tucked it in his pocket, and smiled at me. “Don’t tell my wife.”

  I followed him out of the library and down the hall, trotting to keep up with his pace. He made a sharp turn and opened a door into a mudroom, where barn jackets and canvas coats of various sizes hung on pegs, and a dozen pairs of rubber boots were lined up on the floor.

  “Grab yourself a pair of Wellies,” he said. “The grass is wet, and you certainly don’t want to get anything from the barn on your shoes.”

  I slipped off my shoes, picked a pair of boots that looked to be the right size, and put them on. The earl handed me a jacket, shrugged himself into a green canvas coat, and we took off, crossing the rear garden. A pair of black dogs with curly coats barked at us and loped over, tails wagging.

  “Good morning, boys,” the earl said, addressing the dogs.

  “I thought I heard a dog bark yesterday afternoon. Are these yours?” The dogs moved in between us and brushed against my leg. I put a hand down to pet a soft head, and a wet nose poked into my palm.

  “They live in the gardener’s cottage, but they belong to the estate. Angus must be around somewhere. My father was a fancier of water spaniels. He bred them, but I haven’t carried on that tradition. Don’t have time to be an expert on so many things.”

  Angus came around the corner of the building, pushing a wheelbarrow. He whistled, and the dogs raced over to him. “Morning, my lord. Sorry, didn’t see you there. Thought the boys were annoying a guest.”

  “They weren’t annoying us,” I said. “They were just being friendly.”

  “What are you up to this morning, Angus?”

  The gardener pulled from the wheelbarrow a tool I recognized as a lopper and held it up. “Going to give the fruit trees a trim before the snow comes in and it’s difficult to get to them.”

  “See to it that you do a more thorough job than the last time.”

  “I know how to trim trees.”

  “That’s debatable,” the earl said. “Just be quick about it. And remember, there will be many more guests arriving later who will need help with their luggage.”

  “I’ll be re
ady,” Angus grumbled.

  “See that you are.”

  “He’s a surly bugger, that one,” the earl said as we watched the husky servant lumber away. “If he hadn’t come along with the countess, I’d have given him the boot a long time ago.”

  The dogs remained behind when the earl and I slipped out a garden gate and took a path winding through a small orchard, and then made our way downhill toward the stables, a group of three stone buildings at the edge of a meadow.

  “I’m sorry that George and I were the bearers of such bad news yesterday,” I said. “It must have been very difficult losing someone who’d worked for the family for so long, especially for your wife.”

  “She’ll get over it. I’ve already sent for a girl from the village to help out until we hire someone. One of Clover’s nieces, but not Maura, the one named in the newspaper, thank goodness.”

  Clearly my host was not upset by the loss of Mrs. Beckwith, who could be replaced so easily with a “girl from the village.” I found it distressing, even a little shocking, that the family members didn’t mourn the death of their former governess and recent lady’s maid. Mrs. Beckwith was indeed a “poor old thing,” as Jemma had called her, if she devoted her life to people who barely raised an eyebrow at her passing. Then again, Jemma had mentioned that the earl and Mrs. Beckwith were not on the best of terms. I wondered why.

  We walked between two of the buildings, the area paved with bricks, and entered the open door of a stable. The sounds and smells of the horses assaulted me. A half dozen equine heads turned in our direction. There was soft whinnying and the clop of restless hooves on the straw bedding. The sweet aroma of oats and straw mixed with less-pleasing odors as we neared a stable hand mucking out a stall. When he saw us, the young man—he couldn’t have been more than sixteen—pulled off his red ball cap, and leaned on his pitchfork, waiting for the earl to approach.

  “Morning, Your Lordship.”

  “Where’s Colin?” the earl asked.