Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  “No one’s arriving by horse, so I guess they don’t need me just yet.”

  I raised my eyebrows at George as if to say, “See? I was right.”

  “I would’ve thought the earl would want you making the barns spick-and-span and showing off his racing stock to the guests.” Doreen slid Colin’s glass across the bar.

  “Ian is cleaning up. I have time. Got some business to do first.”

  “What business, other than monkey business, would such a young man as you be up to?”

  “I’m not so young; I wouldn’t be unwilling to take you for a whirl.”

  “And I’m not so old to be saying no to you,” she shot back, grinning.

  Doreen took a tray from a kitchen helper in a white apron and hustled over to our table. “Here you are, madam, sir.” She placed a wooden board, beautifully arranged, between us. “You have pickled onion there, homemade bread. This cheese is Stilton, and this is a local one, double Gloucester. Here’s cut apple, grapes, cucumber, and tomato.” She pronounced it “tomahto.” “And, of course, the ploughman’s pie.”

  “What kind of chutney is this?” George asked, pointing his fork at what looked like a cup of dark jam.

  “Rhubarb and sultana today. Our cook makes it herself.” She hesitated. “Hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you in town for the ball?”

  “We are,” I said, “and if I eat even half of this, I’ll never fit into my gown.”

  “At least try the lamb and pork pie. Best in the region. See those plaques and medals on the shelf behind the bar? Except for the darts trophy, they were all won by our cook and her sister. We’re right proud of them.”

  “As you should be,” George said.

  “Let me know if there’s anything more you need.”

  Colin had swiveled around on his stool to watch Doreen’s presentation of our lunch. He was a handsome man, older than he appeared at first. I judged him to be near thirty. Fine lines radiated out from the corner of his green eyes and bracketed his mouth. His complexion was ruddy, testament to the time he spent outdoors working with the horses. I caught his eye and smiled at him. He pulled at the peak of his cap in acknowledgment and turned back to his beer.

  I cut the lamb and pork pie in half, and George and I began to eat, taking our time and quietly eavesdropping on the conversation at the bar.

  “How many are you expecting at the castle tonight, Colin?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “If I could, I would’ve taken one of the serving positions up there, just to see everyone all dressed up in their finery. And the fireworks.”

  “Why didn’t you do it?”

  “Why? Well, isn’t it New Year’s Eve down here in the village, too? This place will be full to the brim tonight. We had to hire on extras ourselves.”

  “I’d rather be here at midnight myself.”

  “There’s plenty of years you can see the New Year come in from that seat,” she said. “Lord and Lady Norrance never held a ball before since I’ve been here. You’re lucky to be there to see it.”

  He shrugged.

  “If I were working up at the castle the day of a New Year’s ball, I wouldn’t be wearing such a long face as yours.”

  “Lost my aunt yesterday, Doreen.”

  “Your mother’s sister?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, I am that sorry, Colin. I didn’t know. She was a nice, quiet lady, was Mrs. Beckwith. What did she pass from?”

  “Don’t know yet. Probably heart. They found her in the garden.”

  “Oh, that’s awful. And how is your mother taking her loss?”

  “Me mam is taking it in stride. The two of them didn’t talk much recently, but I can see that she’s upset. Her sister was younger, so I think it scares her a bit.”

  “Does a bad heart run in the family?”

  “Don’t know.” He paused before adding, “Certainly hope not.”

  “Oh, goodness, I didn’t mean to suggest you might have it, too,” Doreen said.

  Colin must have smiled at her, because she hit his arm with her towel. “Oh, you.” She slid a plate in front of him. “Here’s your dinner. It’s my treat today.”

  Colin shook his head. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”

  “I’ll decide what’s necessary. And don’t argue with a barmaid, or you might not get your glass refilled.”

  “Oh, Griff, look who’s here!” said a voice from a door next to the bar. Ruby Miller-Carlisle and Griffin Semple, my British publisher, waved as they headed straight for our table. “You’re on to lunch, and we haven’t even had our breakfast yet,” Ruby said, sitting down next to me and pulling an empty round table close to ours.

  “Just got up,” Griffin added, moving our coats and dropping into the chair next to George. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. “We’re staying upstairs. Nice rooms, but having a pub downstairs was too much of a draw for Ruby. We closed the bar last night.”

  “It’s all right to sleep in today,” Ruby said. “We needed our beauty sleep if we’re to stay up for the fireworks and dance until the wee hours. Are you excited, Jessica? I am. I may call you Jessica, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I’m looking forward to this evening, but I don’t know how much after midnight I’ll last. I’m not accustomed to dancing till dawn.”

  “Oh, but you must. It’ll be divine. Did you know some people are coming in costume? That will make it even more exciting. I can’t wait. Do you mind if I pinch one of your grapes? They look delish.”

  “Help yourself. I think George and I have eaten all we can hold.”

  Ruby and Griffin finished off our grapes, as well as the cheese and bread, and then they ordered their breakfast. Although I found their youth and enthusiasm entertaining, I was sorry not to have the opportunity to hear more of Colin’s conversation with Doreen. Had Ruby and Griffin not joined us, I would have called Colin over to express our condolences and let him know we’d been the ones to find his aunt. But while Ruby was telling a story about Rupert’s wife, Adela, having been mistaken for a popular singer with a similar name, Colin slipped off his stool and left the pub. I glanced at George, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “What can you do?”

  I now knew that Colin was related to Mrs. Beckwith, and I planned to revisit the stables when we returned to Castorbrook Castle. I would offer my sympathies and hope to draw him out. Perhaps he could shed some light on why his aunt and the earl didn’t get along. I wondered if he was aware that someone had turned her bedroom upside down. Could he guess what that person might have been looking for? And could he tell me the source of the red dye on Mrs. Beckwith’s fingers?

  Chapter Nine

  As soon as we were able, George and I excused ourselves and left Ruby and Griffin working on a ploughman’s breakfast. We strolled down the village High Street arm in arm, admiring the holiday decorations that were still up and peeking in shop windows that advertised big New Year sales. There was a crispness to the air that I relished. Had I been in Maine, I would have said it smelled like it was going to snow. But I didn’t know if the same atmospheric conditions heralded the white stuff in England.

  I’d spent Christmas in New York City with old friends, and had flown to London two days later. George had arranged to take his vacation the week after the holiday, and, thanks to his seniority, was able to tack on a few extra days after the New Year. We hadn’t seen each other for some time, and I had thought it might be awkward at first until we had gotten reacquainted. But I was surprised and grateful to find that we slipped into a comfortable camaraderie that, while affectionate, was accompanied by a clear understanding that our relationship could not move forward as long as there was an ocean between us—and there was always going to be an ocean between us. Even so, our mutual enjoyment of each other’s company was wonderful, and if there was a pang of regret mixed in, it only made our time together more precious.

  “Did Father Christmas treat you well this year?” George asked as we
looked over a tray of holiday socks that had been set outside a clothing store.

  “Yes, indeed. Someone gave me a lovely tartan shawl,” I said, holding up a corner of the scarf. “Thank you again.”

  “You’re very welcome again. And thank you again for the leather fishing belt.”

  “Made in Maine,” I said, laughing. “I couldn’t resist when I saw the silver trout on it. We’ll have to go fishing together one day.”

  “I think I would enjoy that.”

  “I did buy myself a present when I was in New York City.”

  “And what did you get?”

  “A book called Police Procedure and Investigation.”

  “I would have thought you knew all that by now.”

  “There’s always more to learn. Plus, I love having my own library of reference books. The Internet is wonderful, but it doesn’t match the feeling of paging through a book and finding something you didn’t even realize you needed. I hope that experience never goes away.”

  As George and I walked, I scanned the faces of the people on the street; I was hoping to see Colin Stanhope again. Of course, even if I caught sight of him, I wasn’t sure what George and I could say. It would’ve been so much easier in the pub where Colin had spoken about his aunt. But the arrival of Ruby and Griffin had scuttled my chance to introduce myself. While it was unlikely I’d come across him in the crowd of shoppers, nevertheless I paused at each store window, peering inside in hopes of spotting a plaid cap and tweed jacket.

  “I know the holiday displays are appealing, lass, but why are you so interested in a shop that sells cleaning supplies?” George asked. “Are you planning to Hoover your room at the castle?”

  “What?” I looked down at the window display of vacuum cleaners and brooms. I’d been so intent upon checking the customers inside the store that I hadn’t noticed what it sold. “Caught in the act.” I grimaced.

  “You’re hoping to see the horse trainer again, aren’t you?”

  “I’m just disappointed I didn’t get the opportunity to express our sympathies.”

  “And ask a few questions.”

  “And ask a few questions,” I echoed. I looked at my watch. “Isn’t there a call you need to make? It’s almost one.”

  A puff of air escaped George’s lips. “Thanks for reminding me.” He looked around and frowned. “We should have stayed at the pub. Now, where can I make the call without standing in the middle of the street like those distracted pedestrians on their mobiles, who drive me crazy in London?”

  “Let’s walk a little farther.” I saw a break in the storefronts up ahead and pointed. “Maybe there’s another pub or park on the next street.”

  We reached the corner and turned down a brick-paved lane, more of a mews, really, with attached carriage houses on either side. At the end of the block, the lane broadened into a street with stone-fronted private homes, some of them converted into stores and businesses. The first one we came to had an ANTIQUES sign and looked vaguely familiar. In front was a stone bench. Away from the crowd of shoppers on High Street and far enough from the front door of the store to avoid being overheard, it was perfect for George’s telephone appointment.

  “When you’re finished, look for me there.” I cocked my head toward the antiques shop.

  He nodded and began dialing.

  An old brass sleigh bell sounded when I opened the shop door and stepped inside. The room was crammed with furniture and cabinets holding a variety of household items, some of it artfully displayed to reflect the season, including a collection of wooden nutcrackers grouped together. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and every available wall space was taken by gilt-framed paintings. Table lamps minus their shades stood on top of one cabinet, the shelves of which held porcelain figurines of dogs, horses, sheep, hunters, shepherdesses, and pipers dancing on painted grass. Upholstered chairs of differing vintage were pulled up to a mahogany drop-leaf table set for a holiday dinner party with a plaid runner down the center. My gaze lingered on a small Wedgwood bowl, but it was chipped. Sitting on a silver tray next to it was a four-piece tea service.

  “That’s not sterling,” an elderly woman said when I picked up the coffeepot. She stood at the entrance to a hallway. “The good stuff is in the back room. Can’t keep it up here. Too many tourists like to pocket a souvenir.”

  “I’m a tourist,” I said, putting down the pot, “but I promise I have no designs on your silver plate.”

  “Didn’t think you did,” she replied. “I can always pick out the good ones. You have an honest face.”

  “Thank you, Mrs.—?”

  “Mrs. Fortunato, but you can call me Hazel. And you are?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, but please call me Jessica.”

  “Are you looking for something in particular, Jessica?”

  “To be honest, I’m not. My friend is making a phone call outside, and I just came in to browse.”

  “You’re welcome to browse. That’s how I make most of my sales anyway. They always find something.”

  “Have you owned this store a long time, Hazel?”

  “Nigh on fifteen years.” She paused, giving me a wry smile. “You thought I was going to say something like forty years, didn’t you? After all, my youth is long behind me. But no, I only opened the shop after Mr. Fortunato died.” She fingered a gold locket on a chain around her neck.

  “Was your husband an antiques dealer?”

  “He was a farrier. I think you’d call him a blacksmith in the States. You are American, am I correct?”

  “Yes. I’m from Maine.”

  “Never heard of it, but I picked out your accent right away.”

  “Is there a lot of work for farriers in Chipping Minster?”

  “Work enough. Those that have the big houses, lots of ’em have horses. And the farmers almost all have a horse or two even if what they raise are cattle or sheep.”

  “That must have kept your husband busy.”

  “Most of what he did was shoeing, and a little bit of veterinary surgery when it was called for, but we were able to raise our children and make a nice home. And I had time to the visit the charity shops. That’s how I started my collections.”

  “So you turned a hobby into a business,” I said. “Very clever.”

  “Well, you have to make your way somehow,” she said, but she seemed pleased with the compliment.

  “By any chance, did your husband work for the Earl of Norrance?”

  “Worked for him and his father before him.” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you and your friend invited to the ball tonight?”

  “Yes. George and I arrived yesterday. We’re staying up at the castle.”

  “If my husband were still alive, we would have received an invitation. I’m sure of it. But with Mr. Fortunato gone so many years now, I guess they’ve forgotten about the family left behind.” She paused, perhaps reflecting on her disappointment at not being included. “His Lordship is a bit severe, but his wife is a kind lady, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve only just met her, but she seemed very welcoming,” I said, choosing my words carefully. I wondered if Hazel knew Mrs. Beckwith, but I hesitated to ask. If she hadn’t learned of the woman’s death, I didn’t want to be the one to deliver that news.

  She clicked her tongue.

  I waited, hoping she would bring up Flavia. When she remained silent, lost in her own thoughts, I decided to take another tack as I perused items on the table. “I visited the earl’s stables this morning. I understand he’s planning to breed horses for the racetrack.”

  “He has big ambitions, that man. His father raised spaniels, a little more modest. But my cousin’s grandson has a job in the stables, so I’m glad of the work for his sake.”

  “Would that be Colin?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Colin is Emmie Stanhope’s son. Ian is my cousin’s daughter’s boy.” Hazel turned around and beckoned to me. “If you don’t mind, come into the back where I can sit down, Jessica. My hi
ps begin to ache when I stand too long.”

  I followed her down the hall to a small kitchen, where the shelves were stacked with more silver, presumably sterling, and a variety of china. Matching cups and saucers were prettily displayed with small vases of flowers. Even the old woodstove held an assortment of antiquated cooking utensils.

  “Nice to have a bit of company,” Hazel said. “It’s been quiet today. Everyone getting ready for the New Year, I guess. May not look like it, but I can make a decent cup of tea in here if you’d like one.”

  “I just finished lunch, but you go ahead.” I removed my jacket and hung it on the back of one of two chairs not occupied by tablecloths, draped with aprons, or piled high with brand-new souvenir dish towels advertising Chipping Minster. Ah, I thought, taking a seat, that’s why the shop looked familiar. I’d seen its picture on one of those dish towels in Mrs. Beckwith’s apartment.

  Hazel plugged in an electric teakettle and took the other empty chair. She wrung her hands, then dropped them in her lap, sighing. “Did anyone up at the castle happen to mention something about sad news—I mean, did you hear anything about a mishap? Perhaps not. You wouldn’t know her, of course. But someone I knew . . .” She trailed off.

  I stifled a sigh of my own and reached out to put a hand on top of hers. “Are you talking about Flavia Beckwith?”

  “Flavia! Did you know Flavia?”

  “No. I never met her.”

  “Oh, but how? Of course, they must have been speaking of her. Please tell me what they said.”

  “Was she a good friend of yours?”

  A small smile played on Hazel’s lips, and her eyes grew moist. “We were the best of friends. She was ever so smart, a university graduate, always reading. We would often have our tea together and sometimes dinner if she wasn’t needed at the castle. She would tell me about the books she was reading, and I would show her something from the shop and explain the history and why it was valuable.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”