Mardling had begun his investigation in the kitchen, to the consternation of the staff cooking for the ball, if I read their expressions correctly.
The chef, wearing a tall toque on his head—the emblem of his rank in the kitchen—barked orders to Clover and two cooks assisting her, pulling out a fresh spoon to sample a dish and flinging it into the sink after the first swallow. Nigel was directing Angus, the gardener, who was thankfully in a clean uniform and white cotton gloves, on polishing the remaining silver flatware that had not already been set on a tray for delivery upstairs.
Every flat surface of the large room, a tribute to stainless steel and marble, was covered with stacks of baking trays in various steps of preparation. Platters of hors d’oeuvres partially cooked and ready to be reheated for serving were on shelves in one area, while other dishes awaiting finishing were being ferried from the walk-in refrigerator to the several ovens in service.
“Where is my scullery maid?” Chef Bergère shouted.
“The constable is questioning her,” Clover replied.
“And the second kitchen maid?”
“I’m supposed to be next, Chef,” said a sturdy young lady lolling by a closed door in the hallway. “He told me to wait here.”
“How long does it take to ask a few questions? My langoustines will get overcooked.” He shook a pan on the stovetop and pointed at Clover. “Be gentle with that caviar whilst you’re putting it in the serving dish. Don’t stir it—you’ll break the eggs and ruin the taste and texture.”
“As if I’ve never handled caviar before,” she huffed.
“At a hundred pounds an ounce, it’s worth more than you are.”
“Who’s taking care of afternoon tea?” Nigel called out. “We have an hour and a half to teatime.”
“I have no time to fritter away on tea service.”
“I’ll do it,” Clover said, untying her apron.
“No! I’ll take care of it. You stay on the salmon mousse canapés.” Bergère turned, his eyes roaming the kitchen. “Are the champagne cases on ice?”
“It’s under control,” Nigel replied. “Five cases are in the cooler, and three cases are stacked outside in the garden. You needn’t bother yourself about my responsibilities, Chef.”
“I’ll require three bottles for my risotto, Mr. Gordon.”
“And why am I just hearing about this now? I ordered the proper amount for serving, not for cooking.”
“Then send someone into the village for three more bottles.”
“Every merchant will be sold out. It’s New Year’s Eve, or did you forget?”
“Don’t you have any spare champagne from the wine storage?”
“I’m not giving you Dom Pérignon to pour into rice. You’ll have to make do with white wine.” Nigel picked up a champagne glass and held it up to the light. “Who’s responsible for washing these glasses?”
The young woman waiting her turn to see Mardling held up her hand. “I’ll wash them again when he’s done with me.” She gestured to the closed door behind which Mardling was assumed to be questioning the scullery maid.
George and I carefully picked our way across the kitchen toward the closed door, trying to step out of the way as steaming pans were pulled from the oven and set out on the marble countertop. We reached the place where the second kitchen maid waited, just in time to come face-to-face with Mrs. Powter. The housekeeper ignored us, calling out, “Her Ladyship wants a cup of tea.”
Nigel frowned. “Why didn’t she ring the bell?”
“I don’t have time to cater to her needs right now,” Chef Bergère said. “Can’t she wait until teatime?”
“I didn’t ask. Would you like to go upstairs and put the question to her?”
Clover didn’t wait for permission. She took a china teapot, cup, and saucer from a cabinet, rinsed the pot in boiling water, and set it upon a small silver tray. She prepared the countess’s tea, adding a creamer and sugar bowl as well as a small plate of cookies to the grouping, and handed off the tray to Nigel. “Let’s not lose all our senses of how this house is supposed to run.”
“I’ll tell Her Ladyship that you were pleased to prepare her tea.” Nigel took the tray and made his exit.
“You do that,” Clover called after him. “Some of us know which side our bread is buttered on.” She stole a look at the chef and sniffed.
Mrs. Powter dusted her hands. “Then I may return to see to our guests.” She eyed George and me. “Do you have a reason for being down here, or are you two playing tourist again?”
“May I introduce myself properly, Mrs. Powter. I am Chief Inspector George Sutherland of Scotland Yard. You had a death here yesterday.”
Mrs. Powter paled.
“Yes, I see you remember. There’s an inquest going on. Detective Sergeant Mardling is here.” George gestured toward the closed door. “I believe he is expecting me.”
“Begging your pardon, Chief Inspector. I didn’t realize. Yes, of course. So sorry.”
“We may wish to revisit Mrs. Beckwith’s private chambers, assuming you have no objection, of course.”
“No objection, sir.” She gave a quick nod. “I’ll return to my duties now, if I may.”
“By all means, but please make sure Mrs. Beckwith’s door is unlocked so we may bring Detective Sergeant Mardling to see her rooms.”
“Yes, sir.”
I had been half hiding behind George because, of course, I held no rank whatsoever, and I preferred not to give Mrs. Powter a reason to question my presence. But when she was gone, I stepped next to George as he knocked on the closed door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it.
Detective Sergeant Mardling and Constable Willoughby were leaning against a counter while the scullery maid, a girl who appeared to be about seventeen, sat primly in a chair and stared at a tape recorder on the table in front of her.
“Ah, Chief Inspector,” Mardling said. “You’ll forgive us, I hope, for starting without you. I have been led to believe that time is of the essence today because of the ball tonight, although I daresay we will still be on the premises when the event begins. And since I have not been given access to the host and hostess, I may decide to continue my inquiries until they are able to make themselves available.”
“Beg your pardon for interrupting then,” George said. “Please continue.”
Mardling cleared his throat. “I think we may have finished with our inquiries of this young lady.” He switched off the tape recorder. “You may go.”
“I could tell you more stories about the Grant lads, if you like, sir.”
“I will keep your offer under advisement. You may return to your duties, Miss Lambert.”
Her mouth turned down. Her duties as scullery maid were to wash pots and pans, not half as appealing as being the center of attention of two officers encouraging her to pass along the local gossip. But she hopped out of her seat. “Shall I send Elsbeth in now?”
“No. I think we’ll take a little break between witnesses.” Mardling smiled and held the door open.
George waited until she left before asking, “Did the coroner’s report hold anything to suggest the need for such a thorough inquest?”
“The preliminary report was inconclusive, but she had a heart defect.”
George raised his eyebrows at me as if to say, “I told you so.”
Mardling scooped up the tape recorder and handed it to Willoughby. “Tissue samples have been sent for toxicological analysis, but as you know, the results may take several weeks to come back.”
“Did the coroner comment on the stain on Mrs. Beckwith’s fingers?” I asked.
“He said he didn’t know what caused it but hazarded a guess that she may have been cooking beetroot. His wife has complained of stains from handling the vegetable.”
“I rather doubt she bothered to prepare fresh vegetables, from the limited cooking facilities available to her,” George said.
“Oh?”
“Last evening, Mr
s. Fletcher and I had the opportunity to visit Flavia Beckwith’s apartment upstairs. In fact, we would like you to see her quarters yourself, if you have the time.”
“It was certainly on my agenda.” Mardling’s face reddened. “We thought it best to get the staff interviews out of the way first.”
“Very wise,” George said.
Although his tone did not betray it, I was pleased that he was giving Mardling back a bit of his own medicine.
“Nevertheless, as lighting is limited on the staff floor, it might be a good idea to see her living space while daylight provides additional illumination. Would now be convenient?”
Mardling nodded to Willoughby, and the four of us made our way to the fourth floor.
The French doors to Mrs. Beckwith’s apartment stood ajar. Mrs. Powter must have unlocked them as George requested. He pushed one door fully open and let the officers precede us into the room.
Her living room looked the same as it had the night before except that the Robert Louis Stevenson novel that had been left open on the sofa, and that George had been paging through, was gone. I didn’t remember him putting it away, but my eyes scanned the bookcase to see that it had been replaced on the shelf. The books that had been shoved in haphazardly with their spines to the wall also had been removed and replaced correctly. Mrs. Powter must have come back after she escorted us to the stairs. If she did . . . I had a terrible feeling George was not going to be happy.
“This is what we discovered here last night.” George walked to the closed bedroom door and flung it open.
The two officers crowded into Mrs. Beckwith’s bedroom. “Don’t see what you thought was of great import in here,” Mardling said. There was almost a note of triumph in his voice.
“What!” George pushed past Mardling and Willoughby. “Jessica! Come see this.”
I hurried to the room, but I knew without looking what the view was going to be. Mrs. Beckwith’s bedroom was pristine, the bed neatly made with decorative pillows leaning against the headboard. The dresser drawers had been closed, and I was certain everything in them was carefully folded.
“This room was a jumble last night,” George said tightly, “linens everywhere, drawers poured out, nightstand toppled.”
“There’s no sign of disruption now.”
“I think we need to have a discussion with the housekeeper,” George said.
“Was she here last evening?”
“She was.”
“And you didn’t tell her not to disturb anything until the proper authorities arrived?”
“I didn’t think it needed to be said.”
“Apparently you were wrong.”
“Apparently I was.”
I felt humiliated and furious on George’s behalf. He stared at his shoes, breathing hard with nostrils flaring; then he strode from the room and through the French doors into the hall. I was grateful that Mardling refrained from any more biting remarks. If he dug the knife in any further, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see George explode.
I schooled my features to keep from showing my anger. “Excuse me for pointing this out, but despite its neat appearance now, this room had been ransacked when we saw it, most probably after someone learned of Mrs. Beckwith’s death. Why Mrs. Powter presumed to clean it up when the staff had been informed that you would be conducting an inquest, Detective Sergeant Mardling, I can’t begin to understand, unless she herself made the mess. If I were you, I would place her next on your list of interviewees.”
“Are you telling me how to run my investigation, too, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I’m telling you that to overlook an important piece of information would be irresponsible, but you do as you please.” I nodded at Willoughby, left Mrs. Beckwith’s quarters, and found George pacing in the hall.
“I had to leave, or I would have found myself giving him a pop on the jaw.” George strode down the hall to the stairwell.
I followed him. “If you ask me, I think he was trying to irritate you on purpose.”
George stopped and whirled around. “Worse than that, Jessica, he was right. Why didn’t I identify myself to that imperious woman last night? Why did I let her chase us out of Beckwith’s apartment like the trespassers she accused us of being?”
“You were being considerate of her feelings—and mine.” I guided him to the stairs. “The fact is we didn’t have any authorization to investigate Mrs. Beckwith’s apartment. If anything, it was my insatiable curiosity—let’s call it what it is, nosiness—that’s at fault, not you. I pushed you to do something that was not appropriate for us to do. That we found something possibly incriminating, or in any event irregular, was pure accident.”
“But once we did find it, I should have asserted my authority and told Powter to stay away from what very well may be a crime scene. But I didn’t. I let her chase us away like two dogs with our tails between our legs.”
“George, you’re exaggerating. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. Let’s allow Mardling to go his own way with this inquest. You yourself said the lady probably died of a heart attack or stroke magnified by exposure to the elements. Who knows why someone turned her room upside down? It probably doesn’t matter.”
We reached the third floor and stood outside our rooms. “We have a New Year’s Eve ball to go to tonight,” I said, resting my hand on George’s arm. “It’s going to be catered by a French chef with a Michelin star. There will be dancing to a jazz band, and the evening will be capped off by amazing fireworks, or so Ruby says. Let’s leave Flavia Beckwith to rest in peace, and you and I get on with our lives.”
He covered my hand with his. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Jessica Fletcher, but I’m going to work very hard to convince you to stay by my side.”
George ducked into his room, claiming the need for a rest before the evening activities, but I think he just wanted to be alone for a while. I paced in my own room for a few minutes before deciding that I was too agitated to stay still. I slipped out, closing my door softly in case George was trying to nap. I walked down the hall, pausing at the broad staircase, then decided to continue straight to see what was on the opposite side of the house from where we were staying. It didn’t look any different. Closed doors lined the hallway, probably some of the nearly fifty bedrooms Nigel had said the castle contained. As they were on our side of the floor, the walls were covered with a patterned fabric in soft colors set into the rectangular spaces created by moldings. The moldings gave visual interest to the long corridor and served as additional frames to the many paintings on display. I stopped to admire a landscape that reflected the view from my room, and another that must have been painted in the walled garden on a summer day. Some paintings featured animals and still lifes, remarkable in their detail. That the Grant family had enough artwork to fill the walls of every room and every hall was impressive, even though I came upon a few blank areas where a darker patch on the wall fabric indicated that a piece of art may have been removed.
Up ahead, a shaft of sunlight from an open door contrasted with the muted illumination provided by wall sconces and picture lights attached to the tops of the frames. I walked a little faster, hoping to get a peek into another room in this fascinating castle. When I heard a murmur of voices, I slowed my steps. Was Mrs. Powter going to appear and accuse me of behaving like a tourist again? She would be right again, although she couldn’t have assumed that guests would remain confined to their rooms when they weren’t sharing a meal or attending an event with their hosts. The whole idea of inviting people to stay presumed they would enjoy the amenities the castle had to offer. Certainly enjoying the artwork would qualify.
I was rehearsing how I would answer the redheaded housekeeper, when I heard a man’s voice. “Turn your head a bit to the left, my dear. I want to see that exquisite profile.”
“Are you almost finished?” a woman asked. “I have to get ready for tea.”
“You don’t need a lot of time to look beautiful. You’
re lovely just the way you are. I hope the earl appreciates the treasure he has in you.”
“You’re a flatterer, Elmore, but I must admit I enjoy hearing your compliments, even if they’re insincere.”
“I only tell you the truth, Marielle. You’re wasting your beauty on a man who only appreciates horseflesh. But I will show the world what a prize you are. You must let me exhibit this painting before you hide it away in this mausoleum.”
“This mausoleum, as you call it, is going to make our fortune, and we’ll be able to leave it to the next generation while we travel the world.”
“You’ll never pry the earl’s hands from the wheel when it comes to Castorbrook.”
“We’ll see. Now I really must go.”
“Aren’t you going to give me my usual payment, my dear?”
Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I retreated halfway back down the hall and studied a painting of a pair of dogs in the English countryside, their noses pointing to a badger whose head peeked out from a hollow log. A horse and rider were in the background. A plaque on the painting credited the artist, Charles Towne.
I heard the rustle of fabric and looked up to see the countess hurrying toward me.
“You have such wonderful artwork here,” I said.
“Thank you.” She rushed past, turned at the staircase, and disappeared.
I waited a moment in case she had forgotten something and might return, then continued my leisurely walk down the hall until I reached the bright splash of sunlight making a backward L across the floor and up the wall. I peeked inside. Jackcliff was swirling a paintbrush in a jar of liquid, which, by the smell of it, had to be turpentine. The room was the same size as both George’s and mine, but with fewer pieces of furniture. A drop cloth was centered under a table spattered with paint. A large canvas leaned against an easel. From the door, I could see only the back of it. An armchair stood at an angle near the sunny window, and on the far side of the room was a chaise with several pillows. One had fallen to the floor. I knocked on the door frame. “May I come in?”
Elmore Jackcliff looked up, startled. “Yes, of course. Jessica, isn’t it? You’ve discovered my private studio. Come in and admire my genius. You just missed my model.” He waved at the painting I couldn’t see.
Death of a Blue Blood Page 9
