“Would that be Lady Norrance? We passed each other in the hall.”
“Did you?” Jackcliff turned aside, swiped a handkerchief across his lips, and stuffed it in a pocket. “Well, what do you think?” He concentrated on cleaning his brush.
I came around to the front of the canvas. “It’s beautiful.”
“Of course it’s beautiful. The subject is beautiful. Do you consider it a fair likeness?”
The unfinished painting was mostly white with black lines sketching in a background of drapes and a chair. The figure of a woman stood in the center, her body angled slightly to the side, one hand on the back of the chair. She gazed over her shoulder toward the viewer. Only the head, torso, and one arm had been painted in detail. The rest of her was outlined in red. Four stripes of white paint covered where the artist had made corrections. A photograph of the countess in the same pose was taped to a corner of the picture, along with detailed sketches of her ring and her shoes affixed to the canvas below it.
While the real-life model was an attractive woman, the portrait revealed a glowing beauty that said more about the artist’s view of her than what nature had created.
I turned to catch Jackcliff watching me closely. “Lady Norrance must be delighted with this. You’re a wonderful artist.”
He chuckled. “It’s true.” He wiped the brush dry with a dirty piece of cloth, tossed it in a red metal box that held other brushes and tubes of paint, and laid the cloth on top.
“George said you own a gallery in London. Do you sell your own paintings there?”
“Would that I could take ’ome enough from me own work,” he said, the Cockney accent creeping back in. “No. I ’ave to offer the public a good variety to support my habit. But a commission like this one from the earl goes a long way to boosting my reputation and my ego.”
I wondered if the earl had really given him the commission or if the countess was the one to insist her portrait be painted by her former teacher.
Jackcliff reached out and pinched my chin, turning my head from side to side to scrutinize my face. “Interesting features. I think you’d make a good subject for a painting.”
I laughed and took a step toward the door to escape his touch. “I don’t think I’m going to be around long enough for you to paint my portrait.”
“You don’t have to be.” He came forward again, invading my personal space. “You can see, I also work from photographs. It’s not as much fun as having a real flesh-and-blood person in front of you.” His hand stroked up and down my arm. “A face like yours must photograph well. You’d be surprised how many people are willing to spring for a painting of themselves if they don’t have to spend time sitting. You and I could find a pose that suits you, don’t you think?”
“What I think is that I’ve interrupted your work.” I backed out of the room.
He followed, leaning on the frame of the door. “I don’t mind stopping work for you.”
“It’s kind of you to say, but I’ve taken up enough of your time today. Thank you for letting me see your painting.”
“No trouble at all. I love visitors, especially pretty ones who admire my work.” His lips tilted up, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I hope to see you later this evening.” He reached for the door and closed it.
I stood for a moment, analyzing what had just happened. Was Jackcliff making a play for me? Probably not. It wasn’t that I didn’t think I could be considered attractive, but this was such a sudden interest. Why? More likely, he was trying to distract me. Maybe there was something he didn’t want me to see. Or maybe he realized that his portrait of Lady Norrance revealed more than he had intended. Were they lovers? Or was the infatuation one-sided?
Or was I making up stories again?
Chapter Twelve
There was palpable tension in Castorbrook Castle on the afternoon leading up to the New Year’s Eve ball. The staff, aware of the importance of the evening, was hurrying down hallways and up and down stairs readying the ballroom, freshening flower arrangements in the public spaces, filling the candelabra, and setting the individual tables for eight in the state dining room. Chef Bergère’s elaborate dinner would take place at ten o’clock, with dessert to be served following the midnight fireworks display.
Afternoon tea for the family, its in-house guests, and other visitors—too many to seat comfortably in the drawing room—was being served in the gallery. It was a long, narrow room that led to the ballroom and was lined on either side with small groupings of tufted sofas, chairs, and small tables already set with gold-edged teacups and saucers. Nigel Gordon and two assistants, all attired in swallowtail tuxedos, carried in three-tiered serving platters of scones, pastries, and small sandwiches meant to fortify the guests and keep them satisfied until the hors d’oeuvres were served at the ball that evening.
I had come down to tea by myself. George was expecting a phone call and would join me shortly. I chose a love seat near the gallery entrance, so he would not have to look far, and enjoyed watching the parade of guests as they entered the elegant hall. Elmore Jackcliff had brought his sketch pad and was entertaining those around him by doing quick drawings of whoever caught his eye. The recipients of his artwork seemed to be charmed and accepted his business card. Jackcliff would likely leave Castorbrook Castle with the promise of commissions, just as he’d intended. I spotted the earl’s man of business, Lionel Fitzwalter, whom I’d met only briefly at tea the day before. He and Lord Norrance seemed to be in a serious discussion until the countess pulled her husband away. Jemma was not wearing riding clothes this time, and Kip, her elder brother, wandered around, looking bored.
“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve been hoping to have the opportunity to catch you alone. Is this a convenient time?”
“Certainly, Mr. Grant,” I said, smiling at the earl’s younger son, Rupert. “Please sit down.”
“The earl told me of his conversation with you this morning at the stable,” he said, pulling an armchair close to me and leaning forward, his knees practically touching mine. “Accomplished as he is, I can’t always count on my father to present my views properly, or accurately relay your side of the discussion, for that matter. I am eager to hear what was said, from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.” He gave me a bright smile.
I laughed. “I’m afraid this horse didn’t have a lot to say.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Fletcher. I meant no offense.”
“And I took none. Your father merely said you were interested in producing movies, information I’d already learned from Griffin Semple.”
“My father’s not too keen on the idea.”
“So I gathered.”
“You didn’t tell him it was a bad idea, did you?”
“I’m hardly an expert on your skills, or on filmmaking in general. No, I simply told him that to be successful in a field in which you have limited experience, you would have to work twice as hard as the next person and be dedicated and persistent. I believe those were my words.”
“He doesn’t believe I can do it.”
“Well, what’s more important is: Do you think you can do it?”
Rupert frowned. “I wouldn’t be pursuing the idea if I didn’t think I was capable of making a success of it,” he said stiffly. “My friends and I—rather, my associates in the industry—have put together a business plan and are in the process of acquiring properties to develop.”
“A start-up business also requires a considerable amount of financing,” I said.
“That shouldn’t be a problem. As the son of a peer, I have access to quite a number of potential investors.”
It occurred to me that if Rupert inherited nothing else from his father, he already possessed some of the earl’s arrogance.
“That’s very impressive. Have any of your associates in the industry had experience in film production before?” I asked.
“Not directly, but we are all cinema enthusiasts. I have a collection of all the Hollywood black-and-white class
ics. I’ve taken a number of university courses in the subject, as have the others, and, as a matter of fact, I’m working on a screenplay right now.”
“Congratulations. Then you certainly don’t need any help from me.”
“Well, um, I thought that while my script is still in its formative stage, we might move forward with something more complete. Griffin says several of your books have been made into films. I thought you might have another one you’d like to see brought to the big screen. I can promise you a nice return once the film is made and we’ve secured the international distribution. We would even allow you to provide the screenplay if you’ve a mind to try your hand in a different medium.”
“How generous of you,” I said, thinking the opposite, “but I prefer to stick with writing books. That’s the medium I’m most comfortable with.”
As we’d been talking, Rupert’s wife, one of the young ladies I’d seen at tea the day before, came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders.
He turned his head to glance up at her. “Not now, Adela. I’m having a business meeting.”
“So sorry to interrupt.” She gave me a small smile, before looking down at her husband again. “Your mother is asking for you, Rupert, and I didn’t know what to tell her.”
“Tell her I’m speaking with a very important business associate. Can’t you find out what she wants?”
“I’ll try, but she’s not in the best of humor.”
“Use your charm.”
Adela pouted and walked off.
“Now, where were we?” Rupert asked, leaning toward me again.
“I was telling you my preferred medium is writing books.”
“Well, I suppose we could have someone else do the screenplay. Which of your works would you like to offer for screen treatment?”
“None of them.”
“Not one? I thought all authors wanted to see their books made into movies.”
“Not this author.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
He sat back. “Well, I must say I’m very disappointed in you. I went to a great deal of trouble to have you invited to the ball, and for you and your friend to be our guests.”
“And it was very kind of you. Was my cooperation in your venture supposed to be the payment for the invitation? If so, Griffin didn’t alert me.”
“No. No. Of course not. I’m just . . . frustrated. Nothing seems to be going right.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. What will you do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“No plan B?”
“No. I don’t have a plan B,” he said with disgust. “My father has threatened to disinherit me if I don’t come up with some profession to pursue. Not that he ever had one. He inherited everything.”
“Have you ever offered to assist him with the management of Castorbrook? This place must be a business all in itself.”
“And do what? Sit with a ledger all day, having him give me orders? No thanks!”
“There must be other opportunities on an estate this large.”
He gave a snort. “Maybe he’d like me to take over the training of the horses. He’s always praising our trainer. Between my father and Jemma, you’d think Colin hung the moon.” He put his hands together as if in prayer. “I see myself working in the arts. I think that’s where I belong. But he has no use for art. Just ask my mother.” He looked down at his intertwined fingers. “I have these great ideas. I just need someone to give me a break.”
“Well, I certainly wish you all the best,” I said, feeling a little sorry for him. “If film production is the field you really want, I’m sure you’ll find a way to pursue it.”
“I hope you’re right, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, standing. “My apologies if I came on too strong.”
“No need for apologies. We just don’t have the same goals, that’s all.”
George waved from the door and joined us. He shook Rupert’s hand, and the young man left.
“Did you let him down easy?” he said, settling next to me on the love seat.
“I certainly let him down. I don’t know how easy it was.”
As the tea service wound down, guests began drifting from the room. Some tried to poke their heads into the ballroom but were shooed away by Angus Hartwhistle, who was guarding the door, allowing entry only to a piano tuner carrying a large case with his name, profession, and telephone number in white letters on the side. Through the room’s tall windows I spotted other guests, bundled up, strolling Castorbrook’s grounds, some stopping to watch workers setting up the fireworks displays out on the broad lawn.
As the gallery emptied out, George and I were once again left alone with the members of Lord Norrance’s family, who were halfway down the room from where we sat finishing our tea. Nigel and his helpers were collecting the dishes and serving pieces when I saw Clover’s son, Archer, enter the gallery carrying a long ladder. Trailing him, a large carton in her arms, was Elsbeth, the young maid we’d seen in the kitchen waiting to be interviewed by Detective Sergeant Mardling.
“What are you doing coming through here with that?” Lady Norrance demanded, gesturing at the ladder.
“Beg pardon, my lady,” Archer said. “The ladder didn’t fit through the other hallway. We tried.” He turned to look behind him. As he did, he swung the back end of the ladder into Elsbeth, knocking her down. She dropped the carton, the side of which split open. Dozens of candles spilled onto the floor and rolled across the room, making walking hazardous for anyone in the vicinity.
“You idiot,” the countess screamed. “Look what you’ve done. You’re not supposed to be here to begin with.”
Archer stood frozen in place, perhaps afraid he would knock over someone else with the ladder if he tried to move.
Nigel and his helpers stopped clearing the dishes and rushed to help pick up the candles, some of which kept rolling as they chased them across the floor. George and I hurried to help.
“It was an accident, Marielle,” the earl said to his wife. “They’ll clean it up.”
“Those are beeswax, James. You may not care, but I do. They cost the world, and now they’ll be ruined.” She looked at Elsbeth, who was a heap on the floor. “Any broken candles will come out of your salary, young lady.”
Rupert and Kip were convulsed in laughter, their wives giggling behind their hands.
“It’s like a comedy of errors,” Rupert said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve got to include this scene in my screenplay.”
“Most diverting sight I’ve seen today,” Kip said.
Only Jemma was not amused. “It’s not funny, you know.”
“You two,” the countess shouted, pointing at George and me. “Don’t touch those candles.”
George and I straightened.
“Why not, Mother?” Jemma asked. “They won’t break them.”
“They’re not staff. I won’t have guests doing the job of staff.” She turned to her husband. “Help me out of here, James.” She held out her hand to the earl who guided her to the door to the ballroom, pointing out any errant candles in her path. The Grant children and their spouses followed, all of them stifling laughter, except Jemma.
“Did you see her expression when the ladder swung into her?” Rupert said, hooting.
Angus pulled the door closed behind them.
Nigel helped Elsbeth to stand. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, but her hands were shaking as she reached down to collect some of the candles that were piled at her feet. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Gordon.”
“Not your fault. Come sit over here,” he said, steering her to a chair. “We’ll get it tidied up in no time.”
George and I looked at each other, wondering what to do.
“Thank you, very kind, but no need to help, Inspector, Mrs. Fletcher,” Nigel said. “We’re on top of it.”
George and I backed away from the scene, careful not to trip on a stray candle.
/> “How awful,” I whispered to him as we left the gallery. “That girl could have been hurt, and all Lady Norrance cared about were her candles.”
“The countess is clearly under a lot of pressure today,” he replied. “Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. I’m sure she’ll see things differently when she’s had a chance to calm down.”
“I hope so,” I said.
Chapter Thirteen
Nigel Gordon stood in the broad gallery leading to the ballroom in Castorbrook Castle and announced the guests. “Miss Ruby Miller-Carlisle. Mr. Griffin Semple.”
George and I were in line, waiting to be announced to our host and hostess and their family before entering the ballroom. From this short distance, I could hear the strains of lively music floating from the room, and felt a shiver of excitement.
Even though we were not on their usual invitation list, I was determined that George and I would enjoy ourselves and not let the family’s false expectations spoil our evening. Griffin had been right when he suggested that staying in Castorbrook Castle might provide fodder for my next book. I was already using the desk in my room and the stationery provided to make notes on the layout of the great house and my impression of its occupants.
“I can’t even try to be blasé about this,” I said to George as I straightened his bow tie.
“I hope I told you how beautiful you look this evening.”
“You did and I thank you, sir. You’re looking especially well yourself.”
George was wearing a Prince Charlie fitted jacket over a kilt in the Sutherland dress tartan, a black-and-white plaid with narrow red stripes running through it. I wore a pale blue gown—George said it matched my eyes—with a beaded top. All around us the finery rivaled any red-carpet event I’d ever seen on television.
“Mrs. Jessica Fletcher and Chief Inspector George Sutherland.”
George and I stepped up to greet our hosts. A photographer moved in to snap our picture.
Death of a Blue Blood Page 10
