“Most of the guests have already departed, my lady. Those staying in the castle have been directed to retire for the evening. Many of them indicated they plan to leave in the morning, and they asked if there would be an opportunity to express their condolences in person.”
Marielle’s shoulders slumped. She looked exhausted, and I imagined the long preparation for the ball and the wrenching events of the evening had taken their toll on her. “The children and I will make an effort to see as many of them off as possible.”
“I’ll be there, too.” Honora pushed herself to a standing position and leaned on her cane. “Never let anyone say the family of the Earl of Norrance shirked its duty. Now, when may I be excused?”
“We will not ask your forbearance for much longer, Lady Norrance,” George said, addressing Honora. “Thank you for accommodating us. These gentlemen would like to ask your family a few questions, if you will kindly follow them.”
Honora pointed her cane at one of the officers. “Give me your arm.”
He stepped forward, extended his arm, and escorted her out of the room.
The second officer invited Poppy, Adela, and Rupert to accompany him to the library.
“Are you questioning us separately?” Marielle asked.
“It simplifies things,” George replied. “It makes it easier for each person to remember what happened without being distracted by what others believe they may have seen. In any case, I was hoping to speak with you privately, after which you will be free to retire.”
“Does speaking with me privately include Mrs. Fletcher?”
“She can leave if you object to her presence.”
Marielle waved a hand in front of her face. “It doesn’t matter. She may stay. I have nothing to hide.” She returned to her chair and sat, shaking her head. She heaved a sigh, her breath coming out in small bursts. She seemed to be working hard to remain composed.
George waited until the others had left the room to bring a chair close to the countess and sit in front of her. “I’m afraid I have some difficult news to impart to you, Lady Norrance,” he said softly.
“How much more difficult can it be than seeing my husband, my sweet James, die in front of me? I only wish . . .”
“Yes?” George said, inclining his head.
“I wish I hadn’t spoken so harshly to him today.” She looked from George to me. “We argued. . . .” Her voice cracked, and the tears she had been holding back coursed down her face.
George reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean white handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said, sniffling. She patted her wet cheeks.
“Would you care to say what you argued about?”
“It was silly. He gave that local constable, Marder or somebody . . .”
“Detective Sergeant Mardling.”
“Yes, Mardling. He gave him permission to attend the ball. I was furious.”
“Why were you so angry?”
“You have to understand, Chief Inspector, this event has been planned for months. The guest list very carefully selected. There were people I would have liked to invite, wanted to invite, and James said no. We had to keep our numbers down. And then he allows that awful man and that ridiculous woman . . . Oh, what does it matter now? It’s over, and all our designs were for naught.”
“Perhaps you can carry them out without your husband,” I put in.
She pressed George’s handkerchief under her nose, then shook her head. “I don’t know if I can proceed without James. He was my rock. He always took care of me. He always loved me, even when I was terrible to him.” She leaned over, weeping into George’s handkerchief.
George flashed me a look, and I gave him a grim smile. We waited quietly until Lady Norrance was able to collect herself.
“I’m so sorry. You must excuse me.” She stood and crossed the room to the table that held the trays Nigel and Angus had brought in. She shook out a napkin, wiped her eyes, and dabbed at her nose. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace and tucked in a stray strand of hair that had come loose. “I won’t cry anymore,” she said.
“It’s all right,” George said, standing as she returned to her chair. “You have good reason to cry.”
“No. No. I’ll do my mourning in private. James would have wanted it that way.” Lady Norrance sat up straight and cleared her throat. “You said you had difficult news for me.” She wiped her eyes again. “I’m ready to hear it.”
George sat down again. “Lady Norrance, I’m very sorry to say that we do not believe Lord Norrance died of natural causes.”
“What do you mean?”
“We think someone may have poisoned him.”
She gasped and raised the napkin to her mouth, then leaned forward, her words urgent. “How? When? Are you sure? My mother-in-law is convinced he had a heart attack. She blamed me for hiring Chef Bergère, said it was a diet of fatty foods that killed her son.”
“He didn’t die from a rich diet. We believe someone may have slipped poison into his caviar.”
“But I had some, too. . . . No, James took it from me.” She sat back and swallowed audibly, perhaps realizing how close to death she may have come herself. She looked up at George. “You’re certain?”
“We have to wait for laboratory tests, of course. We need confirmation as to what kind of poison it was, but we are convinced that someone tried to kill him.”
“And succeeded,” she added, her voice hardening. “Who? Who would do such a thing?”
“That’s what we need your help with, Lady Norrance. Did you see anyone tamper with the caviar?”
“No, I was the only one to serve it to him. My son wanted some, but I wouldn’t let him have it. Oh, Kip!” She let a small moan escape her lips. “What if I’d . . . ? Could it have been meant for both of us? How could this happen?”
“It may have been tampered with in the kitchen. We have officers questioning the staff. We don’t believe you were the intended victim, but you can assist us in the investigation.”
“How?”
“We’d like you to provide the police with a list of people they should interview.”
She blinked rapidly. “You mean a list of suspects? I have no idea who might have wanted us dead. How would I know that?”
I came forward in my seat to catch her eye. “You don’t need to accuse anyone. Just think about the people you and your husband knew and interacted with. Perhaps there was someone who held a grudge against the earl for a decision he made. Someone he may have offended or bested in a business deal.”
“He was a hard negotiator, of course. He always said you had to be in business—even though he was never raised to participate in business. He learned, however. He learned how to conduct himself when circumstances required it. And recent circumstances did require him to ‘take up the cudgels’ as he used to say.” She gave me a wan smile at the memory.
“That’s all the chief inspector needs,” I said. “Who might have felt slighted or injured by any action or even any threat of action on his part—or yours, for that matter.”
“I don’t need this list tonight,” George added. “Give yourself some time to think. Perhaps your children can help you come up with some names.”
Marielle sighed. “All right. I’ll think about it. Is that all? Am I free to go now?”
George stood and held out his hand to her. She took it and rose gracefully from her seat, leaning back to pick up her gloves. I stood as well.
“Mrs. Fletcher and I are very grateful for your time and cooperation.”
“Not at all.” She rapped her gloves against George’s shoulder and speared him with a stern look. “Find him,” she said. “Find the man who killed my husband.”
Chapter Eighteen
There was a light layer of snow on the ground when I came downstairs on the morning of New Year’s Day. The castle was eerily quiet. No light breakfast was set out in the library. The state dining room was deserted
; the extra tables still wore the used linens from the evening before. A little hungry and more than a little curious, I found myself on the stairs that led down to the kitchen. With trepidation, I pushed open the door to find Clover Estwich, white apron in place, rolling out dough on the marble island, and whistling. She glanced up when she heard me enter. “There’s coffee in the big pot over there if you don’t mind serving yourself.” She cocked her head at a large coffee urn on the counter.
“I don’t mind at all. I’m Jessica Fletcher, by the way. We were never introduced the other day.”
She squinted at me, then went back to her dough.
I thought perhaps she didn’t remember. “The auxiliary larder where—”
“Knew you looked familiar.” She shook her head. “Mr. Gordon has no sense sometimes; putting a body in my larder. Thank goodness he didn’t do it again.”
“Terrible, losing two people from Castorbrook so close together.”
“Certainly unusual. Won’t have these rolls ready for another half hour, I’m afraid. Sorry to make you wait, but we’re a bit short on staff this morning.”
“I’m surprised to see you here at all,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
“Milk or cream’s in the fridge. Sugar’s over here.”
“Thank you.” I doctored my coffee and came around to the opposite side of the island from her. “You must have been working very late last night.”
“Late and later, given the time the constables finally left. Never did finish our cleanup. But I’ll nap after the breakfast service and catch up.” She hummed as she punched down a ball of dough and covered it with a linen towel. “Trouble is, I don’t know how many to bake for.”
“The police said most of the guests are leaving this morning, but I imagine they’d appreciate a few of your cinnamon rolls before they take off.”
“Well, they’ll get them if they’re still here when these come out of the oven.” She sprinkled cinnamon and sugar over the rolled-out dough and dotted it with butter, adding pecans and raisins. Then she rolled up the dough into a long log, pinching the seam closed. “I suppose I can freeze any that are left over.”
It was odd to see the cook going on about her business without any grief or apparent sorrow over the death of her employer. I wondered briefly if the kitchen workers had limited contact with the earl and his family, but I decided that couldn’t be. With so few permanent staff at Castorbrook, the family would likely know the ones who served them well. And according to her son, Clover had been on staff many years. It occurred to me that Clover’s demotion when Chef Bergère was hired may have resulted in hard feelings. Perhaps she wasn’t sorry at all that the earl had died. Maybe she was secretly pleased. Could she have been the one to introduce poison into something the earl ate? I hoped not, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.
“It was a beautiful event last night, Mrs. Estwich. Everyone raved about the food. You and the rest of the staff should be very proud of what you achieved. It’s just such a shame that all your hard work was followed by a tragedy. You have my sincerest sympathies.”
“I’m not the one needing sympathy.”
“I just assumed you would be distressed at the death of your employer.”
“Sorry for the family is what I am.”
“They certainly have suffered a shocking loss. Did you happen to speak with the earl yesterday?”
She grunted as she took a sharp knife and sliced the log of dough into rounds. She arranged the spirals on a baking sheet, then speared me with a cold glare. “I don’t know anything of what happened upstairs. I was here all night cleaning up after the Frenchie, if that’s what you want to know. That’s what I told the constables, and that’s the truth.” She set the pan aside to allow the dough to rise again, her movements quick.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Archer backed through the open door with an armload of tablecloths. “Sorry I’m late, ma’am. I’ve got all the linens. Where do you want them?”
“You know where the laundry room is.”
“Good morning, Archer.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Beautiful day. Did you see it snowed?”
“I did.”
Clover looked up sharply. “And how do you two know each other?”
“We met on the road from the village,” her son replied. “Her and the chief inspector saved me from Farmer Melton’s shotgun.”
“Well, then thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.” Clover looked me in the eyes for the first time.
“You’re very welcome.”
I hoped Archer’s endorsement might soften his mother’s attitude toward me, so I resumed our conversation. “At home I make these cinnamon buns, too, but my mother always taught me to melt the butter before putting it on the dough.”
“You use a lot more butter that way. I was trying to cut back on the fat the family consumed to make their dishes a bit healthier. Of course, once the countess hired Bergère, all pretense at wholesome meals went out the window.” She took the second ball of dough and began rolling it out, bearing down on the rolling pin to express her exasperation. “Plenty of money for exotic ingredients. More butter. More salt. More sugar. Of course, everyone loved his cooking, but I don’t want to see what he did to their arteries.”
“By the way, where is Chef Bergère this morning? Is today his day off?”
“He can take a day off whenever he wants. As of this morning, he’s no longer employed by the Grants.”
“Oh, my goodness! What happened?” I couldn’t imagine that he’d been fired after his dinner was so highly praised.
Clover smirked down at the dough. “I would have loved to see him given the sack, but no such luck as that. The earl shot himself in the foot, so to speak. He brought in all these hotel bigwigs last night, and one of them walked off with the prize. Bergère is getting his own restaurant in one of the Platinum Places, or so he boasted to me last night. The Grants are stuck with me again.”
“You’re not afraid they’ll bring in another French chef?”
“I can cook every bit as fancy as Bergère. I watched what he did, and there were no skills there that I don’t have. I was the one who made most of the spun sugar frills that decorated the desserts. But if they want another toque in their kitchen, I’ve already talked to my sister about joining her at the Muddy Badger.”
“I didn’t realize the cook at the inn was your sister. You two have won quite a few awards.” I remembered the barmaid at the pub pointing out their plaques and medals on the shelf.
“Ate there, did you?” Clover gave me a satisfied smile.
“We did, and the food was delicious.” I decided to take advantage of her better spirits to probe a little about Mrs. Beckwith. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
She stiffened. “About the earl?”
“No. About the lady’s maid, Flavia Beckwith.”
Her shoulders relaxed as she prepared the second pan of cinnamon rolls. “Oh, her.”
“You told the police that she never took her meals with the staff. I wondered why.”
“Mrs. Beckwith considered herself above it all, as if she wasn’t a working person like the rest of us on staff. She pretended to be part of the family, although I never saw them invite her to dine with them, at least when the earl was in residence.”
“I understand they didn’t get along, she and the earl. Do you know why?”
“They never took me into their confidence. But I can tell you that she was a queer bird, Mrs. Beckwith was, always fussing about her looks, and holding herself as if she was as deserving of the same respect as Lady Norrance. Never understood why the countess stood for it, but I imagine it’s a lonely existence out here with children to raise and such a big house to run. Her Ladyship probably kept her on for the company.”
“Did you work here when the children were little and Flavia was their governess?”
“Some governess! She let them run wild, spend all their days outside
in the rain and mud while she sat with a book. Brought her nephew around to play with the Grant brats, and the four of them carried on until the earl finally put a stop to it by sending his children off to boarding school.” She slid the first baking sheet of cinnamon rolls into the oven, turned on the timer, then covered the second pan with a towel and set it aside to rise. “Felt a bit sorry for Colin when his playmates left. He was a good boy, if spoiled. Moped around here for days until the earl gave him a talking to and put him to work in the stable.”
“Didn’t he go to school?”
“Oh, sure, the same one as my Archer and my sister’s girls.” Clover dropped her cooking utensils into the huge stainless steel sink, and began wiping flour off the marble countertop. “I imagine Mrs. Beckwith would have liked to see her nephew at Eton, but her hopes were dashed there. Maybe that’s what started the bad blood, but they didn’t associate much after that, her and the earl.”
“But Lady Norrance kept her on?”
“She did. Who can understand the decisions of the nobility?”
Mrs. Powter pushed open the swinging door and, ignoring me, beckoned at Clover. “You’d better come at once.”
“I have rolls in the oven, Ginger. I’m not going anywhere.”
“The constables are questioning Archer again.”
“So? They questioned him last night, too. Don’t know that there’s anything new he can tell them.”
“I heard them say they searched his rooms and found a bag of rat killer. They want to know what he planned to use it for.”
“Searched his rooms? Why?” Clover untied her apron and threw it on the island. “Where are they? And we don’t have any rats, so don’t be spreading any rumors.”
Without being asked, I followed the cook out of the kitchen as she trotted behind the housekeeper, who charged down the hall. Doesn’t this woman ever walk at a normal pace? I thought as I hurried to keep up with them. We heard Archer’s angry voice before we rounded a corner to see him struggling with two policemen.
Death of a Blue Blood Page 14
