Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  “Well, she grew to a healthy adult,” Hazel said, sipping her tea.

  “I thought so, too,” Emmie said, “but the police report said the coroner found a defect in her heart, and that’s what caused her death. I imagine it may have contributed to her illnesses as a girl.” The cup of tea was halfway to her mouth when she gasped and looked over at me. “You were the one who found her, weren’t you? I knew I’d heard that name somewhere.”

  Hazel’s eyes were accusing. “How could you not say anything yesterday?” she asked.

  “I didn’t want to cause you more pain, Hazel. You were so upset about Flavia’s death. She was your close friend. I didn’t know her at all. It was simply an accident that I found her. And it was too late for me to do anything to help. I thought if I told you, it would just make it worse for you.”

  “Well, I don’t know that you were right.”

  “I’m sorry that you’re upset. I was trying to be sensitive.”

  “Where? Where did you find her? Tell me,” Emmie demanded. “How did it happen?”

  “We had just arrived and been shown to our rooms. I was looking out the window and noticed a purple cloth on the ground. I couldn’t tell what it was, but when the wind blew it aside, I saw your sister’s leg. I assumed she was hurt and unable to get up. I ran to get my friend George, and we raced downstairs to try to find her. I reached her first.”

  “She was already dead?” Emmie whispered.

  I nodded.

  “Could you tell how long?”

  “I’m not a doctor, but it looked to me as if she’d been gone for some time.”

  Emmie covered her face with her hands.

  “Emmie, dear, there’s nothing anyone could have done,” Hazel said.

  “I know.” She raised her head. “I just wish we’d made up before it happened. I loved her, but she was so stubborn, spoiled, wouldn’t listen to reason. She was always that way.” Emmie’s grief was mixed with anger.

  “Would it help to talk about it?” Hazel asked.

  “Oh, it’s all the fault of that idiot earl. Did you see that he died last night?”

  “No!”

  “It was in the morning paper: ‘Magnificent Ball Ends in Tragedy.’ That was the headline. Everyone’s talking about it in the village.” Emmie pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

  Hazel clicked her tongue. “Clearly, I must get out more.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry about the earl. He was a dreadful man.”

  I had been keeping quiet, caught between guilt at not being honest with these ladies about my suspicions concerning Flavia’s death, and fearing that if I said anything and I turned out to be wrong, I would have caused them unnecessary distress. But if anyone could clear up why Lord Norrance and Mrs. Beckwith weren’t on speaking terms, it was her sister. “If the earl was so awful,” I said, “why did your sister stay on at Castorbrook?”

  “Money. He had it. She wanted it. I told her we didn’t need his hush money. We do fine as we are. But she wanted to punish him.”

  “Why?” Hazel asked.

  Emmie started. She seemed to realize she was about to divulge family secrets. She shrugged. “Oh, it’s a long story. You don’t want to hear it. It’s in the past. And anyway, Flavia is dead. The earl is dead. Don’t they say, ‘When you’re dead, all debts are paid’?”

  Chapter Twenty

  George reached into his pocket. “I have a present for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I think you’re going to like it.”

  We were sitting side by side at a corner table having lunch at the Muddy Badger. Our taxi driver, Ralph, had declined our offer to join us, and was standing at the bar with a mug of cider—“I never take alcohol when I’m on duty”—entertaining his new friends in Chipping Minster.

  George handed me a sealed envelope.

  “May I look at it now?”

  “Look at it, but don’t read the whole thing. Your dish will get cold.”

  I broke the seal of the envelope and pulled out the sheaf of papers just far enough to identify the contents. It was the coroner’s report on Flavia Beckwith. “Oh, George! Thank you so much.” I flung an arm around his neck to give him a quick hug.

  George chuckled. “No one would believe it if I told them you got excited about a coroner’s report. They would understand it if I gave you a piece of jewelry, perhaps a ring. . . .”

  “Don’t you dare give me a ring,” I said, laughing to cover my embarrassment. I hoped George wasn’t offended. He didn’t appear to be. I tucked the envelope in my shoulder bag to examine later, and picked up my fork.

  The luncheon special at the pub was something called “toad in the hole,” a kind of potpie with sausages baked in Yorkshire pudding. It was served with red-onion marmalade and a side dish of roasted vegetables. Hearty fare for a cold winter afternoon, but I’m not sure how good it was for my health. I thought of Clover, who took pains to serve nutritious meals to the Earl of Norrance and his family. In a sense, her concern for their well-being had backfired on her when the countess elected to hire a French chef to prepare meals for the family and guests.

  It would be ironic if Clover turned out to be the one who poisoned the earl while her son stood accused of the crime. Archer was being held in jail despite his mother’s efforts to hire a criminal solicitor to bail him out. George had stopped in to see the prisoner after his meeting with Mardling and the coroner. Archer had been morose but philosophical, and George had commented to him about his acceptance of his condition.

  “Naught I can do about it now,” he’d told George. “But since I know I’m innocent, I figure the constables will release me at some point.”

  “I’m not sure I’d trust in the local lads as much as he does,” George told me.

  “If they stop the investigation on the assumption they have the murderer in hand,” I’d said, “he’ll be in a lot of trouble. But if they follow up on other possibilities, he should be all right.”

  * * *

  George had met Maura Prenty at the jail. She’d come to see her cousin Archer. Maura, I remembered reading, had been arrested along with Archer for trespassing on Farmer Melton’s property to protest the killing of badgers. At the jail, she carried in a basket of food from her mother, the Muddy Badger’s award-winning cook, whose cuisine I was eating now. The police had argued the propriety of allowing such a gift and had run the basket through a metal scanner, but Maura, or her mother, had been smart enough to pack plastic forks and spoons in the basket in anticipation of the examination.

  “This is delicious,” I said, scooping up a bit of the creamy Yorkshire pudding. It tasted like something midway between a bread pudding and a popover. “How’s your dish?”

  George looked down at his grilled fish. “It’s good, but I think I’m missing out on something special you have there.”

  “You’re welcome to share my meal,” I said. “It’s far too much for me to finish.”

  “I think I’ll just take a bite from this end.” George cut himself a taste from an untouched corner of my dish. “That’s quite good.”

  I smiled. The scene reminded me of many meals Frank Fletcher and I had shared over the years we were married. When we were newlyweds, Frank loved simple food—meat, potatoes, a salad—and that was what he would order when we went out to a restaurant. Yet he always wanted a taste of the more exotic dishes I was eager to try, and I would sample his meal in return. As our time together grew, Frank’s palate became more sophisticated, and he wanted us to order different dishes so he could experience more than one. We would tease each other and say we were members of the “flying forks brigade.” I missed that easy camaraderie, that innate understanding of each other’s likes and dislikes, that . . . not just acceptance of, but appreciation for who each of us was. I missed Frank.

  I had been a widow for a long time. Good friends had filled in the gaps, inviting me to celebrate important occasions with them, including me in family events, kee
ping me from being lonesome. But I’d never met anyone who intrigued me as Frank Fletcher had, or admired my skills and put consideration for me ahead of his own needs—until George. He was his own person with a life and a history and a profession that was complete, as I liked to think I was, too. We found we had so many interests in common, viewed things from a similar point of view, even shared the same sense of humor. George respected my instincts, my need to analyze, my attraction to knotty puzzles. And I admired his honesty, his sensitivity, his principled approach to life, and it certainly didn’t hurt that he’s a very handsome man.

  Yet, there we were with an ocean between us, with me in Maine and George in London, and neither of us willing to give up the lives we’d built, and leave friends and family behind to start a new adventure in a new country with a new love. It was a challenge, one we hadn’t been able to overcome. But we couldn’t deny the pull. For now, we would take trips into each other’s territories to spend precious time together. As for the future, it was unknowable.

  “Does Detective Sergeant Mardling think his men have arrested the right man?” I asked.

  “I got the impression he was pleased to have a subject in hand, but he did say his team is continuing the investigation.”

  “But are they only looking to bolster their case against Archer, or are they developing other suspects as well?”

  “Good question. I wish I knew for certain. Mardling has always resented my intrusion. Nevertheless I told him that their evidence was unlikely to result in a conviction and that there was more work to do. I advised him to cast a wider net. For Archer’s sake, I hope that happens quickly. We’re going to have a case meeting tomorrow with the other investigators and the chief constable. I’ll press them on that issue. But I’m a little at a disadvantage.”

  “Why?”

  George rubbed his jaw and grimaced. “I’m afraid I’m viewed as a placeholder until someone else is assigned to supervise. The Yard want an officer from the Homicide and Serious Crime Command to serve as liaison to the local constabulary. However, the divisional CID in Cheltenham is expecting to serve in this role. It’s only because Norrance was a peer and spent a good deal of his time in London that the Met’s higher-ups think the Yard should be involved in the case.”

  “But don’t you investigate homicide? I thought that was your specialty.”

  “It has been. It is. But different departments cover different geographical locations. My work is in London; we have to tread a bit carefully here not to step on toes.”

  “A jurisdictional dispute?” I asked.

  “I’d rather not refer to it as a dispute, but who’s in charge does come into question.”

  “I would think that since you were a witness to the crime, or at least to the results of the crime, and since you’re currently staying at Castorbrook, it would give you an advantage in investigating the case.”

  George smiled ruefully. “It does. But unfortunately not officially. However, no one else has shown up at the door yet, and until they do, we can continue to wander the halls.”

  “So long as we keep out of Mrs. Powter’s way,” I added, folding my napkin and placing it next to my plate. “Actually, I think we’re overdue for a conversation with that lady.”

  “I agree, but while we’re in town, I wonder if it would make sense to try to catch up with Mr. Fitzwalter before we head back to the castle,” George said.

  “The earl’s business adviser. What’s on your mind?”

  “See if you follow my reasoning. As you well know, Jessica, people kill other people for a reason. They have a motive.” He smiled, pointing a finger at me in a friendly gesture. “I can see you are about to argue that some murders occur in a fit of rage without a motive per se.”

  I smiled. “You know me well.”

  “That is the exception. But even then, something lies behind their rage, and in many cases it involves money. I’m sure that you’ve picked up on the fact, as I have, that the earl was grappling with financial problems.”

  “It was obvious,” I agreed, “and there’s no doubt that Lord Norrance’s negotiations with hotel chains didn’t sit well with others in his family, particularly his mother.”

  “She certainly defines transparency,” he said, laughing. “The oldest member of the Grant clan doesn’t hesitate to make her feelings known.”

  “An advantage of age,” I said.

  “Refreshing, that sort of candor.”

  George waved over Doreen, the barmaid. “We wondered whether you know a gentleman named Fitzwalter,” he said.

  “Lionel Fitzwalter,” I added.

  “Of course,” the waitress said. “He comes in often for lunch. A nice gent, always polite. What do you need to know?”

  “Does he have an office nearby?” George asked.

  “He does. Don’t know if it’s open today, being as it’s a holiday, but his office is in the Colligan Building, across the street and ’round the next corner. He moved here from London a few years ago, him and his wife, Birdie. Lovely lady.”

  “Yes, we met her at the New Year’s Eve ball,” I said.

  Doreen scrunched up her face and wrapped her arms about herself as though a sudden cold breeze had blown through. “Ah, the ball. Terrible thing what happened to the earl, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, terrible,” I said.

  “He wasn’t the most beloved chap in town, but no one deserves to die as he did, especially not while ringing in the New Year.”

  “I suppose we can’t always pick our time to go,” George said. “Thank you for the information, and for the fine lunch.”

  As we got up to leave, Ralph vacated his spot at the bar and came to us.

  “Stay where you are, Ralph,” George said. “We’re just walking around the block. We’ll pop back in when we’d like a ride back to the castle.”

  “Whatever you say,” Ralph said. “I’m feeling really comfortable in this place. Lovely way to spend an afternoon.”

  The Colligan Building seemed out of character in the quaint village of Chipping Minster. The architect had designed a modern two-story white structure that clashed with the older buildings and homes on either side of it. We stepped into the foyer and read the list of tenants. Fitzwalter Financial Management was on the second floor. We went up the stairs, and George tried the door. It was locked. “Well, it’s a holiday,” he said.

  I pressed the buzzer anyway. “Just in case,” I said.

  We’d already turned toward the stairs when a voice came from a speaker mounted over the door. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Jessica Fletcher and Chief Inspector Sutherland,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you, but we were hoping to steal a little bit of your time.”

  “Can you wait, please?”

  A moment later, the door opened, and Fitzwalter gave us a wan smile.

  “Sorry to barge in like this, Mr. Fitzwalter,” George said, “but we were in town and—”

  “Not a problem,” Fitzwalter said, “not a problem at all. Please come in. And it’s Lionel. We were dinner companions after all, were we not?”

  His office was nicely appointed, although the furniture was of another era, not the sort of modern design I had expected in such a contemporary building. George and I took the chairs that sat on the other side of the large walnut desk from our host.

  “You’re lucky to catch me here today, but I thought I’d better get a head start on work. It’s going to be a busy week. Tea?” he asked. “Or perhaps you would prefer coffee.” He directed that suggestion at me.

  “Neither, thank you,” I said. “We’ve just come from lunch at the Muddy Badger.”

  “Great food there,” Fitzwalter said. I hadn’t noticed when we’d dined together at the ball how large a man he was, in sharp contrast to his aptly named wife, Birdie. It wasn’t so much that he was heavy, just broad in the way football linebackers are. His general shape was rectangular.

  “If I remember correctly, you’re with the Yard, right, George?”


  “Yes, but I came to Castorbrook with Jessica purely as an invited guest. Because I happen to be here, I’ve become involved in the earl’s death, at least until a replacement has been appointed.”

  “Frankly,” Fitzwalter said, “I’m still having trouble believing it.”

  “Everyone was shocked,” I said, “except, I suppose, for whoever killed him.”

  “Is that the official finding?” Fitzwalter asked. “I suppose that’s a foolish question since I hear an arrest has been made.”

  “It’s actually not a foolish question,” George said. “The official finding will have to wait until the coroner completes his examination. But one look at the earl’s body leaves little doubt that he was poisoned.”

  Fitzwalter closed his eyes and gave a pained grunt. “And what kind of evidence do they have against the lad charged with the murder? Do you know him? Chipping Minster is a small village. The fellow is the nephew of the cook where you had your midday meal.” He shook his head and sighed. “Hard to take in that we have a murderer in our midst. Birdie and I came out to the countryside to get away from this kind of violence. Can’t believe it followed us to Chipping Minster. Makes me wonder if I should look over my shoulder when I walk home.”

  Crime can happen anywhere in the world, I thought, but didn’t say. My own hometown of Cabot Cove was as peaceful and safe-seeming as Chipping Minster, yet we’d certainly seen our share of crime. Even so, I never hesitated to walk around our village, or ride my bike on less traveled roads. You always should be alert to your surroundings, of course, but that doesn’t mean you need to skulk around, jumping at every little noise. It would make for a very uncomfortable life.

  “The constables may have been a little precipitate,” George said. “Archer Estwich has been accused, it’s true. But his guilt is not confirmed—at least in my mind.”

  “But they must have arrested him on some evidence,” Fitzwalter said.

  “Archer was the last one to serve the earl,” I said.