“And a suitably ghostly concoction –” The next glass went to Freddie. How had he managed to get that sickly grey colour? “In homage to our dear Wraith.”
“Did you say ghastly?” Freddie accepted it absently, her gaze already straying toward a nearby poinsettia.
There was a hiss of breath indrawn in wicked anticipation and a telling glitter in Jack’s eyes as Plantagenet lifted another glass from the tray and turned to Macho.
“A really macho drink for” – his tone took on an exquisite irony – “a really macho man.”
Recognizing mockery, suspecting worse in store, Macho kept both hands twisted around the glass he already held and stared with hostility at the murky green liquid being offered to him.
“Go on,” Jack urged, as Plantagenet held out the glass. “We made it just for you. We thought we might call it” – he sniggered – “the Tequila Torpedo.”
Macho stared at it in fascinated horror. Something lurked at the bottom of the glass, rolling lazily when Plantagenet jiggled the glass like an impatient nanny forcing medicine upon a reluctant charge. Macho’s jaw tightened, he quivered as he fought to keep his self-control.
“You’re gonna love it,” Jack insisted. “Come on, we want to see you guzzle it like good old Macho Magee does: two or three long gulps, then crunch, crunch, crunch on the little critter at the bottom. ‘Best part of the drink,’ he always –”
Macho snatched the glass from Plantagenet’s hand and hurled the viscous green liquid over both men. Something small and round shot from the glass and bounced across the floor to slither under a chair.
“Ooh!” Gasps of astonishment came from the onlookers, while the attacked were momentarily too shocked to speak.
“Damn it all, man!” Plantagenet slammed the tray with its remaining drinks down on a side table and began dabbing at the sticky green mess on his shirt with his handkerchief.
“For God’s sake!” Jack used his tie to mop his chin. “It’s only a Brussels sprout! Haven’t you got a sense of humour?”
“No!” Macho shouted, turning and dashing for the door. “No, I haven’t!” The door slammed behind him with a force that rattled the glasses.
“You know he doesn’t like tequila,” Freddie said reproachfully into the silence.
9
Chapter Twenty
“How can Lord Soddemall bear to live surrounded by the very water in which his dear wife breathed her last?” Marigold shuddered as they crossed the drawbridge to Soddemall Castle. “Surely, he ought to have drained the moat, if only for a few weeks, to show some proper respect.”
“Since he was responsible for her death,” Miss Petunia said, “the question of the delicacy of his behaviour is beside the point.”
“Delicacy?” Lily hooted. “Him? He’s moved the parlourmaid into the master bedroom – and they say she’s four months preggers! Soddemall by name and Soddemall by nature!” She gave every syllable full value.
“It’s pronounced ‘Small,’ dear,” Marigold corrected. “All the guide books say so.”
“It will be pronounced ‘Felon’ after we have given our proof of his guilt to the Nob Squad from Scotland Yard,” Miss Petunia said sternly. She raised the heavy iron door knocker and let it fall like the knell of doom.
“Don’t know why we had to meet them here,” Lily grumbled.
“A confrontation,” Marigold said. “At the very place where poor Lady Soddemall was discovered afloat in the moat.”
“Hello, you’re right on time.” They had not expected Lord Soddemall himself to answer the door. In the background lurked a young woman whose apron bulged forward suggestively.
“We’re all down in the dungeon. Do come in and join us.” He turned and pressed a concealed button, a panel swung inward and they followed him through the secret door and down a narrow stairway. Sure enough, the Nob Squad were all there.
“I trust you have considered my letter.” Miss Petunia advanced upon Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing. “And the inescapable conclusion to be drawn from it?”
“Eh?” Lord Clandancing said abstractedly. He reluctantly withdrew his attention from the delicious curve of Lady Briony Fitzmelon’s ear as she bent to the task of lightly dusting fingerprint powder over the surface of an exhibit case. How had he so carelessly allowed her to slip away into the uncaring arms of Viscount Unabridged, brilliant pathologist though he was?
“The conclusion” – Miss Petunia saw no reason to beat about the bush – “that Lord Ferdinand Soddemall murdered his wife!”
“No, no! Ferdie is a Lord,” Lord Clandancing said. “A Lord,” he repeated slowly and distinctly. “He could never do such a thing. Not a Lord!”
“Generations of fine breeding are behind Lord Soddemall.” Dear Lady Briony added her voice to his. “He is above suspicion!”
“Oh, I say,” Lord Soddemall bleated. “Thanks, awfully.”
“Only natural, Ferdie,” Lord Clandancing said with gentle reproof. “We could never suspect you.”
“These outsiders just don’t understand!” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn Monteryn, newest member of the Nob Squad, exclaimed:
They all turned and looked at her. There was an unpleasant silence.
“We ought to be able to sort this out in very short order,” Viscount Unabridged said. No one quite knew what a pathologist who had already performed his allotted tasks was doing on the scene of an ongoing investigation. Perhaps the way he was looking at Police Photographer Baroness Silvergate might provide a clue to the initiated. It was not so long ago that he had saved her life by an emergency tracheotomy after some miscreant who objected to being photographed had shoved her zoom lens down her throat. He had been unable to get the memory of the bubbling gasp of her cut-glass voice and the slow bright welling of oxygenated blood from the slit in her throat out of his thoughts ever since. Oh, Sylvie ...
“We can prove it!” Miss Petunia pulled the sheet of paper containing her notes on the case from her handbag and waved it at them, trying to distract their attention from each other.
“Here now, what’s all this?” Sergeant Sir Cuthbert detached the paper from her hand and perused it.
“They’re trying to frame Lord Soddemall!” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn cried. “How disgraceful!”
“Can’t let ’em get away with that,” Sergeant Sir Cuthbert said. He looked to his superiors, but they were otherwise engaged.
“Briony, dearest Lady Briony,” Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing murmured brokenly. “How can I explain? That mad night at Le Caprice with Lady Laetitia meant nothing. Nothing ...”
“Unabridged,” Lady Briony implored, ignoring Lord Clandancing. “Why did you never claim the last dance at the Hunt Ball ...?”
“Sylvie,” Viscount Unabridged whimpered. “I swear I never intended to insult your mother. How could I have known whose riding boot was thumping into my coccyx ...?”
“Sir Cuthbert.” Baroness Silvergate turned to him. “Although you rank below me, you fascinate me. No permanent alliance is possible, of course, but might we come to some temporary ...?”
“Lady Briony ...” Sergeant Sir Cuthbert’s frame quivered with emotion as he momentarily broke free of discipline. “I know I am unworthy of an Earl’s daughter, but my heart is as faithful as any ...” He did not notice that Miss Petunia’s piece of paper had slipped from his hand, nor that Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn had swooped upon it.
“I say,” Lord Soddemall remarked brightly to Miss Petunia and her sisters. “Now that you’re here, would you like a proper tour of the dungeon?”
“Oh, yes, let’s!” Marigold’s eyes danced with excitement. “Oh, thank you, Lord Soddemall.”
“Call me Ferdie,” he beamed.
“You two go ahead,” Miss Petunia said, watching Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn, who was perusing the paper with the carefully presented case against Lord Soddemall set out clearly on it.
The pregnant parlormaid followed Ferdie, Lily and Marigold, blocking them off from Miss Petu
nia’s view.
“All working models ...” She could hear Lord Soddemall explaining. “Great-grandfather insisted on that when he inherited the title and estate and began restoring the Castle. ‘Must have a working dungeon,’ he said. ‘Never can tell when it will come in useful.’ Wise man, Greatgrandfather ...”
“This is incredible!” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn gasped. “It almost seems possible!” She lowered the paper and regarded Miss Petunia earnestly. “Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing must see this!”
“Genuine guillotine,” Lord Soddemall trumpeted. “Straight from the French Revolution. Small provincial model, I’m afraid, but it did the work, all the same. We demonstrate it with cabbages ...”
“Excuse me, sir.” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn approached her superior. “But I think this might be important, sir. It sets out all the salient points in the case –”
“Case? Case?” Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing shifted his gaze from the soft beckoning curves of Lady Briony’s cheeks, of Lady Briony’s – dare he think it? – breasts. “What case?”
“The case against Ferdie, sir.”
“Ferdie? There can’t possibly be a case against Ferdie. I know you’re new to the game, Sergeant, but surely you of all people should understand that. Ferdie is a Lord!”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn flinched under his disapproval.
“Quaint padded kneeling bench ... really quite comfy, I’m told. If you’d like to try it ...”
“Here!” The Hon. Jasmyn thrust the paper back at Miss Petunia. “Take this! It’s useless! We need evidence that someone is trying to frame Ferdie.”
“Some tourists try it ... some don’t. Superstitious about guillotines, I suppose ... Ladies must be allowed their little squeamishnesses ...”
“I’m no sissy!” Lily declared stoutly. “I’ll try it!”
“Lily!” Miss Petunia started toward her sisters. “Lily, I don’t think that’s a very good ide –”
THUNK! A cabbage rolled across the dungeon floor. Only ... it wasn’t a cabbage ... It was Lily’s head.
“Damn!” Lord Soddemall said. “Old Croakins has overoiled the mechanism again. How embarrassing. I say, I’m most terribly sorry.”
“Oh, Ferdie, bad luck!” Baroness Silvergate rushed over to console him. “You must speak severely to Croakins.”
“Quite right.” Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing walked over more slowly, carefully avoiding getting blood on his handmade Leobb shoes. “Accidents happen in the home – and it’s carelessness like that that’s responsible.”
“Better call the old quack, I suppose.” Lord Soddemall glanced at Lily’s stricken sisters. “I say, don’t despair. They do marvellous things with microsurgery these days.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Marigold brightened. “They’re always sewing arms and legs back on.” A faint doubt clouded her eyes. “But ... heads?”
“Umm, well ...” Viscount Unabridged would not quite meet her eyes. “We’ll do our best. You never can tell.”
“It was murder!” Miss Petunia said. “Cold-blooded deliberate murder! Just as Lady Soddemall’s death was murder!”
“Now, now, mustn’t talk like that,” Sergeant Sir Cuthbert frowned. “That’s slander – and a very serious offense. I expect His Lordship will make allowances as you’re upset, but you mustn’t repeat the offense.”
“Of course,” Lord Soddemall said magnanimously. “Heat of the moment and all that, what? Why don’t we ask Floribel to trot off and make you a nice cup of tea? You’ll feel better then.” He patted the parlourmaid’s rump as she moved off obligingly.
“Lovely girl, Ferdie,” Lord Clandancing said. “Isn’t there something familiar about her?”
“Ah, you noticed? She’s Lord Dingdelling’s youngest daughter – on the wrong side of the blanket, but breeding will out. I’m planning to make her Lady Soddemall next week. Hope you don’t think that’s too soon but, you see, we want the heir to be born in proper wedlock.”
“Ferdie! How marvelous!” ... “Well done, old man!” ... They clustered around him, babbling congratulation. “You did say heir?”
“It’s a boy.” Ferdie blushed becomingly. “Floribel had a scan. A son and heir. The future Lord Soddemall.”
So that was it! The motive for the disposal of the first lady Soddemall, a woman who had borne no child, no heir. Miss Petunia’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Marigold to make sure she had grasped the significance of what had just been revealed.
“Oh, Pet!” Marigold’s eyes were misty. “Isn’t it romantic?”
“Don’t drink the tea!” Miss Petunia whispered urgently as Floribel flounced back into the dungeon Bearing a laden tray.
“Oh, but, Pet, that would be rude,” Marigold said. “And after the future Lady Soddemall has gone to so much trouble.”
Floribel set the tray down on an exhibit case and turned to blow a kiss to Ferdie. An unspoken message seemed to pass between them as she did so.
“Poor you.” She turned to Marigold. “I must say, you’re looking a bit fagged. Would you like to freshen up?”
“Oh!” Marigold’s hands flew up to hide her burning face. Did she look so terrible that everyone had noticed? “Yes, I would.”
“You wait here, Marigold,” Miss Petunia ordered. “I must speak to Lord Clandancing – and then I’ll go with you.”
“No need to wait,” Floribel said easily. “There’s only room for one at a time in there anyway. You reach it through the Iron Maiden – there’s a hinged door on the other side. Here, I’ll show you. Just step inside ...”
“Marigold!” Miss Petunia said warningly, spinning around just in time to see her sister step into the Iron Maiden.
“Oh, it’s so dark in here!” Marigold gasped. “I hate to seem stupid, but I’m afraid I can’t seem to find the catch –”
“Keep looking,” Floribel said encouragingly. “It’s right under your fingers.”
Slowly, inexorably, the spiked door began to close.
“But where? I can’t see ... And it’s getting darker ... Eeek!”
“Marigold!” Miss Petunia tried to dash to her sister’s side but, just as she passed Lord Soddemall, her feet went out from under her. He caught her as she fell and held her tightly. “Easy does it. We don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Let me go!” Miss Petunia struggled with him.
“Help! Oh, help! Something’s wrong with the mechanism!” Floribel clawed at the lid of the Iron Maiden, but seemed only to be hastening its closure, rather than preventing it.
“EEEeeeeaaarrrgh ...!”
“Sergeant!” Lord Clandancing ordered. “Do something!” Since he hadn’t specified which sergeant, they both reached the Iron Maiden just as the lid rammed home with a decisive thud.
Marigold stopped screaming.
“Good Lord!” Viscount Unabridged said. “It’s just not your day, Ferdie!”
“Oh, dear!” Floribel burst into tears. “I couldn’t stop it!”
“Mustn’t blame yourself, darling.” Lord Soddemall dropped Miss Petunia and raced to his beloved’s side. “These things happen.”
“They happen rather often, it seems, in Soddemall Castle.” Miss Petunia spoke through stiff lips.
“You’re right.” Lord Soddemall frowned. “I shall have to discipline Croakins. He’s been much too free with the oiling can. Lucky this didn’t happen on a day when the public are allowed in.”
“Croakins! That’s it!” Lady Briony’s eyes flared with inspiration. “He’s the one who’s been trying to frame you, Ferdie!”
“I believe you’re right.” Viscount Unabridged nodded. “Over-oiling the mechanisms like that. He wanted accidents to happen – so that Ferdie would be blamed.”
“And he killed Lady Soddemall!” Lady Briony could see it all now. “For years he had cherished a mad secret passion for her, as these peasants must when living in close proximity to the grace and breeding of their betters. At
last, he could contain himself no longer. He followed her when she went for her nightly stroll around the battlements, declared himself and – and perhaps even dared to try to kiss her! And when she so rightly repulsed him – he threw her from the parapet to her death in the moat below.”
“That’s the solution!” Detectiye Inspector Lord Clandancing agreed. “Good work, Lady Briony! He won’t escape us now. Ring for Croakins, Ferdie. We’ll confront him with his villainy!”
“No, no,” Miss Petunia protested. “You’ve got it all wrong. The true perpetrator of these hideous crimes is Lord Soddemall. Aided and abetted by his ... his paramour!”
“Pardon me for a moment, Lady Briony,” Lord Clandancing said tenderly. “I must reason with this poor deluded creature.”
“Noblesse oblige!” Lady Briony’s eyes shone. “Don’t be too hard on her, my dear. These people don’t know any better.”
“But,” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn said, “she has collected some evid ...” She faltered to a halt as they all turned and glared at her.
“What do you know about it?” Lady Briony demanded. “You’re the newest member of the team. You’re here on sufferance, really.”
“And off to a bad start,” Lord Clandancing frowned. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about it. You aren’t really entitled to call yourself an Honourable, you know. You’re only the daughter of a Life Peer.”
“Oh!” Sergeant Jasmyn was cut to the quick. “How can you?” She pressed her hand to her heart and paled.
“I say.” Lord Soddemall was at Miss Petunia’s side again. “You’re looking a bit peaky. Have a cup of tea.”
“Good thinking, Ferdie,” Baroness Silvergate said. “We could all do with a cup of tea.”
“Not you,” Ferdie said quickly. “Thought I’d break out the Napoleon brandy and champagne for us. A cup of tea will do the old dear nicely, then I’ll have Croakins see her home. Get one last job out of him before he knows we’ve rumbled him.”
“Good-oh!” Viscount Unabridged said happily. “I could do with a drop of the old Napoleon.”
“Come upstairs,” Floribel said. “We’ll be so much more comfortable.” She wrinkled her nose at the rivulets of blood on the floor. “It’s getting rather untidy down here.”
Canapés for the Kitties Page 16
