“Why wouldn’t we be up to it?” Betsy protested. “I was prepared to do my part, and so was Wiggins . . .” She broke off as a loud knocking came from the back door.
“I’ll see who it is.” Wiggins leapt to his feet and started for the hall. Fred, the household’s mongrel dog, who’d been sleeping peacefully on a rug near the warm stove, jumped up and trailed after the footman.
“Cor blimey!” they heard Wiggins exclaim. “Look what the cat’s dragged home! What are you knockin’ for? You shoulda just walked right in.”
“I wasn’t sure of my welcome,” said a familiar voice.
Betsy got to her feet and stared into the darkened hallway. She’d gone deathly pale. Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge stood up as well. The cook looked at the housekeeper, her expression anxious. Both of them glanced at Betsy, but she didn’t notice; her entire attention was focused on the footsteps coming down the hall.
Wiggins, followed by a tall, dark-haired man wearing a long, heavy gray coat, came into the kitchen. Dampness glistened on the man’s thick black hair. A blue and gray woven scarf hung around his neck, and he pulled off a pair of leather gloves as he walked. His face was red from the cold, and there was a hint of shadow on his high cheekbones and his chin.
“Look who I found,” the footman said gleefully. “Isn’t it wonderful? He made it home in time for Christmas.”
“Hello, Smythe. Welcome home,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly.
“Maria, are you all right?” Basil Farringdon whispered in his wife’s ear as they walked into the brilliantly lighted dining room for dinner. “You’ve been staring at Stephen for the last hour.”
“That’s because he’s putting on such a good show,” she replied softly. “Did you see his face when he took us all into the morning room to show off that ridiculous Christmas tree? I thought he was going to have an apoplexy attack when Mrs. Graham didn’t give it more than a glance.”
“Shh . . . He’ll hear you.” Basil looked over his shoulder at their host. Despite the fact that the butler announced that dinner was served, Whitfield hadn’t moved toward the dining room.
“Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “Right now the only thing he’s interested in doing is pouring that Bordeaux down his throat. Honestly, he acts as if he’s afraid someone’s going to steal it away, and he’s glaring at Mr. Langford like he’s worried the man’s going to run off with his silver.”
Whitfield was standing in the open door of the morning room. A Christmas tree blazing with candles and colored ornaments of painted glass, wood, and clay stood in front of the marble fireplace. Two uniformed footmen, one with a bucket of sand at his feet and one with a bucket of water, stood on either side of the mantel. Whitfield held a glass of wine in one hand while with his other he pointed at the evergreen boughs decorating the mantelpiece behind the tree. He was saying something, but the others in the room were paying no attention to him. Eliza Graham was standing in front of the tree, laughing at some quip of Hugh Langford’s; Henry Becker, another guest, was laughing as well. Rosalind Murray, Whitfield’s sister-in-law, was in the corner of the dining room, gesturing for the butler to begin pouring the wine for the first course.
“More like he’s worried Langford’s going to run off with Mrs. Graham.” Basil chuckled softly, caught himself, and composed his features so that no one could possibly accuse him of actually enjoying himself. For goodness’ sake, this was a social obligation, and he must act appropriately.
Whitfield, with one last glare at his guests, turned on his heel and stumbled into the dining room. The others followed suit.
Farringdon waited till everyone had approached the table; then he pulled out the ornate Queen Anne dining chair, seated his wife, and took his own seat.
Hugh Langford seated Eliza Graham and took the chair next to her. Stephen was at the head of the table with Maria on his right and Eliza Graham on his left. Henry Becker was next to Maria. Basil was beside Rosalind Murray.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Murray,” Basil said politely.
“It’s good to see you, Mr. Farringdon,” she replied. She was a tall blond woman in her late fifties. Her complexion was pale, her eyes were blue, and the gray in her hair was quickly overtaking the blond. She wore a lavender silk high-necked evening gown and an anxious smile.
The dining room door opened, and the servants began serving the first course.
“Will you be staying in town for Christmas?” Maria asked Rosalind. She felt very sorry for the poor woman, especially tonight. Eliza Graham’s bright beauty made the pale Rosalind look even blander than usual.
“Oh yes, we’ve no plans to leave town.” Rosalind smiled faintly.
“We’re thinking of going to Scotland,” Hugh interjected. “But Eliza’s afraid we’ll be trapped up there by bad weather.”
Stephen glared at Hugh and gestured for Flagg. He nodded at the glass of white wine next to his soup bowl. “I don’t want that.” He raised the glass of Bordeaux he’d brought with him to the table. “I want this.”
“But the first course is a fish soup,” Rosalind protested. “It won’t go with Bordeaux.”
Whitfield ignored her. “Bring me the bottle. It’s in the drawing room,” he ordered Flagg. Rosalind gave an almost imperceptible shrug and turned her attention back to the guests.
“I thought we agreed you’d be here for Christmas Eve dinner,” Whitfield said accusingly to Eliza. “And for Boxing Day as well.”
“Those plans were very tentative,” Eliza replied softly. She cast a quick, nervous smile at Langford.
“Ah, yes, Boxing Day. It’s actually the Feast of St. Stephen,” Henry Becker said to no one in particular. “He was quite an interesting saint. I believe he was stoned to death, or perhaps he was drawn and quartered.”
Rosalind frowned at Stephen. “If we’re having a full dinner for Christmas Eve, Stephen, you’d best let me know so that I can make arrangements with the cook. The servants have plans as well, you know.”
“The servants will do as they are told,” he snapped.
Maria Farringdon glanced at her husband, her expression amused. Basil gave her a stern look, then quickly picked up his wineglass to hide his own smile. His good wife was enjoying herself far too much, and truth to tell, so was he. Gracious, this might end in fisticuffs before the evening was out.
“I say, Stephen, this is very good wine.” Henry Becker, who was totally oblivious to the undercurrents of tension around the table, put his glass down and smiled at his host. He was a slight man with a narrow chest and a full head of graying hair. A widower of many years, he’d been to school with Stephen and Basil, and desired nothing more than some congenial company, a good dinner, and some decent wine.
“It’s French,” Stephen replied. He took another long sip from his own drink and then nodded at Flagg, who’d come in with the Bordeaux, to refill his glass. “Mr. Langford, do you like French wine?”
“It depends,” Langford replied. He put down his soup spoon and turned his attention to his host. “Some French wine is excellent, but some of it isn’t worth drinking.”
“Or perhaps some people simply can’t appreciate a fine wine.” Whitfield paused and took a deep breath. “Not everyone has a refined palate.”
Maria Farringdon snickered and tried to cover the noise with a discreet cough. Basil gave her a warning look, but none of the other guests appeared to notice her outburst.
“And some people will drink any old rubbish as long as it has a fancy label on it,” Langford replied with an amused smile.
Stephen stared at him for a long moment. “I’ve an announcement I’d like to make.”
“An announcement,” Eliza interjected. “What sort of announcement?”
“Why, surely you know.” Stephen took another deep breath, wheezing a bit as though he was having trouble getting air. “It’s something we’ve been discussing for several months now.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the right time,” Eliza said with a nervous g
lance at Hugh. “We ought to discuss the matter further. Nothing has been settled as yet. I told you I needed a bit more time to think the matter over.”
“Nonsense.” Whitfield coughed. “You’ve had plenty of time.”
Langford looked first at his host and then at Eliza, but he said nothing. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.
“What kind of announcement is it?” Henry asked eagerly.
“A very pleasant one.” Stephen could barely choke out the words. His face had turned bright red, and his shoulders slumped forward.
“Stephen, you’ve gone a funny color.” Basil stared at him in concern.
“You’re very flushed,” Rosalind said. “You’ve turned red. Have you got a fever?”
Eliza stared at him. “You don’t look well at all. I think perhaps you’ve had too much excitement.”
“Are you alright, sir?” Langford unfolded his arms and leaned toward his host, his expression concerned.
But their host wasn’t alright. Suddenly his eyes widened, his mouth gaped open, and he sat bolt upright. “Ye gods, you’ve all turned blue.”
“Turned blue,” Langford repeated. “Is this some sort of absurd joke?”
Rosalind had risen from her chair. “Stephen, for goodness’ sake, what is wrong with you?”
But Stephen didn’t seem to hear her. His shoulders began to shake, his hands clenched into fists, and his face contorted as though he was in pain. He clutched at his chest. “The light, the light, what’s wrong with the light?” he cried. Then he slumped forward and plunged face-first into his soup bowl.
Eliza screamed, Henry blinked in surprise, Maria’s jaw dropped, and Hugh Langford was frozen by shock. Basil rushed to his host, grabbed him by the hair, and yanked his face out of the soup bowl. “Get a doctor,” he yelled.
“There’s one just across the road,” Rosalind Murray said. “Run and fetch Mrs. Winston’s new lodger. He’s a doctor,” she ordered Flagg. “Do it quickly. Mr. Whitfield has taken ill.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Dr. Bosworth said as he straightened up. He turned toward the people crowding around the foot of the dead man’s bed. “He’s gone.”
“I’m Rosalind Murray.” A woman stepped away from the others and came toward him. “Stephen was my brother-in-law. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to introduce ourselves properly, but we were in a hurry to get help for Stephen. I’m so sorry to have called you out when you’re not even our doctor, but I remembered my neighbor mentioning that she’d rented rooms to a physician, so when Stephen collapsed, all I could think of was getting you here.” She glanced at the body on the bed. “What happened to him? Was it a heart attack?”
Bosworth hesitated a moment. “I’m not sure. Can you tell me what he was doing before he collapsed?”
“We were having dinner.” She waved at the crowd around the foot of Stephen’s bed. “As you can see, we’ve guests.” She looked at them. “Perhaps you’d all be more comfortable in the drawing room, now that we know Stephen is beyond all hope.”
“Are you certain there’s nothing we can do to help?” a short, rather chubby fellow asked.
“Not really.” Rosalind smiled wanly. “Honestly, perhaps it would be best if you all simply went home. This can’t be very pleasant.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, and with much shuffling of feet and muttering among themselves, the group headed for the door.
“Just a moment,” Bosworth called. There was something very wrong here; he could feel it. But these were wealthy, influential people, so he had to be careful.
The little cluster of guests stopped and stared at him expectantly.
“What’s wrong, Doctor?” Rosalind asked. “Why can’t they leave?”
“I’d like one of you to tell me exactly what happened before Mr. Whitfield died.”
“I can give you that information. There’s no need to detain our guests,” Rosalind said coolly.
“I’m Maria Farringdon. Stephen said we were all turning blue,” a small, slender woman with gray hair supplied. “Then he clutched his chest and fell into his soup bowl. That’s when Mrs. Murray yelled for the butler to go get you.”
“So he was still alive at that point?” Bosworth pressed. “And you’re sure about what he said?”
“Honestly, Doctor, I don’t think it’s seemly for us to be standing by poor Stephen’s bedside, having a discussion of his last moments,” Rosalind snapped. “At least let’s go into the drawing room.”
“Of course I’m sure,” Maria replied. “We all heard him quite clearly.”
“His face contorted just before he went into the soup,” the man standing next to Maria Farringdon volunteered. “Don’t forget that.”
“And he said there was something wrong with the light,” another fellow, this one holding the arm of an attractive older woman, added. “I thought it a very odd remark.”
“Doctor, can we please go into the drawing room?” Rosalind Murray pleaded. “This is very unseemly.”
“Yes, of course,” Bosworth agreed. “But do make sure that no one eats or drinks anything, and I do mean anything.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Doctor, have you gone mad? What on earth are you talking about?”
“I think you’d better call the police,” Bosworth replied calmly. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to insist upon it.”
“The police!” She gaped at him. “Why do we need the police? Didn’t Stephen have a stroke or a heart attack?”
Bosworth could hear the others muttering and exclaiming in surprise, but he ignored them and instead looked back at the body on the bed. “There will have to be an autopsy. Mr. Whitfield may well have had a heart attack, but if he did, it wasn’t brought on by anything natural.”
“What does that mean?” Rosalind Murray cried. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“It means I think Mr. Whitfield was poisoned,” Bosworth announced. “That’s why I don’t want anyone eating or drinking anything.”
Betsy and Smythe stared at each other across the length of the kitchen. “Hello, Betsy,” he said.
“Hello, Smythe,” she replied. She wasn’t sure what to do or even what she felt. She’d planned and thought about this moment for so long, but now that it was here, she was completely in the dark. She’d practiced dozens of mean, cutting things to say to him when he got back, thought often of how she was going to turn up her nose and pretend he meant nothing to her. But now that he was right here in front of her, she couldn’t do it. Despite the fact that he’d left her at the altar (at least in her mind), she found she could do nothing but stand like a silly ninny and drink in the sight of him. “How was your trip?”
“It was fine,” he muttered. He felt frozen to the spot.
“Take off your coat and sit down, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “We’re just about ready to eat, and I’m sure you’re hungry.” She could see that both of them had been struck dumb by the sight of each other. Good. It meant they still loved each other, and she was wise enough to know that where there was love, there was hope that things could be put right.
“Alright.” Without taking his eyes off Betsy, Smythe slipped out of his heavy coat, slapped it onto the coat tree in the corner, and made his way to the table.
Mrs. Goodge had already gone to the cupboard for another place setting. She stopped at the cutlery drawer and took out a knife and fork. She put everything down at his usual place at the table next to Betsy and then went back to her own chair. “It’s good to have you back, Smythe,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed all of you,” he replied as he sat down next to his fiancée. “But most of all, I’ve missed you,” he said softly to the woman sitting beside him.
Betsy found she couldn’t say anything.
“I’m back to stay,” he tried. He wished she’d say something. “And I’ll never leave you again.”
Still, she simply stared at him.
“Cor blimey, Betsy, aren’t you goin’ to speak to ’im?” Wiggins exclaimed.
“Wiggins, be quiet,” the cook hissed. Though she rather agreed with the lad, this was getting embarrassing. Mind you, she did understand Betsy’s point of view. Canceling all those wedding plans hadn’t been very pleasant for the poor girl. Even though the household knew that Smythe was coming back, everyone else in the neighborhood had assumed that he’d jilted her and made a run for it. Being the object of pity hadn’t been easy for Betsy.
“Say something, Betsy,” Smythe pleaded. His worst fears were being realized. He’d been prepared for tears or accusations or even a good screaming match, but this dead silence was devastating. It meant she felt nothing. That she’d locked him out of her heart for good.
“What do you want me to say?” she replied calmly. “Welcome home. Mrs. Jeffries, can you please pass the pork chops?”
Smythe gaped at her for a moment. He glanced at the others, noting that their faces reflected the same shock that he felt sure was mirrored in his own expression. “Is that it, then? Pass the bloomin’ pork chops?”
“We’ve got extra,” Wiggins supplied helpfully. “The inspector went to Lady Cannonberry’s for dinner, so you can ’ave his chops.”
Smythe ignored him. “I’ve been gone for six months,” he cried, “and that’s all you’ve got to say to me? For God’s sake, woman, I’ve spent months slogging about the outback, lookin’ for a crazy old man.” He couldn’t believe she was reacting like this. He’d spent practically every waking moment over the past six months thinking about her, telling himself he’d do whatever it took to fix things between them. He knew he’d done the unforgivable, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d owed a debt of honor, and now that he’d paid it, he wanted to get on with his life. But she was acting as if he’d only stepped out to have a drink.
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 81
