“Anyway,” Ruthven went on in a normal voice, “more in this vein, but then she testified she heard a loud crash, followed by the sound of someone running.”
“‘He ne’er doon that afore,’ she said. ‘It scairt me, like, so I thought I’d best go have a look, me in me robe an’ all, but I dinna like the soond of it.’”
“The ghost didn’t scare her but a ghost acting out of character did. Good for Agnes,” said Albert.
“Wait for it. Apparently the coroner also was caught up in the ghost-as-suspect possibility.” Ruthven read again from the newspaper account: “Asked what it was the ghost had never done before- caused a loud crash or run away-Mrs. Grant replied, ‘A ghost dunna run in high heels.’”
“A headless Lord in high heels,” mused Albert. “Not impossible, granted a public school education. Still, I don’t see where Lady Winthrop comes into it. Unless she was the only woman in the house who owned a pair of heels. Not likely.”
“Agnes gets to that. All the women visiting the house-it was one of those ‘play cards and shoot whatever moves’ weekend parties such as Violet described yesterday-were lodged in the West wing that night. Agnes Grant was adamant she heard the high heels clicking their way toward the family quarters on the East side of the house, where Lord and Lady Winthrop resided in solitary splendor. Agnes gives it as her further opinion that only Violet of all those present would caper about at three AM in high-heeled slippers, ‘her bein’ a real clues-hearse as she is,’ but the coroner ignored that, of course, and rightly so.”
“What makes me think Agnes would soon find herself out of a job?” said Albert.
“She gave her opinion on that, as well: ‘I’ll not stay another night ’neath that roof to be mairdered in me sleep, even by her ladyship, who has always traited me fair.”
“So much for the fealty-not to say the discretion-of old retainers. Well, if that’s all the coroner had to go on I’m not surprised at the hazy verdict.”
“Oh, there was more. What is evident from the testimony, wrenched as it had to be from the guests, who had clearly decided it was an occasion for all titled hands to the pumps, was that Lord and Lady Winthrop were not getting along.”
“Well, how very rare an occurrence amongst married couples. I’m surprised they didn’t clap her in irons on the spot.”
“Wait for it, will you? Agnes wasn’t the most sensational witness, not by a long shot. That came later, a witness who testified that Violet Winthrop was with him-him-at the time Agnes heard the crashing and banging coming from the study.”
Albert perked up at this. At least, his eyebrows did, until he realized even that small movement made his head throb. Carefully, he narrowed his eyes again against the light, and said:
“At three AM?”
“Precisely. In high heels or no high heels, she was with him, so he said. Precisely what the gentleman was doing with Violet is not spelled out, but the implications were-and are-obvious. That must have sent the press in a virtual stampede out of the room to telephone in their stories. It’s the classic tale-older man, younger woman. All anyone had to do was fill in the blanks. Winthrop was”-and here Ruthven flipped back through the pages-“about forty years her senior.”
“Hmm,” said Albert. “A fact she failed to mention on first meeting, although one would hardly expect her to. Who was this Lothario of the wee hours, anyway?”
“One John Davies, who, having provided Violet with an alibi, seems promptly and handily to have disappeared without a trace. He may be long dead by now, of course, but I have my men on it. If he’s around, they’ll find him.”
“You sound like the head of Scotland Yard, with all the resources of Interpol at your fingertips.”
“Not too far from the truth,” said Ruthven complacently. “As I say, they’ll find him if he’s out there. Doesn’t help, of course, his having a common name like Davies. But if not him, someone else staying at the house that weekend, whose tongue may have been loosened by the passage of time.”
He set aside his glasses and folded his hands on top of the pile of faxed clippings in a “getting down to business” manner.
Uh oh, thought Albert.
“Now the question is, what do we do with this information?” asked Ruthven.
“Surely you mean, what do you do? I haven’t a clue.”
“Really? I should think you’d have several.”
“Go to Father with these clippings, you mean? Perhaps shove them under the door of his study and then scarper like hell? Do you seriously think that wily fat fox is unaware of all this-hasn’t, perhaps, done his own digging, himself? You forget the man’s stock in trade is murder-fictionalized, with preposterous plots and methods and motives, granted, but murder, just the same. He probably has a rehashing of the case in one of those collections of unsolved crimes he has sitting on his bookshelves. We agreed, I thought, that part of the attraction he feels toward Violet may in fact be her bullet-riddled past.”
“She bludgeoned her elderly husband to death; she didn’t shoot him.”
“According to the coroner, she did neither. Also, according to her lover.”
“If he was telling the truth. You’re forgetting the times in which this happened: the mid-fifties. This wasn’t a case of White Mischief in the peat bogs, you know. It wasn’t even Brits misbehaving on holiday in Majorca. Casual affairs among the upper crust weren’t quite as winked at-even expected or encouraged-as they might have been even fifteen years earlier. They aren’t entirely winked at today. This was the same era in which Princess Margaret was forced to end her relationship with Townsend because he was divorced, for heaven’s sake. In other words, one wouldn’t cheerfully own up to an affair while under oath unless the alternative were much worse. And the far worse alternative might have been not to produce an alibi for Violet-even a phony one.”
“You mean that a real gentleman of the Empire would have lied under oath to protect Violet with a phony alibi, while only a scoundrel would have kissed and told the truth, even to save Violet from hanging?”
His headache, he noticed now, was blessedly beginning to recede as he focused on the implications of Ruthven’s tale. He thought he might just manage some toast, if he were careful.
“Something like that. Either way, she was in disgrace, especially for the times. Being a murderess was probably considered not much worse than sleeping around. The two things may have tied in a dead heat in the minds of the reading public. Certainly, had it come to a trial, a jury might not have made the distinction. Luckily for her, it never came to that. But that’s where we come in.”
Again, Albert raised an eyebrow at the “we” but held his tongue.
“As you say, all this may not come as news to Father, although I’d be willing to bet any version he’s heard from Violet has been highly sanitized.” Ruthven, recalling the look of besotted infatuation he’d seen on his father’s face the day before, added, “I doubt he cares what the truth of it is. It’s obvious he’s mad about her.”
“Yes, so I think you’ve mentioned before. Sickening, isn’t it?” Struck by a new thought, he said: “I wonder where they met?”
“At one of his book signings, according to George. Apparently he got that information out of her last night at dinner. Love at first sight, it was, so she says.”
“That I don’t believe. I can see what Adrian sees in her-even given her age, she’s quite lovely-but what in God’s name does she want with a bad-tempered monster like Adrian?”
“Perhaps the same thing we want with him.”
“Money? Surely not. To all appearances-”
“I know what you’re going to say. Certainly, she looks like she’s led a pampered life. Still, appearances mean nothing-as an actor, you know that better than I do. She’s had plenty of time to run through her husband’s fortune. Besides, his scattered family may have kicked up a fuss over the will, given the circumstances. My men-”
“Yes, I know, your men are on it.”
Ignorin
g him, Ruthven returned to his earlier theme.
“We have to do something to stop this marriage in any event, agreed? And if it’s money she’s after…”
“What?” said Albert. “I should go offer her my stamp collection if she’ll promise never to darken our doorway again? I have no money, you know that. At least, not the sort needed to buy someone off. I doubt I could buy off a poodle.”
“Between the three of us-me, George, and Sarah-I think we could come up with a goodly sum. Goodly enough to turn the trick. That leaves you to make the actual offer.”
“Me?” Albert had begun turning a table knife over and over, as if considering the best angle with which to stab Ruthven through the heart.
“Yes, you. It’s only fair. If we put up the money, you-”
“I do the dirty work. And if she refuses? Is insulted? Goes running to Father in high dudgeon with the tale that his no-good sot of a son tried to buy her off? Then I’m the one neatly out of the running, even if I happen to mention who put me up to it.”
Anger, whether at Ruthven’s clumsy attempt to set him up as a patsy or at the stupidity of the plan itself, had a salutary cleansing effect. He rose from his chair like a member of parliament during a Q-and-A session, riding the crest of a surge of intense dislike for his brother.
“Wait, I haven’t told you-”
“Told me what? Why I was chosen? Oh, I know why. Sarah hasn’t the guts to do it. George can’t be trusted any more than your average addict can be. You thought my own-fondness for drink-might make me malleable. Well, surprise. If you think this is such a hot idea, do your own dirty work. Or get one of your ‘men’ to do it for you.”
“Albert, wait-”
When Albert had been four and Ruthven about six, he’d locked Albert in the cellar overnight, threatening to do worse if Albert told on him. Interestingly, none of the adults in the house had noticed Albert’s absence-his mother had been long gone by then, but where, Albert wondered now, had been the nanny? The cook? Someone? But Albert eventually did tell-his father-who had only laughed. And Ruthven had kept his promise to do worse.
Whenever Albert was tempted to think in terms of cause and effect-their mother’s leaving in relation to Ruthven’s general shit-tiness- he remembered that Ruthven had always been like this. From the cradle, so far as Albert knew. The loss of their mother had perhaps just accelerated the effect, like throwing manure on a weed patch.
Now Albert slapped his napkin down on the table, disarranging the tableware and startling Paulo, who was just making his belated appearance with a second coffee urn. Albert thought it might be time for something a little stronger than coffee. A reward for having stood up to Ruthven-this time.
Albert paused on his way out only long enough to wonder how long Paulo had been standing behind the door, listening.
7. TOO MANY COOKS
SARAH WAS AT A loss. After getting herself out from under Lillian’s wheels, she had wandered into the library (as distinct from her father’s study, which she would not have dared enter at any hour). Opening off the great hall with its macabre display of weaponry, the book-lined room always had an enormous fire crackling in the fireplace, and she often had it to herself. Only Albert shared her passion for books, one reason her bond to him was stronger than it was to the others. But Sarah’s magpie penchant for collecting esoteric tidbits of knowledge was something she felt she alone had inherited from Sir Adrian.
There was a second entry to the library via the smoking room, seldom used now. The layout of the house was a leftover from the days of clearly defined male and female territories: Across from the smoking room was the billiards room, where men at the turn of the nineteenth century often would repair after the ladies had gone to bed. Her father’s study was just next to that all-male bastion, but playing billiards was of course forbidden while Sir Adrian worked. The stairs to what had been called the “bachelor bedrooms” ran along the other side of the study, allowing easier access to the upper floors of the house.
Sarah now stood surveying the content of the shelves. Her father’s collection ranged widely among the classics, from Plato through Shakespeare, but then leapt the centuries to Fitzgerald and Hemingway, stopping somewhere in the 1950s. Few outpourings from the great minds of the last half or so of the twentieth century were in evidence, and only the Hemingway novels and Golden Age mysteries looked well-thumbed.
But Hemingway’s macho style held little comfort for Sarah today, and having Violet in the house, she felt, provided enough real-life mystery. She was turning away when she heard the door behind her opening from the hall.
“Oh! I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The American accent was unmistakable, sounding rough to her ears, like the blat of a car horn. But the smile was friendly, the face open and guileless.
“Not at all. I was just leaving. I can’t seem to settle to anything this morning.”
“Yes, I know how that can be.” He came forward, hand outstretched. “It’s Miss Beauclerk-Fisk, of course. I’m Jeffrey Spencer. Your father’s assistant. Well, secretary, officially. Although in the States ‘male secretary’ is freighted with so many connotations I try to avoid the term.”
She smiled. “It’s Sarah. Pleased to meet you. How do you do?”
Having gotten through the conventions, she was at a loss to know what to say next. Fortunately, Jeffrey seemed anxious to talk. He sat down in one of the leather chairs by the fireplace and leaned forward on his elbows, his expression indicating he couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say for herself. He so clearly wanted company, she sat down across from him.
“Sarah, then,” he said. “Thank you. Wonderful name. It means ‘princess,’ you know.”
A man after her own pedantic heart. Sarah blushed to the roots of her hair.
“In Hebrew. Yes, I know. How extraordinary of you to know that. Doesn’t suit me, though.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I would have said it suited you wonderfully.”
“Only in the sense that my father is rather like a king, or thinks he is. I suppose that’s where it came from. I never bothered to ask him.”
“No, it’s just… I don’t know. Perhaps it’s your way of carrying yourself. ‘Queenly’ might be a better word.”
Sarah, completely unaccustomed to flattery, was dumbfounded. Her thoughts suddenly filtered through white noise, all she could register was the transparent grayish-blue of Jeffrey’s wide, candid eyes; everything else ceased to exist. She attempted to smooth back her hair, which as usual made the fringe stand on end. To her dismay, her lips emitted a little squeak of nervous laughter.
Shut up! she commanded herself. He’ll think you a fool.
Lips pressed firmly together, she glared at him, eyes wide with the effort of self-control.
Jeffrey was alarmed. “I say. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to give offense.”
“No!” she croaked. He jumped, startled. Damn! Clearing her throat, she tried again. “I mean, what I meant to say was, erm, thank you.”
After a long moment when Jeffrey, afraid to say anything more, did not speak, she mumbled again, “Thank you,” wondering if the little skip in her heart was happiness or an impending seizure. She turned away in confusion, stammering:
“I should go and help Mrs. Romano. Luncheon. Or dinner. She’ll-she’ll need me.” She jumped from her chair and scuttled crablike out of the room, unfortunately clearing only part of the open, carved double doors leading into the library. One of them crashed loudly against the inner wall on her exit.
Jeffrey, feeling he had once again somehow stepped into a bottomless puddle of British reserve, called after her.
“I say! I am sorry. I didn’t mean…”
She didn’t, couldn’t, turn back to look at him.
“Damn it all,” he said, under his breath.
***
“Sod it all,” said George. “Parking in Cambridge always was impossible.”
Natasha braced hersel
f, neck whiplashing, as George again attempted to jackknife his car into a too-small space on St. Andrew’s Street.
“Ouch! Park in the garage, for God’s sake.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
George, as Natasha knew by now, had a high tolerance for pain-other people’s pain.
“Oh, forget it. Look, where shall we meet up? And when?” While she could usually trick George into giving his plans away, he had been maddeningly close-lipped about his reasons for this trip into town.
“The Eagle. In about an hour. Maybe two.”
Which meant closer to three.
“George, I really don’t fancy hanging around a pub by myself.”
“I’ll be there when I get there. Cheer up. Who knows? You might get lucky and meet another rich bloke.”
With an unpleasant laugh, he retrieved a Gucci backpack from the back seat, got out of the car, and slammed the door. A small avalanche of snow fell from the bonnet.
It took all her considerable control not to tell him to sod off. Something like prudence won out as she decided the better course of dealing with George-usually-was to ignore him. It was a long taxi ride back to Waverley Court and he was more than capable of leaving her stranded.
Death of a Cozy Writer Page 7
