by Alice Duncan
Rotondo, beyond a doubt, hadn’t expected such a take-charge attitude from Harold, a “faggot.” I did. I thought Harold was a true gem among men. “Er, yes. Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.” He cleared his throat. “So, you say that an argument was overheard taking place between Mr. Eustace Kincaid and the stable boy? Quincy Applewood?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately when did this transpire?”
He looked at Harold, who shrugged and said, “Darned if I know. I wasn’t here. Mother?” He eyed his mother in some concern.
Mrs. Kincaid had calmed down since my entrance. Take that, Detective Samuel Rotondo!
“I, ah, don’t recall exactly. It was after midnight. I think it was after midnight.”
“I see. And who was present during the argument?”
“Nobody. I mean, my husband and Mr. Applewood were the only ones there. The rest of us only heard it when the two men started yelling at each other.” She sobbed. I squeezed her hand and glared at Rotondo, who wasn’t impressed. As usual.
“Who else was in the house at the time?”
Mrs. Kincaid looked blank. “Who was in the house? Why, um, I . . .” Her voice trailed off, which was just as well since it didn’t seem to be doing her any good.
“Were the maids and Featherstone here, Mother?” Harold asked, trying to be helpful.
“Oh. Oh, of course. Yes. I see what you mean.”
She sat up straighter and the gears in her brain started a slow crank into thought. You could practically hear her brain gears scraping against each other, since they hadn’t been greased since God knew when. I got the feeling Mrs. Kincaid had never been forced to do much thinking in her life, and that she was frightened when asked to do some now. Truth to tell, and I know it’s not a very respectful thing to say, but she was a scatterbrained woman. I’m sure it’s because nobody’d ever expected her to be anything else.
As a rule, I don’t much care for scatty women, probably because I’ve had to work so hard and think so much all my life. But Mrs. Kincaid was one of the world’s kindest, most generous people, and I liked her for it, even if she wasn’t the brightest person in the world.
“Um, well, I’m sure Featherstone was here, because when I went downstairs to see what the matter was, he was there, too, in his bathrobe and slippers.”
Boy, wouldn’t I have liked to see that. Imagine: Featherstone in human clothes. The mind fairly boggled.
Mrs. Kincaid strained to think some more. I almost felt sorry for her, because I could tell how difficult the process was for her. “Um, Edie Marsh was here, I’m certain, because she sleeps upstairs in the maid’s room. James Howard, the other stable boy, must have been here. He and Quincy sleep in the loft over the stables. Slept, I mean. Oh, dear!”
She started crying again. Again I glared at Rotondo. Again, he ignored me.
“So no one else was on the premises during the argument?”
Mrs. Kincaid shook her head. “N-n-no. I don’t think so. Jackson, the gate keeper, goes home at night.”
“Is the gate locked before he leaves?”
Mrs. Kincaid’s vacant stare answered that question, so Rotondo aimed the same question at Harold. Harold said, “I have a key. Jackson makes sure the gate’s locked against intruders.”
“I see.” Rotondo appeared to contemplate locked gates for a moment. Now he, I judged, thought all the time and the process didn’t hurt his brain as it did poor Mrs. Kincaid’s. “How many people have keys to the gate?”
Again Harold interpreted his mother’s vacant expression. “I have one. My father has one. I’m sure Jackson has one, since he mans the gate during the day. Don’t know about anybody else, except Stacy. I’m sure she has one, although I don’t think she ought to.” He glanced at his mother and decided not to explain his reason for wanting to rescind Stacy’s key privileges.
“So,” said Rotondo, sounding as if he didn’t approve, “that makes four keys and possibly more.”
Harold shrugged. “I guess.”
Rotondo decided to drop the key issue for the nonce and returned his attention to Mrs. Kincaid, who flinched as if he’d struck her. I squeezed her hand to let her know I’d protect her from the big, bad policeman. “You said that you went downstairs when you heard the commotion?”
“Yes. By the time I got my robe and slippers on and—and did some other things—”
I’d have been willing to wager that she’d had to wipe off her face cream and remove her wrinkle eradicators and perform other tasks of a like nature, which she didn’t want to talk about. I can’t imagine that any woman would.
“What other things?” Trust Rotondo to pry into things that were personal and didn’t matter.
Mrs. Kincaid flapped a hand in the air. “Oh, just things.”
Irked, I snapped, “What difference does it make? She probably had some personal matters to attend to before leaving her room.”
“Yes. That’s it,” Mrs. Kincaid sniffled. “Personal matters.”
This time it was Rotondo glaring. At me. I tried to ignore him as well as he’d ignored me, but don’t think I succeeded. I’m too emotional to ignore people properly, being more apt to holler at them. I did, however, glare back, which had about the same result as it ever had.
“I’d prefer Mrs. Kincaid to answer my questions, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Majesty.”
“Darn it, no woman likes to talk about personal things with the police, Detective!”
His nose wrinkled, but he didn’t take me up on my offer to quarrel. Rather, he returned his attention to Mrs. Kincaid. “So, did your husband tell you what the argument was about?”
Good Lord in heaven, I hoped he hadn’t. This dear, stupid woman didn’t need the agony of discovering her husband was an unfaithful satyr while she was trying to digest the fact that he’d taken it on the lam with assets from the bank he’d been charged with protecting.
“No.” She shook her head hard.
“But you went downstairs to ask him about it?”
“Well, yes, but his office door was locked. He . . . he didn’t tell me why they’d been shouting.”
“Did it look as if there had been a physical fight as well as a verbal one?”
“Um, I didn’t see him.”
Rotondo squinted at her. This time I acquitted him of cruelty, since I didn’t understand her answer either. “Ma’am? I thought you went downstairs to talk to him.”
“I did, but he didn’t unlock the office door, so I didn’t go inside. Therefore, I don’t know if they’d fought, although I doubt it.”
“No? Why not?”
“For heaven’s sake, Officer, my husband is forty years older than that poor Applewood boy, and is confined to a wheelchair. Mr. Kincaid wouldn’t have stood a chance, and I don’t believe for a minute that Mr. Applewood is so lost to honor that he’d attack a crippled man!”
Good for Mrs. Kincaid! She might have married a monster, but at least she could recognize goodness when she saw it. I could have sworn she smiled, but it didn’t last long enough for me to tell for sure.
“I see. Did you at least ask him why their voices had been raised?”
“Oh, yes. He told me it was nothing.”
“It was nothing? Shouting that was heard in the servants’ quarters was nothing?”
Slumping tragically, Mrs. Kincaid sobbed, “Mr. Kincaid told me it was none of my business!”
I hugged her again, feeling honestly miserable on her behalf.
“I see. But you heard what the two men were yelling about?”
“Not exactly. Eventually, Mr. Kincaid shouted at poor Mr. Applewood to leave the house and never return.”
“I see. And did Mr. Applewood respond to that?”
“Oh, yes. He—he—he—” Mrs. Kincaid had to pause and blow her nose. It killed me to see such a glorious piece of silken fabric used for such a purpose, although I didn’t intervene. “Mr. Applewood shouted that he’d leave, but he’d be back, and Mr. Kincaid had better watch out.” S
he couldn’t continue. I remained hugging her and shooting killing glances at Rotondo, who didn’t care as much as he’d ever cared about my killing glances.
“Those were his words?” Rotondo asked, totally ignoring Mrs. Kincaid’s distress. “He said, ‘I’ll go, but I’ll be back’?”
The poor woman nodded.
“You’re sure he said, ‘I’ll be back’?”
Another nod.
“And you recall your husband telling him to get out of the house?”
“Yes. He told him he was dismissed, too, and that his services were not merely no longer needed, but totally unwanted as well. Mr. Kincaid demanded that he clear his belongings out that very night. He was very angry,” Mrs. Kincaid said thickly. “Not at me. At Mr. Applewood. At least, I think he wasn’t angry with me.”
I caught Harold’s eye. He shrugged, as if he didn’t understand his mother’s loyalty to a man who treated her so shabbily any more than I did. Mr. Farrington, standing at Harold’s side, looked as if he might burst into tears any second. I sure hoped he wouldn’t, because I was positive Rotondo would sneer at a man who cried—a man who wasn’t as rich as Algie Pinkerton, that is.
“Has there ever been any animosity observed between the two men before last night?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Harold?” Mrs. Kincaid glanced to her son as if she expected him to throw her a life preserver and haul her to the shore.
“I’d never observed any animosity,” Harold said.
“No,” agreed his mother. “I’m sure there wasn’t.”
Since Rotondo’s gaze had landed on me, I shook my head.
The detective opened his mouth, closed it again, and seemed to change his mind. “I see. Is it your opinion that Mr. Kincaid was physically hurt by this stable boy? Quincy Applewood?”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Kincaid’s huge, drowned brown eyes looked as innocent as a doe’s. “I’m sure Mr. Applewood wouldn’t do anything to hurt Mr. Kincaid. He’s such a nice boy.”
“But he and your husband shouted at each other last night,” Rotondo reminded her. “And Mr. Applewood threatened your husband.”
“Threatened? That wasn’t . . .” But I thought better of my outburst and shut up. It was just as well. Rotondo looked as if he’d take great joy in flinging me in the clink for obstructing justice or something. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t obstructing anything at all. I was merely trying to make this policeman see reason.
“Yes, but . . . but . . . Oh, dear, I don’t know what happened.”
“Why don’t you stop badgering her?” I blurted, surprising myself. I thought I was all blurted out. “Can’t you see how upset she is?” It had also occurred to me that I could supply the information Rotondo needed as to why Quincy had dared confront his employer so vociferously, although it might not put Quincy in the best light. I’d be darned if I’d do it in front of Mrs. Kincaid.
“I’m sorry if my questions are perceived by some as badgering,” Rotondo said through clenched teeth. He also wasn’t sorry.
Thank God for Harold, who interrupted the scene at that point. “Detective, I really think my mother ought to rest now. Ah, I believe Mrs. Majesty and I might be of help to you.” He waved his arms in a vague gesture. “As to . . . er . . . about Quincy Applewood and my father, I mean.”
I didn’t want to be of help to the man, but I didn’t say so. I knew Harold was right.
Detective Rotondo must have perceived some kind of hint in Harold’s suggestion, which led me to believe yet again that he wasn’t as thick-headed as I’d hoped. After peering at Harold with eyes slitted up, Rotondo nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Mrs. Kincaid. “I’m sorry this is so distressing for you, ma’am. I’ll probably have to talk to you more later.”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.” She began struggling on the sofa. It didn’t take me more than a second or two to understand she needed help getting up. Poor thing. So I took her arm and assisted her to her feet.
“I’ll see you upstairs, Madeline.” Algie Pinkerton appeared at my side and took Mrs. Kincaid’s right arm. He’d stopped crying, thank heavens.
“And I’ll go, too. You don’t need me here, do you, Detective? I’m sure I can be of more assistance to Mrs. Kincaid than the police.”
Detective Rotondo gave Father Frederick his okay. Father Frederick fell in beside Mrs. Kincaid on her other side. “I’m sure prayer will help,” he said in a well-oiled, preacherly voice. He might even have meant it. He looked sincere enough.
Thus supported on either side by men who appreciated her, unlike her sneaky-mean lizard of a husband, Mrs. Kincaid tottered out of the room. As for me, I was pondering the nature of a marriage that would lead a woman to call her husband “Mr. Kincaid” even after thirty-odd years of marriage. I know she called her friends by their first names. I’d heard her call Algie Pinkerton Algie many times, and I’d heard her call Father Frederick Freddy once or twice. But Eustace Kincaid was always “Mr. Kincaid.” You figure it out. I sure couldn’t.
I was extremely glad to see the three of them leave the room, though. I think I even sighed inside with relief. It didn’t last long.
Chapter Eleven
As soon as the door shut behind Mrs. Kincaid, Algie Pinkerton, and Father Frederick, Rotondo focused on me as if I were a criminal he was trying to nail. I sat up straighter. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I might have known it would come down to you,” said he in a nasty tone.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Darn it, none of this is my fault!”
“Never mind.”
“I don’t know a single thing about any of this,” I said coldly. “The only thing I might be able to help with is the reason Quincy Applewood and Mr. Kincaid were fighting. Er, arguing, I mean.” I glanced toward Harold, silently asking his permission to tell all. Not that I knew all. He nodded, bless him.
“Oh?” I could hear the sneer in Rotondo’s voice and took exception to it. There was no reason I could see why he should dislike me. Heck, he didn’t even know me. “And why do you think they were arguing, Mrs. Majesty?”
“Because Mr. Kincaid was always trying to trap Edie—Miss Marsh, I mean. That’s Quincy’s fiancé—with his wheelchair and—and touch her. I interrupted them once when he was trying to get her to kiss him.” I couldn’t repress a shudder.
One of Rotondo’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I snapped, sensing his disbelief. “It is.”
“Ah.” He tapped his notebook with his pencil. His brow was furrowed as he stared at me, making me uncomfortable. “You say Mr. Kincaid pursued Miss Marsh in his wheelchair?”
“Yes.” I didn’t like the way he’d asked the question, so I lifted my chin and dared him to doubt me. Not that he needed a dare. He seemed to doubt me no matter what.
Still tapping, he said, “Mr. Kincaid needed his wheelchair to get around?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“And he used it in pursuit of housemaids?”
That tore it. Jumping up from the sofa, I fairly shouted, “Darn it, this isn’t my fault! I’m only telling you what Edie told me and what I saw with my own eyes!”
“Calm down, Mrs. Majesty. I’m not doubting your word.”
“Like heck.” I sat again, though, knowing I’d spoil my family’s fun if I left before I’d gleaned every tidbit I could about this latest Kincaid scandal.
“Out of curiosity, where were you last night, Mrs. Majesty?”
He already knew that, but I guess it was better that he didn’t let on, since I didn’t want everyone in the room to know I’d blabbed to the police. “Conducting a séance at Mr. Harold Kincaid’s house.”
“And where did you go after the séance concluded?”
“Home.”
“Did you make any stops on your way home?” Rotondo’s brow beetled.
Did this man honestly think I might have killed Kincaid? “No!”
“No need to shout, Mrs. Majesty.”<
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“The heck there’s not! If you think I killed that old goat, you’re crazy!”
“I accused you of no such thing,” Rotondo said.
“You thought it.”
“Nonsense.”
“Nuts.”
“Where did you go after the séance at the younger Mr. Kincaid’s house?”
“Home. Without stopping anywhere else.”
Rotondo didn’t pursue my pique or his doubt about my complicity in a crime. Good thing, or I might have felt compelled to take a stand, leave in a huff, and then I’d never learn anything.
“And you say Mr. Kincaid needed a wheelchair in order to get around?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a crisp snap to my voice to let him know I wouldn’t put up with any more guff from him, even though I planned to. “All I know is that I never saw him out of it.”
“Father’s health has been extremely poor these past few years, Detective,” Harold slid in. “He could walk a little bit, but almost always needed his wheelchair. We installed the lift so that he wouldn’t have to climb stairs.”
A lift would be nice for Billy to have. Unfortunately, the Gumms of this world couldn’t afford such luxuries. Anyhow, Billy’d probably pooh-pooh such a convenience. He was like that.
“I see.” Rotondo hadn’t removed his gaze from my humble self. “And you think Miss Marsh found Mr. Kincaid’s advances unwelcome, Mrs. Majesty?”
“What?” I gaped at him. “Of course she found them unwelcome! Wouldn’t you? Anyhow, she and Quincy were planning to get married as soon as Quincy had saved up enough money. Why would she welcome advances from a miserable, ugly creature like Mr. Kincaid?” I darted a glance at Harold, sorry that I’d exclaimed so loudly something so unfortunately true. Harold only grinned at me. Manifestly, he had known his father well.
“And you think that Mr. Applewood found out about this pursuit of Miss Marsh by Mr. Kincaid?”
I lowered my gaze and would have inspected my fingernails, except that I was wearing gloves. “Um, I know he found out.”
“Oh? And how is that?”
