Crowned and Dangerous

by Rhys Bowen

  Darcy winked at me as he leaned the picture against a wall. I have to say that wink felt wonderful. We were a unit, connected, inseparable, whatever happened.

  “And mind Mr. Gladstone,” Oona boomed at us. “He scratches. Horrible creature. He’s even more bad tempered than your stupid father, Darcy.”

  I sat where the painting had been, and almost coughed as dust rose from the cushions. Darcy tried to remove the cat from the other chair but it hissed and lashed out, making him opt for perching on the arm of my chair instead.

  “That will never work with him,” Aunt Oona said. “You need to show him who is master.” She grabbed the animal by the scruff of its neck, hoisted it in the air and held it up in front of her face. “Remember who feeds you and show gratitude,” she said before putting it down quite gently. The cat turned its back on her and licked itself as if it hadn’t a care in the world. The dogs settled around our feet, wisely ignoring the cat.

  “Tea or coffee?” Oona asked. “Or would you prefer something stronger? Whiskey? Sherry?” She went over and tugged on a bellpull. Somewhere far off a bell jangled. “I don’t know where he’s got to,” she said. “Probably out digging up carrots.”

  “Your gardener serves the drinks around here?”

  “No, you silly boy. The butler digs up the carrots. You have to be a jack-of-all-trades in this establishment. We’re down to a skeleton crew here, you know. Can’t afford a proper staff anymore. Treadwell does most of it and we muck in.”

  “Treadwell? You have Treadwell working for you? I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, you haven’t been to see us for ages, have you?” she replied. “Your father didn’t need him and the new American didn’t want him so we invited him to come to Mountjoy. It’s not exactly what he’s used to but it’s better than the workhouse.”

  Darcy looked down to me. “Treadwell was our butler at Kilhenny. He was old even when I was a child. Frightfully old-school and correct.”

  “Yes, well, he’s had to learn to turn a blind eye to a lot of things here,” Oona said. “When he first came he thought he could whip us into shape, but now I rather think he’s given up.” She rang the bell again. “I suppose I’d better go and make the coffee myself,” she said. “I’ve become quite a dab hand at domestic chores since we had to let Cook go.”

  Darcy and I exchanged a look of amusement as she swept out of the room.

  “I told you they were quite batty,” Darcy whispered to me.

  However, she had only been gone for an instant when she returned.

  “I met Treadwell coming in with the carrots and he’ll bring us coffee right away. But knowing Treadwell, he’ll have to go and put on his frock coat first. So silly in a place like this.”

  She sat where the cat had been. “So the young lady needs a place to stay, does she? Well, why not stay here? We’ve got more empty rooms than I can count. And you too, Darcy. You’re welcome here as well. Make a change for us dreary old folk to have some bright young people around.”

  Darcy’s eyes met mine, then he said, “You’re very kind, Aunt Oona, and I think Georgie would be happy to accept, but I’m afraid I have to keep an eye on my father. He’s in a deep state of depression. He already threatened to blow his brains out last night.”

  “Always was one for high drama,” Oona sniffed. “Used to make a fuss as a child if he so much as got a splinter in his finger.”

  “This is rather more serious than a splinter, Aunt Oona,” Darcy reminded her. “He’s accused of murder, and it very much looks as if he’s guilty.”

  “Rubbish,” Oona said. “Your father couldn’t kill anyone. He killed our poor dog, of course, but I know that was an accident. But as for doing it deliberately, with malice aforethought, no. Not possible. You should have seen him after his first hunt. They bloodied him, the way one does, and when they threw the fox to the hounds he was sick all over the master’s boots. He never did like killing anything.” She shook her head. “Oh, I know he’s all bark. Fly off the handle at the least little thing. But there’s no bite. He might have swung a punch at that American, but he wouldn’t have killed him. How did he die?”

  “Hit on the head with one of the old weapons hanging on the wall.”

  She thought about this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose he could have done that. Grabbed something in the spur of the moment and whacked the bloke. Ah, Treadwell. Coffee. Jolly good.”

  The ancient butler came in, wearing, as she had predicted, his frock coat.

  “Your coffee, Lady Whyte.” He waited while she removed the hat and gloves from the low table, then he put the tray down and picked up the potatoes. “Should I pour the coffee or take these back to the kitchen? Or were you planning to do something with them in here?”

  Oona stared at them. “I’ve no idea how they got here, Treadwell. I remember digging them up yesterday but then I suppose I got distracted. Probably had the urge to finish that new painting. So please do take them to the kitchen.”

  “Very good, your ladyship. And may I be permitted to say that it’s good to see you, Mr. Darcy, although in such tragic circumstances. Will you please convey my respects to your father and tell him that I am willing to testify to his character, if that would be of help.”

  “Very good of you, Treadwell,” Darcy said. “Yes, I will tell him.”

  Treadwell gave a little bow and left.

  “For heaven’s sake don’t let Treadwell testify in court,” Oona said. “He’s too scrupulously honest. The prosecution would make mincemeat of him and get him to tell about every occasion on which your father lost his temper, starting with his two-year-old tantrums in the nursery.”

  “I agree,” Darcy said. “But I rather fear that will all be brought up at the trial, Treadwell or not.”

  “Does he have a good lawyer?” Oona asked.

  “Only Leach and Leach so far. No barrister has been engaged.”

  “You should let Dooley help you,” she said, waving her arms with great enthusiasm.

  “Uncle Dooley?”

  “Oh yes. He studied law, you know. Even practiced it for a while. He was a second son, you see. Didn’t expect to inherit anything. But he gave a brilliant oration—had a young man sent to prison; but afterward Dooley doubted the man’s guilt. He gave up the profession after that. Said he hadn’t the stomach for the court but didn’t want to sit in a solicitor’s office all day. Then my father gave us Mountjoy when we married, and it came with enough money to live on in those days.”

  “What happened to the money?” Darcy asked.

  “Well, there were the death duties when Father died. And then when your grandfather died we had to sell off more of the land, and your father was put in bad financial straits. Never recovered, did he? But Dooley’s brain is razor sharp. He may come up with a defense you’ve never even thought of.”

  “I thought I heard voices,” said a small voice in the doorway and we turned to see a tiny skinny man standing there. He had a shock of white hair that stood up in all directions and he was wearing a bright red waistcoat and a red bow tie. Like Oona’s his face was unlined and his eyes bright. “Visitors. How lovely. We don’t often get visitors these days. Please tell me they are not Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “It’s our great-nephew Darcy and his friend, Dooley,” Oona boomed. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “How are you, Uncle Dooley?” Darcy said, standing to shake the man’s hand. “This is my friend Georgie, visiting from London.”

  The small man blinked and gave us a beaming smile. The vision of Jack Sprat leaped into my mind. Jack Sprat who could eat no fat, and his wife who could eat no lean.

  “I’ve been concentrating too long up there,” he said. “But you’ll be pleased to know that Wellington is finally winning the day.”

  “Wellington?” Darcy asked.

  “Battle of Waterloo, my boy!” D
ooley exclaimed with great enthusiasm.

  I was beginning to think that Darcy’s description of “quite batty” wasn’t an exaggeration. I also questioned whether I wanted to stay in this crazy household, however much I wanted to be close to Darcy.

  “He’s reenacting the battle of Waterloo with his toy soldiers,” Oona said.

  “Miniatures, Oona. Not toy soldiers. I’ve built the whole battlefield to scale and painted every one of the regiments in their correct uniforms. I even have tiny cannons that fire ball bearings. You must come up and see, if you have time. We’ve reached quite a dramatic part of the battle. A turning point. Napoleon thinks he has us, but he’s made a tactical error.”

  And he waved a finger triumphantly. Oona reached across and poured coffee into exquisitely thin china cups. I wondered how those cups had survived in this household.

  “If you are here for a few days, you’ll be able to see the glorious victory,” he said. “Are you planning to stay for a while?”

  “The young lady will, I think,” Oona said.

  “Jolly good show!” Dooley beamed at me. “Never say no to a pretty face.”

  Oona gave him a warning frown and went on, “Darcy, on the other hand, thinks he needs to be with his father. You must help them, Dooley. You must put the battle of Waterloo aside and use your legal skills to prove Thaddy’s innocence.”

  There was a flicker of alarm in Darcy’s eyes. He drained his coffee cup and stood up.

  “I should be getting back to my father right away,” he said. “I’m afraid he’ll be pestered by newspaper reporters and he’ll say something stupid and harm his cause even further.”

  “He’s at home?” Dooley asked. “Not locked up in a Dublin prison?”

  “They released him on bail yesterday,” Darcy said. “We managed to sneak him home without anyone noticing.”

  “And why haven’t the police provided a guard for him?” Oona demanded angrily.

  “They are guarding the castle grounds, but they don’t seem concerned that he is unprotected and unguarded at the gamekeeper’s lodge. So I’m afraid I have a favor to ask. Do you have a vehicle of some sort that I could borrow? My father’s estate car is locked away in the garage at the castle and everything is potential evidence at the moment. But I may need to go into Dublin to see the police there and I’ll need to come and get Georgie, if she’s to stay here.”

  “Well, of course, dear boy,” Dooley said. “There’s no reason he can’t have the Rolls, is there, Oona? We hardly ever use it. I don’t see well enough to drive anymore. Oona never could drive in a straight line. And Treadwell only goes into Kildare once in a while to do some shopping. We have most of what we need here. Quite self-sufficient, aren’t we, Oona?”

  “Yes, we are, my dear. Quite self-sufficient. And quite content.”

  They nodded to each other while the dogs stood around them, tails wagging. Darcy looked across at me and grinned. It felt wonderful.

  Chapter 15

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 3

  AT MOUNTJOY, COUNTY KILDARE, IRELAND.

  Dooley and Oona both escorted Darcy to the stables where an ancient Rolls was parked. He managed to get it started and waved as it inched forward, avoiding dogs, ducks and chickens.

  “I’ve a splendid idea,” Oona said, running up to him and putting a hand on the door handle. “Why don’t you bring your father over to dinner? It’s time we let bygones be bygones. Time for family to stick together. Tell him that. And tell him we’ll have Branson kill a duck.”

  “Who’s Branson?”

  “One of our farmworkers. We’ve had to dispense with most of the household staff but we still have a couple of chaps working the land for us. They live in rent-free cottages and get their share of the produce so we don’t have to pay them much. And they do the dirty work like killing animals.”

  Darcy nodded.

  “So you’ll bring your father tonight?”

  “I’ll tell him,” Darcy said. “I can’t guarantee that he’ll come.” He turned to me. “I’ll be back later.” I watched the Rolls disappear down the long driveway.

  Oona put an arm around my shoulder. “Come on inside, my dear. It’s unpleasantly cold today. Let’s go and see which of the bedrooms might be suitable for visitors.”

  “I’ll take her up, if you like,” Uncle Dooley said.

  Oona shook her head. “Oh no, Dooley. I’m not having you taking her anywhere near a bedroom. I know your wicked ways.” She looked at me. “You have to watch him, I’m afraid. He’s always been rather a lad where ladies are concerned. Wandering hands and evil intentions.” But she smiled as she said it. “He’s been quite out of practice since the last of the maids left, haven’t you, old thing?”

  Dooley grinned sheepishly. “You do exaggerate, Oona. I might pinch the odd bottom, but I’m not exactly dangerous.”

  “All the same, I’ll take Miss Georgie’s case up for her. You go back to the Duke of Wellington. On second thoughts, you go to your study and start thinking up a possible defense for your nephew-in-law.”

  She picked up the suitcase Darcy had left in the front hall and started up the stairs with it. I followed, picking my way past a basket of knitting, a bowl of withered apples, and the cat, who had now taken up position on the top step. Oona headed straight toward the front of the house and opened the door to a small room over the front porch. It felt horribly cold and damp and was rather spartan with a single bed and small chest of drawers.

  “This might be our best bet right now,” she said. “At least I know the mice haven’t got at this bed. But it’s haunted. I hope you don’t mind that. A young female ghost. Tends to yank the covers off the bed of people she doesn’t like. She’s fine with family members.” She looked up at me then. “Or almost family members, I expect.”

  Then she laughed at my stricken face. “I didn’t buy that ‘just one of my friends from London’ speech for a minute. Casual friends don’t trek out to the middle of Ireland to be with a pal. So it’s more than that, isn’t it?” She gave me a long quizzical stare, then added, “I saw how he looked at you.”

  “He didn’t want me to come,” I said. “He was afraid the newspapers would pick up on it. In fact he tried to break off with me altogether, because he didn’t want to put me through the unpleasantness.”

  “But you showed you are made of sterner stuff. Good for you.” Oona nodded with satisfaction. “I can see he’s chosen the right girl. But why would the newspapers care?”

  “Because I’m the king’s cousin,” I said, wincing.

  Oona clapped her hands together. “Now I know why you looked familiar. One of the Rannochs. Of course. I was lady-in-waiting to your grandmother for a while before I married Dooley. You have the look of her.”

  She had once been described as the least attractive of Queen Victoria’s daughters so I didn’t exactly find this flattering.

  “And now I see Darcy’s point,” she said. “It might well have been wiser not to come.”

  “But I couldn’t leave Darcy to face this alone, could I? Not when his father is being so beastly and unhelpful.”

  “Of course you couldn’t. I would have acted in the same way if it had been Dooley. Leave your suitcase for now. We’ll get Branson to bring up some peat for a fire when he brings in the duck. This room will be warm as toast in no time at all.”

  She led me downstairs again, moving with surprising agility for one so large. We ate a good lunch at the kitchen table and by midafternoon my room was indeed warm and toasty. I unpacked my clothes, asking myself what I was doing here and whether I could be any use at all to Darcy. When I went through everything I had heard of the crime I’m afraid I was inclined to believe, as Darcy clearly did, that his father was guilty. The big question was: who else might have wanted Mr. Roach dead, had been able to get into the castle to kill him and was clever enough to frame Lord Kilhenny? I
decided that one thing I could do would be to ask around in the village if they had noticed any strangers. Inhabitants of villages notice anyone who doesn’t belong. Snooping is a major sport in rural locations. I could also ask Barney whether he had driven anybody out to the castle recently, apart from the stream of newspapermen. And then I realized that there had been strangers in the vicinity. That archeological dig, right across the lane from the castle gates. I’d need to find out more about them if it ever stopped raining and they resumed their work. They were in a perfect position to spy on what went on at the castle. But again the question returned—why would anyone want to kill a reclusive American who apparently was devoted to horses and books?

  I came up with an answer to that one pretty quickly. He was rich. Rich enough to buy a castle and a racing stable. He had inherited a fortune. He was supposedly the last surviving member of a family. But what if there was another claimant? Someone who would inherit if he was dead? In which case why not kill him in a more subtle manner? A quick bullet from behind a bush would have worked well. Bludgeoning someone to death with a club was bound to attract attention, and if the police discovered that another member of the Roach family was in Ireland, surely that gave someone apart from Darcy’s father a good motive.

  This made me feel a little more hopeful. It’s always good to have something positive to work on. I wondered if the detective here had been in touch with the police in America and had checked into Mr. Roach’s family circumstances. That might be something we could suggest to them. Or to Darcy’s father’s lawyer.

  The afternoon seemed to drag on. Now that I was here I was itching to do something useful. I sat with a notebook on my knee and jotted down all the thoughts that were going through my mind. Inherit fortune? Next of kin? Visitors to the castle? Who might have seen? Question valet? It didn’t seem to be much but at least it would be a start and I’ve always found that one small clue or fact often leads to another.