by Emily Queen
“Grace, I need a word,” Rosemary said, her voice clipped and her eyes bright enough to burn holes straight through Herbert Lock.
Grace extricated herself from Herbert’s now-limp grasp and followed Rosemary inside. Neither woman said anything to the other until they had woven their way through the crowd and into the back hallway where they had agreed to meet when the opportunity arose to slip away unnoticed.
“I am so sorry you had to witness that,” Grace said when they were alone.
Rosemary shook her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s your business, and I shouldn’t have slithered up on you like that.”
“Thank goodness you did. Herbert is not a bad man, but he has a temper,” she explained. “He thinks he’s entitled to my hand in marriage, but—” Grace continued until Rosemary cut her off.
“You don’t love him.” It was a statement, not a question, as Grace’s tone had already conveyed the answer.
“No, I don’t,” Grace conceded, “But, that doesn’t always matter, does it?”
Shaking her head, Rosemary agreed. “It ought to, but I know it doesn’t. Does your father know the extent of your dislike for the man? Has he seen this side of Herbert for himself?”
Grace sighed. “Father only ever sees what he wants to see. It is odd, though. Please don’t think me conceited, but I am not a frumpy woman, and my family is obviously wealthy. I’m not pining for marriage proposals, nor do I need to marry for money. Father has never thought any of my suitors were good enough. It seems ironic that he would finally decide upon someone I cannot tolerate.”
“Yes, that is odd,” Rosemary said, thinking some thoroughly deplorable thoughts about Mr. Barton. “But these things have a way of working themselves out. Ultimately, it is your decision.” She could not yet tell if Grace was the type of woman who would rather be happy than rich, but she suspected as much.
“However, it will not matter in the least what your father wants if something terrible happens to him. Thus, we have more important things to worry about right now. I’d like to see that note. Can you show it to me now?”
“Yes, I—” Grace didn’t have time to finish her sentence, because the door near where they were standing opened to deposit her brother into their midst. Rose groaned internally at the interruption, thinking perhaps it hadn’t been wise to attempt investigating with so many people milling about.
Theodore took a surreptitious look around as Rosemary, amused at the thought he might still be avoiding Marjorie Ainsworth, watched and wondered why.
To add insult to injury, Frederick appeared at the other end of the hall and strode with purpose in their direction. Upon his arrival, Rose introduced him to Theodore and Grace, repeating the ritual of politeness in which she had been forced to engage all evening.
“I don’t know why our paths have never crossed, but it is a pleasure to meet you all the same.” Frederick offered his hand to Theodore, who echoed the sentiment. Next, he turned to Grace and made a show of gallantly kissing her hand. “Lovely to meet you, as well.”
“Likewise,” Grace said, displaying none of the womanly indications of attraction that Frederick generally took for granted. He peered at her for an extra moment, and Rosemary idly wondered if her response made Grace more appealing to her brother, or less.
Teddy clapped Frederick on the back and gestured towards the ballroom. “Care to join me for a drink? I need a shield, and I believe you’ll do nicely.” Frederick nodded, and Teddy caught his sister’s arm. With no other choice than to follow, Rose and Grace abandoned their escape plan, sharing a look of amused frustration as they returned to the ballroom.
Now that the trays of canapes had been emptied, the toasts lifted and lowered, the formalities observed, most of Mr. Bartons’ colleagues had taken their leave. Only a smallish group of the most dedicated partygoers remained behind.
“Rosemary!” A trilling voice cut through the din of music and the sound teased from Rosemary an involuntary smile. Whirling, she found herself standing under the beaming gaze of Lorraine Blackburn. “You look absolutely ravishing, darling!” Vera’s mother took Rose by the shoulders, held her at arm’s length for a better look, then pulled her close and planted a kiss on each cheek.
As she always did, Rosemary blushed under the attention and swept her eyes over Mrs. Blackburn’s dress. “Not as ravishing as yourself. You practically glitter,” she said.
“It’s been far too long, my dear, since you have visited the countryside. I must insist you and Vera spend a day with me. We’ll take a walk out to the range and practice our aim. What do you say?” Mrs. Blackburn had to be one of the few women Rose knew who took as much delight in target practice as she did in getting dressed for a party. Unsurprisingly, she was a crack shot, better than the vast majority of men who had tried to outdo her.
“I say yes, of course. I wouldn’t dream of missing the chance to spend quality time with you and Vera. It has been too long, and I can’t say I abhor the idea of letting off a little steam.” Rose found as she said the words that they were too true.
Lorraine smiled her dazzling smile and gave Rosemary a wink. “It’s time for me to rejoin my adoring public and regale them with naughty tales from my glorious past treading the boards. Ta-ta!” And with that, she sashayed back across the dance floor with a spring in her step that caught the attention of every eye—at least, every male eye—in the room.
The distraction served Rosemary well, as she and Grace used it as cover to slip away once more.
Chapter Eight
Grace led the way through a series of turns which Rosemary committed to memory. After all, no investigator worth their salt ought to get lost in a house. Finally, after ascending a curving staircase, Grace slowed and her motions turned furtive as she approached a closed door about halfway down another short hall.
“Father lets no one else in here. He’d be extremely angry if he knew I’d invaded his privacy once already,” Grace admitted, “and even more enraged to know I’m about to do it again.”
Rose wondered what had prompted Grace to enter the forbidden room in the first place, but didn’t have time to ask before Grace twisted the knob and threw the door open. What happened next obliterated the thought entirely.
When Grace stopped short, Rosemary rammed into her back so hard it was a wonder she kept from knocking her companion flat.
“Oof!” Rosemary exclaimed and stepped around to find Grace wide-eyed and open-mouthed in the midst of a silent scream. “What?” She reached out and gave the smaller woman’s arm a shake.
When there was no response, Rosemary tracked Grace’s gaze to a large desk positioned in the back of the room, surrounded by built-in shelves crowded with books and assorted bric-a-brac. Several of the drawers had been pulled open, and there were papers scattered across the surface as though someone had emptied the trash bin right on top of the desk.
Shocking as the mess was, there was worse to come. A brown-haired man sat in the ostentatious leather swivel chair, his head lolled to one side. From where Rosemary stood, it appeared as though Mr. Barton had escaped from the party and retreated to his study. Which wouldn’t have been scandalous except for the blood spattered across the top of the desk and the bullet hole in his temple.
Rose’s stomach heaved as she remembered that, not too long ago, she’d been thinking about guns and had enjoyed the thought of putting holes in a target. It heaved again when she recalled how she had dubbed Lorraine Blackburn a crack shot, but pushed the thought out of her head as it had no bearing on the scene laid out in front of her.
Hadn’t she seen Mr. Barton downstairs shortly before escaping the party? How could he possibly be dead in this room now? Released from her stasis and wailing with pain, Grace rushed around the other side of the desk and Rosemary watched as her face changed from horror-filled to relieved, and then back again.
“It’s not Father. It’s Uncle Ernest.” With that, Grace’s last ounce of control broke, and she began to scream
with high-pitched wails.
Pushing the shock of seeing the body aside, Rosemary sprang into action.
“Come away, now. Shush.” The sounds of the party had muffled Grace’s screams, but Rosemary needed her lucid, and so she gave the woman a gentle shake before leading her from the room. “I need to telephone the police.”
Mind racing, Rosemary led the limp woman downstairs to make the call. Then, because Grace could only stare while her mouth worked, Rosemary informed Mr. and Mrs. Barton that there was a dead body in the study. To say the news dampened the mood of the whole anniversary celebration would be a gross understatement.
Once the police arrived and sequestered most of the guests in the ballroom, time passed slowly. Rosemary found herself and Grace occupying one of the more secluded front rooms of the house along with the rest of the Barton family. Though Rosemary had plied her with brandy and tried to hand her off to an uncharacteristically solemn Theodore, Grace still clung to her as if she were a life raft.
After what seemed an eternity, Geoffrey, the Bartons’ butler, ushered Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge, followed by Frederick and Vera, through the door.
“Are you girls all right?” Concern coloring her voice, Mrs. Woolridge went to Rosemary, scrutinized her daughter closely.
“They’re fine, Evelyn,” Mr. Barton barked, “though the same can’t be said for poor Ernest.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Edgar,” Mr. Woolridge interjected, answering for his wife. “It’s a tragedy.” He appeared to want to say more, but remained silent, as was his custom. He directed a searching look towards his daughter as if to evaluate her condition. His eyes met hers, and Rosemary nodded once to indicate she was, indeed, perfectly fine. As perfectly fine as one could be under such circumstances, at least.
“When we entered the room,” Rosemary explained even though she hadn’t been asked, “Grace thought it was you.” She looked to Mr. Barton. “You see, the chair was turned just so, and all she saw was a head of similarly colored hair. She’s still a bit shaken. The brandy is helping calm her nerves.”
Mr. Barton’s eyes widened, whether due to the actual words Rosemary had uttered or her outspokenness, she couldn’t discern. “Why on earth would anyone want to murder me? And why would they do so with a whole ballroom full of guests present? Awfully risky.”
“Certainly,” Rosemary agreed, noting that Mr. Barton appeared incredulous although he’d recently received a death threat.
“It was risky, which means whoever did it must have been desperate. Desperate enough to move quickly, and with haste comes mistakes. Mistakes we may be able to use to track him or her down.”
She realized her own mistake rather quickly as Mrs. Woolridge cut in with a sharp reprimand. “There is no we involved, Rosemary. You will leave this matter to the police.” Evelyn didn’t add that she believed Rosemary had become too entrenched in her late husband’s work, but she needn’t have voiced those concerns, anyway, because Rosemary had heard them enough times to assume that was exactly what her mother was thinking.
In any case, Andrew’s job had not involved the solving of murders, though no amount of explanation to that effect had changed Evelyn’s view of the work. What she knew of private investigations came from the Penny Dreadfuls she devoured every chance she got.
Thankfully, the Bartons were so involved in their own thoughts that none, save for Theodore, who peered at Rosemary with curiosity in his eyes, paid much attention to what Evelyn had said.
For that matter, neither did Rosemary herself. She’d come here to try to ease Grace’s mind—had been brought here, really, to prevent a murder from happening. Only she had failed, and a murder had happened, even if the victim was not the expected target. Still, Rosemary didn’t believe in coincidences, and now she was right and fully intrigued.
“I just can’t believe this happened,” Mrs. Barton said, her back ramrod straight in her chair, while she wrung her fingers nervously. It was the first time the woman had displayed anything other than contempt or irritation, and it reminded Rose that there was a person inside the cantankerous shell of Mrs. Barton. A woman who had thoughts and feelings, and who, despite the wealth at her disposal, did not appear to have much joy in her life.
Mr. Barton’s eyes narrowed as he gazed upon his wife. “Pull yourself together, Eva. Now is the time to show fortitude.” His eyes roamed to his daughter and softened slightly.
Any further discussion was cut short when the parlor door opened and in walked a man who was, to Rosemary anyway, as familiar as an old, comfortable sweater. His deep, chocolate brown eyes met hers and widened slightly with surprise, but he maintained his composure as he made his way across the room to greet Mr. Barton.
“Hello, sir. My name is Inspector Maximilian Whittington, and I’ll be handling this case.” He thoroughly shook Mr. Barton’s hand. “I have performed a preliminary search of the scene, and have determined that time of death was around eleven forty-five—not much more than a half hour prior to when the body was found. Most of the party had, as I have been informed, cleared out by that point. My lads are taking statements from the guests still present. We ought to have them all dismissed within the hour. However, I will need to ask each of you a few questions, starting with whoever was unlucky enough to have found Mr. Cuthburt’s body.”
Mr. Barton pointed to Rosemary and Grace. “My daughter and her friend found Ernest in the study. But poor Grace is absolutely distraught. Is it necessary to put her through the ordeal of explaining herself at this very moment?” His brusque tone rubbed Rosemary the wrong way, and she noted the way Max bristled at his words.
“Not immediately, no, but I will need to speak with her before the night is through. For now, I’d like to talk to Rosemary. Is there a place where we can speak in private?”
Seemingly appeased, Mr. Barton directed them towards the parlor room door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge, it’s a pleasure to see you, though the circumstances are, once again, less than ideal,” Max said, stopping on his way past Rosemary’s parents and referring to the last time they had met, which had been at Andrew’s funeral. Max and Andrew had been chums throughout school, and then partners in the police force before Andrew had come into his inheritance and opened Lillywhite Investigations.
After exchanging pleasantries, Rosemary and Max followed Mr. Barton to another sitting room on the opposite side of the foyer. Once the door had closed behind him, formality went out the window. This was a man Rosemary knew she could trust, though whether he would accept her interference with the case was another matter entirely.
Chapter Nine
“What are you doing here, Max? Have you taken on a sudden yearning to settle in the country?” Of anyone she knew, Max would be the last person she might expect to leave London for the simpler life.
His laugh rolled out rich, and deep. “Never. I’ve only come on a temporary basis while the local inspector takes a short leave of absence. It’s a matter of sheer luck to run into you in such an unlikely place.”
Sobering, Max dipped his head. “How have you been getting along, Rose?”
Eyes boring into hers as if to discern whether she offered complete honesty, he shifted from one foot to the other. He would have liked to take her into his arms and offer whatever comfort he could, but could not seem to command his body to cooperate with his wishes.
Rosemary sincerely wished people would stop asking her how she was doing, and if it had been anyone else, she might have given the standard, rehearsed answer. But this was Max, and so she told the truth.
“In some ways, I’m feeling a bit better. In others, a bit worse. I think that is just how these things work, don’t you?”
Max nodded in agreement. “Yes, I believe you’ve hit the nail directly on the head, as usual.” He sat down on one of the sofas and Rosemary followed suit. “Now, tell me why you’re here and exactly what happened. All the details you can remember, you never know—”
“What might be important. Yes, I underst
and how these things work,” Rosemary cut in wryly. “I may as well start at the beginning.” She explained yet again how Grace had found the death threat in Mr. Barton’s study, but did not divulge that Grace had been seeking out Andrew in his professional capacity when she’d arrived at Rosemary’s townhouse. It was true she had known Grace from school and allowing Max to believe she had simply been helping out a friend was a lot less dangerous than letting him know she’d intended to play the role of sleuth.
“I couldn’t turn down someone in such need, and so I enlisted Vera’s help, and come out to Pardington to see if there was any merit to Grace’s concerns. You would have been my first call if had I discovered any solid evidence. But then, we found Mr. Cuthburt—” Rosemary realized she’d been rambling and cut herself short.
“That’s a very interesting story, Rose, and though I wish you had called upon me immediately, I’m glad you were on scene. At least I know I’ll get one truthful account of the goings-on here. Please, continue.” Max looked as though he wanted to say more, but continued jotting things down in the little notebook he’d pulled from his breast pocket.
To cover a moment of chagrin over offering a mildly deceptive story, Rosemary stood, crossed the room to the bar cart in the corner, and poured herself a brandy. “Would you like something?” she asked, feeling no remorse for helping herself, considering the circumstances.
Max shook his head. “On duty.”
“Of course.”
Sticking to the salient points, Rosemary launched into her recital.
“Vera and I arrived at about eight-thirty. The victim—Mr. Cuthburt—exited from a room leading into the foyer. He and the butler, Geoffrey, exchanged words, and then we were ushered into the ballroom. Grace introduced us to several people, including Mr. and Mrs. Barton. I can’t say Mr. Barton made the most favorable impression on me, and just between the two of us, the possibility of him having enemies came as no shock after meeting him.”
