by Emily Queen
Not that she recognized it for what it was, but relief washed over Rosemary, knowing that Vera’s sights weren’t set on Max Whittington.
Chapter Seventeen
If Rosemary had thought Barton Manor was impressive yet ostentatious under the cover of darkness, it was nothing to how she felt about the place in the bright light of day. She remembered what Leonard had said about new money and even newer houses, and now, seeing walls lacking the patina of age, understood exactly what he had meant.
Wadsworth pulled into the drive and opened the door for his mistress. “I will be right here when your business concludes, Madam.”
“We shan’t be long, Wadsworth,” Rosemary promised.
Had she had her way about it, she and Vera would have met Grace at the tearoom in the village rather than go back to Barton Manor. Acting as though she were impervious to the trauma of seeing a dead body might serve her well for getting around Max, but she was, after all, only human. She wondered if she could ever forget the image of the wound to Mr. Cuthburt’s head or the sickening feeling that had welled up in the pit of her stomach when she saw his lifeless body.
However, she had questions that could only be answered using her eyes and her instincts, which meant there was no other choice but to return to the scene of the crime.
Geoffrey answered the door with a clipped, “May I help you?” His expression remained neutral, as expected, but there was an impatience to his tone that implied he had other things to do and considered them more important than anything Rosemary or Vera required.
“We’re here to see Grace, please. She is expecting us,” Rose answered in a tone her mother would deem appropriate for dealing with staff, but one she was rarely forced to use when speaking to her own butler.
“Right this way, please,” Geoffrey replied, leading them once again into the elegant foyer. “Miss Grace is out on the veranda. Straight down the hall, you will find a set of glass doors. I trust you can find your way.” With a final, enigmatic look, he stalked off in the other direction.
Vera waited until he was out of earshot, then turned on her heel and returned to the foyer. “What an absolute pill. Did you see him putting on the airs? If you hadn’t given him a taste of Evelyn Woolridge, he’d have given us the bum’s rush.”
Mischief sparkled in Vera despite the gravity of the atmosphere.
“You really ought to be careful, darling girl, or you shall turn into your mother before you’re thirty.”
Rosemary tossed her head, but couldn’t hold back a rueful smile. “I don’t know why I put up with you, but no matter. Now is our chance to learn exactly what Mr. Cuthburt was up to during the party. He came out of that door,” she said, looking around to make sure they were alone.
Curiosity mounting, the two friends crossed over to the door beneath the massive set of foyer stairs, and Vera pushed it open. She let out a frustrated breath. Rose shoved past her and, to her disappointment, found herself standing in the middle of a small space that doubled as both a cloakroom and a private telephone room.
Shiny brass rods stretched across three-quarters of the cloakroom, laden with dozens of coats Rosemary assumed belonged to the residents of Barton Manor. The narrow far wall had been stuffed to capacity, leaving a large section on the right-hand side empty, presumably to make room for the belongings of the party guests.
To her right rested a carved wooden desk that held a telephone, a stack of mail, and a pad and pencil for taking down messages.
“I suppose that is one mystery solved,” Rosemary declared, her voice wry. “Mr. Cuthburt was merely hanging up his coat. Geoffrey is such a stickler for order and protocol he probably did not appreciate Mr. Cuthburt taking matters into his own hands.”
Vera nodded in agreement. “I know you were hoping to find some clue here, Rose, but I see nothing out of the ordinary. Except that Mrs. Barton owns enough fur coats to wear a different one each day of the winter. Personally, I would never relegate such fine specimens to a cloakroom beneath the stairs. What would stop a guest from simply walking out with one?”
“I highly doubt Mrs. Barton would miss one coat from this collection. My mother would have a conniption if she saw this room. She would call it a grandiose, unnecessary display of excess.” Rosemary mimicked Evelyn’s voice with such accuracy Vera couldn’t hold back a giggle.
“You proved my earlier point brilliantly, though I can’t argue with you. We ought to get out of here before someone notices where we have escaped to and accuses us of trying to make off with one of Mrs. Barton’s pelts.”
“Right you are,” Rosemary said. “Shall we go find Grace? Check first to make sure no one is looking.”
“The key to exiting any room where one does not belong,” Vera said in a lofty tone, “is simply to hold your head high, and act as if you had every right.”
With that, she whooshed open the door, and with her nose in the air, sailed down the hall.
But, only a moment later, Vera halted. “Do you hear that?” she asked in a stage whisper.
“No, what?” Rosemary strained to listen and heard the sounds of an argument wafting from beneath the door to one of the sitting rooms. It was the second time in as many days she had unashamedly eavesdropped, and she hoped it wasn’t becoming a habit that would prove difficult to break.
“Eva, you know how hard I have been working lately. Do you honestly think I have time to cavort around behind your back?” Mr. Barton shouted. Mrs. Barton’s reply was too muffled to understand, though her voice had risen to a pitch that might have cut glass.
“What do you mean, what have I been working so hard for? I have been trying to wrap up these business affairs, secure a few more investments, and ensure that the company is above-board. I would like to retire at some point, you know. Never have I enjoyed the company of another woman, and I will not continue being hounded about something you’ve made up in your head. This conversation is over!” Rose and Vera hustled down the hall, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment.
“That was interesting,” Rose commented. “But now we have to focus on Grace. Our musings on the subject will have to wait.”
Chapter Eighteen
They found the object of their search curled up on a settee in the sunroom, a blanket wrapped around her and an untouched cup of tea sitting on a tray nearby.
“Grace?” Rosemary asked quietly, not wanting to startle the poor girl. Normally, Grace was a good-looking woman. A woman of great character with a quiet air about her, though on this day, she’d gone all puffy from crying. Not that anyone could blame her for such a common response. At the sound of Rose’s voice, Grace sat up a little straighter and motioned for her guests to take a seat.
“Please, accept my apologies for my appearance. I am unable to dredge up the will to make myself presentable today.”
Grace gave Vera’s posh outfit an up-and-down look, but made no comment even though her eyes lingered over the handbag Rose had to admit was a statement piece if she had ever seen one. Where Vera had procured the hot pink-and-black patent-leather work of art, Rosemary could not begin to guess. However, what they didn’t need at that moment was to make Grace feel like a wilting flower, and this was one of the few occasions when Rose wished her friend could be a little less fabulous.
Any irritation she may have felt evaporated—as usual—when Vera seated herself and tenderly took Grace’s hand in hers. “You have nothing to apologize for, my dear, you have been through a horrific ordeal, and are more than entitled to take a day off from gussying yourself up.” The sincerity with which she spoke the words seeped through Grace’s despair, and she allowed a small smile to play across her lips.
“Vera is right,” Rosemary agreed. “We did not expect to find you in high spirits. Tell us, how are you faring?”
“I have been better,” Grace admitted. “The image of Uncle Ernest just keeps swimming up behind my eyes. Sleep did not come easy, and so Mother gave me a sedative. All it did was ensure I could not wake from my nig
htmares.” She shivered and pulled the blanket a little closer around her shoulders.
Rosemary was unsure what tactic to use on the poor woman. On the one hand, the police were interested in Grace’s relationship with her father and considered her alibi for the time of the murder as something of import. On the other, she did not appear to have any motive for harming Mr. Cuthburt and appeared an innocent victim whom Rosemary was loath to interrogate.
“Have the police been by to question you yet?” It seemed a safe enough question.
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, that Inspector Whittington was here earlier this morning. He seems to think I may have killed Uncle Ernest, and that I mistook him for my father. What kind of person would do such a thing?” Either Grace was one of the most naïve young women to ever walk the earth, or she was a psychopath capable of just about anything. Rose’s opinion leaned in one direction, but she couldn’t discount the other.
“People have a way of surprising you, and it is not always pleasant,” Rosemary murmured.
Grace blinked. “You believe me, don’t you?” she asked.
“Of course, we do,” Vera answered quickly, patting Grace’s hand again. “Don’t we, Rose?”
“I can’t believe you had anything to do with this, Grace. But we need to think like the police if we are going to clear you of suspicion and solve this crime. It is imperative you be honest and transparent. Can you do that?” Rosemary pierced Grace with a look, though she felt terrible about having to do so.
“Yes, I can. What do you need to know?”
“Firstly,” Rosemary began as she took a seat across from Grace and Vera, “is there anything you can tell us about Mr. Cuthburt? Anything that might be a motive to kill him?”
After a moment’s thought, Grace shook her head. “Nothing I can think of. I’ve heard Father talk about how much he’s changed since the war, and I’ve got the impression he wasn’t always a good man. But surely that’s just Father being dramatic. Uncle Ernest has always doted upon me and Teddy, and I can’t imagine what he could have done to gain such a reputation. Surely he couldn’t have been involved in anything that would have got him killed.” Her voice held a heavy note of incredulity, and Rose decided that perhaps she’d hit it the nail on the head thinking of Grace as naïve.
“All right, let’s focus on the theory that your father might have been the intended victim. What about the arrangement between your father and Herbert Lock? I believe the police think you may have harbored resentment towards your father for his part in attempting to pair you with that man.”
“Well, I have not been pleased with father for suggesting the arrangement. I met Herbert at a dinner party my mother threw a few months ago. She knows a cousin of his, and the cousin talked Herbert up as my perfect match. From the sounds of it, he was well off and single. That’s all my mother would have needed to hear. He seemed all right, at least at first. Spent more time talking to my father than he did me, and it rubbed me the wrong way. Later he claimed he had found me so enchanting that he wanted to ensure good favor with my family, and that was why he had attempted to chum up to Father. Now, I know that to be a blatant lie, but for some reason, Father still believes him a viable suitor. As if I need my parents’ help to find a husband.” Grace looked like she might like to spit or say something uncomplimentary, but refrained.
Interesting, Rosemary thought, noting the slight change in Grace’s tone during the last part of her diatribe. “Is there someone else in your life, Grace? Someone you would rather marry than Herbert Lock?” she said out loud.
Grace’s eyes widened slightly, and her jaw wavered. “No. No, there isn’t anyone else.”
Rosemary caught Vera’s eye, and Vera returned a wink. Grace had something to hide.
“You can tell us, you know. We promise to keep that information to ourselves.” Unless it becomes necessary to divulge it, Rosemary added to herself. She would protect Grace for as long as possible, but if it came to light she had any part in Mr. Cuthburt’s murder, Rosemary would go to Max with whatever pertinent information she had gathered.
“There is nothing to tell,” Grace insisted. “But if you ask me, the police ought to focus on Herbert. He has a mean streak a mile wide, and I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“What motive could he have for killing your Uncle Ernest?” Rosemary wanted to know, and more so wanted to know why Grace would think it.
“Perhaps he thought if he got Uncle Ernest out of the way, Father would need a new business associate,” Grace speculated. “Or, maybe he was trying to get Father out of the picture, believing I might marry him in my hour of grief. Then, he would have access to any funds I might inherit.”
Grace’s thoughts circled the same path Rosemary’s had, but hearing Grace speak them out loud shook her confidence in the theory. It was too easy, and she did not believe that someone like Herbert Lock would perpetrate such a crime with a flimsy motive.
She did, however, know that Grace was hiding something, and had every intention of finding out what.
“Do you know what is even more concerning? That letter I found in Father’s study has disappeared. I heard him arguing with Mother about it after Inspector Whittington took his leave. It was the only clue to who might have wanted to cause him harm, and it’s gone.” Grace sniffled. “Now, it looks as though I lied about its existence. And, to top it all off, Father knows someone was in his study prior to the murder, and he is furious. If he discovers it was me…”
“You aren’t scared of him, are you, Grace?” Vera asked with wide eyes.
Grace grimaced. “Not in the way it sounds. I know he would never physically hurt me, but he can be quite harsh when backed into a corner. He will never trust me again, and will most likely push for my engagement to Herbert just for spite.”
“You‘re being rather dramatic, don’t you think, Grace?” The voice of Mrs. Barton intruded upon the conversation, and Rosemary wondered how long the woman had been standing in the doorway before making her presence known. “You ought to have known better than to intrude on your father’s privacy. However, I fear having Herbert Lock for a husband would be more punishment than deserved, so I will keep your secret.”
Rose half expected Ava Barton to tell her daughter she now owed her a debt, but the woman left it at that, cast a scathing toward the two guests, and exited the room as quietly as she had entered.
Chapter Nineteen
With an audible sniff, Wadsworth eased the car to a stop on the village main street, right in front of a small tearoom. Shropshire’s, he invariably pointed out, carried a scandalous reputation and ladies of Rosemary’s stature and breeding ought not to frequent such establishments.
Vera, as she always did, pointed out that Mrs. Shropshire’s blood ran as blue as anyone could ask, and what was the crime in opting to operate an eating establishment? It was, as both young women knew, Mrs. Shropshire’s utter disdain for the bounds of society, and possibly her penchant for attending the occasional fete wearing trousers in place of ladylike attire, that offended the upright soul. However, since the tearoom had become something of a fixture over the previous twenty years, she opined, it might be time for him to come down off his high horse.
This was a conversation that had been repeated many times over.
“Please return for us in two hours, Wadsworth.” Rosemary let off from biting her tongue to issue the order gently. “We shall be waiting near that new dress shop on the next corner.”
Vera grinned. “Make sure there is plenty of room in the boot!”
“Yes, Miss Blackburn,” Wadsworth replied, his face blank but his eyes twinkling. He leaned over towards Vera, winked, and said in a low voice, “Miss, I trust you will see to it that Madam buys something for herself as well.”
“I have every intention of doing so,” Vera said, “whether she agrees or not.”
Rosemary swatted her friend on the arm. “We will shop, but first I must satisfy my craving for one of Mrs. Shropshire’s famous sandw
iches.” Rosemary’s stomach rumbled as the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air.
She preceded Vera inside, and, inhaling the familiar scents, recalled the many meals she had taken at the little tearoom over the years. As a testament to how long it had been since the last time, Rosemary recognized none of the workers and few of the patrons. She and Vera circled around a large pillar standing in the middle of the space, hoping to snag their favorite hidden table, only to find that a familiar face already occupied it.
“Frederick!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Shouldn’t you be at the house, sleeping off your hangover beneath your bed covers or commanding Mother’s staff to fetch you tea?” Thankfully, he smelled as though he had bathed and was no longer wearing the same wrinkled suit from the previous evening.
Her brother leaned back in his chair and grinned. “The best cure for a night of excess is a plate of Mrs. Shropshire’s fish and chips. All that grease soaks up what’s left of the booze.”
“Frederick Woolridge, you dirty little rat! Did I hear you call my food greasy?” A grumpy voice caused Rosemary to spin on her heel and come face to face with the Mrs. in question.
She rushed forward to embrace the wrinkled old woman glaring at Frederick with mock indignation in her eyes. “Mrs. Shropshire, how good to see you,” Rosemary said sincerely.
“If you were about to say it’s been too long, you would be right, girl.” An arthritic finger wagged at Rosemary. “Your rascal of a brother keeps insisting you are quite fine and that you have not, in fact, been avoiding us, but I have wondered whether he has always had brown eyes or if he is just full to the brim with cow manure. As for you, Miss Vera. If this is how frequently you visit home, you have been neglecting not only me but your dear, sweet mother as well.”
