by Emily Queen
Also as expected, once she learnt of Rose and Vera’s intent to suss out Ernest Cuthburt’s killer, Mrs. Blackburn had agreed to host the little get-together with a vengeance. On top of being considered a suspect, a notion Lorraine refused to take seriously, the mystery and intrigue were too tempting for a woman who thrived on drama. Now, she looked like a piece of art, coiffed to the extreme, and dressed as though she were attending an event organized by the Queen herself.
Lorraine Blackburn’s slinky silk dress clung so tightly, and was of such a similar shade to her milky white skin, that if one were to catch a glimpse out of the corner of their eye, they might wonder if she were wearing anything at all. Only a delicate lace ruffle beginning at mid-thigh and skimming the floor detracted from the effect.
Rosemary shook her head as she watched the spectacle from across the room, thinking perhaps this had not been the grandest of ideas. Yes, they had got their suspects gathered in one space, but if Mrs. Blackburn’s antics distracted everyone all evening, prying information from the guests would be a chore.
Grace and her brother were cozied up to Frederick, and Rose got the distinct expression that, unless it turned out one of them really had murdered their dear Uncle Ernest, Frederick may have found himself a new friend or two.
Across the room, Marjorie Ainsworth perched on the edge of a gilt-trimmed armchair and sipped a gin and tonic while her beautiful, keen eyes fluctuated between attempting to catch Teddy’s or Frederick’s gaze, and casting narrow glares in Herbert Lock’s direction. Teddy duly ignored the woman, and Rosemary felt sorry for her until she remembered the way Marjorie had acted at the Barton’s anniversary party. She hoped her brother had sense enough to follow Teddy’s lead, but he appeared intrigued by Marjorie’s charms.
The most shocking additions to the party included Mr. and Mrs. Barton themselves, though it was clear that for once the obnoxious man’s wife had had her way. Clearly, Mr. Barton had not wanted to attend the fete, and sat sullenly in one corner with Arthur Abbot, downing expensive whiskey as though it were water. Mr. Abbot’s eyes widened as Mr. Barton slugged back another swallow, but he did not caution his friend. Rosemary couldn’t blame him, having seen Mr. Barton’s temper firsthand.
To round out the guest list, Rosemary’s own parents were in attendance. Mrs. Woolridge, as always, took great pains to make sure every other attendee knew that she was a frequent visitor to the Blackburn estate.
“You went with the cream silk wallpaper I see, Lorraine,” she said loudly, just in case there was a soul left in the room who did not recognize the claim she had as the hostess’s closest friend.
Mrs. Blackburn looked at Rosemary’s mother blankly for a moment. “Oh, yes, you are right, Evelyn. I think it looks simply smashing in here now, don’t you?”
Evelyn Woolridge would never have chosen the plum-colored sofa or paired it with the emerald green swirl patterned rug, but she agreed with Lorraine anyway. “It looks lovely. You’re so daring when it comes to mixing patterns.”
Rosemary hoped her mother would keep Mrs. Blackburn occupied with inane chatter, but also hoped she wouldn’t have to listen to talk about the drapes all evening.
When Mrs. Blackburn turned off the music and stood at the front of the room, Rosemary realized that her concern regarding the woman’s distracting antics had been unwarranted. After all, the actress who could so easily command a room could also use her je ne sais quoi to lead the conversation in precisely the direction Rosemary required.
“Thank you all for coming here tonight.” Staff with trays of champagne circled the room while Lorraine stood before her guests with a solemn expression. “Won’t you raise a toast to poor Ernest Cuthburt, may God rest his soul.”
Brilliant, Rosemary decided as, from her vantage point, she watched faces in hopes one would reveal his or her true feelings about the deceased. None did.
The moment over, Mrs. Blackburn turned the music back to its previous volume and then ambled over to the bar cart and began mixing up cocktails for the guests.
Marjorie rose, and Rosemary heard her ask Lorraine where to find the loo. “It’s through that door there, and down the hall,” Mrs. Blackburn answered with a smile that Marjorie reciprocated, though without the level of sincerity as the one she was given.
Recognizing the opportunity, Rose slipped out behind her. Marjorie headed in the wrong direction, and Rosemary helpfully pointed out the fact. “I am afraid the arrangement of rooms in this house can be rather confusing. You want to go this way.”
“Thank you,” Marjorie said, smiling a tight smile. She appeared drawn and upon closer inspection, her eyes were ringed with red, though it was obvious she had tried to cover the fact with an abundance of kohl.
Rosemary considered how best to proceed. Her desire to glean information was at odds with her reluctance to scare Marjorie off. “This is all rather maudlin, don’t you think?” she commented wryly.
“Yes, I suppose so. Though, life does go on,” Marjorie replied, turning on her heel without another word and closing the door behind her. Silently, Rosemary berated herself for thinking it would be easy to gain the trust of a woman like Marjorie with so little effort.
As Rose turned to head back towards the parlor, she noticed Herbert Lock, arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb. His menacing expression set Rosemary’s heart thumping a little harder in her chest.
“Quite the little sleuth, aren’t you, Mrs. Lillywhite?” he spat. “Poking your nose into matters that do not concern you.”
“A man is dead, Herbert, and since my brother is the one being fingered for the crime, it certainly is my business. You’re looking pretty good as a suspect, if you ask me.”
The color in his face continued to rise as he sputtered, “Why on earth would I have killed Mr. Cuthburt? We were in negotiations for a deal that would have made me a lot of money. You’re obviously not as smart as you think you are.”
“Unless you thought he was Mr. Barton, and that Grace had already told him she wouldn’t marry you,” Rosemary retorted. “Then, your plan for getting to her money would have been out the window, and you’d have had nothing to lose.” Nor would he have had anything to gain, which was the sticking point.
“This is your fault, you meddling little wench. You’re the one who whispered in Grace’s ear and told her not to marry me. We were just fine until you came along.”
“Your mistake is in thinking Grace is the type of woman who would listen to someone else rather than her heart. However, she is the one who has decided you are not good enough for her. Mind you, I heartily agree with her conclusion,” Rose said, crossing her arms in a mimic of Herbert’s stance, the same way a wild animal might mirror its prey.
His eyes goggled out of his head, and his arms became rigid as his hands turned to fists at his side. He was not nearly as formidable as he thought he was, but Rosemary did not wish to have to defend herself, particularly in heels.
Herbert sputtered. “Keep your nose out of our business or you will live to regret it,” he threatened, coming toward her with a look of sheer rage on his face.
Marjorie exited the powder room and stopped short, taking in the scene before her. “Herbert, leave her alone. You always aim above your station; it is truly ridiculous. Return to the party. Now.”
Had he been a cartoon character, steam would have poured out of Herbert’s ears as he looked back and forth between Rosemary and Marjorie. Swallowing heavily, he let out a frustrated grunt before turning around and walking back in the other direction.
“Thank you,” Rose said quietly.
“You probably could have taken him. That man is an utter arse,” she replied.
“I hope Mr. Barton realizes that before he ties Grace to him for life.”
Marjorie rolled her eyes. “Don’t believe every word Grace Barton says. That one is not quite as innocent as she would like people to believe. Whatever happens to her will be well-earned.”
“What do you mean, Marjorie?”
“Honestly, Herbert was right about one thing. You would do better to stay out of matters that do not concern you,” Marjorie retorted, striding back into the parlor with a toss of her golden hair.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rosemary made a beeline for her friends, her mouth set in a grim line. “That was a bust. All I discovered was that Marjorie has some ill feelings towards Grace. She seems to feel the same way about me, though what I’ve done to irritate her I couldn’t say.”
Vera closed her eyes for a moment. Sighing, shook her head from side to side. “Rosie, dear, you can’t be serious. For someone with your deductive skills to turn into such a dumb Dora is annoying beyond the telling of it at times.”
“So nice to see what you really think of me.” Rosemary was miffed.
Enunciating clearly and drawing the words out slowly, Vera explained. “She doesn’t like you because Teddy does.” Vera had every confidence that her friend would ferret out who killed Ernest Cuthburt, but she worried that when it came to her own personal life, Rose would turn a blind eye to the most obvious of clues.
Clamping her mouth shut, Rose flushed and refused to comment. Vera tended to view things from her own perspective. In her presence, most men turned to drooling dolts, and so she thought the tendency a common trait of the species instead of a normal reaction to her own magnetism. Rosemary—in her own opinion—had never, and would never inspire enough interest in a man to spark jealousy among the female population. Ergo, Marjorie had another reason for her attitude, and Vera was deluded. That was the only explanation that made sense.
She was considering the possible reasons when her mother appeared at her side. “Lorraine has offered the ladies a tour of the gallery. Would you like to come along?”
Vera and Rosemary exchanged wry looks. The gallery, as she called it, was a room full of paintings for which Lorraine had posed. She took great delight in shocking her guests as some of the paintings were nudes.
“Thank you, but no. I’ve seen the gallery many times before.”
In the end, only Mrs. Barton, Marjorie, and Evelyn took the tour, leaving the men and Grace behind.
Directly after the chattering group left the room, Rosemary and Vera busied themselves mixing up a complicated cocktail. Teddy and Grace, her face still slightly pink from Vera whispering the truth of the gallery in her ear, joined the pair near the bar cart to offer opinions as to whether gin or vodka made the best martinis. Rose split her attention between them and the rest of the people left in the room, straining to overhear the conversation between her father and Mr. Barton.
When he noticed Rosemary’s uncharacteristic silence, Frederick said, “What’s the matter, Rosie? Have you gone into a trance, or are you merely cogitating on the results of a bout of sleuthing?”
“Hush now, Freddie. Were you aware your voice goes up in direct proportion to the number of drinks you’ve had?”
“Edgar, Arthur,” Cecil Woolridge said, taking a seat near the pair, “I think I’ve finally decided that perhaps a membership to the club might suit me after all,” he said, following the plan he and Rose had discussed prior to the start of the party.
Mr. Barton, having already become so inebriated that Rose could smell his breath from clear across the room, boomed with laughter. “I knew we’d convince you eventually, Cecil. You must buy a set of clubs, of course. I can get you a deal there, old cove.” Mr. Barton appeared far more excited about the idea than it deserved, and Mr. Abbot simply nodded in agreement with whatever his partner said. Rose imagined, given Mr. Barton’s personality, things worked that way most of the time.
“Does this mean you’re considering our offer?” he asked Mr. Woolridge.
Rosemary’s father nodded. “I am considering it, Edgar. Of course, I’ll need to consult with Frederick first. The young guard, don’t you know, must bring them along in the ways of the business world.”
“I think it would be wise to advise waiting to make any changes to our business structure until after this murder investigation has been closed,” Mr. Abbot cut in, his eyes serious.
Cecil Barton shrugged off his concerns. “We’re on the up-and-up, Arthur. Ernest made sure of that before he died. He combed through all the records with a fine-tooth, and there’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t move forward as planned. This deal will make us all a lot of money, and then we can retire to the golf course full-time.”
Mr. Woolridge raised an eyebrow, ignoring the comment about retiring entirely. “Why would Ernest have needed to comb through the records?”
“Oh, poor Ernest had convinced himself one of our deals wasn’t strictly on the level. I believe he had become quite paranoid about protecting his reputation. Fortunately, he never did find anything, and it all checked out.”
Herbert Lock, who had made his way closer to the group, snorted. “I wouldn’t necessarily go that far, Edgar. After all, the man is dead. Perhaps things weren’t as cut and dried as all that.”
Mr. Abbot looked at Herbert with surprise in his eyes. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, boy. It’s not proper.”
“Neither is murder, old chap. And neither are cooked books,” Herbert retorted. Mr. Abbot didn’t reply immediately, but it appeared he might have had a response at the ready. As he opened his mouth to speak, a commotion outside the door caught everyone’s attention.
When it opened, they could hear the shrill voice of Mrs. Barton, who was screaming at the top of her lungs. “You are a no-good tramp and if you think you’ll worm your way into this family, you had better think again! Stay away from my son, and stay away from my husband, or I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”
“That’s rich, coming from someone who would allow her daughter to marry a cad like Herbert Lock. Not so worried about marring your good family name now, are you?” Marjorie answered, holding herself with far more composure than Mrs. Barton was.
Herbert’s expression was one of shock and anger. “How dare you drag me into whatever this is, Marjorie? What have I ever done to you to deserve this kind of attack?”
Marjorie whirled around to shoot daggers at Herbert with a single glance. “You know exactly what you’ve done, Herbert. I’m sure Grace will attest to the fact you’ve tried to strong-arm her, just like you tried to strong-arm Rosemary in the hall earlier tonight.”
“He did what?” Frederick piped up, and by this time the entire room was in an uproar. “Did he put his hands on you, Rose?” Her brother demanded.
“Calm down, Freddie, he didn’t touch me.” Rose debated whether honesty was the best policy in this situation, not wanting to start another world war right there in Lorraine Blackburn’s parlor, but ultimately decided on the truth. “Though, I have to give Marjorie credit for interrupting our conversation. I can’t say for sure whether he would have resorted to physical violence, but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
Frederick turned his fury and his fist in Herbert Lock’s direction. “It’s time for you to leave, or I will see to it you exit with fewer limbs than you arrived with.”
Being halfway zozzled on Lorraine Blackburn’s best booze, Freddie’s aim went wide and the blow merely glanced off Herbert’s jaw. Herbert returned fire with a short-armed jab that swelled Freddie’s eye.
Oddly, the one-eyed gaze improved Freddie’s aim because with the next punch, Herbert’s nose gave a satisfying crunch and, just as Teddy made to step in and defend his sister’s honor, the fight was over.
Blood welling between the fingers clutching his nose, Herbert looked from Frederick to Theodore and decided he was outclassed in the fight. “Fine,” Herbert said, “I’ll go. But this isn’t over.”
“I think it’s time to wrap this party up,” Mrs. Blackburn said.
“I agree.” Marjorie stalked out of the parlor without so much as a goodbye, and the slamming of the front door echoed behind her.
For once, Edgar Barton was too stunned to bluster, and with his wife leading the way, he and Arthur Abbot follow
ed her out.
“I’m devastated, Lorraine. You must accept my sincerest apologies for my son’s behavior. Fighting like a hooligan in your beautiful home.” Red-faced and profuse, Evelyn threw herself on Lorraine’s mercy while the woman in question merely grinned delightedly.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Woolridge,” Vera assured. “Mother absolutely thrives on drama. She’ll mark this down as her most successful soiree to date.” Without seeming to be rude, she ushered the Woolridges towards the door.
“Come along, Frederick.” By his tone, it appeared Vera’s assurance had not mollified Cecil Woolridge.
“I think I’ll walk home. I need some air,” Frederick said. “You will come straight back to the house with Wadsworth.” It wasn’t a question, but Rosemary nodded in agreement, anyway.
Perhaps it had been a bad idea to get everyone back in the same room.
“That was quite a spectacle,” Rosemary said as she slumped into a chair and kicked off her shoes. She took a long swig from her cocktail, which by now was room-temperature, and sighed.
Vera settled onto one of the other settees and mimicked her friend. “You have to admit, the expression on Mrs. Barton’s face was priceless when she burst through the doors screaming at Marjorie. I realize Mr. Barton is loaded and all, but it’s obvious Marjorie has her heart set on Teddy. Something tells me she’s put the final nail in that coffin, though.”
Rose raised an eyebrow at Vera. “Mentioning coffins probably isn’t very tasteful.”
“I think tasteful has gone out the window after tonight,” Vera replied wryly. “Though I do feel sorry for poor Mr. Cuthburt. It seems the world would be a better place if it had been Mr. Barton who died, after all.”
“It wasn’t as though Ernest Cuthburt was a pillar of virtue, Vera. He probably deserved what he got,” Mrs. Blackburn retorted matter-of-factly.
Rosemary’s ears perked, and her eyes widened slightly. “Mother!” Vera exclaimed. “It would do you well not to say such things, considering Inspector Whittington already thinks you might have had a vendetta against the dead man. What could you possibly be thinking, saying something like that?”
