Viviane Burk Stayton was a gorgeous lady. I did not know her age; I could only guess, based on the fact that her son was born in the year of nineteen hundred and four, that she was perhaps nearing the age of fifty.
Well-spoken, lovely in appearance, she made for quite the fashionable woman. I suspected she would soon remarry. A number of handsome chaps her age played escort to various dinners, theater performances, and the opera.
Xavier’s father had died just three years before we met. Mother Stayton was fond of saying, “Mr. Stayton died during the war.” This was true, but he played no part in the war that I was aware of. He’d had a heart attack in his dressing gown while berating a cook about the healthy breakfast she'd prepared that morning.
While devoted to her husband during his life, I could not help notice how quickly her eyes landed upon a nice-looking fellow who might stroll past us in a restaurant.
These past seven years had been hard on her; she once remarked that a pretty woman looked best when matched beside a handsome man’s shoulder. This had been said as I stood next to her son, but I think the comment was not directed toward me.
“You missed the bulk of the calamity. Clarice let Toby out—again,” said Mother Stayton, waving me to sit next to her. “Oh, what is it that you are reading?”
“Actually, Lucy is reading it,” I explained.
Sitting down on the chair across from us, Lucy said the book’s name.
Mother Stayton’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, one of those murder mysteries. Are you enjoying it?” She then looked over to the grey-faced butler, who was trying to scoop dirt from the floor back into a potted plant that had been overturned, and asked, “Did the butler do it?”
This member of the domestic staff had no sense of humor. Lucy and I both smiled at the comment, but we didn’t encourage Mother Stayton to say more.
I cleared my throat, the surest way to indicate I had an announcement to share, and then said, “I have decided to write a book.”
Mother Stayton clasped her hands together and said, “A writer! What a nice occupation for your time.”
I believe that she was comforted by my embrace of widowhood. It was an honor to her beloved son that I should remain his, and only his, wife.
A queer expression crossed Lucy’s lovely face. “What about the theatrical musical that you were writing?”
“As it turns out, my muse doesn't sing," I retorted.
Excited for me, Mother Stayton remarked, “She sleuths?”
“Indeed, and she has spoken.”
Lucy wasn’t one to leave a project half done, and with obvious disappointment, she said, “But you were so close to finishing your musical.”
I had attempted to become a painter, but the brush was deaf to my desire. My piano lessons ended when my well-paid instructor commented that somehow, even when I managed to hit the right key, the note still sounded wrong.
I never understood poetry; some things were red, some things were blue, but this is as much as I can rhyme, and it only passes so much time.
My theatrical musical had kept me busy, but in my heart, I knew it was lacking. “Yes, Lucy, I have made great progress, but I’m always being set back when the scrubby maid pinches the bucket I carry all my notes in.”
Lucy chuckled while Mother Stayton looked on, confused.
“No, a murder mystery, this shall be my calling.” I turned to Mother Stayton. “You know how all the good ones take place at some stately country manor.” She nodded, and I went on. “I thought perhaps I might pay a visit to your family in the county of Bedfordshire—soak up the atmosphere at their estate.”
These were not, per se, her family; they were her late husband’s cousins. I was putting her on the spot, but it would seem more fitting for her to send a letter asking that I might visit, rather than if I did so.
Mother Stayton seemed apprehensive and warned, “They come off all jolly and smiles, but they are queer people. Those same friendly smiles keep you from noticing the cold glare in their eyes.” Her own eyes lost focus, as if she was recalling some ugly business with them, then returned, and she forced a little smile. “But then, they did adore my towheaded boy…”
Our eyes met, and I gave thanks to the Almighty that Lucy was in our company. Mother Stayton knew how this expression pained me.
The woman pressed her red lips together and lowered her lightly painted eyelids before she continued the conversation, the ugly moment past. “Of course, they are well-bred people; I’m sure they would treat you well.”
Lucy and I smiled, staring the poor woman down like orphans who knew that her handbag was filled with sugary candy. (Is that mean, to use orphans as a comparison? We do regularly donate a large sum to the local orphanage and send them presents from Father Christmas every year. Well, I’m agreeable to jotting down another phrase if it might be suggested by the editor.)
“I will send Cousin Nicholas a letter, baiting them to invite you.” She looked me up and down and said, “We will need to take you shopping. They might live fifty miles away, but I dare say Joan knows what is currently displayed on each mannequin at H and N.”
Chapter Two
As hoped, I received a flowery letter from Ruth Stayton, Cousin Nicholas’s wife, inviting me to Pearce Manor for a week.
Lucy and I made our farewells to Mother Stayton, while two porters struggled with our baggage. My mother-in-law had instructed Clarice to fill the luggage with half of the spring line from her preferred department store.
Once onboard the train, the car attendant made a comment in French, accustomed to the well-bred English clientele recognizing this beautiful langue. Sadly, whatever he said sounded something like la blabla, la gub-gub to me. After all, I was still picking up the English spoken in London, a strangely different language than spoken in St. Louis.
There had been so many new words to learn. For example, when Xavier was explaining who was who among his family household, he told me, “Mr. Jack has managed the business affairs since Father died. Very good with numbers and records. Think nothing of his manners; he’s a typical poof.”
Upon meeting Mr. Jack, I told him I understood that he kept the financial affairs for the family, and thinking I had learned the British slang for accountant, I asked him how long he had been a poof.
As he blushed, his mouth gaping open without a sound, I thought to myself, Well, he’s a bit of Nancy boy, isn’t he?
Xavier said something clever to change the subject and then, once alone, he explained to me that Mr. Jack was a Nancy Boy. I was afraid to speak for the remainder of the week. (Now, should this be omitted? I would hate for Mr. Jack to be arrested and charged with homosexuality just based on household gossip and the fact that he always smells of lavender.)
Lucy took the train tickets from my hand, passed them to the attendant, and then replied in French. The fellow smiled and left us.
Settled in our seats for the brief journey, we mumbled polite greetings to the older couple who sat across from us.
I opened my handbag and placed it in my lap. After taking my gloves off, I retrieved my engagement and wedding rings from my purse. The engagement ring had belonged to Xavier’s grandmother. The stone, a dazzling ruby, was too large to pull gloves over. This action caught the attention of the woman across from me.
Having been spotted ogling my jewelry, she had little choice but to remark, “What a lovely ring.”
“Thank you. It belonged to my husband’s grandmother.”
The fellow gave my ruby a glance, and his eyes grew wide; then, a little frown passed across his face as he realized there would be some nagging comment once in private concerning his wife’s slim, unadorned wedding band.
I gave introductions. “This is my dear friend, Miss Lucy Wallace. I am Mrs. Xavier Stayton.”
They gave their names and started talking about the lovely spring weather. We were all jostled as the train made that initial lurch forward like a toddler either taking his first step or beginning another tumble. Lucy and the coupl
e made that pleasant polite laugh that I so despise when there was no appropriate comment to be said, and I smiled and nodded my chin.
The sound of the whistle and rush of machine parts all astir were very loud, making conversation unnecessary. Once the train was some distance from the station, moving rather fast, we grew somewhat accustomed to the loudness.
Lucy leaned into me and pointed toward my purse. We both retrieved the little diaries we had selected while shopping for the needed supplies to write my whodunit.
My friend spoke just loud enough for me to hear her, in a very furtive manner, as if the plot of my novel were the most important secret. “Make a note of the car attendant. He was French; maybe something happened during the war and he can’t return home, some sort of misdeed.”
Yes, I scribbled this down before saying, “I was reading more on that Sherlock Holmes book last night and realized that my master detective will need a companion, some sort of assistant.”
Lucy’s forehead wrinkled. “Why?”
“The master detective needs someone to speak to, to make observations to. Otherwise, how does the reader know what the clues mean?” I explained.
Lucy’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! He tells Watson his deductions, thusly telling the reader.”
“Yes, you see.”
“I hadn’t puzzled that out before; you are already becoming the master detective.” Lucy made a note on her pad. “Do you have a name for him?”
“No, it can’t be a him,” I remarked.
“No? Why?”
“My master sleuth is going to be a woman; thus her companion should be.”
“A woman... Oh, yes! A sleek, elegant lady.” Lucy became very excited. “She must say things like, a ripping good time and scram, you pusher; you give me the heebie-jeebies. Oh, and she should quote lines from jazz songs that relate to her cases.”
Well, I wasn’t sure about all that, but I smiled and nodded all the same. In truth, I had no choice but to write from the viewpoint of a woman; I didn’t understand the point of view of a man. Xavier had been very modest. Never did I witness him clip his toenails, nor doing his morning stretches, these things I know that men do. In our brief time together, we had been rather shy, even as man and wife in the bedroom; there had been an air of innocence in our passions. (This may be too racy. Lucy had suggested some bit of color thrown in, but I am not certain that it is appropriate. Yes, I do think that it is telling that when Mother Stayton read this manuscript, I withheld this page.)
“Pearce Manor,” Lucy said, followed by a sigh, her pencil ablaze with movement. “The name itself speaks of mystery.”
The noise of the train was now very natural to us. The sound of chatter filled the railcar. Her interest piqued, the woman sitting across from us asked, “I beg your pardon, did you mention Pearce Manor?”
Not quite a social butterfly, Lucy froze for a moment rather than responding to the question.
Before anyone might be embarrassed, I said, “Yes, we are spending the week there. My husband’s family resides at the manor.”
“How very nice. Are you joining your husband there?” the woman asked ever so innocently.
That shadow crossed along my face; I could tell by how the pleasant couple gazed at me. “No, my husband died three years ago.”
I was too young for anyone to suspect that I was a war widow. Why I mentioned how long ago Xavier found himself in Heaven with our Lord, I do not know.
“I’m so sorry for you; you are so very young,” the woman replied. She knew that she should say no more, but she could not hold her tongue—they can never just hold their tongues. “What happened to such a young man?”
The expression on her husband's wrinkled face told me he momentarily considered stuffing his newspaper into his wife’s open mouth.
“My dear Xavier was an explorer, you know the type. He was in Egypt with Mr. Howard Carter when they discovered that boy king’s tomb. I’m sure you read about it in the papers.” I reached into my handbag, pulled out a rabbit’s foot, and clutched the little thing just below my chin.
The two of them were looking at me intently, their mouths held tightly shut, and their eyes open wide.
“I shouldn’t say more, but, of course, you know about the curse…”
Their heads bobbed up and down.
“My poor Xavier was just the first.” I then drew the sign of the Crucifix with my right finger and kissed my lucky rabbit’s foot before whispering intentionally loudly, “But there have been so many more.”
Dumbfound, both mumbled some sort of polite retort. Regaining his wits, the husband nudged his wife and said, “Is that Birdy Ralston over there, just at the front of the car?” and to me, “Do please excuse us for the moment.”
I knew they would not return; they gathered everything they’d brought with them and escaped toward either their acquaintance, Mr. Ralston, or some poor stranger they would feel forced to strike up a conversation with so that if we glanced at them they could point and smile at the fellow.
Lucy made no comment about my silly lie. She had never asked me in which way the Lord had summonsed my Xavier. In the same manner, I had never asked her how she’d become poverty stricken and without family. We were a comfort to each other in regard to these unhappy happenings, and explanation was unnecessary.
Absent now the pair who might have learned my whodunit’s plot, we settled ourselves. From the little silver snuff box in my purse, I took a clove and placed it on my tongue.
Lucy suggested. “You could model your characters from the household. Tell me about them.”
I took a little breath and began, “I have only met them all twice, at the wedding and then the funeral. The elder brother and his wife, Randolph and Joan, sent us a nice gift; costly, I should say. This surprised Mother Stayton. She mentioned they had fallen on hard times. That is why they moved into Pearce Manor with his younger brother and sister-in-law. No sooner than she told me this, I opened Nicholas and Ruth’s gift, and it was a small offering.”
I recalled that Randolph had a bit of a cloud over his head from the war, but Mother Stayton was far too discreet to elaborate on the topic. It seemed best not to mention this to my cheerful companion.
Lucy penciled all of our insight into her journal. “Any correspondence with them?”
“Just the obligatory Christmas letter. Very dull, all trite.”
“Each couple has children?” Lucy asked.
“Sons, both away at Eton.”
Lucy’s eyes twinkled. “College boys.”
I rolled my eyes. “And then there’s the staff, of course.”
Lucy nodded. “A little short on characters. You need a vicar; they come in two varieties: the helpful, friendly ones who know a clue but don’t realize it, and the mean, sour-faced ones who know the truth but won’t tell.”
“Brilliant.” I jotted this down in my notebook.
The poor couple who had abandoned us couldn’t decide if they should scramble off the train to avoid me, or hold back and wait until Lucy and I exited the car.
The French attendant made things easy on them. He stepped back through the open doorway and called, “Mrs. Xavier, a car awaits you.”
Lucy and I looked out the window to see our baggage was already being wrestled in the direction as pointed to by a sharp-looking chauffeur.
The attendant directed us past other travelers, giving them the impression that Lucy and I were more important. I knew this meant I would need to place an adequate coin in the palm of the man’s hand. How I wished he’d appreciate American currency; at least then I would know if I had given him the proper amount.
Gesturing to the driver, the Frenchman’s deep bow suggested I had given him too much. No matter, Mr. Jack told me that I would have to try very hard to run through the fortune I had inherited. Or open a line of credit for your good mother-in-law at H and N’s, he'd said with an effeminate harrumph.
The driver, courteous but not quite friendly, led us to a waiting seda
n. A few bland statements of greeting and mention of the family’s joy at our arrival were made before the man fell silent for the remainder of the journey.
Within the county of Bedfordshire, Bedford was a nice-sized town, but we saw little of it. Quickly, we were on the long, winding road that would take us to Pearce Manor.
Tall green trees lined the swerving lane, but otherwise, there was little to see. After taking a second hill rather fast, Lucy pointed at the radiator cap on the front of the motorcar. My eyes fixed on the winged angel I was unsure what Lucy meant until she giggled and said, “We are on a Rolls’er coaster.” She giggled again at her silly joke, and I smiled and nodded my chin.
The trip by train hadn’t taken a full hour. After twenty minutes in the car, which seemed to be sailing much more swiftly than the locomotive, I leaned forward and asked, “How much farther?”
“We are there now, ma’am.” As the driver spoke, the car slowed, and a gatehouse appeared between a break of lovely hedges.
What had I imagined, a long, narrow lane, climbing steeply up toward something more like a castle than a home? Perhaps I had envisioned such a foreboding place because the cheerful lavender rhododendrons that lined the flat, straight driveway caused me to frown.
At the end of the colorful lane was Pearce Manor. I must admit that the place wasn’t as grand as I had pictured. Three stories tall, made of a rectangular cut grey stone, there was something rather institutional about the place.
It was large, much larger than our home in Holland Park, but it wasn’t the immense thing I had daydreamed of. There would be no suits of armor in a grand hall in this residence. This was a more modern affair, built little more than a hundred years ago, of that I was sure.
In contrast to the plainness of the home, I was delighted to see a little army of servants turned out along the walkway before the entrance.
The car came to a stop, and the driver quickly hopped out and opened my door. The servants bowed and then parted to reveal two well-dressed men, two lovely ladies, and one gaunt woman, who scowled at me with obvious contempt. These five people slowly walked down the steps toward us.
Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Page 2
