Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

by Robert Colton

  Randolph mumbled over a mouthful of his sandwich, “I don’t care much for all the suspense.”

  Joan flashed what looked, for an instant, like ugly fangs at her husband and quipped, “I don’t know, some people like a good scandal.”

  Ruth ignored her older sister-in-law’s comment and said, “These whodunits, they rely on stock characters, don’t they? Have you selected yours?”

  I hoped to say something that would not inspire an awkward retort. “Well, I’m still thinking up my cast of suspicious characters.”

  Lucy said, with the intent to help me, “You do have that Frenchman character.” She looked about the curious faces. “He’s unable to return home, since he committed a war crime.”

  Randolph choked on the last bite of his smoked salmon. At that instant, I realized I should have warned Lucy of the vague talk that after the war, a cloud was cast over him.

  Quickly, I commented, “The Frenchman that Lucy mentioned was a railcar attendant. He gave me the idea. Perhaps my book will have a mysterious domestic with a secret.”

  Nicholas pulled his hand away from the back of Phyllis’s chair, very quickly. A strangely bemused grin appeared on the grey woman’s face for just a second.

  Ruth cleared her throat and opened her brass cigarette case. Nicholas crossed the floor to his wife with his lighter in hand.

  Once Ruth had taken a long drag and exhaled the smoke, she said in almost stony pitch, “Speaking of the stock characters, I suspect you'll want to meet the vicar, but of course, he's a bore. His wife has already invited you to luncheon tomorrow; we made the mistake of telling her about your visit. She reads a lot of those books and thinks she knows something about them. I don't know that I can stand it. Phyllis, perhaps you can take the young ladies?”

  Phyllis mumbled something agreeable, and I will tell you, the thought of spending an extended amount of time with the woman chilled my blood.

  Ruth remained in full control of the conversation—there would be no more mishaps. “And you'll need to go to the pub to see the local country ruffians.”

  Randolph said rather jovially, “Maybe that sleuthing eye of yours will detect the rascal who hit Nicky.”

  Forced laughter followed Randolph’s remark.

  I had no desire for more tea, so I carefully placed my cup and saucer on the low table before me. I noticed the butler make eyes at the serving girl, and an instant later, she swooped in and began collecting the dishes, quite precisely, very quietly. I found myself wishing my notebook was handy; I wanted to record her skilled manner at going unnoticed by everyone but me.

  Phyllis had said something, and it took a moment before I realized her comment had been directed at me. “I beg your pardon?”

  Sounding like the stern nuns my mother warned me about, she repeated herself, “I said, do you have a plot?”

  I gave a little shrug and admitted, “I have several; I must decide on one.”

  Nicholas remarked, “I just picked up a mystery type book the last time I was in town.” He looked to the butler and asked, “What’s it called?”

  “Remittance Delayed, by a gentleman with the last name of Holliston. It is in the library. Shall I collect it?”

  “No, thank you, Henderson.” Nicholas looked back to me and asked, “Have you read it?” (Now, here, I have named the butler; other than Clarice, I have avoided naming the domestics, as they haven’t been important to my story. Lucy read in a journal on writing that an author should limit the number of characters for a reader to remember. Thus, by naming Henderson, it must now surely be recognized that he will become a familiar figure in the rest of my manuscript. Because of the fact that the butler virtually ran the household, it seems difficult to me to leave him unnamed. This is an instance when I believe a seasoned editor will be of help to my work.)

  “No, what is it about?” I asked curiously.

  “The main character kills his nephew for money, and so far, it seems he’s getting away with it.”

  Lucy put a finger to her lip and said, “How dastardly. Why did the protagonist need money so badly?”

  Nicholas replied, “The chap couldn’t control his wife’s spending…habits…” As his words failed him, everyone looked to Joan, who was leaning toward her husband as he lit her cigarette.

  I think my heartbeat doubled.

  Phyllis was impervious to the awkwardness. “May I suggest a plot?”

  I nodded my chin, vigorously.

  “Unrequited love inspires an attempted murder; your sleuth must deduce the criminal before he or she strikes again.” With that said, she pointed toward the brass cigarette case on the coffee table.

  Nicholas fetched what Phyllis wanted and then lit it. We all watched in silence as she inhaled deeply and then blew out the many whirling tendrils of smoke, enveloping her in a little cloud of grey.

  Chapter Four

  Dinner, served at seven thirty, went much more smoothly than tea. Each couple had enjoyed a cocktail or two before Lucy and I joined them in evening dress within the black and white Formica-clad dining room.

  To my relief, Phyllis did not join us. She sent word by one of the maids that she was tired and had little appetite.

  This upset Ruth, but no one else seemed to mind the stark woman’s absence; I certainly did not.

  There was much talk of horses and golfing, subjects that Lucy was in her element discussing. Once, when my companion remarked that we had the proper attire packed away for some such sport, Joan managed to retort, “Of course you do, Miss Wallace; that outfit was on page fourteen of the catalog.”

  There was a little jolt, and it would seem that her husband kicked her under the table. Joan drained her glass of wine as if quenching a fire in her throat and then fell silent for a bit.

  Nicholas told dull stories about Pearce Manor’s lackluster history. This was quite comforting. I felt like a child being lulled to sleep with the retelling of an old Aesop’s fable.

  After dinner was finished, we went to the library. This room, blessed be, had not been redone in art deco. One wall was a series of windows and French doors leading out to an enclosed garden. Opposite of this, the wall was lined with filled bookshelves, broken only by the double doors leading into the room from the hall. A fantastic marble fireplace was alight, with mirror-faced doors on either side, leading to a room yet unseen.

  More drinks were served, and cigarette smoke filled the air. To the obvious relief of Ruth, Phyllis joined us for the remainder of the evening.

  She and Ruth partnered for a game of bridge against Joan and Lucy—an odd pairing this seemed to me. Sitting on the oversized leather davenport, pretending to listen to the brothers tell me about the locals, I watched how Phyllis had to place her hand of cards on the table and pull out the card she was tossing to the pile, then she again lifted the cards with her good hand. Always, her left arm remained drawn tightly to her thin body.

  I also observed that, though seated at the same table, playing the same game, Phyllis and Joan ignored each other. There was no hostility between the two; they just acted as if the other weren’t there.

  From time to time, each wife would glance toward her husband, questing for the subject of our trite conversation.

  Already half asleep, Lucy and I bade the group goodnight once Joan became too intoxicated to continue playing cards.

  Phyllis gave me a cool smile and reminded me, “We’ll have luncheon with the vicar’s wife tomorrow. Don’t stay up all night plotting your murder. Trust me, you will need your rest.”

  This warning had jolted me awake, and I lay in my bed, unable to sleep. An hour passed, and then another. I decided I might find the book that Nicholas had mentioned earlier and crept down to the library, hoping the family had long since retired for the evening.

  A single lamp lit only a corner of the large room. I had thought it left on by mistake until a man’s friendly voice said, “May I help you, Mrs. Stayton?”

  The butler, Henderson, stood from the couch; a book wa
s in his hand. He was a tall fellow. I suspected him to be fifty years old. The man seemed fit, with only a tinge of grey in his dark hair.

  “Oh, I am sorry to disturb you, Henderson. I was just looking for that new mystery that Cousin Nicholas told me about.”

  “You aren’t disturbing me at all,” he said kindly. “Yes, let’s see.” Gently, he placed the book he was reading on the coffee table and then went to a little desk. “Here it is.”

  I clutched my robe and made several quick strides to prevent the man from having to bring the novel to me. “Thank you.”

  He smiled, amused by my manners. “You are welcome, Mrs. Stayton. Although, I might say,” he lifted his book from the table, “you may find more inspiration in this.”

  Smiling, I asked, “What are you reading?”

  “Edgar Allan Poe. I was just about to finish The Tell-Tale Heart. This is a book of his short stories.”

  “Oh, those are quite clever,” I said agreeably.

  “Would you prefer this?” Henderson gestured with the book in his hand.

  I found so much of Poe’s work to be tragically romantic; after all, he too had lost his spouse. “I couldn’t; some of his stories are…somewhat dark for me. Back home, when the little budgie talks from his cage, I’m horrified that he might say, nevermore.”

  Henderson did not make that forced, seemingly polite, laugh that I do so hate; he merely smiled.

  I glanced at the elegant dog, stretched out and relaxed by the smoldering fire. Henderson took notice and said, “I should have carried him up the stairs an hour ago. I imagine Mrs. Ruth will miss him if she wakes of the night.”

  “He won’t climb the stairs? I never knew of a dog that couldn’t make his way from floor to floor.”

  “Nate’s dumbfounded by them; he tried coming down once but almost ended up like Miss Masterson.” The butler’s face froze in a grimace, and he looked quite ashamed of himself.

  “Is that what happened to Phyllis?” I inquired, sounding as ill-mannered as those who asked how my dear Xavier found his way to Heaven.

  Henderson nodded his chin, gravely. “She fell from the stairs, yes, two years ago now.”

  “How awful.”

  “There was much nerve damage. She could never return to her work.”

  “What did she do?”

  He looked at me, a little surprised by the question. “She was Mrs. Ruth’s secretary.”

  A thought flashed through my mind, A domestic with a secret. Nicholas had seemed quite startled when I had made the vague comment.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Stayton?” Henderson asked.

  How long had I stared toward nothing? “Oh, yes. I am fine.”

  “If you won’t be needing anything else, I should carry Nate upstairs.” He smiled at me, set down Poe’s works on the davenport, and then took a step toward the drowsy dog.

  I’m not sure why, but I asked in an excited, almost shrill voice, “Tell me, Henderson, why is it that the butler so often did it?"

  He paused and turned back to me. “Because, ma’am,” he began in his fabulously deep British voice, “the domestics move about the house without suspicion. No one would think anything if they saw me coming or going from a room; it is quite expected. I could slip into your bedchamber and replace your headache pills with poison, or leave a pistol in the drawer where you keep your gloves with ease.”

  “So true,” I said.

  “May I make a bold statement, Mrs. Stayton?”

  “Of course.” His insight had been incredibly valuable thus far.

  “In such a story, you would make a perfect red herring.”

  I clapped my hands together. “Why is that?”

  “Foreigners are always suspicious.”

  Smiling, I said, “Am I suspicious, Henderson?”

  He bent at his knees and scooped the large dog up into his arms. Then, turning to face me, he said, “Not in the slightest, ma’am.”

  “Good night, Henderson,” I told him, concealing my childish disappointment.

  “Good night, Mrs. Stayton.”

  I held the mystery novel that I had come down to fetch tightly to my chin as I glanced down onto the collection of Poe’s work. I thought to myself, We loved with a love that was more than love. No, I would never be able to read that’s man’s sorrowful work again.

  Randolph sauntered into the dining room and made a show of sniffing the air. Lucy and I were lifting the lids of the chafing dishes, inspecting the morning’s offering. Scrambled eggs, baked ham, bacon, and smoked fish made up the hot portions.

  “Little brother is presenting you with a fine English breakfast, I see.” He slipped rather close to my side and eyed the ham greedily. “Without guests, we are forced to subside on a bowl of porridge, maybe a piece of moldy fruit, if we are lucky.” I wondered if there was something to his little joke.

  “Morning, ladies,” said Nicholas, entering the room, which was basking in the morning sunlight. I noticed the stiffness in his step, a reminder of his motorcar accident. “Randolph, you are up rather early.”

  “I smelled bacon and remembered that we had company,” Randolph replied sarcastically.

  Nicholas gave him a perturbed smile and said, “That’s why Nate is at the top of the stairs whining; you two dogs smell fresh meat.” He then turned to us and said, “Ladies, do help yourselves. Breakfast is an informal meal in this household. Ruth won’t be out of bed for an hour, and only the devil knows when Joan will join the living.”

  Lucy and I filled our plates and sat side by side at the long dining table. Randolph joined us, and his younger brother, who had just a croissant with a bit of jam before him, glared at Randolph’s overflowing dish.

  Lucy, aware of the tension, tapped the book beside her plate and said, “Nicholas, how far into this sordid tale are you?”

  A natural smile graced the man’s face as he turned his attentions to my good-natured friend. “The dastardly deed just happened.”

  She gave a giggle and told him she’d started reading the story just after dawn, when she found it at my dressing table.

  “What do you think so far?” asked Nicholas.

  “It is unique. I am waiting for the clever detective to arrive,” she replied and gave the tome a thump with her knuckles.

  With a mouthful of bacon, Randolph remarked, “I just don’t like mysteries. I feel something of an idiot when I can’t figure them out.”

  “What type of book do you enjoy?” I asked in an effort to be friendly.

  “Yes, Randolph, what type of book do you enjoy?” Nicholas echoed.

  “Give me an adventure, some classic that is beloved by the ages,” Randolph replied to me, ignoring his brother.

  “Robin Hood, perhaps? Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor,” said Lucy, all too innocently.

  Nicholas and Randolph remained silent, and the same pained expression crossed their similar faces.

  Joan glided into the room just on cue, and having heard Lucy, she retorted, “Dear child, maybe that’s what your companion’s side of the Stayton family does, but not us.”

  The brothers shared a mirthless laugh, and then Randolph asked, “Aren’t you awake rather early?”

  She barked out for a hovering little maid to fetch her a cup that had been run under scalding hot water before replying to her husband, “That damned dog was whining at the top of the staircase.”

  Nicholas pushed back from the table, ready to solve the problem. Joan stopped him. “Be still, Nicky. I gave Henderson the what for about it already.”

  The ill-tempered woman sat across from me. She stared down the maid who returned with her coffee cup, held by a napkin.

  Joan, as I have said before, was very attractive. As it would seem, though, the combination of early morning and a hangover, did not suit her. Dark circles gave age to the woman’s face. Fine lines about her eyes spoke of a tension and unhappiness that I hoped never to know.

  She poured coffee from the silver decanter on the t
able and carefully tapped the handle of the cup to see how hot it was. She reached back and grimaced before looking up and catching my eye.

  Joan remarked, “I must look a fright, don’t I?”

  “Not at all. I was taking note of how you have your cup heated before you fill it. The habit might make an interesting detail in my book.”

  She gave me a curt nodded and said in a mocking tone, “The exacting actions of a finicky woman caught my inquisitive eye.”

  Randolph spoke over his last bite of scrambled eggs, “Better than, ‘The gaiety of intoxication was replaced with the sorrow of sobriety.’”

  Lucy’s toe tapped my ankle, and I knew what she was thinking. If only she’d brought her little notepad down to record the banter.

  I reached over to pick up Remittance Delayed, and then cheerfully said, “I don’t think that type of talk will be found in this book; it’s a different sort of mystery.”

  Nicholas matched my tone, and thankful for the distraction, he asked, “Do you not like it?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, but it doesn’t speak to my muse,” I replied.

  “I plan on reading it from cover to cover and then breaking down the flow of action. There is a formula to all of these novels, you know,” Lucy said, pitching in with her usual sunshiny disposition. (I make note here that I fear Lucy is not given adequate depth in this manuscript. As it is she who has typed it from my notes, I think she has subtracted much of her character to fit the expected nature of the sidekick. Just this, via stern dictation, was added in hopes that the prospective editor can help to make Lucy shine as she should.)

  Ruth joined us before anything else might be said. Nate was at her side as she walked toward the sideboard. “Good morning,” she said to the ensemble.

  Nicholas stood and asked, “Did the dog wake you, my dear?”

  Ruth removed the lid from one of the chafing dishes and then handed the Afghan hound a sliver of bacon. “Of course not,” she replied as she put together a small plate of food.

  Ruth’s presence seemed to still everyone. Conversation was very mundane, blessedly so, I might add. They spoke of the dryness of the weather, the anticipation of a county festival, and the gossip of locals I would never meet.