Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

by Robert Colton

  The chauffeur was washing the sedan and appeared surprised to see me behind the wheel.

  Joan stumbled out of the car as the chauffeur responded to my plea that he deal with the smaller vehicle, which I abandoned, still idling.

  Completely oblivious to my anger, Joan remarked, “You did a jolly good job getting us back.”

  Making no effort to be polite, I snapped at her, “I’m just happy I didn’t run someone down.”

  Joan took a misstep and attempted to focus her red eyes upon me. Nearly stuttering, she responded, “Yes, quite so.”

  Lucy tapped at my closed bedroom door and called my name. I told her to come in, before placing a clove on my tongue and taking a quick look at Xavier’s photos.

  “My eyes nearly leapt from my head when I looked out the window and saw you driving…” She saw the expression on my face and fell silent.

  “A Christian woman shouldn’t know the word that I think that woman is,” I admitted.

  “Joan? Why, what did she do?” Lucy asked.

  “She drank herself stupid.” I would not repeat what she said about Randolph. I softened my pitch and said, “I was surprised that Ruth went into town.”

  Lucy’s eyes opened wide. “So was I, except it was all planned out. Before Joan went off to the stables, I heard something said like, ʻBest to do it now, while Phyllis is out of pocket for a change.ʼ I’m just not sure what the it was?”

  “Where did she go?”

  “An alteration lady. Henderson placed a dress box in the trunk in the back of the car. I was dropped off at the book seller’s, and Ruth said she’d only be a few minutes,” Lucy said, thrilled with the scant bit of mystery.

  “Did you see the dress?” I asked.

  “No, nor was it brought in from the motorcar when we returned. I think she had a fitting and left the dress with the seamstress.”

  I repeated what Lucy had heard, “While Phyllis was out of pocket.”

  Shortly after this discussion, a little pinch-faced maid rapped at my door and said that we were welcome to take tea when we pleased, and that we would be alone. The rest of the family was, as she put it, occupied.

  Crossing through the foyer, Henderson called to me and said, “Mrs. Stayton, I directed that the tea be placed in the library rather than the drawing room; this seemed more in keeping with the mood you desire.”

  Lucy and I nibbled at the little sandwiches and made many notes in our journals. She asked me, “Do you have some phrase that Miss X will be known for?”

  “The only thing that comes to mind is, ʻI rather think that I’ve stepped in it.ʼ”

  Lucy clapped her hands together and giggled her sweet English laughter.

  An instant later, Phyllis slinked into the room, smoke trailing behind her. “Well, that explains the laughter; you two are all alone.”

  I wouldn’t attempt to make excuses for the people she knew all too well. “We are stitching together my plot. I have given some thought to your suggestion of a hopeful lover turned murderer.”

  Phyllis said, “Why must they be a murderer? Why not let them fail at the crime? Then your sleuth can catch them on their second attempt—quite the heroine she would be.”

  Lucy poured a cup of tea for Phyllis and said, “Oh, how clever.”

  “Yes, I do like the idea.” I looked into Phyllis’s pleased eyes after she had sat down near me. “You really don’t mind that I use your suggestion?”

  She sipped from her cup and told me, “I shall consider it my gift to the world of literature.”

  Phyllis went on and made several more splendid suggestions. Lucy and I took detailed notes.

  Dinner was, I should say, strained. Joan was absent. Randolph remarked that she had a headache from being outdoors for too much of the day, and there was a mumble of assent from Ruth.

  Phyllis sent word that she’d eaten too much at tea and would skip dinner. This seemed odd because I didn’t recall seeing her eat a single scone or deviled egg. She had just sipped her tea and smoked cigarette after cigarette while she kindled the fire of my literary imagination.

  I had wanted to ask her if there had ever been a man she’d loved so much she thought of ending his life had he refused to fall to Cupid’s arrow. Of course, I held my tongue.

  As the dinner conversation remained somewhat placid, I thought to myself that perhaps they’d made an arrangement among themselves to be agreeable and suffer through the next few days of my stay without the constant bickering.

  If so, Joan’s absences would make an easy start. Randolph would need to watch his quips, while Nicholas and Ruth were both capable of being ever so charming when they chose.

  The courses were served, all very nice, and then we made our way to the drawing room. There was talk of playing cards when Phyllis joined us, looking rather tired from the long day. However, we never opened a deck.

  Instead, Ruth told me and Lucy all that she knew about French art. She was fond of the safe subject. I wished I had my pencil and pad, but I could tell from Lucy’s occasional question that she was recording all of the information in her head.

  Once Ruth had tired of the subject of French art, Randolph, who had been on his best behavior, asked, “How was the luncheon with the vicar’s wife?”

  “Tedious,” responded Phyllis before I could. She then leaned forward so that Nicholas could light another cigarette for her.

  “She did enjoy entertaining us,” I added.

  “Did she tell you all about the many mystery books she has read?” Ruth inquired, sipping very slowly on a snifter of brandy.

  “Yes, and some of the local scandal as well,” I replied.

  I could not help but notice Phyllis and Nicholas’s eyes meet for just an instant.

  “She keeps spreading lies about a poor wretch who lost her child. I hope you know she can’t be believed,” Ruth said. She hadn’t noticed the look passed between her husband and her former secretary.

  Phyllis let out a puff of smoke from her dark-stained lips, and added, “Or trusted.”

  Nate stood from the floor at Ruth’s side; the dog walked around in a tight circle and then lay back down at his mistress’s feet. She reached down and stroked him before casting a queer gaze at Phyllis.

  Randolph, now inspecting his nails, asked me, “It is the end of day two, master sleuth, have you your clues, suspects, and a villain?”

  I looked quickly across the room at the faces that watched me and replied, “I do.”

  Phyllis, very dramatically, flicked her ash into a silver dish and said, “Now you just need a victim.”

  Ruth, her husband, and his brother made the polite laughter that was called for by such a sarcastically said statement, while the domestics observed our strangely tense moment in silence.

  Chapter Six

  Lucy and I ate breakfast alone. Both Nicholas and Randolph passed through the dining room and gave their greetings, but neither joined us. Once more, we were warned that their wives slept in, and we shouldn’t expect to see them until luncheon. This suited us just fine.

  Lucy and I set up in the library, and I dictated the outline of my whodunit. The story went as follows, Miss X, with her trusty sidekick, Miss W, were invited to a country estate for the weekend. Miss W’s uncle was hosting a celebration, as he planned to announce his engagement to the Lady A.

  Near tragedy strikes when a storm knocks down the power lines. Gathered in the drawing room, so that Uncle can share the good news, the guests find themselves in darkness and hear a terrible thud.

  The light comes back on, and poor Uncle has been struck on the back of the head by a candelabra. It is now up to Miss X, with the help of Miss W, to first deduce the motivation, and then the culprit.

  As with so many other novels of the genre, I needed to come up with a character who was a major or a colonel. I would have to study on the Great War to give him a credible background.

  I had my vicar’s wife, and knew the actual woman would be ever so flattered once she read m
y work. (This does remind me, I will be in need of at least two dozen advanced copies once this goes into publication. I shall leave these arrangements to you. Mr. Jack can see to having them parceled after I have made some personalized inscription in each.)

  The idea of the poor local woman, who either had an abortion or a miscarriage, at first, fit my role as the lady suffering from unrequited love. However, had my intended victim actually had a dalliance with the unfortunate female, then he would seem less sympathetic.

  The thought also passed my mind that my mother would be reading my novel, and I didn’t know what she or Mother Stayton would think of my inclusion of the topic.

  Over the next few days, Lucy and I toiled tirelessly. My hosts, realizing we no longer required much entertaining, left us to our work. A few neighbors and friends dropped in to visit from time to time, and we met them cordially. Ruth would give us their story before their arrival and suggest who might fit well into my mystery.

  Tea would be served, and they would speak to me politely until my novelty wore off and conversation would drift back to the local topics of interest.

  Otherwise, we met the family only for dinner, where they would question me on Miss X’s pursuits. I was childishly vague, assuring them that once the story was complete, I would, as it were, make a full confession.

  Phyllis was the only person permitted to look at the progress. She would carefully grasp a lit cigarette in her injured hand, clasped below her bosom, and flip through the typed pages with her good hand.

  Of points of style, she gave no mention. As to the happenings of the story, she made insightful suggestions. Since I had the intention of dedicating the work to my dearest Xavier, I would need to give Phyllis endless praise, just after Lucy, in my author’s notes. (Lucy has commented that the comma key on this brand-new typewriter seems to be showing wear rather quickly. If this is but a hint on her part that my sentence structure should be altered, I leave this to the editor.)

  With our intended departure set for the coming Monday morning, we worked late into the night and rose early of the morning to finish the first draft by Friday afternoon.

  At dinner that evening, I wore my most elegant emerald green satin gown. Pearls clung to my neck, and I dabbed as much powder on my face as I dared. Lucy was dressed to the nines as well; she looked ever so smart.

  In my honor, several of the well-placed locals whom we had met over the week were invited to supper. I was both delighted and ashamed that the dominating topic of conversation was my whodunit.

  The guests were all charming and so inquisitive. I did not feel as much the out-of-place American as I did the fascinating author.

  By request, I described several of my characters. There was the spurned lover; she was a mysterious woman with fiery red hair, which matched her bad humor. Next, the devoted fiancée, quiet in voice, but ever so jealous. The uncle, good-natured at heart, and being driven mad by the secret he has kept from his fiancée. Lastly, was the estranged husband of the spurned lover, who wants her back, only to save face.

  The dinner guests all mumbled words of excitement and congratulations to me. However, Joan, Ruth, Nicholas, and Randolph all stared at me with cold eyes and clenched jaws.

  After the last course of the wonderful meal had been served, and I had been toasted by those gathered, it was suggested that the menfolk adjourn to the stately library, while the ladies made their way to the art deco drawing room.

  Several of the women made a fuss over the Afghan hound. Nate languished beside Ruth’s feet, unsure of the many guests.

  At this moment that I was not the center of attention, I remembered what I had packed away in my room.

  My auburn hair was done up so nice, my pearl earrings and choker necklace had received so much notice, I just wanted to add to my brief dalliance with sophistication. I slipped away while cocktails were still being served, intent to nab from my jewelry box the cigarette holder Xavier had given me.

  How fashionable I thought I would appear. So worldly, this young lady from the continent was, they might think.

  Bless the Almighty, my high heels and long gown kept me from bounding up the staircase, forgetting what little actual dignity I possessed.

  I came to my room and noticed the door was ajar. I froze, unsure if a servant was merely preparing my bed, or if someone who should not have been was in my room.

  A confrontation was undesirable. My ruby ring was on my finger, and Xavier’s snuffbox was inside the little purse I clasped. These were the two most important things in the world to me, and no cat burglar would care to make off with the many photos of my beloved, so I decided to quietly turn back and find Henderson. He could deal with the unknown intruder.

  This was not to be; my back now to the doorway, I was startled to hear my name spoken. I turned back to see Nicholas, his complexion drained of color. He was the last person I had expected to be sneaking about my room. What does one say to their host at such an occasion?

  “Cousin Nicky,” I said. This choice of words sounded very odd from me, as I had never been invited to call him Nicky. “What a startle you’ve given me. I was just coming up to get something and realized that it was in my clutch.” Concluding my lie, I flashed him my little black purse; doing so, I saw how plain it appeared, ill-fitting alongside my satin gown that had looked so sleek, so sharp on the mannequin at H and N.

  Nicholas appreciated the lie and replied in form. “I had to run up here for a moment, and I noticed your door was ajar. I stepped in to make sure Nate hadn’t nosed his way inside.”

  No longer surprised, I was now suspicious. There was no need to mention that the dog was in the drawing room with his wife, or that the helpless creature could not manage stairs and would have had to have been carried to the second floor.

  We smiled at each other, and we both saw past the forced expressions. After a moment of awkward silence, Nicholas gestured toward the stairs.

  I recalled his reaction to my comment, a domestic with a secret, and the way he had jerked away from Phyllis. Could he be capable of pushing a woman down a flight of stairs?

  I would not take the chance. I made a little pout and tapped my clutch again, “On second thought,” I said, “I’m not sure that I do have it.”

  I stepped past him and pushed the door wide open. He gave me a nervous smile and suggested that his guests would be missing him. I agreed and shut the door firmly after he took a single step back.

  There was no mistake about what had just happened. I flipped the lock, without waiting politely for him to be far enough away that the action would go unnoticed. Quite the contrary, I wanted Cousin Nicky to know that I was on to him.

  Looking about the room, nothing seemed disturbed. Stepping over to my writing desk, I inspected my manuscript. As anticipated, the domed glass paperweight had been moved. I had set the object directly over the working title of my story, in a way so that the X of Miss X and the Case of Cupid’s Misdeed created the optical illusion that the letter was three times its actual size. Nicholas had not noticed this detail, and the item was left squarely in the center of the first typed page.

  Completely forgetting about my cigarette holder, I returned downstairs to the drawing room. Lucy was at my side in an instant. Handing me a mixed drink, she remarked playfully, “I was about to send Holmes out to look for you.”

  I didn’t want to concern her. I forced a pleased smile and sipped at the rather strong concoction of liquor, named after a line in a jazz song.

  The women, all familiar with each other, had broken into three different groups and lounged about the modern room. They cast pleasant smiles on me, but my moment in the spotlight was over. Local gossip, the need for rain, background dialogue, this claimed the night from me.

  Ruth and Joan separately held court over several women each. Another lady gnawed away at Phyllis, until the gaunt figure gave the wordy woman a pat on the elbow and stalked off to where Lucy and I stood.

  She clinked her glass to Lucy’s and then
mine and said, “You had them all rather captivated.”

  I had little choice if I was to spare Lucy, at least for the moment, undue concern. I downed my drink and handed the ice-filled glass to my sweet friend. “That was divine. Would you be a dove and get me another?”

  Wide-eyed, Lucy inspected the piece of crystal as she took it from me and then went back to the maid stationed at the liquor cabinet.

  “Captivated is one word for it. Did you see the look on their faces? I caught Nicholas leaving my room just a moment ago; he had taken a look at my manuscript,” I told her quickly, as the heat of the drink made its way to my stomach, and the soul of the drink made its way to my head.

  “A racy story, all concocted under their roof. Child, they have every reason to wonder about just what you’ve written and how it will reflect on Pearce Manor,” Phyllis replied rather jovially, enjoying her own cocktail.

  “The characters have nothing to do with them,” I retorted.

  Her lips curled, but did not part; there was something sinister about her grin. A second passed, and as Lucy returned, handing me a glass twice the size of the one she’d taken from me, Phyllis suggested, “They are curious. I have a suggestion. Put their minds to ease; share the story with them.”

  Lucy, whose fear of Phyllis had abated, suggested, “Miss Masterson, you have such a lovely voice; you sound so smart. I think you should do a reading of the manuscript.”

  Those so very dark eyes of the ashen woman sparkled as she tipped her drink, with her good hand, in my direction and said, “I have a much better idea. Tomorrow evening, after dinner, highlights from The Case of Cupid’s Misdeed should be acted out.”

  We all stood in the foyer. After ushering the last guests out the door, Phyllis had put me on the spot and said I had a marvelous suggestion. I mumbled what had been, in fact, her suggestion to our hosts.

  “Act it out?” Ruth repeated my words, in a flat, concerned voice.