British Manor Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “On to the gift shop,” declared Sue, snapping the guidebook shut.

  Lucy dutifully followed her friend to the shop, where she wondered if her friends at home would really appreciate Windsor Castle refrigerator magnets. She was browsing through the assorted wares when she spotted some lovely tapestry pillows she found hard to resist. She was wondering what she could sacrifice in order to fit the pillows in her small carry-on suitcase when one of the sales clerks caught her eye.

  “You can just buy the covers,” she said with a smile.

  Lucy picked up one of the pillows, which was done in rich reds and blues, and realized it was exactly like a pillow she’d seen at the manor. There were actually three of them in a row on the window seat in the second-floor landing—one each beneath a narrow lancet window.

  That was it, she realized. The second landing had three windows but the other landings in the staircase had four. And now that she came to think of it, that second-floor landing was smaller than the ground floor landing and the one above it.

  “Do you want to eat here? I’m sure there’s a café somewhere,” said Sue, studying her guidebook.

  “Not really. As a matter of fact, I’d like to go back to the manor. There’s something I want to check out.”

  Sue did not like that idea at all. “Don’t be silly, Lucy. This is probably our one time to be in Windsor and the book says the town is worth exploring—lots of shops and restaurants. There’s also Eton College and you know you want to see that. Besides, we arranged for Justin to pick us up at four. I’m sure he has other responsibilities to attend to.”

  “I’m really not all that keen,” confessed Lucy. “These old buildings are all starting to look alike to me. We could call him and ask if it would be convenient . . .”

  Sue placed a hand on Lucy’s forehead, checking to see if she had a fever. “That doesn’t sound like you at all, Mrs. Can’t Miss a Museum. And besides, these English people are so polite that he’d never admit it wasn’t convenient to pick us up early.”

  “I know. You’re right, but I’ve been thinking about the manor and I think I know where your secret chamber is located.”

  “It was just a notion,” said Sue as they walked down the hill to the town. “Perry says there’s no secret chamber. Besides, I’m awfully hungry, I had only coffee for breakfast. I want to eat something.”

  This was such an unusual admission from Sue that Lucy decided her exploration of the staircase could wait a few hours. Besides, she told herself, Sue was probably right and the secret chamber would turn out to be a bathroom or a closet added when the manor was modernized. She was hungry, too, and she had to admit that the town was charming, with ancient buildings lining narrow winding streets, and there were plenty of restaurants to choose from. They settled on a sleek, modern café that featured soups and salads, then continued exploring the town after they’d eaten. Following the path of least resistance, they strolled downhill toward the River Thames, where they paused on a bridge to admire a handsome flock of swans. Then they found themselves at Eton College, the famous establishment prep school, where they spotted a couple students in their distinctive uniforms with long black jackets and waistcoats.

  “We’re probably looking at a future prime minister,” said Sue.

  “Which one?” asked Lucy.

  “I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” said Sue with a naughty grin.

  “They look to me to be cut from the same cloth—privileged, upper class, spoiled rotten little one per centers.”

  Lucy was surprised by her friend’s attitude. “Well, since when did you become a rabble-rouser?”

  “I guess it’s seeing all this stuff, not just here in Windsor Castle but even at Moreton. Accumulating all these things represents centuries of excess.”

  “But there’s art and amazing examples of craftsmanship, and history, and beauty,” said Lucy. “And you’re a collector yourself. Your house is full of lovely things.”

  “Too full,” said Sue with a righteous little nod. “I’m going to give most of it away when I get home. I’m going to become a minimalist.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Lucy as they began the climb back up the hill. She thought they’d done enough sightseeing for the day and was eager to get back to the manor. “Shall we head to the train station? It’s after three.”

  “Not yet,” said Sue, spotting a shop sign. “It’s a Barbour store. You know, those fabulous waxed jackets that Perry and Poppy and everybody wear. Let’s check it out.”

  “So much for minimalism,” said Lucy.

  But Sue was true to her word. After she bought herself a classic Barbour barn coat, she made a point of dropping off her old DKNY jacket at a nearby Oxfam shop. Lucy was unable to resist the thrift shop prices there and bought some gently read Puffin books for Patrick. Only then, did they head to the train station for their ride to the manor.

  * * *

  They reached Moreton Manor just in time for a late tea.

  “We don’t usually bother with afternoon tea,” said a rather harried Poppy, setting a plate of freshly baked scones on the kitchen table, “but Aunt Millicent insists.”

  “Well, I think it’s a jolly good tradition,” said Perry, biting into a chocolate digestive biscuit.

  “I think it’s a lot of bother,” said Poppy as Lady Wickham sailed into the kitchen from the garden.

  “What’s a lot of bother?” asked Lady Wickham, settling her plump little self on a chair and accepting a cup of tea.

  “Dead heading the tulips,” said Perry, adroitly changing the subject.

  “Well, I suppose that’s the price you pay for all those fabulous blooms,” said Lucy, gamely joining the conversation. “My flowers in Maine are never as lovely as yours.”

  “We English are known for our gardens,” said her ladyship complacently. She took a sip of tea, then set her cup and saucer down on the table and tented her fingers. “But I have to say, Poppy, that something has to be done about the smell. It’s really quite unbearable.”

  “I agree,” said Gerald, entering from the tunnel connecting the family’s quarters with the manor house. “It seems to be coming from behind a wall in her room, as far as I can tell.” He paused to blow his nose. “After a bit, it kind of overcomes you and it’s hard to tell if it’s stronger in one area than another.”

  “Well, we have to get to the bottom of it. We can’t keep the manor closed to guests indefinitely. In the meantime, Aunt, perhaps you should move up to the guest level here with us,” said Poppy. “There’s plenty of room up there.”

  “The servants’ quarters!” exclaimed Lady Wickham. “Well, I never thought the day would come when my own relations would consign me to the servants’ quarters.”

  “There are no servants now, Aunt,” said Perry.

  “Our rooms are really very lovely,” said Sue.

  “It was quite a job doing them up,” said Gerald, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting down heavily at the table. “Just getting the plumbing in was quite a challenge, I can tell you.”

  “I suppose you have to cut out little bits and pieces where you can,” said Lucy, adding a dollop of jam to the Devonshire cream she’d spread on her scone. “Like you did in the stairway.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gerald. “What stairway?”

  “Why, on the landing in the stair tower. The one that only has three windows instead of four. I thought you must have added a bath in that space.”

  “No,” said Poppy. “We have so many extra rooms, we just remodeled dressing rooms or even bedrooms. That’s what we did in the old servant’s quarters.”

  “My bath is on the other side of the room,” said her ladyship. “It’s away from the stair landing.”

  “Well, why are there only three windows?” asked Lucy. “All the other landings have four. And from the outside, you can see four windows.”

  “A priest’s hole?” suggested Sue.

  “Very well could be,” said Perry, “but if so, it
’s lost in the mists of time. I have no idea how to get into it.”

  “But there’s a window,” said Poppy. “We could get in through the window.”

  “Too narrow,” said Gerald, speaking through a mouthful of scone. “But we should look and see what’s what.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” asked Perry. “It’s at least thirty, maybe forty feet up. We don’t have a ladder that big.”

  “What about those gizmos construction fellas have?” said Gerald. “Those trucks with the little buckets that go up. You know.”

  “I do know what you mean, and I don’t happen to know any construction fellas,” said Perry.

  “Why not ask Justin Quimby to take a look?” suggested Sue. “He was telling us he likes to climb things.”

  “Free climbing, he called it. It’s his hobby,” said Lucy.

  * * *

  A few disappointed visitors who’d been unable to tour the manor because of the smell, but had been given free passes to the garden, were just leaving when Justin arrived to take a look at the proposed climb up the stair tower.

  “Looks pretty easy to me,” he said, “so long as the stonework is sound.”

  “We-e-ll, maybe,” said Perry, sounding dubious. “I wouldn’t want to bet on it.”

  “It should be all right,” said Gerald. “After all, it’s been standing for eight hundred years.”

  “My point exactly,” said Perry.

  “Well, I’ll give it a try,” said Justin. “If it’s no good, I won’t continue. I’ll just come down.”

  “We have plenty of rope. You could lower yourself from the top,” urged Poppy.

  “Too much trouble,” said Justin, who was seated on the ground, changing out of his heavy work boots and putting on a pair of light and flexible rock climbing shoes. He stood up, flexed his fingers, and stretched out his arms, then grabbed a hold of a knob of stone on the tower and literally sprang off the ground and began working his way up the tower toward the window.

  Word of Justin’s attempted climb had spread quickly and the entire family and a number of employees had gathered in the stable yard to watch. Most were holding their breaths as they watched the daring feat. When Justin reached the relative safety of the window sill there was a collective sigh of relief.

  “Well, what do you see?” demanded Gerald.

  “I see . . . I see legs,” said Justin, peering through the window. “Somebody’s in there! There’s a body on the floor!”

  “Oooh,” moaned Poppy, swaying on her feet before collapsing to the paving in a dead faint.

  Chapter Eleven

  “It must be some Romish priest, probably been in there for centuries,” declared Lady Wickham, adding a disapproving sniff.

  “I rather doubt that, considering the stink,” said Gerald. He was bent over his wife and flapping a newspaper rather halfheartedly in an effort to give her more air.

  Desi was on his knees, rubbing his mother’s hands and urging her to come to.

  Perry was already on the phone, calling the police. “I’m afraid we have a bit of a situation here at the manor,” he was saying. “It seems there’s a body stuffed inside a wall.” There was a long pause, then he continued. “No, no, it’s not an old body. It’s pretty fresh. Well, not actually fresh. It’s quite gone off, but definitely recent. Within the last week or so, I’d say.”

  Hearing this, Flora went quite ashen and Justin urged her to sit down on the paving and shoved her head between her knees.

  “This is no place for you, m’lady,” Harrison was saying, urging her elderly mistress to leave the scene.

  Lady Wickham was having none of that, however, and was clearly enjoying this shocking new development. “Don’t be silly, Harrison,” she said in a snappish tone. “I’ve been through much worse than this. Remember that trouble with the Irish. You never knew when they were going to blow the Ritz to bits!”

  “Well, I’ll just get you a wrap,” Harrison replied, hurrying off.

  Sue was watching Lucy, who was watching everyone else. “C’mon, Lucy,” she hissed, pulling her friend away from the group. “Stop staring. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You’re thinking that if there’s a body in a wall it didn’t get there by itself, which means somebody put it there, and that somebody is probably a murderer.”

  “Well, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? And don’t forget . . . this is the second body that’s turned up in a week. ”

  “And you’re thinking there’s a serial killer on the loose and you’re looking at everybody here, wondering if one of them is a murderous psychopath.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lucy. “I don’t think that at all. I’m just fascinated by this human drama and the way everyone is reacting. Poor Poppy, for example. Do you think she’s got a sensitive nature? Or perhaps all this has revived memories of some traumatic event?”

  “I think it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back,” murmured Sue. “I don’t think she wants to deal with this on top of everything else.”

  “She certainly didn’t expect to have a dead body on her hands, much less two,” said Lucy.

  “But I’m not so sure about Gerald,” said Sue.

  “Now who’s looking for suspects!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “Not I and not you,” said Sue as the woo-wah of a police siren was heard in the distance. “We,” she said, making eye contact with Lucy, “we are going to leave this to the police. Remember Paris? They considered us suspects and they took our passports. This time we are not going to get involved.”

  “Absolutely right,” agreed Lucy as the police car rolled through the gate and drew to a halt in the stable yard.

  Everyone turned and watched as a middle-aged man with graying temples and a stocky build got out of the passenger side and a rather plain young woman extricated herself from the driver side.

  “DI George Hennessy,” said the man, briefly flashing his identification. He was sporting a beautiful Harris tweed jacket and a crisply ironed shirt topped with a striped tie. “And Detective Sergeant Isabel Matthews,” he continued “Of the Thames Valley Police.”

  Sgt. Matthews’ straight dark hair was fastened in a skimpy ponytail and she was wearing black polyester slacks and a blazer jacket that almost but didn’t quite match, over a roomy beige cotton turtleneck.

  “You reported a body?” DI Hennessy arched an eyebrow, rather as if he thought people who reported bodies ought to have the courtesy to provide them in an obvious location.

  “Yes,” said Perry, stepping forward to introduce himself. “I’m Peregrine Pryce-West—”

  “I know who you are,” said Hennessy, cutting him off. “And don’t think the fact that you’re an earl will have any impact on this investigation whatsoever, your lordship.”

  “None whatsoever,” added Sgt. Matthews, chiming in.

  “Of course. I certainly don’t expect any sort of special treatment,” said Perry. “Now the body, well, it’s in a wall.” He pointed up to the window in the stair tower. “It’s behind that window, the second row up.”

  “Let’s take a look-see,” said Hennessy, indicating that Perry should lead the way.

  “It’s not that simple,” said Perry. “The area behind the window has been walled off.”

  “There’s no jib door, no bookcase that swings around if you tap three times?” asked Hennessy.

  “Not that we know of,” said Perry.

  “Sounds like a job for the crime scene officers, sir,” said Sgt. Matthews.

  “You get on with that,” said Hennessy, instructing the sergeant. “I’ll get the lay of the land.” He turned to Perry. “So who are all these folks?” he asked, indicating the small group of observers.

  “Just family, staff, and two visitors from America,” said Perry. “Shall I introduce you?”

  “Sergeant Matthews will get everyone’s details,” said Hennessy. “How about giving me a look ’round, while we wait for th
e CSOs.” He paused. “I understand you’ve got some long borders here designed by Gertrude Jekyll.”

  “Indeed we do,” said Perry, sounding relieved by the distraction. “And I think this is the best time to see them when the flowers are just beginning to bloom. Would you like to take a look?”

  “Wouldn’t mind,” admitted the inspector.

  The two strolled off, chatting amiably about various types of fertilizers and agreeing that aged horse manure was by far the best, while Sgt. Matthews got her notebook out and started jotting down names and addresses. She started with her ladyship.

  “For your information, I am the Countess of Wickham,” she said, emphasizing the word countess. She clearly would have preferred to look down her nose at the police officer, but since Sgt. Matthews was quite tall, she had to express her haughty attitude with her voice while looking up her nose.

  Sgt. Matthews wasn’t impressed. “I presume you have a name as well as a title?” she asked.

  “Millicent Pryce-West,” admitted the countess.

  “And do you live here at the manor?” Matthews asked.

  “Of course not,” snapped her ladyship. “Everyone knows I live at Fairleigh in Hazelton. The house was in my husband’s family, y’see.”

  “And is your husband here with you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I am the Dowager Countess.”

  “So sorry,” said Sgt. Matthews in the polite way normal in such circumstances.

  “Well, don’t be,” replied Lady Wickham. “Wilfred was really rather horrid and it was quite a while ago.”

  “I see,” said the sergeant.

  “I doubt it, but it’s no matter,” said Lady Wickham. “Are you quite finished with me?”

  “Almost,” responded the officer, raising a cautionary finger. “I gather you’re a guest here?”

  “I’m a member of the family,” the countess declared, raising her eyebrows. “Lord Wickham is my nephew.”

  Sgt. Matthews was beginning to run out of patience. “What I’m trying to establish is whether you will be staying on here for some time, or whether you’ll be returning to Fairleigh. In other words, how can we contact you, if need be?”