British Manor Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “People get around,” countered Sgt. Matthews. “I understand you live near Boston, which is quite popular with British travelers.”

  “Sorry,” said Sue. “Never met the man—not here and not in the US.”

  “Perhaps you heard some mention of him here?” asked Sgt. Matthews. “Or Eric Starkey?”

  “That’s the man in the maze?” asked Lucy.

  “Right.”

  “Not at all,” said Sue. “I never heard either of those names until now.”

  “I don’t think they even knew of Cyril,” volunteered Lucy. “Even Lady Wickham seemed surprised to learn that her maid had a son.” But even as she spoke, Lucy wondered if Lady Wickham had been telling the truth when she claimed she didn’t know Harrison had a son.

  “Now that doesn’t surprise me,” said the sergeant, “since the upper classes tend to think only of themselves.” She paused, then shrugged. “Somebody knew Cyril, that’s for sure, and you know what else? They didn’t like him.”

  “For sure,” said Sue, unlocking the door to the Ford. “We better get going. People are starving.”

  “Death has that effect on some people,” said Sgt. Matthews with a dismissive wave.

  Sue started the car and Lucy hopped in, feeling slightly disoriented to be sitting on the left-hand side as a passenger. “Can you do this? Drive on the wrong side of the road?”

  “Not sure,” said Sue, carefully backing the car out of the stable and driving toward the gateway. “We’ll find out.”

  After Sue had successfully negotiated the gateway and was proceeding at a stately pace along the drive, Lucy spoke up. “You know Sergeant Matthews was questioning us, don’t you? At first, I thought she was just chatting us up, being friendly, but then I realized that we’re suspects, too.”

  “Was it when she asked you if you’d ever met Cyril in Boston?” asked Sue in a rather sarcastic tone.

  “That was a definite clue,” admitted Lucy, “but I think it has to be an inside job. Somebody here at the manor killed Cyril.”

  “I’m putting my money on Vickie,” said Sue. “She’s an outsider, and so was Cyril.”

  “You just don’t like her,” said Lucy.

  “True, but you have to admit, she’s the one who was most likely to have known Cyril. She’s a party girl. She’s a networker and could have run into him anywhere. I betcha she knew Eric. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if her little binge last night was a reaction to his death.”

  “You might be on to something,” admitted Lucy. “But what about Cyril? We don’t know anything about him. Why do you think he was going to parties and networking?”

  “I don’t have a clue about Cyril, true, but I do think Vickie’s the sort of girl who gets around, who isn’t above a bit of slumming,” said Sue, attempting to make a left turn onto the wrong side of the road and causing some other drivers to honk at them. “Oops,” she said, correcting her course.

  “Do you want me to drive?” suggested Lucy.

  “No, no, I’m getting the hang of it,” insisted Sue as the car strayed over the line toward the opposite lane. “Do you have a favorite suspect?” she asked, swerving back into the proper lane.

  “Willoughby,” said Lucy, keeping a nervous eye on the oncoming traffic.

  “The librarian?” exclaimed Sue. “Mr. Milquetoast?”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” said Lucy, “and he’s the one most likely to know about the secret room.”

  “But he insisted he didn’t know about it,” insisted Sue.

  “He could have been lying,” said Lucy.

  “A librarian wouldn’t do that,” said Sue. “Think of Miss Tilley back home.”

  “Willoughby is nothing like Miss Tilley,” said Lucy, who was very fond of the elderly, retired librarian. “ I can’t help feeling there’s something a bit off about him.” She fell silent for a moment, studying a green field dotted with white sheep. “If it’s not Willoughby, I think it’s probably Gerald.”

  “There’s more to Gerald than meets the eye,” agreed Sue, signaling left and turning right at a stop sign, much to the surprise of an approaching driver. “I don’t trust him.”

  “So we’re agreed?” asked Lucy as Sue pulled into the parking area in front of the Indian restaurant.

  “Agreed. Chicken korma, assorted curries, jasmine rice, samosas, and plenty of naan bread, right?”

  Lucy chuckled at this abrupt change of subject. “Right.”

  * * *

  It was getting on to eight o’clock when they returned with the take-out food and appetites had definitely improved in the interim. There was great interest as Lucy and Sue unpacked the food and set it out on the kitchen island. Poppy added a pile of plates and a handful of silverware, Flora produced a stack of paper napkins, and Gerald, after considerable thought, decided that a Riesling was the perfect wine to accompany Indian food.

  “Grub’s ready,” declared Perry, inviting everyone to partake.

  Vickie was the first to grab a plate and was just about to add a dollop of chicken korma when Harrison sailed in, grabbed a plate and shoved her aside. “Her ladyship specially requested chicken korma,” she said, scooping up spoonful after spoonful of the stuff until it was all gone, then topped it with a small mountain of jasmine rice.

  She set the plate on a tray, then added a huge piece of naan bread, a wineglass, a few pieces of silverware and a napkin. Then, tucking one of the bottles of Riesling under her arm, she lifted the tray and carried it out of the kitchen.

  “Well, I’ll be gobsmacked,” said Vickie. “She took every last bit of chicken korma.”

  “There wasn’t all that much,” said Sue. “They were running out at the Curry Palace and they gave us all they had.”

  “Well, I guess it’s curry for me.”

  Soon everyone had filled their plates and settled at the big scrubbed pine table. There was little conversation as they all focused on eating.

  It was Desi who finally said what they all were thinking. “Did we know that Harrison had a son?”

  “I certainly didn’t,” said Poppy. “And we’ve known Aunt Millicent our whole lives. She was our mother’s favorite sister-in-law. And Harrison, too. She’s been with Aunt forever. If we visited Fairleigh, she was there; if Aunt came to visit us, so did Harrison. They were—they are—like Siamese twins.”

  “But Cyril was never mentioned?” asked Lucy.

  “Never,” said Perry. “I mean, we used to call Harrison terrible names. The Miserable Maid. The Spiteful Spinster. The Woeful Wonder. Remember?”

  “I still call her names,” admitted Gerald. “To myself, o’ course. Wicked Witchy Bitch comes to mind.”

  “Now I feel rather awful about it,” said Poppy.

  “I don’t,” said Gerald, refilling his glass. “The woman’s awful—and ugly to boot.”

  “She’s certainly devoted to Aunt,” offered Flora.

  “Apparently to the exclusion of her own son,” said Sue.

  “I wonder if he came here to do one of those birth mother reunion things,” speculated Lucy. “I mean, maybe she’d put him out for adoption so she could keep working. Maybe that’s why nobody knew about him.”

  “I doubt it very much,” said Desi. “I suspect he was up to no good.”

  “Probably right,” agreed Gerald. “Who would want the Wicked Witchy Bitch for a mother?”

  A short rasping sound caught their attention and everyone turned round to see Harrison standing in the doorway, tray in hand. “I’m just after a bit of the Major Grey’s for m’lady. She does like a little bit of chutney with her chicken korma,” she said, approaching the table. “I do hope I’m not intruding.”

  “No, no,” said Poppy, hopping up and plucking the jar of chutney off the table. “Take this. We have more in the pantry.”

  “And if you don’t mind, her ladyship would appreciate another bit of that funny flat bread.”

  “The naan, of course,” said Poppy, producing the last piece. “An
ything else? Or will that be all?”

  “That will be all,” said Harrison, turning rather smartly on her heel and leaving.

  Once the door had closed behind her Flora and Vickie exploded in nervous giggles, which earned them a disapproving look from Poppy. The others, however, were embarrassed and finished the meal in silence.

  * * *

  Lucy felt a sense of relief when she finally got back to her room and closed the door, shutting out everyone and being by herself. Me time they called it in the magazines and she was finding that it was something she really needed. Maybe it was all those years spent satisfying the needs of Bill and the kids, not to mention the demands of her boss Ted, and even the constant calls for “something for the bake sale” or “just an hour or two” selling raffle tickets on Saturday morning at the IGA.

  It was too early to go to bed, so she decided to settle herself on the chaise by the window for an hour or so with P.D. James’s fascinating Inspector Dalgliesh, and was just opening the book when her cell phone rang. She was tempted to ignore it and let the call go to voice mail but then panicked, thinking something might be wrong at home.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, fearing the worst.

  “More than all right, everything’s great,” said Bill. “I just want to double-check and make sure it’s okay with you if I close out the college fund and invest the money with Doug Fitzpatrick.”

  “Who?” asked Lucy as alarm bells went off in her head. “What?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember,” said Bill. “I told you all about it the other day. He says he can double our money in three months.”

  Lucy didn’t remember that conversation, but she did remember Zoe’s concerns about the investment advisor her father was spending so much time with.

  “That’s crazy, Bill,” said Lucy. “There’s no investment on earth that yields that sort of return.”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong, Lucy. When I was on Wall Street, I saw some amazing deals go down, but I was never in on them. It was all insider stuff. Now I’ve got a chance to be on the inside.”

  “It sounds to me that you’re letting your emotions cloud your good sense,” said Lucy.

  “You’re a fine one to say that,” snapped Bill. “I watched you wallow in a cloud of negativity all winter, and frankly, I’m worried that you’re sinking into depression again. You’re definitely drinking too much. That was quite a hangover you had.”

  “I am not depressed and that hangover was a one-time thing, after a big dinner,” countered Lucy, who had a dim recollection of talking to Bill on the phone when she was hungover. “I just think that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

  “See! That’s what I would call negative thinking. You need to snap out of it and think positively.”

  Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Bill, I’m not depressed, honest,” she said, deciding to take a different approach, “and I know how much you want to make it possible for Zoe to go to the college of her choice. For all I know, maybe this is the deal of the century. I’m no financial wizard; I can’t even balance the checkbook. All I ask is that you check this guy out, and take a real close look at this deal. If it’s as good as it seems, if you’re really convinced we won’t lose it all, then I guess we should do it.”

  “Aw, Lucy, I knew you’d come around,” crowed Bill.

  “Promise you’ll at least call Toby, see if he remembers this guy,” said Lucy with a sinking feeling.

  “Good idea. I’d like to check in with him anyway. I haven’t heard from them lately.”

  Lucy had a sudden vision of avalanches, tidal waves, and earthquakes; she saw the entire state of Alaska drifting off from Canada and floating in an iceberg strewn sea. It was nonsense, all nonsense, she decided, firmly banishing the nightmarish images. “No news is good news.”

  “That’s my Lucy,” said Bill, ending the call.

  * * *

  The tense atmosphere didn’t improve much the next morning as Sue and Lucy discovered when they came down for breakfast.

  “The police have set up an incident room in the stable and they’re going to be interviewing us all,” said Perry, “so don’t plan on going anywhere today.”

  “They want to interview us?” asked Sue, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “Hennessey said everyone, so I assume that includes you and Lucy.”

  “At least they’ve set up in the stable,” said Poppy, emerging from the pantry with a box of Weetabix. “They’re letting us open to the public, but the scene-of-crime people will be working on the hidey-hole. They still haven’t figured out how the killer got Cyril’s body in there.”

  An awful thought occurred to Lucy. “You don’t think he was alive? That someone locked him in there and left him to die?”

  Poppy and Perry exchanged glances.

  “I suppose anything is possible,” said Perry with a grimace.

  “They’re doing an autopsy, of course,” said Poppy. “I guess we’ll know more then.”

  “Right now, they’re not telling us anything.”

  “Police procedure,” said Lucy, who’d found official silence extremely frustrating as a reporter in Tinker’s Cove. “They don’t give out information because it helps them in the investigation.”

  “Aha,” said Perry with a smile. “The one who says the victim was wearing blue nail polish is obviously the murderer.”

  “Right,” said Lucy, pouring a generous helping of cream on her Weetabix.

  * * *

  After helping clear up the breakfast dishes, Lucy and Sue found themselves alone in the kitchen and settled themselves on the sofas with the dogs. Sue leafed through the well-thumbed pile of Country Life magazines, while Lucy curled up with her mystery.

  If only Inspector Hennessy was more like Dalgliesh, she thought, admitting to herself that while a sensitive nature was a definite plus for a fictional detective, it would probably be a detriment to a real life detective.

  Gerald, fresh from his session with Hennessy, seemed to agree with her. “Bugger the blasted fella,” he declared, marching into the kitchen and heading straight for the drinks tray, where he poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey.

  “So the questioning didn’t go well,” offered Sue.

  “Damned impertinent. Wanted to know, well, things that are none of his damned business.”

  “Was there a drift to the questions?” asked Lucy. “Could you tell if he’s got a theory about the murder?”

  “Damned if I could tell what the fella’s thinking,” said Gerald, draining the crystal tumbler. “Fella didn’t seem to know a thing about life in the country, that’s for certain.

  Didn’t know this time o’ year you’ve got to keep an eye on the sheep.” He set the empty glass on the counter next to the sink, grabbed a stout walking stick that was propped by the door, and marched out, apparently intending to keep an eye on the sheep.

  “I thought he was keeping an eye on Vickie,” said Sue after he’d gone.

  Flora wandered in soon after her father had gone, opened the refrigerator door, and stood there for quite a while, staring at the contents.

  “You remind me of my girls back in Maine,” said Lucy. “They do the same thing, hoping the yogurt and mini carrots will morph into chocolate.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” said Flora, plucking a strawberry from the bowl sitting on the kitchen island. “Just bored, I guess.”

  “And stressed, I imagine,” said Lucy, noticing the blue shadows under Flora’s eyes, and her twitchy fingers.

  Flora bit into the strawberry and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Of course not,” said Sue. “Still, it’s not nice to be questioned by the police.”

  “It certainly isn’t,” said Poppy, arriving with a trug full of freshly cut flowers. She set the trug on the counter and produced a large vase from a cabinet, then began filling it with water. “I know I shouldn’t say
this, but murder is terribly inconvenient. I wish they would just solve the darn thing and move on.”

  “Are visitors staying away now that news of the murder is out?” asked Sue.

  “Quite the contrary,” said Perry, hurrying in. “They’re coming in droves, attracted by the gruesome crime. So many, in fact, that we’re running low on tickets. Do you know where they’re stored, Pops?”

  “Try the gift shop,” advised Poppy, and Perry hurried off just as Vickie and Desi came in, faces flushed and dressed in riding clothes.

  “Wonderful morning for a ride,” said Desi, taking a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge and filling two glasses. “Mist on the moors and all that.”

  “It was beautiful!” exclaimed Vickie. “You are so lucky to have all this. Imagine riding for an hour at least and never leaving your land.”

  “It’s not really all ours. It’s . . . well, it’s complicated,” said Desi, draining his glass.

  “Would you like a bit more?” offered Vickie, picking up the juice bottle and preparing to refill his glass.

  “No, that was plenty,” said Desi, holding up a hand as if to signal a stop. “Got to watch my weight, for the dancing you know.”

  “Oh, Desi, you’re so fit and trim. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Tell that to the ballet master,” he said with a wink. “Now I understand I have a date with a copper.”

  “Perhaps later you can show me the folly?” suggested Vickie, cocking her head invitingly.

  “Per’aps,” said Desi, making a quick exit, much to the amusement of his mother.

  Looking for elevenses, Winifred and Maurice arrived as Flora was leaving.

  “I’ll put on the kettle,” offered Winifred, “and, Maurice, why don’t you see if you can find some biscuits.” She turned to Lucy and Sue. “Will you be wanting tea, too? Poppy?”

  “None for me,” said Poppy, snipping the stem of a tulip and slipping it into the vase.

  “No thanks,” said Sue.

  “Love some,” said Lucy, eager to take advantage of the opportunity to question Willoughby, who she considered a prime suspect. “I’ll get the mugs.”

  Soon she was sitting at the table with the two experts, nibbling on chocolate digestives and sipping tea. “Have the police figured out how poor Cyril got put in the secret room?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light and casual.