by Leslie Meier
“And I’m going, too,” said Desi, setting down the glass. “I can’t stand waiting here.”
“I’ll drive,” said Perry. “You’re in no shape—”
“He’s in no shape? What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Gerald, waving his walking stick in his son’s face.
“Back off, Gerald,” said Perry. “Desi found her. It’s thanks to him that she’s in the hospital.”
“It’s thanks to him that she’s in this mess in the first place, you mean,” thundered Gerald, practically nose to nose with Desi. “Where do you think she got the drugs? From this artsy-fartsy ballerina, that’s who!” he yelled, stabbing his finger into Desi’s chest. “Actors and dancers and rock and rollers, they’re all dope fiends and you can’t tell me any different. Anybody who reads the papers knows they’re always overdosing.”
Desi was shaking his head. “I knew . . . no, I suspected she was using, but I didn’t know for sure. And you’re right. I have seen a lot of people, some of them friends, get in trouble with drugs, but I was not getting drugs for Flora. I’ve seen how much damage that stuff can do and I stay clear of it.”
Gerald didn’t seem convinced, but he was less agitated, merely clutching the walking stick and occasionally lifting it and then thumping it on the floor. “Damned foolish girl,” he declared. “You’d think she’d know better.”
“Mother shouldn’t be alone at the hospital,” said Desi. “Are you coming?”
Gerald considered the matter for a moment. “No. You and Perry go. I’ll hold the fort here.”
“There’s bound to be press,” said Perry as he and Desi crossed the room toward the doorway. “You’d better have some sort of statement ready.”
“Damned nosey bastards!” thundered Gerald. “I’m not saying anything to anybody. It’s none of their business.”
“Righto,” said Perry, giving them a curt little wave of farewell.
As soon as they left, Lucy turned to Gerald. “Is there something we can get you? Something we can do?”
“Sorry about all this,” he replied, seemingly at a loss now that there was no one to yell at. “Nothing to do but to carry on, I suppose. I know what I’d like—a stiff whiskey. How about you girls?”
“I could use a glass of wine,” said Sue, sliding on to a chair.
“I could, too,” admitted Lucy as Gerald took a bottle of chardonnay out of the refrigerator.
They were an awkward little group, sitting together at the big scrubbed pine table with their drinks. After a few minutes of silence, Lucy got up and opened the refrigerator, thinking she could make some sort of meal. She found some frozen pizzas in the freezer and asked if anyone would like some.
“I hate to admit it,” said Sue, “but I am starving.”
The phone rang and Gerald answered it, listened a moment, and then slammed it back on its hook. “Damned impertinent,” he fumed, draining his drink. Then he picked up his walking stick and put on his hat. “I’ll eat at the pub,” he said, marching out.
The phone continued to ring frequently while Lucy and Sue ate their pizzas. They always answered it, hoping for news of Flora, but the callers were all reporters. Their answer was always the same—“no comment”—which got them some rather rude replies.
Lucy was shocked to discover that journalists in England seemed to behave quite differently from their American colleagues.
“I wish we could turn the phone off,” she said after a particularly nasty exchange.
“I’ll answer and give them what-for,” said Harrison, who had come into the kitchen to prepare Lady Wickham’s dinner. “You folks don’t need to be bothered with the likes of them.”
“Are you sure?” asked Lucy, surprised at this turn of events.
“Never fear, I’m used to these nosy-parkers. They’re always calling m’lady, you see,” said Harrison, frying up a rather large steak.
“How is Lady Wickham?” asked Lucy. “I understand she hasn’t been well lately.”
Harrison’s eyebrows shot up and she gave Lucy a sharp look. “That’s none of your affair,” she snapped as the phone rang once again. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell these Fleet Street muckrakers!”
Lucy decided it would be best not to reveal the fact that she herself was a journalist, even though her muckraking was limited to a small coastal town in Maine, and suggested to Sue that they leave the great room and let Harrison get on with her duties. Although still light outside, they had the garden to themselves since the visitors were gone for the day, so they took a stroll around the formal parterre garden, then paused by the fountain to enjoy the quiet.
It didn’t take long, however, for the mosquitoes to discover them and they decided to go inside.
“You know,” said Sue as they approached the big house, “I think this is the lull before the storm. I bet all hell will break loose tomorrow.”
* * *
Her words hardly seemed prophetic when Perry greeted them with a big smile the next morning. “Good news!” he announced as they arrived in the great room for breakfast. “Flora’s going to be fine.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Lucy, accepting the mug of coffee he’d poured for her.
“What a relief,” said Sue, taking her mug over to the table and sitting down.
“She’s going to have to stay in hospital for a day or two”—he paused before delivering the bad news—“which is just as well because the police are coming back to question everyone again.”
“I suppose they want to know how she got the heroin,” said Sue. “Why don’t they just ask her?
“Doctors have forbidden it,” said Perry with a knowing look that Lucy took to mean they had been heavily influenced by Flora’s parents.
“Maybe there’s a connection to Cyril,” said Lucy in a speculative tone. “Maybe he was the dealer. Maybe Cyril was involved with the poor kid who overdosed in the maze . . .”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was,” said Perry, who was busy slicing bread and putting the pieces in the toaster. “We’re all supposed to gather in the library at ten this morning, just like in an Agatha Christie mystery.”
“And all will be revealed,” said Lucy.
“I rather doubt it,” said Perry, leaning against the counter and cradling a mug in his hands while waiting for the toast to brown. “Sergeant Izzy there isn’t as sharp as Miss Marple and the inspector is certainly no Hercule Poirot.”
* * *
Lucy did feel a bit like a character in a mystery novel when she and Sue went to the library at the appointed time and found everyone, including Lady Wickham, gathered there.
She was dressed in one of her usual flower-printed chiffon dresses, her dyed hair had been touched up, and if she truly had been sick, it seemed she had certainly made a quick recovery. She was scolding Inspector Hennessy, telling him in no uncertain terms that he had no business telling her what to do.
“I am the daughter of a marquess and the wife of an earl and I do not intend to allow someone like you to poke and pry into my private life.”
“Lady Wickham hasn’t been well,” said Harrison, aware that the inspector was not sympathetic to this line of argument. “It would be best if she could rest in her room until she is needed for questioning.”
“My health is not the issue,” declared Lady Wickham, contrary as ever. “What I mean is that I am quite obviously above suspicion and I do not wish to waste time in pointless conversation when I have better things to do.”
“You are not above the law, even if you are a countess,” began Hennessy, glaring at the old woman.
“We will be happy to accommodate your ladyship,” said Sgt. Matthews, interrupting her boss. “We will speak with you only if we feel it necessary after we’ve completed all the interviews.” She paused. “Will that be agreeable?”
“I suppose it will have to do,” said Lady Wickham, attempting to look down her nose at the sergeant and failing, due to the young woman’s superior height.
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“Now, please take a seat with the others as the inspector wishes to speak to all of you together.”
“I don’t imagine we’ll need to keep you long,” said Hennessy, placing himself in front of the fireplace and facing the assembled group, who were seated on three sofas. Gerald and Poppy, as well as Lady Wickham, were all on the center sofa, opposite the fireplace. Harrison stood protectively behind her ladyship. Willoughby, Quimby, and Vickie were on the inspector’s right, and Sue, Lucy, and Perry were on the left. Winifred, wearing an ankle cast, was standing to one side, along with Sgt. Matthews. Lucy thought it might be her imagination, but she sensed an air of nervous expectation.
“I’m taking the rather unusual step of speaking with you as a group,” began Hennessy, “because I believe recent events have made clear the need for you to come together as a community and to cooperate with this investigation. A young woman has nearly died and some of you had knowledge that, had you shared with us, might have prevented this terrible situation.”
He studied the group, making eye contact with each member, and didn’t find much encouragement, so he continued. “This young woman, a lovely young woman, seemed to have everything going for her. A loving family. A privileged life. No money worries. Acceptance at a top university. An aristocratic pedigree. But for some reason she became involved with drugs to the point of becoming addicted.”
This got a reaction as Poppy gave a little gasp.
Hennessy was quick to press the point. “You can play the denial game and pretend that this was simply a one-time thing and she made a near fatal mistake, but the facts do not support that theory. Whatever the reason, this lovely young woman became entangled in the world of drugs and some of you knew what was happening and did nothing.”
“I knew,” said Vickie, blurting out the words. “She was getting the heroin from Cyril, the dead guy. Sometimes the kid Eric made the delivery. He worked for Cyril.”
Hearing this, Lucy turned to see Harrison’s reaction, but the lady’s maid remained stone-faced and apparently unmoved as Vickie continued speaking.
“She even had me pawn some jewelry for her so she could pay him when she got in debt. She couldn’t do without it, and when he died . . . well, she must’ve got some bad stuff off the street in Oxford. That’s why she overdosed.”
Lucy and Sue exchanged a long glance, wondering if Flora hadn’t been meeting her tutor as she claimed on the day she drove them to Oxford, but had been buying drugs instead.
“What do you mean, got it in Oxford?” demanded Gerald. “She hasn’t left the manor for days. You were in Oxford yesterday, though, weren’t you? You were the one who got the bad drugs.”
Vickie looked as if she’d been slapped in the face, and then her face crumpled and she burst into tears. “I did and I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. How could I know? She was so desperate . . .”
“Finally, I think we’re making some progress,” said Hennessy. “In addition, it has come to my attention that a number of valuable items are missing from the manor. Isn’t that so?” he continued, giving a nod to Winifred.
“Yes. I haven’t had time to complete my inventory—I’ve had to work off an older and incomplete one—but a cursory examination reveals that numerous pieces are missing, mostly from rarely used rooms on the upper stories. These include a small Cezanne, conservatively estimated to be worth at least a million pounds at auction. A rough estimate of the total value is well over two million.”
“Oh, my God,” moaned Poppy. “We’re ruined.”
“It wasn’t that stupid girl, was it?” demanded Gerald.
“No, I’m sure not,” said Vickie, quick to defend Flora. “She was using her trust fund. She told me it was pretty much gone and that’s why she had me pawn some jewelry for her.”
“This is unbelievable,” said Perry, shaking his head.
“Now I’ll be speaking to each of you individually, and I want you to examine your consciences and your memories and tell me anything that you think might have any relevance at all. An operation of this scope couldn’t take place without somebody noticing something . . .”
It was then that the door opened and the vicar burst in, his face alight with joy. “I have wonderful news,” he began, then sensing the tense situation, switched gears. “Oh, my goodness, do forgive me. I was so happy to hear that Flora will be all right. That hasn’t changed, has it?”
“No, no,” said Hennessy. “The young lady will recover.”
“Praise be to God,” said the vicar. “And no thanks to me. I should have spoken up about Cyril. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, which I now realize was a mistake.”
“Perhaps you’d like to share what you know,” said Hennessy in an authoritative tone.
“Well,” began the vicar with a sympathetic nod to Harrison, “Hoxton is a tough environment and Cyril did what most people do in that situation—he did what he had to in order to survive. He had a gang of sorts and they started out stealing handbags from old ladies and beating up anybody who wasn’t properly British. It was all about the group, about a group being stronger than one person. As they got older, the gang became less important. Some of them had families, a few got sent to jail. Cyril, however, got involved in the drug scene, first using and then selling. I had a run-in with him when he tried to recruit boys from the church youth group and I’m sad to say he was successful with young Eric Starkey. I lost track of Cyril and I must admit it was quite a shock when I ran into him here . . . at the manor, of all places.”
Hennessy nodded. “Somebody was so shocked that they killed him.”
“But it wasn’t me,” said the vicar, stepping beside Harrison and taking her hand in his.
Much to Lucy’s surprise, the lady’s maid didn’t snatch her hand away and tears came to her eyes, causing her to blink furiously. Robert then made the sign of the cross on her forehead and gave her a benediction. When he was finished and the amen was said, she quickly wiped her eyes and resumed her previous stone-faced expression.
“But what brought you here today?” asked Perry. “You said you had wonderful news.”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” said Robert as the sparkle returned to his eyes. “When I was in Hoxton, I made the acquaintance of a prominent couple who became interested in my work with the young people there. I have stayed in touch with them through the years, and asked them if they would like to attend the opening of the hat show. I’m happy to say that Kate and Wills—
“Oh, my,” gasped Lady Wickham, collapsing in a dead faint.
Chapter Twenty
All attention was focused on Lady Wickham, who did not regain consciousness for some time, despite Harrison’s efforts. The lady’s maid rebuffed all offers of help and continued to chafe the old woman’s wrists and to wave an ancient vial of smelling salts under her nose, to no avail.
“I really think we have to call for an ambulance,” Poppy finally said after some moments had passed. “Perhaps she’s had a stroke or something.”
“Shall I put in a call?” asked Sgt. Matthews, indicating her walkie-talkie. “I can have the EMTs here in minutes.”
That seemed to do the trick. Lady Wickham’s eyelids fluttered and she made a great show of regaining consciousness. “Dear me,” she moaned. “What happened?”
“You just took a turn. Nothing to worry about m’lady,” cooed Harrison. “It was the vicar’s announcement that took you by surprise.”
“Yes, it was quite a shock,” Lady Wickham said, nodding. “Imagine, a black man like the vicar on intimate terms with the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. I never would have dreamt such a thing was possible.”
“Really, Aunt, this is the twenty-first century,” said Perry. “The royals are well aware that Britain is changing.”
“It’s rather more than that,” said the vicar, looking somewhat amused. “The prince is committed to carrying on his mother’s good works.”
“Dear me,” moaned Lady Wickham, sinking back on to the pillowed back of the
sofa. “Don’t mention that dreadful hussy Diana to me.”
“Well, it’s great news, Vicar, and I for one am terribly grateful, not to mention pleased and excited,” said Perry. “I have a great deal to do to prepare for a royal visit.” He turned to the inspector. “Do you need me? Is it all right if I get on with things in the long gallery?”
“No problem at all,” said the inspector, consulting his notebook. “I think we’d like to begin this morning with Maurice Willoughby.” He raised his head and looked around the library expectantly, but there was no sign of the librarian.
“I wonder where he’s got to?” said Quimby. “Shall I go look for him?”
“No need,” said the inspector, giving Sgt. Matthews a meaningful glance, which resulted in her leaving the library. “I’ll begin with you, Mr. Quimby.”
“As for the rest of us?” asked Poppy. “I have quite a few things I need to attend to.”
“Just don’t leave the manor. I’m sure I’ll be able to find you when I need to,” said the inspector.
“Good,” said Perry, taking Robert’s arm. “Would you like to come along with me and give me the necessary contact information? I imagine I will have to talk to Kensington Palace.”
“I don’t have it with me. I was so eager to share the good news that I didn’t think to bring it. I’ll have to go back to the vicarage and text you,” said Robert, casting a questioning look at the inspector.
The inspector gave him an approving nod, then indicated to Quimby that he should follow him to the adjoining little library that had been prepared for the interviews. The group gradually dispersed, going their separate ways.
“I think I’ll go along to the long gallery and help Perry,” said Sue. “Do you want to come?”
Lucy, who was curious about Willoughby’s disappearance, declined the invitation. She recalled Bill telling her that Doug Fitzpatrick wasn’t the man he claimed to be and she had a similar suspicion about Willoughby. “I think I’ll take another look at that perennial border,” she said, telling a little white lie. “I want to take some photos so I don’t forget how they got that fabulous look.”
