by Sara Rosett
He grinned. “Thank you, Miss Belgrave, but the director would skin me alive if I brought a real animal on stage. The stuffed one from the prop department doesn’t cause any trouble at all.”
Chapter Eighteen
When I returned to Alton House, the family’s saloon motor was parked at the bottom of the steps, and Benson, the uniformed chauffeur, stood ready to open the door. After hearing that Clara and the chauffeur were friendly, I said hello to him and gave him a longer look than I normally would have. He looked to be about fifteen years older than Clara and had a jowly face, which created heavy lines that ran from his nose to his chin. The buttons of his uniform strained against his bulky figure. He was certainly not what I would have thought of as a possible romantic partner for Clara, but eligible men were thin on the ground, and I’d seen matches made with an even wider age gap.
I found Gigi pulling on her gloves in the entry hall. Elrick held her sable coat at the ready. “The motor is ready for you and Viscount Daley, my lady. The servants will follow you to the church in taxis.”
Felix, in a dark suit, stood in front of one of the entry hall’s gold-rimmed mirrors. Hair cream slicked back his hair. I wasn’t used to seeing him without two unruly wings of hair falling on either side of his face. With his hair plastered down to his scalp, his pale unlined face looked very young. He ran his palm over his temples, checking that his hair was in place, then he adjusted his tie and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Clara was just coming down the stairs in a stylishly cut black wool dress. It was a few years out of date, and I imagined Gigi had lent it to her. Gigi’s velvet and silk frock swished as she turned and put her arms into the sable coat Elrick held for her. A footman helped Clara and Felix into their coats.
Elrick moved to the door, but Gigi said, “Just a moment. I must speak with Olive.” She drew me to the side of the entry hall. “Have you found anything out?” She’d lowered her voice, but the murmur of her words echoed around the marble entry.
I matched her quiet tone. “Yes, a few interesting things, but nothing definite.”
“Oh. I’d hoped—” Her expression fell.
“What happened at the inquest?”
“It was adjourned. They don’t have the test results back on the poison yet.” Gigi turned to the mirror to check her appearance. She brushed her short fringe across her forehead as she continued speaking in a soft tone. “Stella’s inquest is scheduled for tomorrow, and I’m sure it will have the same outcome.” Her dismal gaze held mine in the mirror. “It’s clear they think the two cases are linked through me. Once the will is read, my inheritance will give the police a motive for me, and I’m afraid they’ll reach the same conclusion we did about Stella—that she found out something that threatened Granny’s killer. Only they’ll think that was me and that I did away with Stella. She was my maid, after all. Who better to know my secrets?”
It was easy to be swept up by Gigi’s appearance, her gorgeous frocks, her sable coat, her dramatic dark hair that contrasted with her pearly skin, and her confident demeanor, but that was all surface. It created a façade that wasn’t easy to see beyond, but she had a bleak look in her eyes that I’d only ever seen when she got news of her brother’s death. Her usual saucy and upbeat manner was gone. She was scared.
Elrick cleared his throat. Gigi put her hand on my arm. “Please don’t stop looking for what really happened, Olive. I must go.” She turned away.
Gigi, Felix, and Clara filed out the door that Elrick held open for them, then he sent the footman to summon the rest of the servants as the taxis arrived. I lingered by the window and watched Clara as she approached the motor. She didn’t even glance at the chauffeur. Was she shy, or was she trying to keep their relationship under wraps? Of course, a funeral wouldn’t be an appropriate time to make a romance known.
The servants, dressed in their best uniforms, went out to the taxis, then Elrick closed and locked the door from the outside. He tucked the key into his waistcoat and got into the first taxi. As the motors pulled away, a quietness settled over Alton House like a blanket of snow. The only sound was the ticking of the big hall clock as the pendulum swung back and forth.
I was halfway up the stairs when a hammering on the door set my heart thumping. Had they forgotten something? I turned to go back down, then I froze. The pitter-patter of someone hurtling along the passageway sounded above me. Feminine legs and a swirling skirt appeared as Addie came flying down the stairs. Her coat was draped over one arm, and she had a book tucked into the crook of her elbow. Her gaze on her feet, she grabbed the newel post and swung around to come down the next set of steps. She saw me, sucked in a breath, pressed her hand to her chest, and came to a sudden stop. “Olive! Goodness! You frightened me.” Her eyes were bloodshot, but her hair was neat and it looked as if she’d powdered her nose.
“I feel the same way. I didn’t realize anyone else was here.” I’d forgotten all about Addie. She wouldn’t attend the funeral because she wasn’t family.
The pounding on the front door came again, even louder, and she sped by me. “That’s my brother. I had a note that he would call for me.” She hurried across the entry hall and threw back the bolt of the door.
Inglebrook stepped across the threshold, caught Addie, and waltzed her around. “You’re not going to believe it, Addie.” Her coat swung out, and the book tumbled to the marble tiles with a thunk. “We’re set, Addie, my girl. Set up very prettily. You’ll be—” He caught sight of me on the stairs and released Addie. The exuberant expression vanished as he composed his features into a more sedate look. “Miss Belgrave, hello. I didn’t see you there. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. And you?”
“Very well,” he said with relish. Like the sun radiating out from behind a cloud, his former exuberance couldn’t be contained. He motioned to Addie, who had slipped on her coat and was buttoning it. “I am taking my sister out for tea. I would ask you to join us, but . . .”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”
A look of relief flashed across his face. “Well, in that case, we should be off.”
Addie picked up the book. “Let me run back upstairs to my room and put this away.”
Inglebrook made an impatient gesture. “Don’t bother. Just leave it there, on the console table.”
“I couldn’t. You have no idea what a horribly accusing gaze Elrick has. He wouldn’t say a thing, but he’d make it clear I’d left it out instead of putting it away. It will only take a moment.”
I descended to the entry. “I can take it upstairs and leave it in your room.”
“Oh, would you? Thank you. I was reading while I was waiting for Thomas, and I just snatched it up along with my coat and handbag. I can’t think why I didn’t leave it in my room.”
She barely had time to hand me the book before Inglebrook hustled her out the door and closed it with a thud. I waited a few moments in the empty hall to see if I could hear any other movement from within the house. Nothing, except the muffled sound of wind gusting against the house, a groan as the old house settled, and the clock ticking. Why is it that it’s only when one is alone in a house that one notices the creaking sounds?
I went across and locked the door, then tilted the book to look at the spine as I climbed the stairs to Addie’s room. The Mystery of Newberry Close. I had to smile. It was a very popular book. I’d met the author, and I’d also read the book. Even my father had read it. He’d called it “a cracking good read.” I was glad to see Addie was doing something to take her mind off her worries about Rollo.
Addie’s room was in disarray, and it smelled a bit musty. Obviously, she hadn’t let the maids in to clean since her meeting in the park with Rollo. Clothes were scattered on the bed and draped over the open doors of the wardrobe. The fingers of a glove poked out of a drawer in the dressing table that hadn’t been completely closed. A pink ribbon encircled a pile of letters, while a sealed envelope addressed to Rollo rested on the cen
ter of the desk, waiting to be posted. The rubbish bin overflowed with crumpled writing paper.
An empty teacup and saucer rested on a stack of magazines and books on a side table by an armchair. I picked up the cup and saucer to put the book down on top of the magazines, but then I paused. The magazine had been left folded open to a page. I didn’t need to look at the cover to know the magazine was The Sketch. I’d looked through this issue recently while waiting for a landlord to arrive to show me a flat. He’d been late, and I’d had time to read quite a bit, including the short story, the one Addie had apparently been reading. It was a mystery story from a new author who seemed to have quite a few stories in the magazine, Agatha Christie. This one was called The Cornish Mystery.
A twinge of uneasiness ran through me as I glanced from the book in my hand to the magazine folded back to the short story. I moved the empty teacup and saucer to the side and picked up The Sketch. A quick skim confirmed I was remembering it correctly. The story involved arsenic . . . as did the book Addie had been reading, The Mystery of Newberry Close.
Did it mean anything? Probably not, but it was . . . rather odd. I looked through the rest of the books in the stack. They were all crime stories. Since Jasper had lent me a murder mystery and introduced me to the genre, I’d become a fan. I’d read several of the titles. The plot of another book in the stack involved strychnine poisoning.
I settled the books back on the table and glanced around the room again. Was Addie interested in poisons? Was she seeking information about them? Or was it a coincidence that she was reading books in which poisoning figured prominently and that two people had died of arsenic poisoning in the house where she was staying?
I left Addie’s room and glanced down the hall to Clara’s room at the far end. The wind rattled the windowpanes again, and the clock ticked on. An opportunity like this wouldn’t come again. I wrestled with my conscience a few moments. It was remembering the dismal look on Gigi’s face that decided me. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I murmured and headed in the direction of Clara’s room.
I almost hoped that her room would be locked, which would put an end to my snooping, but the door gave easily. The small room seemed unchanged from when Gigi and I had glanced in when we were looking for Clara. Now that I wasn’t in a rush, I had time to look around. A framed photograph of Clara from several years before sat on the dresser. She looked much younger and happier. She stood beside an older woman who had similar features, probably her mother. They were seated on a blanket by a stream with a picnic basket between them. A long piece of knitting trailed out of Clara’s workbasket, and a peach scarf was draped over the lamp on the dressing table.
I pushed down my reluctance to pry and walked to the wardrobe. It was obvious that Gigi gave Clara her castoffs because the quality of the items in the wardrobe varied wildly from serviceable and simple to extravagantly gorgeous with telltale marks at the cuffs and hems where they’d been altered.
Bottles and jars were lined up in front of the dressing table mirror, and the aroma of powder lingered in the air. Now that I thought about it, when Clara had come down the stairs, she’d looked paler and her freckles were less prominent. She must have dusted on a thick layer of powder. I turned the bottles so I could read the labels. Most were for the complexion. It looked as if Clara had tried everything from skin creams to tablets and scrubs to get rid of her freckles. I sighed. No matter what the labels promised—and some of the treatments sounded quite painful—I doubted they’d work.
I closed Clara’s door and made my way back down the hall to Felix’s room. The door swung open, and I paused on the threshold. I’d felt fairly confident about looking around Addie and Clara’s rooms, but I wasn’t sure where to start with the masculine domain of a young man. I didn’t have a brother, and I’d never been near the bedroom of my male cousin.
I shook off the prickle of unease at being in a man’s bedroom. I crossed to the wardrobe, but then a brisk knock sounded in the distance. I tilted my head and listened. It was coming from the entry. It came again, louder this time.
I went to one of the hall windows that overlooked the front of the house and angled my head so I could see the front step. Jasper was turned away, staring out across the street, his hands clasped behind his back. Goodness, Alton House was rather like Paddington Station today. I trotted down the stairs.
Jasper turned as I opened the door. “Hello, old bean. I didn’t expect you to answer the door.”
“The family and servants are at the dowager’s funeral.”
“Well, then. How about a spot of tea at the Savoy?”
I glanced up and down the street beyond Jasper. How long had I been in Addie’s room? Surely it was too soon for anyone to return from the funeral. “I can’t at the moment. Normally, I’d love to, but I—well, I just can’t.”
“I see.” He held my gaze for a moment, then looked over his shoulder. “Is something amiss?”
“Amiss? No, not at all.”
Jasper gave me a long look. “No, nothing is wrong, but . . .” His brow creased as he leaned closer and peered at me like I was a laboratory experiment. “You’re decidedly . . . um . . . frightened? No, wait—I have it—nervy. That’s it, nervy.”
In that instant, I knew it was no use trying to fob him off. He’d never leave now. “All right, yes, I’m a bit nervy. I could use your help, in fact.”
He tilted his head forward in a little bow. “I’m always happy to be of service to you, Olive.”
“Excellent.” I swung the door wide. “Please come in.”
Now it was Jasper who glanced back over his shoulder. “Um, not quite cricket, you know—you being alone in the house.”
“Then come in quick before someone sees you. I’m doing a bit of snooping and could use a man’s perspective.”
Chapter Nineteen
I pushed open the door to Felix’s room, and Jasper followed me in. I’d ushered him upstairs, explaining what had happened since I’d seen him last.
“Searching the suspects’ rooms wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I dropped by.” As he surveyed the room, Jasper tapped his finger against the brim of his hat, which he held in his hands. He still wore his wool coat. “I was thinking more along the lines of a visit to a tea shop.”
“A cup of tea sounds delightful. But first, have a quick look around. You take the wardrobe. You’ll know what to look for—if anything is off or out of place. I’ll look over the desk, shall I?”
“It’s not the done thing, poking among people’s possessions.”
“Neither is doctoring chocolates to make it look as if Gigi murdered her maid.” I didn’t wait for an answer but went to the desk.
“Yes, well. When you put it that way . . .” Jasper put his hat down and went to the wardrobe.
The desk was obviously where Felix spent most of his time. The rest of the room was neat. His clothes were put away, the counterpane on the bed was smooth, and the top of the bureau was clear and gleamed with polish. The desk, however, was covered with papers, pens, pencils, and stacks of books. Felix’s cape was draped over the back of the desk chair, and a piece of paper was rolled into the typewriter. It was half filled with typed text, lines of his play.
A few minutes later, Jasper closed the doors of the wardrobe. “Nothing unusual here. Suit coats, shirts, and trousers. Pocket squares, socks, collars, and such.”
The desk was messy, but I was careful not to move things too much. My father worked in the same way, creating a small tornado of papers around him. But he always knew the exact location of each item on his desk, and if anything had been moved, Father could spot it immediately.
Jasper made a humming sound, and I turned. “What is it?”
He was leafing through a stack of books and pamphlets on the bedside table. “Let’s just say Felix’s choice of reading material could be considered rather radical.”
“He did say the aristocracy was outmoded. Said they were dinosaurs.”
“That’s
mild compared to some of the rhetoric here.”
“He also said he hated the dowager.”
Jasper, his head still bent, turned and looked at me. “Was he squiffy?”
“Very. But he knew exactly what he was saying. His tone was . . . cold. That’s the only way to describe it.”
“In vino veritas, hmm? But there is a large difference between saying you hate someone and killing them.”
I turned back to the desk. “Yes, and I don’t know Felix well enough to know if he’d actually carry through with something like that.” I lifted the corners of papers and edges of books, excavating through the layers. I uncovered a crumpled chocolate bar wrapper, a stapler, a box of matches, and a sharp penknife, which lay on the desk blotter. I was about to gently lower the edges of the papers and books back into place when I noticed a scattering of dark-colored flakes near the blade of the penknife.
I must have made a noise because Jasper came across the room. “Find something interesting?”
“I don’t know.” I pointed out the flakes. “They could be from the chocolate bar, I suppose. They’re too dark to be rubbings from an eraser.”
Jasper took a monocle from his pocket and peered at them. “I agree, definitely not from an eraser. Could be evidence, old bean.”
“But would Felix cut open chocolates here and leave traces of it? Wouldn’t he sweep it away?” I asked.
“He probably didn’t notice. They’re quite small. And he could always say they were from the chocolate bar.” Jasper straightened and returned the monocle to his pocket. “Now I believe the question is, do you leave everything in situ?”
I blew out a sigh. “No, I don’t think so. Even though it looks as if the maids don’t clean the desk, and Felix hasn’t brushed them away, he might come back from the funeral and decide his play is terrible and sweep everything into the fire.”
“Gracious.”
