by C. J. Archer
“So you’re involving the staff in your sleuthing now?” he asked as we passed Apsley House.
“They insist. In fact, I’m sure they discuss it behind my back. I think they’re a little bored with their day-to-day tasks and investigating adds a little excitement.”
“Mind it doesn’t get as exciting as the last murder investigation.”
“You mean don’t let the murderer drag me into a storeroom and try to kill me?”
We stopped to cross the road and his gaze slid to me. “I’d appreciate not having to rescue you again.”
“You must admit it made the evening more interesting.”
He stared at me, hard.
I spotted a gap between the traffic and stepped onto the road. “Come along, Mr. Armitage, or you’ll get left behind.”
We followed a carriage into the narrow mews behind the grand homes on Wilton Place. Lined with coach houses and stable blocks, with residences for servants above, it was the invisible artery used by the outdoor staff and tradesmen. Invisible to the masters and mistresses, that was. We passed The Nag’s Head, where we’d be meeting Thomas Adams later, and continued along the curved section of the mews as it followed the course of Wilton Place and Wilton Crescent.
A pair of coach house doors opened for the carriage and the coachman maneuvered the vehicle through, but not before the horse had left a steaming deposit behind on the cobbles. Mr. Armitage asked the stable hand where we could find Lord Wrexham’s coach house and he pointed to the red brick building with the white doors.
I knocked on the side door and a spotty faced lad opened it. “Is the coachman for the Wrexham house in?” I asked.
The lad’s gaze lifted as Mr. Armitage moved up behind me. I didn’t need to see him to know he was there. I could feel his presence. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s ma’am, actually,” I pointed out. “I asked the question.”
He looked a little confused, but opened the door and invited us inside. “Mr. Bull, sir!” he shouted in my ear. “There’s a bloke here to see you. And a woman.”
“I’m in here!”
We followed the bellow into the coach house proper. A man looked up from where he’d been polishing the green door of the brougham. It gleamed to a high shine, even in the dull light of the coach house.
“May we speak to you in private?” I asked.
“What about?” Mr. Bull was a balding fellow with a thick beard and bushy eyebrows. He was rather stout and hunched even after straightening.
“We’ll tell you in private.” I glanced at the stable boy who stood by, listening.
“Off with you, lad,” Mr. Bull said in an Irish accent. “Go check on Rosie.”
“But I already have.”
Mr. Bull’s glare was enough to send the youth off to the adjoining stables. The coachman picked up a cloth from the workbench and wiped his hands. “So what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the death of Miss Pearl Westwood,” I said.
He stopped wiping his hands. “Do you work for the police?”
“We’re private detectives. A friend of Miss Westwood’s commissioned us to look into her death as he didn’t think she killed herself.”
He resumed wiping his hands, slowly. I could almost see his mind ticking over, putting the pieces together. He certainly knew who Pearl Westwood was, but that didn’t mean anything in itself. She was famous. “And what’s this got to do with me?”
“Lord Wrexham knew her,” I said.
He returned the cloth to the workbench and picked up the lid to the pot of polish. “Did he?”
“You drove him to her funeral yesterday.”
His hands stilled before he continued screwing on the pot lid. “Do you have any questions, miss, or are you here just to point out facts?”
“Did you drive Lord Wrexham somewhere on the afternoon of Monday the fifteenth?”
“I can’t recall.”
“I’m sure you can. It was only four days ago.”
“Nope. Don’t remember.”
Mr. Armitage set down some coins on the bench in Mr. Bull’s line of sight. “Do you remember now?”
Mr. Bull put the pot back on a shelf above the bench and picked up the coins. He held them out to Mr. Armitage. “Lord Wrexham’s a good master and the pay’s reasonable. It’s hard to find work like this in the city nowadays, so I won’t do anything to jeopardize my position.” He dropped the coins in Mr. Armitage’s palm. “There’s no point asking the lad, either. He doesn’t know anything.” He turned away. “See yourselves out.”
I led the way back to the street. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think he’s hiding something.”
“So do I. If Lord Wrexham did not leave the house that afternoon, Mr. Bull would have simply said as much.”
Mr. Armitage glanced at the opposite side of the street. The doors on that side belonged to the rear entrances to the townhouses on Wilton Crescent. It allowed the indoor servants to quickly pass on instructions to the coach house if a vehicle was needed around the front. “Perhaps we’ll have better luck with the maids.”
I felt a little irritated for not getting anywhere with the coachman and wanted to redeem myself by questioning the maids. I decided to leave it to Mr. Armitage as agreed, however.
The maid who answered his knock had the reddened, chapped hands of someone who has them plunged into hot water for a considerable amount of time. She took one look at Mr. Armitage, smiling on the doorstep, and buried them in her apron. She blinked up at him with wide eyes and seemed to have stopped breathing.
“My name is Harry Armitage, and this is Miss Cleopatra Fox.” He smiled. “And you are?”
“Betty Proud, sir. Pleased to meet you.” She didn’t even look past him at me. Her eyes were firmly fixed on his face. At least she was breathing again and the blinking had stopped.
“Miss Fox and I are from the Piccadilly Playhouse.”
Her eyes widened even further. So did mine. What was he up to? This was not planned.
“Are you actors?” Betty asked.
“No, nothing like that.” Mr. Armitage chuckled. “The actors are still asleep, getting their rest for tonight’s performance. They’re resuming Cat and Mouse, but without its star, Miss Westwood.”
Betty gave him a sympathetic look. “I read about her death. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Armitage. You must all be devastated.”
“We are. Losing her at such a young age is a tragedy.”
I eyed him sideways. He looked quite distressed. He was good at this.
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Mr. Armitage went on. “I have a message for Lord Wrexham about Miss Westwood.”
For the first time, Betty looked at me. She was confused by this turn of events. “Why would there be a message for him about her? He didn’t know her.”
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Eleven months. What’s your message, sir? I’ll see the master gets it.”
“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” Mr. Armitage said. “Someone at the theater thought they saw Lord Wrexham there on the afternoon of Pearl’s death.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I doubt it.”
“Betty? Betty, who’re you talking to?” A woman with gray hair pinned into a bun muscled the maid aside and fixed a glare on Mr. Armitage. “Who’re you?”
“Mr. Armitage, and this is Miss Fox. We work at the Piccadilly Playhouse.” He smiled and gave a shallow bow. “Am I speaking to the housekeeper?”
“You are. I’m Mrs. Gardiner. What do folk from the Playhouse want with my scullery maid?”
“They’ve got a message for his lordship,” Betty said. “It’s about Miss Westwood, that actress who died.”
Mrs. Gardiner squared her shoulders. “Go, Betty.”
“But—”
“Get back to work.” Mrs. Gardiner waited until Betty’s footsteps had receded. “What do you want, Mr. Armitage?”
“I want to know where Lord Wrexham was on the after
noon of Monday the fifteenth.”
She crossed her arms beneath her considerable bosom. “That’s none of your business.”
Mr. Armitage pulled out some coins from his pocket.
“Put that away,” she growled. “Neither me nor my girls are willing to jeopardize their position for a few bob.” She thrust out her chin. “You’re not really from the theater, are you?”
Mr. Armitage pocketed the coins. “We’re private detectives, commissioned by a friend of Miss Westwood’s to make inquiries into her death.”
“What has that got to do with this house?”
“I think you already know.”
She stared at him, unblinking. “No,” she finally said.
“Miss Westwood was a particular friend of his lordship.”
The muscles in her jaw bunched and her glare sharpened. There was no surprise in her reaction, however.
“Miss Westwood might not have killed herself,” he went on. “If there’s a chance she was murdered, we should find out who did it. She deserves that, at least.”
“Does she?” she spat.
Mr. Armitage’s charm was working as well as mine had on the coachman. It wouldn’t hurt if I cut in. This encounter couldn’t deteriorate further than it already had.
“We know Lord Wrexham cared for her,” I said. “I saw him at the funeral. He was upset.”
She grabbed the edge of the door. “You people disgust me,” she hissed. “Raking up all this filth when it should be left in the gutter where it belongs. You should be ashamed of yourselves.” She slammed the door in our faces.
I stepped back. “I was about to commend you for your acting skills until the housekeeper came along.”
“As disappointing as it was, it’s nice to see loyalty still exists. Hopefully the footman can tell us something of use later.”
“We did learn something from that exchange,” I said as we headed back the way we’d come. “The housekeeper clearly knew about Pearl’s relationship with Wrexham but the maid didn’t.”
“So the relationship definitely ended more than eleven months ago, the length of time the maid has worked for Wrexham,” he finished. “But why murder her now? Surely if he was wracked by jealousy, he’d have acted when the relationship finished.”
“According to Mr. Culpepper from the theater, Pearl was with Rumford, and only Rumford, for two years, so her relationship with Wrexham must have ended before that.”
It must have been nostalgia that made Lord Wrexham attend Pearl’s funeral. Just because they hadn’t been together for some years didn’t mean he wouldn’t want to pay his respects.
We parted ways outside the hotel with a promise to meet again later. I greeted Frank as he opened the door for me, and I waved to Peter, handed the umbrella to Goliath, and headed for the lift. The door slid open the moment I pressed the button and Flossy and Aunt Lilian stepped out.
“There you are, Cleo,” Aunt Lilian said breezily. “I’m so glad we found you. You must join us for luncheon in the dining room. You won’t be needing your coat in there.” She signaled to Goliath who strode over.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Take Cleo’s coat.” She assisted me to remove it then handed it to Goliath.
He folded it over his arm and carried it to the luggage room.
“I’m delighted to have lunch with you both,” I said. “Isn’t it a little early?” According to the clock on the wall behind Peter, it wasn’t yet midday.
Flossy opened her mouth to speak, but her mother got in first. “It is, but Lady Caldicott prefers to luncheon early.”
“Caldicott?” I asked. “Is she related to the banker?”
“Sir Lawrence, yes. She’s his wife. You are well informed, Cleo. Good for you. I’m so pleased you’re taking an interest.”
Flossy sighed, so I suspected that was a slight aimed at her.
We followed Aunt Lilian through the vestibule to the dining room where Mr. Chapman greeted us with a smile. “You’ll be served by Richard today, assisted by Gregory and Francis.”
The three men stood behind chairs at the family’s regular table, positioned in the center of the room. They all wore black ties as part of their uniform, but Richard, the head waiter, was the only one without an apron. He pulled the chair out for Aunt Lilian while Gregory and Francis did the same for Flossy and me.
Aunt Lilian was in one of her lively moods this morning as she conversed with the sommelier and Richard about the menu. She must have taken a dose of her tonic, which meant this wasn’t an ordinary lunch. If it was important, I ought to be prepared.
“Is Sir Lawrence my uncle’s banker?” I asked Flossy while her mother was occupied.
“Yes. He has two sons, both unmarried and in their twenties, and an older, married daughter. She and her mother are coming today.”
“Is this meeting intended to butter Lady Caldicott up so that she can speak to her husband on your father’s behalf?”
Flossy gave me a blank look. “It’s about Lady Caldicott meeting me. Mother wants me to marry one of her sons, so I must give a good impression.”
I pulled a face. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Save some of that sympathy for yourself. Now that you’re here, you’ll be considered for the other son.”
Ugh. So it was going to be that sort of lunch. “Any particular son or do I just get the one you don’t want?”
Flossy suppressed a giggle. “You’re wicked, Cleo. Be sure not to let it show during lunch. Lady Caldicott and her daughter have no sense of humor.”
“Then I can tell you I probably wouldn’t want to marry one of her sons.”
She leaned closer. “Me either. But we mustn’t disappoint Mother. She’s gone to a lot of effort to arrange this lunch.”
The two guests arrived and I was introduced as the niece from Cambridge. Lady Caldicott and her daughter, Mrs. Mannering, both commented on how much I looked like Aunt Lilian, and expressed their sympathies over the recent loss of my grandmother.
Both women wore the latest fashions, like my aunt and cousin, and if they thought my black dress somewhat plain and out of date, they were polite enough not to show it. It wasn’t until sometime during the dessert course that I noticed Mrs. Mannering watching me from beneath lowered lashes. I thought she’d been listening in to her mother and Aunt Lilian gossiping, but it seemed not. I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you about Lady Rumford,” Lady Caldicott said to my aunt.
The name had me turning sharply towards them.
“What about her?” Aunt Lilian asked.
“Do you know Mrs. Preston-Lowe? She told me she saw Lady Rumford at the opera last week.”
Aunt Lilian looked up from her Bavarian cream. “She must be mistaken. If Lady Rumford is in London, she’d be staying with us.”
“While her husband is here grieving for his late mistress?” Lady Caldicott sounded triumphant, as if she knew Aunt Lilian was attempting to hide that fact. Lady Caldicott was reveling in spreading her gossip. “Come now, Lilian, don’t look so surprised. Almost everyone knows he kept that actress, even Lady Rumford.”
“So sad about her death,” Mrs. Mannering said.
“I doubt Lady Rumford is sad. I heard she and Rumford had blazing rows over his interest in Miss Westwood. Not the affair itself, you understand, but the expense of keeping her.” Lady Caldicott positively glowed with delight at imparting such salacious news. The three glasses of wine probably had something to do with the glow too.
“Mother,” Mrs. Mannering chided.
“Is Lady Rumford still in London?” I asked.
Everyone stared at me. Considering it was one of the few times I’d spoken throughout lunch, perhaps their surprise was warranted.
“I don’t know,” Lady Caldicott said. “Mrs. Preston-Lowe’s sighting is the only one I’ve heard.”
“Perhaps she was mistaken,” Aunt Lilian said. “Doesn’t she wear spectacles?”
“F
or reading, not for watching the opera.”
“Let’s leave such gossip alone in the presence of the young ladies,” Mrs. Mannering cut in.
“I don’t mind,” Flossy said.
Mrs. Mannering ignored her. “Mother, weren’t you going to ask Lady Bainbridge and her family to dine with you?”
A discussion about dinner plans followed, and a suitable date settled. Mrs. Mannering and her husband were invited, of course, and Sir Lawrence and Lady Caldicott’s two sons would be there. Lady Caldicott insisted all of us should attend too. I’d hoped to be left out, but it seemed I was firmly a part of the Bainbridge family for such events.
I couldn’t decide whether I would feign illness that day or not. I had a week in which to consider my options.
I met Harmony and Victor in the staff parlor after lunch. It was a busy time for the front-of-house staff, but the maids had all finished for the day, and Victor was taking a break between lunch and dinner.
I told them about the sighting of Lady Rumford at the opera. “If it’s true and she is in London, then she’s a suspect.”
“Most definitely,” Harmony said as she picked up her teacup.
Victor sat forward on the chair and rested his elbows on his knees. He cradled the teacup between his hands and looked up at me. “But did she care enough about the affair to kill?”
Harmony looked at him as if he were stupid. “What woman wouldn’t feel jealous that her husband keeps a mistress?”
“Some women wouldn’t. Humiliation, maybe, but not jealousy. Most toff marriages are for the sake of convenience, not love. She might like him to be occupied elsewhere, if you get my meaning.”
“I do but I don’t understand why any woman would give up on love,” Harmony said, matter-of-factly. “I’d never marry anyone unless I was in love with him and he in love with me.”
“Lucky fellow.”
Harmony narrowed her gaze at him, as if trying to determine if he was teasing her. Victor’s face was utterly serious, which didn’t necessarily mean he was being serious. Her look was lost on him, however, as he was staring straight ahead at the wall.
“Actually, you’re right, Victor,” I said. “According to Lady Caldicott, Lady Rumford was only upset about the expense of keeping a mistress, not the fact he had one.”
