The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  “Would you care for a drink?” Winston rang for Thompkins, who arrived so quickly he must have been outside the door.

  “Well, I don’t mind if I do.”

  “Scotch,” Winston ordered.

  Thompkins returned carrying a tray with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label Scotch and glasses already filled.

  Inspector Woodson took a glass and sipped the amber liquid.

  Detective Inspector Covington and James declined.

  Lord William pulled out his pocket watch. “A bit early for me, Thompkins.”

  Inspector Woodson and Winston drank.

  “Perhaps we should let the younger set get about clearing this mess up while we catch up,” Winston suggested.

  Lord William, Detective Inspector Covington, and James left while Inspector Woodson and Winston started a conversation about horses and the races.

  Outside the room, Detective Inspector Covington whistled. “He’s good. I thought for sure they’d send me packing on the next train back to London.”

  Lord William smiled. “We’re all just soldiers following orders.”

  Detective Inspector Covington raised a brow in surprise.

  “Are you married?” Lord William asked.

  “No.” He shook his head.

  Lord William smiled. “Well, one day I think you’ll understand.” He returned to the study.

  James led the detective upstairs to the room where Jessica Carlisle had been murdered. Albert, the footman, had been replaced by Sergeant Turnbull on guard duty. The lad was still a bit pale but looked better than he had hours earlier.

  Detective Inspector Covington showed his warrant card to the sergeant, who moved aside and allowed the men to enter.

  Inside, a body lay on the bed, covered in a sheet. Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill examined the walls as though they were looking for something.

  “James,” Lady Elizabeth said. “I’m so glad you’re back and you brought Detective Inspector Covington.” She introduced the detective to Mrs. Churchill.

  Detective Inspector Covington went to the bed and examined the body. He looked around the room, under the bed, in drawers, and checked the window, noting the glass where James had broken in. The others stood by silently until he finished his examination of the crime scene. He called for Sergeant Turnbull. “What’s been done?”

  Sergeant Turnbull sputtered. “Well . . . I . . . I mean inspector . . . nothing, sir.”

  Detective Inspector Covington ordered the man to call for the coroner. The small Kent Police lacked the same resources as Scotland Yard, so he told him to telephone the Yard to send down a team to aid in the investigation.

  When the sergeant left to carry out his orders, Lady Elizabeth asked, “Detective, I hope James explained the delicacy of the situation.”

  He nodded.

  “Good. So, you understand we need to keep this as quiet as possible. The last thing we need is to have a member of Parliament involved in a murder investigation.”

  “I understand you don’t want a lot of publicity, but I have a murder to investigate. The duke said there’s a BBC producer here too. I don’t know how you plan to keep him out of this.”

  “Just leave that to us.” Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill exchanged glances.

  “May I ask what you two were doing when I came in?” Detective Inspector Covington asked.

  Lady Elizabeth went to one of the walls of the bedroom that had a large fireplace and built-in bookshelves. “We were looking for a way the killer could have gotten into the house. The door was bolted from the inside and James had to break the window to get in from outside.”

  Detective Inspector Covington looked at Mrs. Churchill. “Wouldn’t you know if there was a secret entrance?”

  Mrs. Churchill shrugged. “Not necessarily. To be completely honest, I never really liked the house and didn’t pay a great deal of attention to the details. This was Winston’s baby.” She looked around. “It was a wreck when he bought it. It looked like a huge money pit to me.” She sighed. “He worked with an architect, Philip Tilden, to make it habitable.”

  Detective Inspector Covington looked as though he wanted to speak but a glance at Lady Elizabeth changed his mind.

  “You should talk to Winston or one of the children.” She paced. “Randolph might know.”

  Detective Inspector Covington asked questions until the coroner arrived.

  Dr. Wilson returned to Chartwell House for the second time that day. He didn’t look pleased at being summoned again but summarized his initial findings and gave an estimated time of death to Detective Inspector Covington and the Scotland Yard detectives who arrived soon after he did.

  The house was abuzz with all of the activity of Scotland Yard. The detectives photographed the room and the grounds from virtually every angle imaginable. The staff and guests were questioned and reques-tioned and when they thought they’d answered every question possible, they were questioned again. At long last, the ambulance arrived and removed the body and the flurry of activity died down to a flutter.

  Lunch consisted of a cold buffet. Winston didn’t look thrilled. However, Mrs. Churchill said it showed respect. Detective Inspector Covington was invited to stay at Chartwell, so he joined the house party for lunch.

  James was mindful of his assignment and stayed close to Randolph. He tried to engage him in conversation but was unsuccessful. Randolph was red-eyed and drank rather than ate his lunch. He barely spoke during the entire meal, except to ask for more wine to go with his scotch.

  Conversation was somewhat constrained during the meal. Winston announced he would grant Guy Burgess an interview on the Mediterranean and talked about the importance of the Mediterranean to the commonwealth and the role of Indian independence.

  Leopold Amery listened and intervened only to soften any of Winston’s comments which might be damaging to the conservative party.

  James noted Lord Stemphill was particularly attentive to Lady Alistair, who fidgeted and stammered.

  Daphne listened attentively while Anthony Blunt delivered a monologue about the great works of art and their importance to the British realm and the world.

  Lunch was soon over. Lord William, Winston, and Guy Burgess moved to the study to continue the interview. It took both James and Anthony Blunt to get Randolph to his room. He was too drunk to walk.

  Lady Alistair claimed she had a headache and retired to her room.

  Lord Stemphill held the door as James and Anthony Blunt dragged Randolph from the room. James couldn’t help but notice a sinister smile on his face as he passed through.

  Lady Elizabeth was the first to arrive in the drawing room and sat knitting. She was joined by Mrs. Churchill, Daphne, James, Lord William, and Detective Inspector Covington. When everyone was seated, Mrs. Churchill rang for tea. Thompkins rolled the tea service to Mrs. Churchill, who sat by the fire. Normally, the butler would have left after tea was delivered. Instead, Thompkins stood near the back wall, tall, straight, and proper.

  “Now, we may not have much time before anyone else joins us, so we’d better be quick,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  Thompkins coughed discretely and stepped forward. He told the group what he learned from the servants. He’d already told Lady Elizabeth, who had taken a few minutes to talk to Albert and the housekeeper. The butler would have preferred for Lady Elizabeth to deliver the information, but she had insisted Thompkins do the honors in case the others had questions.

  Mrs. Churchill listened attentively and then sighed. “That means there’s someone else who might have killed her?” She looked at Lady Elizabeth. “Someone other than Randolph might have done it?” She spoke softly.

  Lady Elizabeth reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Yes, dear.”

  Mrs. Churchill gave a quick hysterical laugh and then pulled out a handkerchief and cried softly.

  The others remained silent for a few seconds and then proceeded on.

  “Winston was successful in getting Burgess t
o hold off on reporting the murder, but only through the weekend.” Lord William filled his pipe and smoked.

  “Wonderful, dear. Were you able to talk to Leo?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

  “Only had a few minutes. Chap claimed he’d never laid eyes on the girl before he came here. Hasn’t seen his son in months. Doubt there could be anything there.” He huffed.

  “Son?” Detective Inspector Covington asked. “There was some trouble with his son, wasn’t there?”

  Lord William frowned. “Bad seed that one. Joined the fascist. Been trying to recruit British soldiers to join Hitler.”

  Detective Inspector Covington slapped his knee. “I remember now. He was one of those Bolsheviks. Got himself arrested, but they let him go. Moved to the continent.” He looked around. “Is he involved in this?”

  Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s the right age and I was just wondering.” She turned to Mrs. Churchill. “Didn’t you say John Amery introduced Randolph to Jessica?”

  Mrs. Churchill looked as though her mind was far away. “Did I? Yes, I’m sure Randolph mentioned Amery.” She stared at Lady Elizabeth. “Do you think it’s important?”

  “I don’t know. At this point, I’m just collecting information.” Lady Elizabeth knitted in silence for several seconds and then turned to her niece. “Daphne?”

  “I talked to both Anthony Blunt and Guy Burgess. They claimed they ate dinner at the George and Dragon. After dinner, they played darts and didn’t get back until nearly two.”

  Detective Inspector Covington took notes. “That’ll be easy enough for my men to check.”

  “They said they ran into Lord Stemphill when they returned and stayed up drinking and talking for a couple of hours,” Daphne said.

  “That’s awfully late to be up talking,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  Daphne smiled. “They said they were discussing the George and Dragon’s famous unsolved murder.”

  Lady Elizabeth nodded.

  “What unsolved murder? Maybe it has a bearing on this case.” Detective Inspector Covington sat on the edge of his seat.

  Lady Elizabeth knitted. “I very much doubt it. Mr. Humphrey was killed over a hundred years ago.”

  Detective Inspector Covington sat back. “Never mind.”

  James stood near the fireplace. He made several glances in Daphne’s direction, but she didn’t look up. “I didn’t get much out of Randolph. He’s been on a bender all day.” He stared at Mrs. Churchill and apologized.

  She waved away his apology.

  “I did learn Jessica Carlisle used to work for the Royal Aeronautical Society. John Amery introduced her to Randolph at a party in London.” James smoked.

  “Didn’t Stemphill work for them too?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

  James nodded. “He did.”

  “That’s interesting. The victim worked with Stemphill and she knew John Amery, son of Leopold Amery. Amery introduced her to Randolph.” Detective Inspector Covington scribbled in his notebook.

  Lady Elizabeth sighed. “I agree it seems odd, but it’s a small world. That’s how people meet. They’re introduced by someone they both know.” She put down her knitting and sat for a few moments. Then she shook herself and picked up her needles and continued. “I wasn’t able to talk to Lord Stemphill, but I’ll get with him tonight after dinner.”

  “He seemed particularly interested in my mother.” James frowned.

  “I noticed that too.” Lady Elizabeth took a sip of tea. “Clemmie, did you talk to Lady Alistair?”

  Mrs. Churchill pulled herself up tall and dabbed at her eyes. “I did. She isn’t going to leave.”

  Lady Elizabeth stole a glance in Daphne’s direction. “Thank you. Perhaps you could—”

  “I’d like to talk to Lady Alistair.” Daphne blushed. “If that’s okay?”

  Lady Elizabeth stared at her niece but then smiled. “Of course, dear.” She looked around. “Is that everyone?”

  “I didn’t figure out how to get into the room yet,” Mrs. Churchill said softly.

  Lady Elizabeth knitted. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it and I have an idea.”

  “Well, I wish you’d share your idea with me,” Detective Inspector Covington said. “I’m clean out of ideas on how the killer got into and out of that room.”

  Lady Elizabeth smiled. “I need to test my theory first.”

  Chapter 19

  The last thing I wanted to do on a snowy, cold Sunday morning in November was get out of bed, especially when I had stayed up half the night writing. I contemplated calling my mom and telling her I wasn’t going to make it to church. The various scenarios of that conversation floated around in my head, and the muscles in my stomach tightened. Resistance was futile. It was easier to comply, so I forced myself out of bed.

  Snickers didn’t budge until I turned on the lights. Then she stood, turned around in a circle, and laid back down with her back to me. The look on her face before she buried her muzzle under a blanket spoke volumes about what she thought about being roused from her bed before noon. Even Oreo, normally bouncing off the sides of his crate whenever I rolled over, just stared at me as if to say, Really? Didn’t we just go to sleep?

  I liked to keep the house cool at night but had purchased a programmable thermostat, which kicked in around six on weekdays and eight on weekends. So, the floors were still cold and it took longer for my shower to get hot. Needless to say, I hurried to get showered and dressed. My body had acclimated by the time I was dressed, but when I looked out the back window and saw the ground covered in snow, I cringed at the idea of heading out in what the app on my phone told me were single-digit temperatures. I hunted through a drawer and found a set of sweaters for the dogs and then coaxed them into the garments. Snickers looked bored and humiliated, as if wearing a sweater was an affront to her dignity.

  I looked her in the eyes. “You’ll thank me for this when you get outside. Now, suck it up and give me your paw.”

  She yawned, but I was bigger and more experienced. Oreo wagged his tail and bounced around. However, he too was soon dressed. When the deed was done, he rolled on his back and generated static electricity, which caused the hair on his ears to stand straight out. He was such a goofball.

  We went downstairs and I opened the door to let them out. Snickers took one look at the snow, turned, and looked at me. I gave her a nudge over the threshold and quickly closed the door. Oreo went bounding out into the snow with a zeal that always put a smile on my face. He stuck his nose into it and then barked and ran in circles until he was covered in snow. I loved watching him play in the snow. His zest and total abandon was refreshing. However, experience told me I needed to watch because he invariably forgot why he was there until his under belly and legs were cold. Then he wanted to come back inside, without taking care of business. He needed to be watched. He made his way to the door and stood barking. I hardened my heart and refused to open the door. Eventually, he went to the fence and did what needed to be done. Then, and only then, did I let them back in. He shook himself, leaving a pile of wet snow on the floor. I wiped the pilled snow from their legs and feet. Nothing like stepping in melted snow in wet feet to teach dog owners the importance of wiping your pet’s feet in the winter.

  I opened the garage door and turned on the remote start for my car so it would be nice and warm when I left. Automatic lights, remote start, and heated seats were the best things man ever invented, apart from the brilliant soul who discovered ground coffee beans and hot water made the elixir of life.

  A quick cup of coffee and dog biscuits for the pack and I was out. I drove to my mom’s house and picked her up. I headed for her church and was surprised when she suggested we skip church and go to breakfast instead. I had to stop and do a double take to make sure the woman in my car was actually the woman who raised me.

  “Sure. I’m fine with that. Where do you want to go?”

  She fidgeted and avoided eye contact, which was the second clue that ma
de me think I should check the back of this alien imposter’s neck for signs of a pod. “I would like to go to Tippecanoe Place. I hear they have a wonderful Sunday brunch.”

  It was a good thing I was at a stop light because I sat and stared at her for several seconds until the car behind me honked its horn. I drove down the street for a couple of blocks and then pulled into a nearby parking lot. “Okay. Who are you and what have you done with my mother?”

  She looked wide-eyed and innocent. “I don’t know what you mean?”

  I held up my hand and began to tick each item off. “First, you don’t want to go to church. My mother always goes to church. In fact, she thinks I’m going to hell if I miss one Sunday. Second, you want me to drive to the Studebaker Mansion over thirty miles away when it’s snowing, which means I will need to drive on the interstate. My mother cringes when I drive in the city when the roads are completely dry.” I stared. “Who are you?”

  My mother shook her head. “Stop being melodramatic. I just thought it would be nice to go to Tippecanoe Place today.” She paused.

  I folded my arms across my chest and waited.

  “Oh, alright. Harold says it’s about time he met you and Jenna. He suggested Tippecanoe Place.”

  I was surprised. “I think that’s a really good idea, but Jenna’s not here. She and Tony are on a cruise.”

  “They got back late last night. I called and told her you’d pick her up on the way.”

  I stared for several seconds. However, the idea that my mother had called and ordered my sister to get up and get dressed early on Sunday morning made me giddy. Jenna was not a morning person. If she had only arrived home a few hours ago, she’d be even less enthusiastic about this excursion. It was a real effort to keep the smile off my face.