by Issy Brooke
Eighteen
The police spoke to each of them in turn and Theodore could see their annoyance grow. Every time he encountered Inspector Wilbred, the man looked angrier and angrier. At least he was no longer smug. Clearly, they were getting nowhere with their investigation. Whatever Wilbred had thought he could do, or what he thought he knew, he was being thwarted in the execution of it. Theodore waited, expecting them at any moment to ask him to assist them.
To his own irritation, they did not. They made copious notes, the body was carried off in a closed carriage, and the servants were allowed into the room to clean the blood up. No one wanted to do it, until Percy lost his temper completely and roared at them in a way that made even Theodore’s heart quicken. It was a thoroughly unpleasant task. As Percy stormed away in a fury, Theodore sidled up to the tearful maids with their mops and buckets.
“I shall personally see you all recompensed for this task,” he said. “Here is a coin for each of you now – and you shall have double when you are done.” He passed them all a week’s wages, and it seemed to help. Perhaps it was merely the acknowledgement that they were doing a difficult thing. They shoved one another into the room, no one wanting to be first. Theodore left them to it, with Mrs Rush overseeing events with a grey and lined face.
Every single servant seemed to have been accused of the crime, and according to the liveried man that Theodore spoke to in the hallway, the police had been rough and unkind, attempting to browbeat and bully them into confessions as the servants were each marched through a series of interrogations. “But none of us know anything, sir; not a thing, and John Parker was one of our own, sir. We’re scared and we’re upset but none of us are murderers, sir.”
“Did anyone dislike Parker?”
“He was hardly ever here. He was always off with the master. But when he was here, he was fine company.”
“Let it be known that I do not think any one of you are in danger,” Theodore said. “I don’t know what the police have told you, but the intended victim was clearly Lord Buckshaw himself and not Parker. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There is not a murderer in the house out to get the servants. Indeed, it is Lord Buckshaw who is the target so you all need not worry.”
“Yet if there is a murderer in amongst us, of course we will worry,” the man replied.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But try not to,” Theodore said, attempting to be sympathetic even though his mind was already exploring the idea that the murderer had come in from outside. “What do you think to Oscar Brodie?”
“I – er – Lady Katharine’s son? He seems to be a fine young gentleman,” the servant replied politely.
Theodore dropped his voice. “You seem like a reliable and honest man,” he said. “I am speaking to you frankly and I would very much value your opinion. Does he ever come into the house?”
“Usually only when Lord Buckshaw is home. I have seen him about a little more lately, but he has usually been in your company, sir.”
“Ah. Yes. Of course. Has he been different lately?”
The servant’s eyes widened as he realised what Theodore was getting at. “No, sir. Are you suggesting that he is responsible?”
“Does that seem at all likely or unlikely to you?”
“Um. I would hate to say, sir.”
Theodore frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, sir. I really can’t say, sir.”
It was a dead end. Theodore let him go.
But he went straight to Adelia. She was back in the drawing room, on her own, and making the most of the space by indulging in some pacing around of her own. She jumped and stopped walking when he entered.
“Are the police still here?”
“They seem to be packing up to go. Listen to this conversation I’ve just had with one of the servants.”
“Which one?”
“A man in livery. Tall, young, gap between his front teeth...”
“Riley. He’s steady enough. Go on.”
Theodore was able to relate the whole dialogue verbatim and she was rolling his eyes before he had even finished. “He thinks that Oscar could be the murderer,” she said.
“He didn’t say that.”
“Exactly. If he thought Oscar was innocent, he would have protested as much. His equivocation speaks volumes.”
“Huh. I just thought he was being evasive.”
“He was, dear heart, but there’s always a reason for it.” Adelia smiled at him. “This is good information. Well done.”
“Are you my superintendent now?” he said a little crossly.
“Don’t be spiky. You know you have your strengths, and I have mine. Now you can listen to what I’ve talked about with Lady Agnes and The Countess, and perhaps you can offer me some insight.”
Theodore stood by the window, not really looking at anything, and instead paid close attention to Adelia’s recount of her conversation. At the end, he said, “I agree with you. It is utter nonsense to make such a big noise and fuss over some fake lapis lazuli, especially as it’s all from so long ago.”
“It makes more sense to tell everyone. I can’t see why it has to be hushed up. I suspect it is simply that The Countess lacks power and influence and this is nothing more than a stupid game to her.”
“Really? She is a well-respected woman and her word has great sway. Is that not power?”
Adelia gave him a withering look that he could not read, but he felt chastened anyway, even though he wasn’t sure what he’d got wrong.
“Even so, she is still only a woman, and of an older generation,” Adelia said. “And poor Lady Agnes is thoroughly bound to her and I don’t think she enjoys it. She might be our way in.”
“I am not sure I follow your thinking. But more importantly, do we suspect them of any involvement in either of the crimes?”
“No,” Adelia said. “I think they only look guilty because they are so caught up in this silly curse. It’s become an obsession with them. I suppose they have very little else to occupy themselves. And as Knight knew something about it, he looks like he is linked to them, but he probably isn’t.”
Theodore nodded. He turned to look at his wife, and was struck by her faraway expression. “What is it?” he asked.
“They spoke of money and marriages,” she said slowly. “I wonder if it is worth examining the family tree again.”
“It could be. And we have nothing else to do.” His attention was caught by the movement of figures across the lawn outside. “I think the police are leaving.”
She came to his side. “And no arrests made. Do you think they went to the gatehouse?”
“I heard that they did, and spoke to both Brodie and his mother.”
“What do we do now?” she asked. “Mrs Carstairs has furnished me with a list of tasks I need to do before this Friday’s ball. I confess, I am hardly in the mood for it. But perhaps it is good I have something to occupy myself, but if there is anything to do regarding the investigation – oh, Theodore, we are still investigating, aren’t we?”
“We are,” he replied firmly. “And we will do as you said. We will look into the family’s history, but discreetly. And Percy needs watching. His life is clearly still in danger though he seems determined to ignore that fact. As for Felicia...”
Adelia spoke over him, saying with equal firmness, “As to that, I have already decided that I will be sending for a doctor without delay. I do not care what Percy says. She was my daughter before she was ever his wife.”
Theodore did not object.
THEODORE WENT DOWN to the great hall and caught only the glimpse of Inspector Wilbred’s coat-tails as he disappeared out of the door and away, accompanied by the last of the police. Percy was watching him depart. He turned as Theodore approached.
“They are gone, at last, and good riddance.”
“Did they arrest anyone?”
“No.”
“What will you do now?” Theodore asked.
“I?”
“Your life is in danger,” Theodore pointed out.
“You needn’t sound so matter of fact about it. I am well aware of it.”
Theodore thought that he wasn’t acting as if he was really aware of it. He said, “I am matter of fact about it because I see no reason to make a fuss but it needs accepting and acting upon. The plain truth is that you are at risk of death or harm by person or persons unknown, who even now might be in this very house. Avoiding that issue risks your life even more. What measure has Inspector Wilbred put into place to keep you safe?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he suggest anything?”
“He laughed when I mentioned it and said he’d do something about it, whatever that meant. He said that I probably wasn’t in danger, and that someone’s killed Parker because they didn’t like him. He said that other servants often resent the higher household staff because of their trusted positions. Maybe he was right. He told me I ought to keep my house in order.”
“And is he coming back?”
“I can’t work out if I have thrown him out or he’s washed his hands of me,” Percy said in utter confusion. “I haven’t eaten all day – I can’t remember my last meal – I slept badly last night, and now this. Now this! I don’t even know what time it is.”
“Right. We are going to the kitchens and we will eat anything we can lay our hands upon. Come along.” Theodore spoke to him with patience but firmness and Percy seemed happy to be led down the corridors into the kitchens, where they fell upon bread and meat pies and fruit and the remains of a syllabub, under the wide and staring eyes of the maids until the cook shooed them all away. She seemed to understand what was needed and she brought them hot, sweet tea and a selection of pickles to adorn the pies. A bowl of cold potatoes with cream and chives appeared, and some cuts of ham. Theodore was as hungry as Percy. It was late in the afternoon, they realised, and the day had been very long.
Theodore wanted to continue to press Percy about his plans. He was worried for his son-in-law’s safety. He could hardly say as much while they were in earshot of all the servants and as soon as they had finished eating, Percy excused himself, saying that he was going to sit with Felicia. He stalked off and Theodore did not follow him. He looked around the kitchen, feeling hot and sweaty now that he had had his fill, and said aloud, “Can any of you think who might have wanted to kill Parker?”
The cook folded her arms. “He wasn’t the target, was he?”
“Did the police say that?”
She snorted. “The police said nothing. But it’s obvious and we’re not stupid. It was Lord Buckshaw the killer wanted. So I am not worried for my own life and I’ve told my girls not to be afraid, too. I was wondering if Knight was really killed by accident, after all, though.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Theodore said, keen to listen to the cook’s ideas. “Everyone knew that Lord Buckshaw wasn’t here at the time so that couldn’t have been mistaken identity that time.”
“Everyone in the household knew he was away, yes,” she said. “But did everyone from outside know? After all, Knight was killed outside the house, in a place that none of us ever go. It could have been mistaken identity then. And once the killer realised they were wrong, perhaps they tried again, but thought they’d get it right this time.”
“Two cases of mistaken identity?” Theodore said, shaking his head. “I think it is improbable.”
“Yet if you have no other explanation, the improbable one is true, is it not?”
“You are a philosopher-cook,” he said.
She smiled. “I do read a lot,” she told him. “I like to make myself think. It is my Christian duty, isn’t it, to improve my lot in life? That’s the way I see it. I make my girls read, too, anything but novels of course.”
“So who wants Lord Buckshaw dead?” he asked in increasing excitement. Had he hit upon the hidden source of all knowledge in the household?
He was to be disappointed. “Oh, as to that, I have no idea, sir. I have no knowledge of what goes on in society’s drawing rooms. I cook, and I read; but Lord this and Lady that mean nothing to me and I don’t encourage my girls to partake in gossip either.”
He had one last attempt at finding the key to the problem. “What can you tell me about Oscar Brodie?”
The cook’s blank face shut up like a trap. “Nothing, sir. Will there be anything else?”
And he thought – that’s what Adelia was talking about! The cook can’t say anything good, so she’s saying nothing at all. This is a result, of a sort.
He thanked her for the hospitality, and set off down to the gatehouse.
HE DIDN’T MAKE IT ALL the way to the gatehouse. Brodie was standing in the middle of the driveway, looking up at the castle, and he cut quite a sinister figure. He had his feet shoulder-width apart, and he was completely immobile. The sky was a dull leaden grey with thick cloud hanging low, and the air seemed cooler than it had done previously. The smell from the swampy areas was especially marked today, the sewer gas tinged with the rotten, foetid smell of dank vegetation. If the smell had a colour, the colour would have been an unpleasant brownish-green.
And in the middle of the oppressive atmosphere was Oscar Brodie, like a curious sentinel, dressed in a dark mustard suit and hatless. Was he watching, waiting, or simply seized by some fit of paralysis?
Theodore found that his steps faltered as if he did not want to approach the young man. Again he was struck by his own antipathy to the lad, and was perfectly aware that his dislike of Brodie’s strangeness made him more inclined to jump to conclusions about his possible part in the murder. That made him swing too far the other way, overcompensating for his prejudices by ignoring the evidence that pointed directly at Brodie: his lack of alibi, the lie about the alibi, the way he lurked around.
But there was one problem. While Theodore still believed that Brodie could have killed Hartley Knight for motives as yet unknown, there was no reason to think that he would want Lord Buckshaw – a man he idolised – dead.
Unless it had not been mistaken identity at all, and Brodie really did want to pick off Percy’s male servants, one by one.
That was a new and terrifying thought.
Theodore had almost stopped walking by that point. He forced himself to pick up the pace and approach the waiting Brodie.
Brodie did not smile in greeting. When Theodore was close enough, he nodded, and said, “Good evening, sir. What news from the house?”
“The police have left.”
“I saw them go. Have they made progress?”
“I don’t think so. Lady Buckshaw is recovering and the household is making everything straight again. Did Inspector Wilbred come to the gatehouse and talk to you?”
“Mother is dreadfully upset,” Brodie replied.
“So they did come and speak with you both?” he asked again.
Brodie gazed past him, not really listening to Theodore at all. “They are such brutish men, don’t you think? Not at all the pattern of manhood that they ought to be.”
“Perhaps not, but they do a brutish job for the most part, so their manner is appropriate. How did they upset Lady Katharine?”
“Oh, with their words and their insinuations.”
“And you?”
Brodie turned his flat, cold eyes on Theodore, and smiled suddenly, an expression that came out of nowhere. “Oh! I am never upset. They talked to me and then they left. I watched them go. And then I came here to ask what was happening in the house.”
“But you didn’t come to the house. You were just standing here.”
“I hoped someone would come out for a walk.”
“You could have come up and spoken to us inside.”
“I do not like to intrude. It is hardly my place.”
“You are family to the Seeley-Woods. Lord Buckshaw is your uncle. The Countess is your great-grandmother. You are surely always welcome in the castle.”
“I suppose that I am,” he said.
<
br /> “You are a part of the family,” Theodore insisted. “Did you not write to Lord Buckshaw soon after the death of Knight?”
Brodie flared his nostrils a little. “Yes, I did, of course. It seemed the polite thing to do.”
“Do you keep up a correspondence with him?”
“No.”
The abruptness of his reply made Theodore suspicious all over again. “Have you written other letters to him?”
“No.”
Again, a curt response. Theodore pressed it home. “Did you, in fact, write to Lord Buckshaw before the death of Knight, expressing concerns about the state of his wife’s health?”
“No. Why would I?” he burst out, clearly needled.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Who signed it?”
“No one did. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“It wasn’t me. Maybe she wrote it herself.”
“What?” Theodore cried.
Now, Brodie was all sudden and effusive explanation, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Yes, consider that, sir! She is unwell and no one can pretend otherwise. But she is often lucid, too. She must be aware of her own condition, at least from time to time. Is it so unbelievable that she might recognise her illness and write her own letter of warning to Lord Buckshaw? She must be scared of what she knows she is capable of!”
“Warning?” Theodore said. “I only said the letter expressed concerns.”
“Concerns about health are warnings, are they not?”
“Hmm.”
“What do you mean by hmm?” Brodie demanded wildly.
“I mean that I do not believe you, Oscar Brodie. What are you not saying?”
“I have told you everything, sir, everything! But I do understand,” he went on, speaking more calmly with a great effort. “The day has been a trying one. It has affected us all. The weather is turning – can’t you feel it? I do wonder if the ball will go ahead.”
“Are you going?” Theodore asked, remembering that he and Adelia had discussed the possibility of getting into the gatehouse to search for evidence.
“Oh, no, it is not the sort of thing I would like to go to, even if I had been invited.”
