‘Hum.’ He fixed his dark eyes on me. ‘What happened at the reception party, Lennox?’
I took another sip and tried an evasive action. ‘Has Persi talked to Florence?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So you know what happened, Swift,’ I accused him.
‘We’ve heard Persi’s side,’ he admitted. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘Nothing… I told you, we arrived at the party…’ I stammered, then took a breath. ‘I’m the solitary sort, Swift. You know that. I loathe all the niceties and pointless chatter.’ I knocked back my drink. ‘When the dinner gong rang, they all walked one way and I walked another.’
‘So you left! Just like that? You left Persi in the middle of the reception which had been organised to welcome you into her family?’
‘It wasn’t as bad as…’ I reached for the bottle but he swiped it away.
‘And now?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve telephoned, sent telegrams, written letters; it hasn’t achieved a damn thing. She won’t even speak to me.’
‘Well, she’s speaking to you now.’
‘You mean she’s snapped her fingers and expects me to come running.’
‘That’s unfair, she’s asked for our help.’
He was right, but I was bemused by Persi’s sudden volte face. I’d been desperate to talk to her for weeks and now, out of the blue, comes a demand to rush off to Sussex on nothing more than vague suspicion. She hadn’t even said she’d be there.
‘I just don’t know what to make of it.’ I slumped back in my chair.
‘Lennox, are you coming or not?’
‘No…’ I let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Damn it, yes. Of course I’m coming.’
Chapter 2
It was after nine o’clock before we set off the next morning. I’d tossed and turned half the night, then overslept. I’d insisted on a proper breakfast, the Bentley wouldn’t start, then, after much cursing and cajoling, she burst into life and we all climbed in. Swift was in the passenger seat, Greggs sat in the back with Foggy on his lap and next to him was Mr Tubbs in a wicker hamper. The Bentley lacked a roof, so we were bundled up in coats, mufflers and hats because the storm had lingered to whip dark clouds across a sullen sky.
They complained about my speed, the rain and the racket from the engine. I wore my flying helmet, scarf and goggles which rendered me practically deaf and mostly dry. We travelled winding roads peppered with fallen leaves, puddled potholes and mud-spattered verges. Swift was supposed to be navigating, although I didn’t agree with most of his directions, which caused a few sharp words and any number of wrong turns.
We came upon Lanscombe Park in the late morning; serene in a valley enclosed by rolling downs. The clouds cleared and the sun came out as we approached; the scene spread out before us like a landscape painting. A tree-lined road led to an impressive entrance with elegant stone pillars supporting wrought-iron gates. They were firmly closed.
I drew to a halt and sounded my horn.
‘Somebody’s watching, sir.’ Greggs sounded anxious. I’d told him he didn’t have to come, but he’d insisted, I’ve no idea why. I suppose he was curious to see Lanscombe Park in all its reputed glory.
‘The gatekeeper’s supposed to be watching, it’s his job,’ I replied, noting movement behind the gates.
‘Stop!’ The guard had slipped through a side gate. He marched in front of the car with a hand held high. ‘Names?’
‘Major Lennox, Chief Inspector Swift and…’
‘We’re the police,’ Swift shouted from the passenger seat.
The guard regarded the car, my butler, dog, cat in a basket, and me, with a look of patent disbelief.
‘On whose authority are you here?’ he demanded.
‘Miss Persephone Carruthers,’ I told him.
‘She’s not a resident.’
‘But she must be staying here,’ Swift put up an argument.
‘She isn’t.’
That took the wind out of Swift’s sails. I can’t say I felt any more buoyant.
‘Lord Sinclair, then,’ I said.
‘There’s no-one listed for today.’ The guard turned hostile. He looked to be the military sort, short hair, dark moustache, smart black and red uniform and a holster on his hip.
‘Right, Sir Bertram St George,’ I tried.
‘He doesn’t have visitors.’
‘He does now,’ I retorted.
‘I repeat, he doesn’t have visitors.’
I swore under my breath, I may have been wary of coming, but was damned if I was going to drive all this way for nothing. ‘Call the house and check.’
He glowered at me, I glowered back, Foggy growled; none of it helped.
‘Stay where you are,’ he rapped out and marched back through the side gate and into a lodge house set behind the walls.
‘Sir, he has a gun,’ Greggs hissed loudly.
‘I know, Greggs. I saw it.’
‘It’s private ground.’ Swift was leaning forward in his seat. ‘It’s permitted under licence.’
We waited with the engine idling until the guard returned.
‘You can enter. Drive to the rear of the house and wait in the car until someone arrives to meet you. I repeat, do not leave your car without an escort,’ he instructed, then went to a discrete box set in the wall and pressed a red button. The gates started to open.
‘Oh, sir, they’re electric,’ Greggs uttered in awe.
‘They must have powerful generators to run the motors.’ Swift observed the gate’s mechanism.
They swung in a slow arc until wide enough to pass through. I’d heard of such things, but it was the first time I’d seen them.
‘The guard could have opened them perfectly easily himself,’ I muttered, and slipped the Bentley into gear.
I raced the car down the long drive, the roar of the engine reverberating across the perfect expanse of manicured lawns to bordering woodland and the hills beyond. The mansion was huge and white with a portico of towering columns in the Palladian style. We pulled up in a spray of gravel beneath the colonnade.
‘Sir, the gatekeeper said we should go to the rear,’ Greggs exclaimed.
‘Nonsense, why should we?’ I pulled off my cap and goggles.
‘But…’ he began, as Foggy escaped his grasp and jumped out to run about the lawn, barking with excitement.
I hopped out and walked up the sweeping steps with Swift beside me.
The door swung silently open to reveal a butler within a vast hallway. He did not look amused.
‘The guard telephoned to advise of your presence. Sir Bertram and Lady Millicent St George can be found at the rear of the house,’ he instructed, then the door began to close.
Undeterred, Swift put a hand to the door and strode in. I followed, so did Foggy. He ran twice about the snooty butler then straight up the elegant staircase, which dominated the grand hall.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Swift and this is Major Heathcliff Lennox. We’re here to investigate a death.’ Swift announced to an ensemble of footmen liveried in black and red, a pimply hall boy and the forbidding butler.
‘I cannot allow…’ the butler continued to protest.
‘Yes, you can,’ I told him firmly.
‘You must have his Lordship’s permission to enter here.’ The butler was tall, square shouldered with cropped grey hair, steely eyes, a sharp nose and chin. His face was taut with an expression of open animosity.
Another standoff loomed, an ormolu clock on a marble-topped table chimed the hour, and I considered retreat.
‘Oh, my goodness. It’s you!’ A voice suddenly called from an upper floor. ‘Heathcliff Lennox.’ A young lady came down the thickly carpeted stairs, carrying Fogg in her arms. ‘What on earth possessed you to bolt like that? And in front of everyone, it caused such a fuss…’ she chattered on, in blithe fashion, as she crossed the hall, then suddenly stopped. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
‘I… um.’ She was quite right, I hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.
Swift broke into my feeble excuse. ‘DCI Swift, delighted to meet you.’ He made a neat bow.
‘Oh, gosh, the detective. Persi told me you’re a professional. I’m Lydia St George.’ She smiled up at both of us, white teeth behind pretty pink lips. ‘Is this your dog?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘He’s scrumptious.’ She laughed and put him down. ‘Did you bring him to help your investigation? I don’t think he’ll like it; the accident was simply horrible.’
‘Persi mentioned it was suspicious…’ I realised the butler, hall boy and footmen were listening intently, and decided to shut up.
‘It is, I’ve said so all along. The local force are jolly keen, but I really don’t think they know anything at all.’ She regarded me with dark brown eyes. Her hair was the colour of roast chestnuts, cut fashionably short. She wore a pale peach frock of finespun wool, a matching scarf in silk and a gold necklace around her slender neck.
She turned to the butler. ‘Trent, take them to the old wing, it’s terribly important. Tell Grandpa that these are the detectives and they simply must stay and discover what happened.’
‘Do you mean they should stay here? In the house?’ He asked in an incredulous tone.
‘Good heavens, no. They can stay in the old wing with my grandparents where they will be properly welcomed,’ she replied, sarcasm in her voice.
‘I was merely suggesting that a formal invitation hasn’t been sanctioned, Miss Lydia.’
‘Well, if they’re staying with my grandparents, it hardly matters, does it,’ she retorted.
‘I must consult his Lordship…’
‘Lydia, who are you talking to?’ A woman’s voice came from upstairs.
‘Oh, Mama, it’s Heathcliff. And the detective,’ Lydia called back.
The lady walked calmly down the stairs, her chestnut hair curled in cultivated waves, she wore a simple twin set and tweed skirt in dark green.
‘Oh, Heathcliff, I’m so pleased to see you again.’ Lady Penelope Sinclair crossed the chequered tiles to greet us. I remembered her very clearly, she was a striking woman; pale skin, large brown eyes under slender brows, a straight nose and softly curving lips.
‘Ah… pleased to see you again, Lady Penelope.’ I bowed over her proffered hand. ‘But not Heathcliff, if you, erm… it’s Lennox.’
Swift cut into my babbling and introduced himself.
She offered him a pleasant smile. ‘A genuine detective. I do hope you haven’t had a wasted journey.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Oh, Good heavens that was a terrible thing to say, I’m so sorry.’
‘No… I…’ Swift stuttered to a halt, no doubt as confused as I was by her words.
‘Trent,’ Lady Penelope turned to the butler. ‘Take these gentlemen to the old wing, they will be staying as long as they require.’
Trent didn’t attempt an objection, he simply bowed. ‘Certainly, my lady.’
Lady Penelope turned her steady gaze back in our direction. ‘You must join us for dinner tonight, it will be the immediate family only, I’m sure you’ll wish to meet them.’
‘No…’ I began. ‘I mean, yes, of course.’
She smiled again and walked back to climb the stairs.
‘There you are then!’ Lydia laughed with delight and turned to follow her mother upstairs.
‘Wait… is Persi coming?’ I called out.
‘Possibly. Who knows?’ She disappeared upstairs.
‘Jerome,’ a man’s voice suddenly bellowed from above. ‘Where the hell are you? Get that bloody lawyer on the phone, now.’
We all looked up although we couldn’t see anyone. The servants froze, the tension was almost palpable.
‘Sinclair.’ We could hear Lady Penelope’s voice. ‘We have guests, it’s…’
‘Shut up, woman,’ the man yelled. ‘I’m in the middle of a deal and Jerome has left the paperwork in his room, the bloody imbecile. If he doesn’t shake himself, he’ll be out on his ear.’
Lydia had turned pale.
‘Mama,’ she called, then ran upstairs.
‘Sinclair, please…’ Lady Penelope spoke.
‘I’ve got a call to make.’ The sound of a door being slammed reverberated down the hallway.
Lydia’s voice could be heard, but I couldn’t make out her words. Her mother answered, then they drifted away.
A number of the footmen let out their breath.
‘I assume that was Sinclair,’ I remarked. No-one replied. The butler muttered something to one of the men, then stalked off, presumably expecting us to follow. We passed through a procession of stately rooms, vacant of humanity apart from an occasional bustling maid or liveried footman, who sprang to stiff attention when they spotted Trent. I noticed it was quite warm, despite none of the fireplaces being lit.
The interior was as prestigious as the exterior; lofty ceilings painted in renaissance style. Sofas and chairs perfectly contoured in rich satin and silk. Large paintings of war ships, battlefields and military might lent animated drama to the rooms. The whole show shrieked of new money, invested to impress.
‘Is he always like that?’ I asked Trent as he marched ahead of us.
‘This is his Lordship’s house.’ His tone made it clear he wasn’t going to elaborate.
We walked in silence for a while, then Swift launched into action. ‘What was the name of the chauffeur killed in the accident?’
Trent maintained his silence.
‘Did you hear me?’ Swift tried to pull his notebook from the pocket of his damp overcoat.
‘The local police have already been informed of the facts, sir,’ Trent gave a short reply.
‘And now you can inform me,’ Swift retorted.
The butler didn’t attempt to hide his irritation. ‘His name was Monroe, he was Lord Sinclair’s chauffeur. It was an accident.’ He didn’t sound concerned about the death of the man.
‘Was he a skilled driver?’ Swift began an interrogation.
‘He wouldn’t have been employed as a chauffeur if he weren’t.’
‘How long had he been in Lord Sinclair’s employ?’ Swift handed me his notebook, I’ve no idea what he thought I was going to do with it. I shoved it in my pocket.
‘Twelve years,’ he replied.
‘How old was he?’ Swift continued.
‘Nearing fifty.’
I guessed Trent to be the same age.
‘Was he liked? Did he have a wife or girlfriend?’ Swift rattled out questions.
‘No and no.’ Trent replied through gritted teeth.
He led the way through another magnificent sitting room, then opened a narrow door which I’d mistaken for part of the panelling.
‘Come this way,’ he ordered.
Swift and I stepped through into a wide hallway and halted in surprise. We were in a scruffy back corridor which stretched about ten yards. It was draughty and cold with a profusion of pictures hung haphazardly along the walls; cosy cottages, cows in meadows and a large painting of a castle on a lake. I paused for a moment to gaze and wonder. It was a pretty scene; a romantic ruin under a blue sky, trees and shrubs grown wild around tumbled walls, one high tower reflected in the still water. It held an aura of mystery and memories of days long ago.
Trent had continued along to the end of the corridor and we had to extend our stride to catch him. He’d stopped at the only door and rapped loudly on it.
‘Go away,’ a voice called from the interior.
‘Sir Bertram, there are visitors here for you.’ Trent raised his tone.
‘Not today, thank you.’
‘They have come about the accident,’ the butler persisted.
‘Busy. Off you go now,’ came the reply.
Swift stepped forward and shouted. ‘Persi Carruthers asked us to come.’
‘Persi?’ Surprise sounded in the voice. Shuffling footsteps grew nearer, muttered curses were heard amid much fum
bling. The door was opened by an elderly man in a thick, red dressing gown, tartan slippers and a deerstalker hat. He peered up at us through wire-rimmed spectacles.
‘Who are you?’ He adjusted his glasses and stepped closer to bring me into focus.
‘Lennox,’ I informed him.
‘Ha! You’re Persi’s beau. The bolter! Lydia told me all about you. Where d’you go?’
‘I… um, I had to go home.’ I gave a stumbling reply, then attempted to divert his attention. ‘This is Fogg.’ I pointed to the little dog at my feet. ‘And Swift, he’s a detective.’
‘Good morning…’ Swift tried a greeting.
‘Ah, you don’t squirm out of it that easily.’ The old chap raised a finger at me. ‘Not done, young man. Not done at all.’
‘No, I have apologised…’ I began.
He gave a chortle. ‘I’d have done the same in the face of the massed ranks. Run like a jackrabbit! Haha. Come in, come in.’ He suddenly glowered at the butler. ‘Not you, Trent.’
‘I had no intention of doing so,’ Trent replied coldly and marched off.
Sir Bertram St George waved us through the open doorway.
Fogg ran through, tongue out and tail wagging.
‘I believe you were concerned about the accident to the chauffeur,’ Swift stated as we strolled into a room reminiscent of the Old Curiosity Shop.
‘Was I?’ St George’s thick brows raised.
‘Yes, Persi told us,’ I mentioned. ‘We’re here to investigate.’
‘Really? Well, you’d better get on with it, then.’ He was a chap of comfortable proportions, a round, ruddy face below the deerstalker and proper tweeds under the dressing gown. I assumed it was worn for warmth as there was a chill about the place, despite a blazing fire in the generous hearth.
‘I have a wife about somewhere.’ He looked around, then yelled, ‘Millie.’
We waited, nothing happened.
‘Kitchen,’ he said. ‘Baking probably. Very good cook, my wife.’ He stopped by a table heaped with books and picked three up, before shuffling off through an archway. Fogg followed him, quite aware that the word ‘kitchen’ meant food.
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 2