‘He wasn’t expecting us,’ I remarked. ‘Nobody was expecting us, Swift.’
‘I thought this house had been renovated.’ Swift tried switching the subject. ‘Someone said Lanscombe Park was a marvel of modern technology.’
I wasn’t interested in technology. ‘Swift, this investigation isn’t something concocted by Florence and Persi, is it? Because it’s beginning to feel like we’re here under false pretences.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lennox.’
I stuffed my hands in my pockets, feeling out of sorts.
We were in a large room with a beamed ceiling; rugs scattered about, armchairs and sofas squashed together and heaped with colourful cushions. The walls were lined with bookcases stuffed with tomes of every size, where there weren’t books, there were curios and relics of the past. A theodolite, a transit, numerous measuring devices in silver, ivory and brass and a human skull on a dusty shelf staring from the shadows.
We retreated to the log fire and stood with our backs to it, contemplating the clutter. Despite the disorder, it was a homely place with the sort of hushed atmosphere usually found in a cloistered library.
A tap on the door disturbed the peace and we both looked in that direction. Nobody came to answer it, so I volunteered.
‘I’ll go.’
It was Greggs with Mr Tubbs in his hamper.
‘Sir, they drove your car around to the rear with me in it.’ Greggs’ colour was high with indignation. ‘I protested, but they wouldn’t listen.’
I took the hamper from him. ‘Well, never mind, old chap. You can stay here, out of the way.’
‘They have left the luggage in the outside porch, sir. They refused to bring it any further.’ He was quite agitated.
I placed the hamper on a table, unbuckled the straps and released Tubbs. My little cat jumped out and strolled to the hearth, sat down and began washing himself. He was a composed creature, perturbed by very little.
‘Good heavens, such a crowd of you.’ An elderly lady entered carrying a large tray laden with a porcelain teapot, cups, saucers, creamer, sugar bowl and a sponge cake. ‘Are you a butler?’ She peered at Greggs.
That put Greggs on his mettle. He straightened up and gave a stiff bow. ‘Indeed, madam.’
‘You’re not from the other side, are you?’ Her gaze slid in the direction of the door and the Palladian splendour beyond.
‘Certainly not, madam.’ He was quite adamant. ‘May I be of service?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, merely stepped forward and took the tray from her trembling hands.
‘Oh, how splendid,’ she said with the glimmer of tears in her faded blue eyes. ‘You’ve brought a butler.’
Chapter 3
‘Yes, please. Milk, sugar and a small slice of cake.’ Lady Millicent St George was seated by the fire with a look of pure joy on her face. Greggs hovered at her side, ready to serve from the tea tray placed on a nearby stack of books.
‘Lost our butler years ago,’ St George was seated opposite her. ‘Died poor fellow. Only eighty-seven.’ He shook his head in sorrow, or possibly disbelief.
‘And we don’t have any money, you see, so we can’t afford another. But we make do and mend.’ Lady Millicent was pushing a silver fork into her Victoria sponge, causing a billow of cream and jam to ooze from the centre. Foggy watched with round spaniel eyes; the little duo had already enjoyed a huge fuss and too many treats. Tubbs was now ensconced on his own footstool by the hearth, Swift and I were on a sagging sofa opposite St George and his wife.
‘Doesn’t Sinclair provide you with staff?’ Swift asked, as Greggs handed him tea and cake.
‘Good Lord, no.’ St George nearly choked on a crumb. ‘Can’t have that. Not going to be indebted to Sinclair, the bounder.’
Having heard a sample of the man’s temper back in the main house, I could sympathise with the sentiment.
‘But Sinclair owns Lanscombe Park, doesn’t he?’ Swift was fishing for information.
‘Humph! The St Georges have always been masters of Lanscombe, and always will be.’ The old man bristled. He had removed the deerstalker and tied a napkin about his neck.
Lady Millicent intervened. ‘We can stay as long as we want to, and we do want to, don’t we Bertie. We’re waiting for Randolph, he’s our son…’
Her husband waved a hand to quiet her. ‘Now then, hush, old girl. You know it does no good…’
Lady Millicent wasn’t about to be hushed. She was an elderly lady with an air of fragility, her lace blouse too large on her slight frame. She wore a long dark skirt, her white hair caught in a bun. Her face maintained a faded prettiness, creased and etched by time.
She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Randolph is in America, he’s seeking his fortune.’
‘Erm… is he?’ I was pretty sure he was dead.
‘Yes.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘He’s prospecting for gold in the Klondike, in Alaska. He must have found a great deal, he’s been there such a long time.’
Swift and I exchanged glances. The Alaskan gold fields had been abandoned over twenty years ago, and Randolph’s widow, Lady Penelope, had since married Sinclair.
‘Millie, there’s no need to go into that,’ St George tried again to quieten her. ‘These chaps are here about that rascal who crashed his car.’
‘Monroe, wasn’t it?’ Swift was quick to jump on the subject.
‘Yes, an absolute menace. Always racing about. Killed our cat. Ran her over! Flattened. Didn’t even come and tell us; just left her on the grass. Had to bury her myself.’
‘How did the accident happen?’ Swift’s lean face sharpened.
‘She must have run out and he hit her,’ St George glowered. ‘The blaggard.’
‘I meant Monroe’s accident,’ Swift said.
‘Oh, that. He came along the back way, through the Dell. Dark there, bad place. Crossed the bridge and hit a tree. Bang. That was the end of him. Destroyed the car. Good thing it was his own or Sinclair would have docked his pay.’ St George took a large bite of cake and chewed it.
‘What do you mean by the Dell?’ I asked, as Greggs finally handed me a slice of the goodies.
‘It’s the name for the old woods,’ Lady Millicent answered. ‘It’s rather wild and overgrown. There’s a ravine with a humpback bridge. I never liked it. We don’t go there, do we Bertie.’
‘No, no. We don’t go anywhere, old girl,’ St George mumbled between bites.
‘Were there any witnesses?’ Swift continued.
‘Oh no,’ Lady Millicent answered. ‘It’s the tradesman’s road, nobody is allowed there without permission and it was Sunday teatime.’
‘The servants’ tea or the family’s?’ I asked, thinking that she seemed perfectly sane when she wasn’t talking about her dead son.
‘The servants, they take their tea between five and six,’ she explained. ‘It is quite usual.’
‘Did that include all the staff?’ Swift continued questioning.
‘No idea, hardly going to go and count ‘em, are we.’ St George seemed to have cheered up.
‘Lennox, you could take notes,’ Swift suggested.
‘So could you,’ I replied.
He frowned, then turned back to St George. ‘Why was Monroe on that road if the staff were supposed to be having tea?’
‘Coming back from the village. Had a fondness for the bottle and didn’t dare take any from the cellars. Always went Sunday teatime when he was here. Trent turned a blind eye, wouldn’t let anyone else get away with it.’ He looked to his wife. ‘We could hear Monroe’s car from our kitchen window.’
‘It was such a noise.’ Lady Millicent nodded, her cup held in both hands.
‘Had he been drinking on the day of the accident?’ Swift persevered.
‘Couldn’t have been if he’d run out, could he?’ St George chuckled.
‘Did you mention this to the local police?’ I finished my cake. Swift’s notebook was still in my pocket, so I gave it to him. He didn’t seem g
rateful.
‘No, the bobby’s a local, he’ll know what’s what without us telling tales,’ St George answered.
‘What marque of car was it?’ Swift had begun making rapid notes in his neat hand.
‘Fiat, a sporting car,’ St George answered. ‘Horseless carriages we called ‘em in my day. Never mastered the things, hopeless with mechanicals, aren’t I, old girl?’ He patted his wife’s hand.
‘Oh yes, but Randolph is terribly clever with them. He invents things; machines and experimentals, he’s had his own workshop since he was a boy.’ Lady Millicent’s face lit up as she talked. I thought she seemed rather tragic.
Swift gazed at her for a moment, then returned to his questioning. ‘Monroe was Sinclair’s chauffeur?’
‘He was, went everywhere with Sinclair,’ St George replied, ‘Ex-military, some of the other servants are too. Carry guns! Notorious for it.’
‘Why?’ I asked, wondering who they expected to shoot.
‘Blueprints. Sinclair keeps them in the house,’ St George rumbled. ‘Thinks it’s safer than a bank with all those ex-soldiers about the place.’
‘Blueprints for what?’ Swift looked up from his note taking.
‘Armaments, weapons. He buys inventions from boffins and the like, then has ‘em built. That’s the secret to his success. Knows artillery and rockets inside out; knows what they do, knows how they kill. Sinclair’s a merchant of death.’
Everybody knew Sinclair’s reputation. His name was synonymous with war and weaponry.
‘You said your son was an inventor?’ I risked mention of Randolph while Lady Millicent’s attention was on Greggs; he was wielding a silver server over the sponge cake.
‘That’s it. Met Sinclair through inventing.’ St George’s face clouded.
‘What happened?’ I asked quietly.
‘No use turning over old stones, lad,’ he mumbled. ‘Let it be.’
Swift was still making notes. ‘What can you tell us about the gun that Lord Sinclair received. It was in a package, wasn’t it?’
‘No, no.’ St George became flustered. ‘Not a word. Mustn’t mention it, not in front of Millie.’ He flapped a hand as though to ward off the topic.
I glanced at Lady Millicent, tears had welled in her eyes and were beginning to spill down her thin cheeks. Her husband tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
‘Ahem… More cake?’ Greggs stepped forward, the perfect butler, defusing the discomfort. He was just showing off because he never did it at home.
‘Ah, yes, excellent idea,’ St George agreed. ‘Lennox, I don’t care what they say about you, any man prepared to share his butler is a good ‘un in my book!’ He slapped the arm of the chair, causing dust to rise.
Swift sneezed.
‘Who was in the house when Monroe had the accident?’ I turned the conversation.
‘We were here.’ Lady Millicent had dried her tears and held the handkerchief in her lap. ‘Lydia and Max and Penelope were home.’ She paused, her brow creased in a puzzled frown, then said. ‘And Sinclair, of course.’
Swift’s pen was moving rapidly across the page. ‘Are these members of the family?’
‘Not Sinclair. He’s not,’ St George instantly retorted.
‘And there’s Jerome, he is Sinclair’s assistant.’ Lady Millicent ignored her husband. She was watching Swift as he listed the names, then whispered. ‘And there’s that young man, Finn…’
‘Finn?’ Swift stopped writing to question her.
A loud rap at the door interrupted us. Greggs made a show of answering it. Tense murmuring was heard, along with some harrumphing from Greggs. After more exchanges, he closed the door firmly and returned to address me.
‘Lord Sinclair has requested your presence, sir, with Inspector Swift.’
‘Trent, was it?’ St George asked loudly.
‘It was, sir. He is waiting in the outer corridor,’ Greggs replied.
‘Good, because he’s not allowed in here,’ St George shouted towards the door.
‘He failed to bring a written message,’ Greggs informed us, ‘or a silver tray. I did bring it to his attention.’
I laughed. ‘Butlering one-up-manship, old chap?’
Lady Millicent turned to gaze at Greggs. ‘Isn’t he marvellous,’
He simpered and picked up the teapot. ‘More tea, m’lady?’
We left them to it, at Swift’s insistence. Trent was waiting in the corridor, he didn’t say a word, merely turned sharply on his heel and marched off. We retraced our steps back through the procession of palatial rooms to the grand hall. There was no sign of Lydia, or Lady Penelope, nor anyone apart from various liveried footmen, standing at strategic points.
The staircase was in sweeping style, fashioned with a curving bannister rail in glowing Honduras mahogany. The carpet silenced our footsteps as we trod the stairs and reached a balustraded landing, which ran in a full square around the upper hallway. More artistry in military fashion hung on richly papered walls. A few side tables bearing porcelain vases of carefully arranged flowers took up any spare space. I looked about at the lavish magnificence and preferred the cosy clutter of the St Georges’ old wing.
Trent knocked tentatively on the grandest portal, then waited with a white-gloved hand poised over the brass doorknob.
‘Come,’ a voice called.
Trent opened the door and stood aside. A paper aeroplane whizzed past our ears.
‘Sir!’ Trent exclaimed in anger.
A young man was sitting in a large leather chair, looking relaxed, his feet up on a gleaming black modernist desk.
‘Jerome called Sinclair away, something about his stocks on the ticker, it was all terribly urgent.’
‘Mister Max, this is his Lordship’s office. You must leave immediately.’
‘He told me to wait, so that’s what I’m doing. You can go and ask him if you like.’ The young man, Max, was folding another sheet of thick creamy paper between long fingers. He wore casual slacks, a linen shirt without a tie under a beige sleeveless jersey. He had dark brown eyes and hair, and bore a close resemblance to Lydia.
‘These are the gentlemen his Lordship asked to be brought to him.’ The butler barely contained his ire. ‘They can’t stay here unsupervised.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on them. Off you go.’ Max glanced up from under dark brows, his face devoid of expression.
Trent hesitated, then went with obvious reluctance, the paper plane following closely behind him. He’d deliberately left the door wide open and a footman sidled into view a moment later, no doubt with instructions to watch us carefully.
Perhaps he thought we might steal something, there were plenty of pricey pieces in the room. A silver ink pot and stand, gilded desk calendar and leather-bound blotter. A gleaming glass and walnut drinks cabinet against one wall, opposite a large portrait of a battle-hardened warrior scowling beneath an iron helmet.
‘You’re Lennox, Persi’s bolter, aren’t you,’ Max announced in my direction. ‘Lydia told me you were here with a detective.’
‘I’m not a damn bolter, I just needed some time.’ I objected.
He laughed. ‘Can’t blame you,’ he swivelled in the chair to drop his feet to the carpet. ‘But you do realise this whole incident has been exaggerated. It’s just a ploy to reel you in.’
I frowned, because that had been my fear all along.
‘Inspector Swift,’ Swift told him in a cool tone.
The young man didn’t get up or offer a handshake. ‘I’m Max St George. Scion of the house, son of Lady Penelope, brother of Lydia. Twin brother to be precise.’
‘Grandson of Sir Bertram and Lady Millicent St George,’ I added.
He gave a wry grin. ‘Quite the sleuth, aren’t you.’
‘You’re Randolph’s son,’ I stated.
‘Got it in one, yes. Grandma been talking, has she?’
‘She said Randolph was in the Klondike, searching for gold,’ Swif
t took up. ‘But we understood he was dead.’
‘Poor old Grandma.’ Max stopped folding the sheet of paper in his hands. ‘Likes to keep the memory alive, so she pretends he’s still out there somewhere. She’s not gaga, it’s just her way.’
‘What do you know of the accident?’ Swift asked.
Max looked askance. ‘Are you really going to keep this pretence up?’
Swift sat mute, his arms crossed, waiting for an answer.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Max swore in irritation. ‘Monroe hit a tree. It was five thirty in the evening. He died, there were no witnesses. I was nowhere near it at the time.’
I had something else on my mind. ‘There was talk of a parcel with a gun in it, it was given to Sinclair. Was it something to do with your late father?’ That was a guess on my part after observing the reaction of Lady Millicent.
‘You’re grasping at straws.’ Max screwed up the paper and tossed it into a waste bin. ‘Look, you weren’t asked to poke your noses around, you don’t even have permission to be here.’
‘Lady Penelope said we could stay as long as required,’ I replied, trying to contain my irritation.
‘Mama’s just humouring Lydia while she plays cupid, you sap.’ He laughed without humour.
‘Answer the question about the gun,’ Swift demanded.
Max turned sullen. ‘It was a stupid prank to annoy Sinclair.’
‘By you?’ I asked.
‘No, I’ve no idea who did it.’
‘Why would receiving a gun annoy him?’ Swift continued. ‘He’s an arms dealer.’
‘Because the parcel came from Alaska, that’s why. And I’ve already told you, it was just a stupid prank,’ he fumed, then stalked out.
We watched him leave before Swift spoke.
‘Alaska?’
‘Where Randolph is supposed to be,’ I replied.
‘Where Randolph is supposed to have died,’ he corrected.
Well, that merely answered one mystery with another.
‘Come on Swift.’ I’d had enough and was riled by Max’s insinuations. ‘I’m not kicking my heels here, let’s go.’
‘Wait.’ A voice hailed us.
We left the office as a chap came bounding along the landing. ‘Just a moment, I’ve come to apologise, Lord Sinclair has been delayed.’ He was a trim fellow, almost as tall as me. Black hair, good features and dressed in a tailored city suit. He was smiling in a friendly manner.
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 3