The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6)

by Karen Baugh Menuhin

  ‘But Sinclair owns Lanscombe.’ Swift held a macaroon, poised ready to eat. ‘Why would Max have the house?’

  ‘Sinclair doesn’t own it, he has a lifetime lease,’ St George growled. ‘After he’s dead, Lanscombe comes back to the family.’

  That was news, no-one had mentioned it before.

  Swift put the macaroon down. ‘Sinclair doesn’t own it? But it must have cost a fortune to rebuild…’

  ‘What of it?’ St George barked. ‘Sinclair and Penelope were engaged and he wanted to buy Lanscombe, I said he couldn’t have it. Not going to sell to some Johnny come lately. But he kept banging on about it, and then my man of law proposed a lease. Sinclair jumped at the idea, said he’d put the estate in order, spend money on it.’ He ruminated for a moment, his jaw working. ‘I accepted, but only on one condition, it would pass to Max.’

  That gave us pause for thought.

  ‘What about Lydia?’ I asked.

  ‘Humph, yes, her too.’

  ‘It sounds generous of Sinclair,’ Swift remarked.

  ‘Balderdash, he got what he wanted, what would it matter to him once he’s dead.’

  ‘Bertie saved Lanscombe for Max and Lydia,’ Lady Millicent said. She seemed to have overcome her distress.

  ‘So Max and Lydia inherit jointly?’ Swift’s lean face had sharpened.

  I helped myself to another macaroon from the cake stand. They were jolly good, they even had cherries on top.

  ‘They do. Penelope insisted on it.’ St George shook his head. ‘She said women are just as capable as men, and so they may be, but I had a clause put in anyway.’

  ‘Which was?’ I asked.

  ‘When Lydia marries, she forfeits her claim to the estate,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Swift said sharply.

  ‘We didn’t want any gold diggers after her,’ St George growled. ‘Seen it before, not having it.’

  ‘Lydia will retain a very generous allowance,’ Lady Millicent explained. ‘But her husband will not be able to live off her fortune.’

  ‘And now she’s engaged to that bounder, Jerome,’ St George replied.

  Swift fidgeted, probably itching to write this down in his notebook.

  There was something else on my mind ‘What about Finn? Wouldn’t Sinclair want him to inherit?’

  ‘Too late now,’ St George replied. ‘All tied up when Sinclair took on the lease.’

  I wondered if that were true.

  ‘Lydia mentioned Randolph’s rooms are upstairs.’ Swift turned the subject.

  ‘Yes, we keep everything ready for him,’ Lady Millicent beamed.

  ‘Could we go and see it?’ Swift asked.

  ‘Yes, of course you may, my dear.’ She smiled, her eyes bright. ‘But finish your tea first.’

  ‘We will,’ I promised.

  ‘And you won’t move anything?’ she continued.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Swift replied.

  ‘Someone stole his gun…’ her voice faltered.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself, Millie.’ St George patted her hand.

  ‘Do you know who?’ Swift was ever the policeman.

  Lady Millicent shook her head mutely.

  ‘Are any of Sinclair’s servants allowed in here, or upstairs?’ I asked St George.

  ‘No. Already said so, didn’t I? Not allowed,’ he rumbled. ‘Can’t have people running willy-nilly about the place.’

  ‘But the family can come and go as they please?’ Swift continued.

  ‘We have always encouraged the children.’ Lady Millicent seemed keen to talk about the family. ‘The twins bring their friends.’

  ‘Which friends?’ Swift asked.

  ‘All of them. They came to tea not long ago.’ She turned to her husband. ‘When was it, Bertie?’

  ‘Few days, might be more. Every day’s the same, unless someone dies,’ St George mumbled through a macaroon.

  ‘Was it about a week ago?’ I asked. ‘Around Sinclair’s birthday?’

  ‘Oh, you are quite right. It was the day before. Well done.’ Lady Millicent smiled.

  ‘That was it.’ St George was suddenly animated. ‘Came for afternoon tea and Millie baked a chocolate cake. Six eggs, and they were all brown.’

  ‘All brown,’ Lady Millicent repeated.

  ‘You must make it again,’ St George told his wife.

  ‘I will, and dear Greggs will help.’ She turned to him. He was pottering about but paused to give a soppy grin.

  ‘Who came?’ Swift was chasing facts.

  Lady Millicent thought about it. ‘The twins, dear Penelope, Jerome and the young man, Finn. He was quite the jester; he made us all laugh. And then Lydia showed them the rooms. She likes to tell stories about her Papa.’

  ‘Does Sinclair ever come?’ Swift continued.

  ‘No. Not having him in here.’ St George stiffened. ‘The bounder, the…’

  ‘Now dear, do calm down.’ Lady Millicent stroked his arm, or rather the sleeve of his dressing gown. ‘Have another macaroon, I baked them especially for you.’ She leaned towards the plate. ‘Oh, they’ve all gone!’

  ‘Right.’ I decided it was time to be off.

  ‘Thank you for lunch.’ Swift pushed his chair back, the legs scraping on the tiles.

  ‘Excellent macaroons,’ I added.

  We made our escape and headed for the stairs. It was three flights to the very top of the house, and we arrived in the attics to find a poorly lit corridor. The place held an air of disuse, cobwebs in corners, dust layered over the panes of a small dormer window and sill. There were two doors leading off the passage.

  Swift tried the first, it was unlocked, we entered and stepped back in time. Paper maps were stuck on walls, carefully constructed drawings of steam-driven engines and locomotives were pinned between, as were schematics of various mechanical devices. A model balloon, formed from brightly painted strips of tin, hung in a dark corner. Books were piled on shelves, along with models fabricated from wood, metal and even matchsticks. The bed was made and the curtains drawn, it was as cluttered as the St Georges’ drawing room, although with a melancholy air of abandonment.

  I pulled open the curtains.

  Swift went to the desk and picked up a card. ‘It’s a postcard from New York. ‘Arrived safe and well. Onward to the West Coast. We are full of hope for a good outcome. Yours as ever, Randolph’.’

  ‘Could I see?’

  ‘It’s a picture of the SS Umbria.’ He handed it over. ‘They must have travelled across the Atlantic on it.’

  I took a long look at the photograph of the steam ship, being interested in that sort of thing. Then observed the stamp on the reverse. It had a picture of the Statue of Liberty on it. Randolph had written in block letters, the ink faded to brown.

  Swift picked up a yellowed paper. ‘A telegram. ‘Arrived Alaska. STOP. Cold, hard place, but v excited. STOP. Miss you, but it is all for the best. Be home soon. STOP. Randolph’.’

  ‘What’s the date?’ I asked.

  He turned it over. ‘May 22nd 1896.’

  ‘They must have had a terrible journey,’ I remarked. ‘The snow and ice would have barely melted.’ One of my favourite books from the era was Jack London’s ‘Call of the Wild’. Set in the frenzy of the Klondike gold rush, it’s about a heroic dog called Buck, who is abducted and forced to fight for his life. The prospectors had to endure some pretty grim conditions too.

  Swift was still searching the desk. ‘Here’s one dated a month later. ‘Tomorrow we depart for the gold fields. STOP. We have made all preparations. STOP. Will be out of contact for some time. STOP. My thoughts are with you, Randolph. STOP.’ He gazed at it. ‘It’s hardly sentimental.’

  ‘Nobody puts anything private in a telegram,’ I reminded him. ‘Are there any written letters?’

  ‘Yes, here.’ He leafed through grubby pages written in a schoolboy hand. ‘But they’re from his time in boarding school. There doesn’t appear to be any more from Alaska.
’

  I shoved my hands in my pockets and gazed about.

  Swift was in police mode, he opened a cupboard door, flakes of paint fell away as he rooted around in it. ‘Nothing, just English country clothing. He’d have taken furs or padded leather to Alaska.’ He turned to survey the room again. ‘There must be legal papers. He and Sinclair would have gained licences and staked out plots of land, their claims had to be registered.’ It seemed Swift had some knowledge of the gold rush after all.

  ‘I’ll try the other door,’ I told him and went back out to the corridor.

  It opened into a cupboard and produced a bonanza. Brown paper parcels, bearing stamps from Alaska, were neatly stacked on six shelves.

  ‘Swift,’ I called him, he was quick to arrive.

  ‘So, this is where they are.’ He pulled a magnifying glass from his inside pocket and carefully scrutinised the packages. All were open and had been left loosely bundled. They were mostly clothes, musty and lightly layered with mould. One parcel contained pocket instruments, a brass compass, green with verdigris, an ivory rule, tin scales with small lead weights, a hammer and other tools wrapped in a rotting leather case. ‘There’s no gap, nothing apparently missing…’ Swift said.

  ‘They only had to rearrange the parcels to cover up the theft of the gun.’ I was considering it. ‘But it’s not what is here, it’s what isn’t here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As you said, papers, claims, letters. Nor any photographs – there’s nothing personal from Alaska at all.’

  ‘They may not have been returned,’ he considered. ‘Or he had them on him when he died.’

  ‘Possibly.’ I looked again at the cupboard. ‘How do you think the gun and package were smuggled out of here?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think we need to ask a few pertinent questions,’ Swift said, and turned on his heel.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Of course no-one removed the gun while I was there,’ Lydia replied.

  ‘Could they have gone back shortly afterwards?’ Swift wasn’t giving up.

  ‘We all left together, we came back here and played a silly game until it was time to change for dinner.’

  We were in the drawing room of the mansion, sitting on the sofas. It was bright, with sunshine falling through the tall windows. We’d gone through to the house and found Billie to send him off in search of Lydia. She was supposed to come alone, but Persi had been with her when the message was delivered and had refused to take no for an answer. I was pleased to see her, but she remained aloof.

  ‘Did Finn act strangely?’ I asked.

  ‘No, he made us all laugh; it was fun.’ She was enjoying herself despite our questioning.

  Persi added, ‘I asked him where he was at the time of Monroe’s accident and he said he was in his room, making calculations.’

  ‘Can he prove that?’ I asked.

  ‘He said Trent had seen him,’ Persi answered.

  ‘Very convenient,’ I remarked.

  ‘Lennox, just because you don’t like him, doesn’t mean he’s a murderer,’ Persi retorted.

  I decided to shut up.

  ‘Lydia, who arranged for the parcels to be sent back from Alaska?’ Swift continued.

  ‘And when?’ I added.

  ‘It was Sinclair.’ Lydia regarded us. ‘I only realised it was him when I was older and recognised his writing. Mama said he packed up the belongings after Papa was killed and returned them to her.’

  Swift paused at that, as did I. It made sense, and it was probably one of the reasons why Lydia had begun her childhood detecting.

  ‘Do you believe Sinclair killed Randolph?’ I asked her outright.

  Her silliness vanished. ‘Yes, I think he could have.’

  ‘Lydia, you’ve been plaguing everyone with this nonsense for years.’ Persi was exasperated. ‘If Sinclair had killed your papa, why would he send his belongings back? Why would he even have come here? He’d have tried everything possible to distance himself from it.’

  ‘Papa’s death never meant anything to him, he only returned the belongings because Mama wrote to ask him.’

  ‘At least he did return them,’ Persi retorted.

  Lydia’s brows suddenly snapped together. ‘Persi, you’ve always supported Sinclair. Just because he helped your parents pay for your school fees.’

  ‘That’s a ridiculous thing to say.’ Persi seemed shocked.

  ‘No, it isn’t, everyone makes excuses for him,’ Lydia rebutted.

  Persi retaliated. ‘Your mother would hardly have stayed with him if he were so dreadful.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. Sinclair gets away with anything he wants. He throws a handful of money at someone and they just buckle. He buys people, and I thought you were better than that.’ She looked close to tears and suddenly got up and ran out, which brought the interview to an abrupt end.

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked.

  Persi looked downcast. ‘My parents had a financial embarrassment and he loaned them money. They paid it back… Look, I don’t like Sinclair and I don’t admire his tactics, but he was prepared to help when no-one else would.’

  ‘Do Lydia’s suspicions about Sinclair have any basis in fact?’ Swift asked.

  ‘I’ve never heard any proof,’ Persi looked away and then back again. ‘She’s always disliked him, but now she positively seems to hate him. She’s becoming quite extreme. I haven’t been to Lanscombe for such a while, and…’ Her face dropped. ‘There’s so much tension here. I felt it when I arrived. It’s almost tangible and now these deaths…’

  I wondered if I should take her hand or something.

  ‘I think it really could be one of them…’ She blinked away tears. ‘Lennox, I’ve promised to stay for dinner, but then I’m going home. I really shouldn’t have become involved.’ She got up and walked out.

  ‘That went well.’ Swift remarked.

  I assumed he was being sarcastic.

  The sun slipped behind a cloud and the room dimmed. ‘This isn’t helping my attempts to win her back, Swift.’

  He let out a sigh. ’No… Look, all we can do is solve the case and you’ll just have to deal with whatever falls from it.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring.’ It was my turn to be sarcastic.

  ‘Come on. We won’t achieve anything sitting here.’ He leapt to his feet.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I stood up.

  ‘To question Jerome.’ He strode off.

  It took some time to find him. He was writing at his desk in the ticker room, which apparently doubled as his office.

  ‘What…? What are you doing here?’ He looked up in shock as we entered, then hastily closed the leather-bound file he’d been working on. There was an empty coffee cup on the smooth surface of the desk-top.

  ‘I’d like some coffee,’ I said, as we sat down and looked about. It was a workaday place, three plain oak cupboards and a long table under a bare window. It supported a typewriter, blotter, ink stands, box files and notebooks. There were deep-sided postal trays, two labelled ‘In’, three labelled ‘Out’, and various complicated looking bits of office equipment. One of the machines suddenly sprang to life and started ticking as though someone were typing in a frenzy. A line of paper, about half of an inch wide, began to reel out of the machine. Jerome dashed to it and tore off the extruding tape.

  ‘Ah, excellent.’ He returned to his chair behind the desk.

  I could see letters and numbers printed in grey ink, AS 3.29, USG 1.22, EV 0.78. I assumed they were stocks or shares or whatever, I’d heard of such things, but this was my first sighting of one.

  Jerome placed the tape into the leather folder and closed it again.

  ‘Sinclair was being blackmailed,’ Swift lied with conviction.

  That threw Jerome off balance. ‘No… what… what do you mean?’

  ‘Monroe was blackmailing him. What has Sinclair done?’ Swift continued matter-of-factly.

  �
�No… it’s not true… how could…?’ Jerome stuttered, then burst into peeved affront. ‘This is out of order, gentlemen. Sinclair has instructed you to investigate these deaths, you can’t make accusations like this.’

  ‘We’re not employed by Sinclair.’ Swift’s tone turned cold.

  ‘And we’d like some coffee,’ I added.

  Swift frowned at me. Jerome stared in confusion then got up and went to a contraption attached to the wall near the window. He raised an earpiece and spoke into a black transmitter, I could hear a tinny response.

  ‘Coffee for three, my office.’ He ordered and put the earpiece back on its hook. He noticed my interest. ‘It’s an intercommunication device.’

  ‘Ah.’ I thought it the most useful invention I’d seen in the whole house.

  ‘Was Trent working with Monroe?’ Swift carried on.

  Jerome had composed himself. ‘I understand you must explore every avenue, gentlemen, but you really cannot think Monroe and Trent were killed because of some sort of scheme revolving around Lord Sinclair.’

  ‘Why?’ Swift wasn’t giving up.

  ‘They were devoted to him, all the men at Lanscombe are.’ Jerome maintained a smooth diplomatic deftness.

  I decided to join in. ‘If anyone were blackmailing Sinclair, you wouldn’t necessarily know about it.’

  ‘Of course, I would.’ Colour rose in Jerome’s cheeks. ‘I run the company accounts, nothing goes in or out without my seeing it.’

  ‘Sinclair must have private accounts.’ Swift didn’t believe him. ‘He wouldn’t share everything with you.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’ Jerome leaned back and smiled. ‘You haven’t learned anything, have you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  The company will belong to me one day.’ He tried, and failed, to keep the smugness from his tone. ‘Sinclair has promised. The transfer begins on my marriage.’

  ‘Who else knows this?’ Swift demanded.

  ‘Everyone, I imagine,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It isn’t a secret.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s you who’s being blackmailed,’ I retaliated.

  Jerome’s brows creased. He was saved by a knock at the door. Mullins entered with a pack of letters tied with string and a tray of coffee and biscuits.