by Emma Jameson
“The king, eh? Extraordinary,” he said briskly. “Me, I’ve come to clear up this business of a dead man where he doesn’t belong. I’ll remove the corpse and be on my way.”
“Corpse? There’s no corpse here. I know about them. Why do you imagine I wear this poppy?” he asked, pointing at the red carnation.
“I understand you fought in the Great War,” Ben said, because the baron seemed to expect it.
“Yes, and be glad you’re not a white coat, young man.” Lord Maggart waved the cane alarmingly, forcing Ben to sidestep again. The pewter grip looked weighty enough to crack a skull or knock out teeth. “I’ve had the misfortune to know many, but MacHardy was the worst. Infamous quack! I told him I took a bayonet to the calf.” He slapped his leg. “Then a bayonet to the belly.” He slapped his midsection. “Two devilish wounds. Pain from dawn to dusk. And do you know what that charlatan MacHardy said?”
Ben shook his head.
“That it was all up here.” Lord Maggart jabbed his temple. “Can you believe it? There’s a bayonet of the cruelest steel, I tell you. To be called a liar by the very blackguards meant to help me.
“But MacHardy wasn’t finished, no sir,” he continued. “He turned the other white coats against me. Convinced them not to help. I needed surgery, injections, pills—something. But MacHardy wrote down two words on a piece of paper. Know what they were? Combat hysteria. As if war had turned me into a woman.” Lord Maggart waved his cane again, more feebly this time. “All because I told him I dreamed of men with the heads of elephants. Glassy-eyed elephants, walking toward me, coming to make me join their ranks. MacHardy put my name on a list. Doctors do that, you know. Once your name’s on a list, there’s no getting off.” He shook his head. “Smug, condescending white coats. Accusing me of cowardice. What do you say to that?”
“Bastards.”
A smile broke across Lord Maggart’s face. “Yes. Yes, precisely. You see, Odette? Even an undertaker knows the truth when he hears it. Bastards, he calls them. Yes, indeed. What did you say your name was, young man?”
“Bones.”
“Ah. Well. Good luck to you, Mr. Bones. Keep an eye on the tall one in trousers,” the baron said. “Do you know why women wear trousers?”
Ben shook his head politely as Lady Juliet leaned closer, presumably to hear some essential truth about herself.
“Women wear trousers so they may run faster, climb higher, and kick harder. So they may subvert the natural order, set down by God Almighty. A woman in trousers is a woman who’s up to no good.”
With that, Lord Maggart limped back to his chair by the fire. As he sank into it with a raspy sigh, Lady Maggart took the opportunity to hustle them out the door at last.
“Sorry about that,” Ben whispered to Lady Juliet as they exited the great room. “It’s best to humor the deluded.”
“It’s not as if he offended me.” She grinned. “As a matter of fact, he’s spot-on. I may have new calling cards printed. ‘Juliet Linton: in trousers and up to no good.’”
“Ordinarily, I disapprove of profanity, Dr. Bones,” Lady Maggart said, taking Ben’s arm as Mr. Collins led them down to what he called “below stairs,” the servants’ domain under the house’s ground level. “But how can I reproach you when you defused my husband’s agitation with a single coarse word?”
“He isn’t the first old soldier I’ve met, Lady Maggart,” Ben said. “And I can certainly understand why he distrusts physicians. But surely a doctor oversees his care?”
“No. He truly believes he’s on some sort of list, and they’re all in league against him.”
“Then I must tell you he appears jaundiced, my lady. Too much bilirubin in the blood. It’s a sign that may indicate any number of disorders.” He didn’t mention the first that came to mind, pancreatic cancer. “Some, such as gallstones, can be resolved with surgery.”
“Dudley says he’ll go to his grave before he goes to another hospital. You’ve seen what he’s like,” Lady Maggart said. “Dressed to the nines for a dinner that happened years ago. My husband may not look like a threat, but when his ire is roused, he fights like a cornered rat. I’ve resigned myself to early widowhood.” She tightened her hold on Ben’s arm. “For some of us, the first blush of youth brings melancholy, but true joy comes in the prime of life.”
Lady Juliet coughed violently.
“Are you quite all right back there?” Lady Maggart asked, not deigning to look over her shoulder.
“Yes. Sickened by a touch of fatuity.”
“By what?”
“She’s fine,” Ben interjected before Lady Juliet could define what ailed her. At the bottom of the stairs, the basement spread out before them, cheerless, cold, and reeking of the same kind of disinfectant used on hospital floors.
Mr. Collins nodded to his left. “The kitchen, scullery, laundry, and game room are that way.” He nodded to his right. “The staff dormitory is that way. The dead man was discovered in an unassigned room. Third door down.”
Ben had seen morgues with more charm. Places like this, designed by the rich for the working class, constituted his idea of purgatory. He could imagine existing among these gray-green walls, feeble lighting, and cold linoleum floors, but not living here. Or, for that matter, dying here. Particularly by choice.
“I don’t know why Special Constable Gaston hasn’t arrived yet,” he said, wondering if he should make a start without him. “Let’s give him another moment. In the meantime, I’d like to know why Bobby Archer was here in the first place.”
“We have no idea.” Lady Maggart released his arm.
“Did he have some connection, however distant, with your husband or Fitchley Park?”
“None whatsoever.”
“You said this is the staff dormitory,” Lady Juliet said, clearly champing at the bit to investigate, Gaston or no Gaston. “For males or females?”
Mr. Collins ignored the question. Lady Maggart extended the silence by smoothing all four of her fox-fur’s dangling paws. Then she said, “Dr. Bones, I accept your insistence that this woman’s presence assists you. However, I will not be interrogated by her, and neither will Collins.”
Ben glanced at Lady Juliet. Heaving a great sigh, she pressed her lips together and studied the ceiling.
“Speaking of this staff dormitory,” Ben said mildly, “is it for males or females?”
“Our staff is entirely female,” Mr. Collins replied, “but for me and the boot boy. He’s an innocent sort and likely to remain so, if you take my meaning. There is no question of fraternization.”
Except maybe with you, Ben thought, wondering if a man who exuded such vanity could be trusted not to abuse his employees.
“No fraternization among the staff, perhaps,” Ben said, “but what about from outside?
“No.”
“Where’s the tradesman’s entrance?”
“Between the game room and the laundry,” Mr. Collins said.
“So if Bobby slipped inside, whatever his reason, he would have passed several common areas,” Ben said. “It seems far more likely someone let him in. If Bobby was walking out with a kitchen maid or a cook’s helper….”
“Impossible,” Lady Maggart said.
“Our housekeeper, Mrs. Grundy, does not permit our female employees to have followers,” Mr. Collins agreed. “Any girl breaking that rule would be discharged on the spot. Moreover, I retain veto power over every maid hired. Only good girls serve at Fitchley Park,” he said proudly. “They are blameless in this sordid escapade, and unable to peacefully resume their duties with a corpse in the house. May we hope, Dr. Bones, you’re ready to inspect the dead man and see to his removal?”
“Of course. Please send the special constable to me the moment he arrives,” Ben said, wondering how a man who leapt to such rapid conclusions could drive so slowly.
“One moment, Dr. Bones,” Lady Juliet called. She’d drifted back to the stairs, standing on the bottom step as she examined the carpet run
ner. “Is this blood?”
Cadaveric Spasm
The suspicious red spot had stood out to Juliet not because she was a preternaturally gifted detective, but because she’d been searching high and low for something to complain about. Lady Maggart was unbearably smug about her beauty, her style, her country estate, and apparently even her future second husband, if that nauseating remark about attaining “true joy” was any indication. It infuriated Juliet, who yearned for beauty, style, a more attractive country estate, and—most especially—a second husband. Relegated to observe silently, she’d cast about for some imperfection in the servants’ domain. The walls were spotless and the lino betrayed no flaw. Just as Juliet had been ready to concede even the bowels of Fitchley Park were exemplary, she spied a spot no bigger than a sixpence.
It was on the stairs, a splotch on the pale blue carpet runner. At first glance, she took it for a bit of jam, too trivial to mortify the baroness or her butler. Only when Ben raised a perfectly reasonable supposition—that a maid had sneaked Bobby Archer into the servants’ dormitory for a rendezvous—and Mr. Collins started tutting about good girls and sordid escapades, did Juliet decide the man was definitely lying. And that gave the round red stain an entirely different meaning.
Ben looked the spot over. “Could it be blood?” he asked Mr. Collins.
The butler folded his arms. “Certainly not. It’s a bit of wine from last night’s supper.”
“You can tell without looking?” Juliet raised her eyebrows.
Mr. Collins advanced on her with measured steps. She wasn’t easily cowed, but he came so close, glaring at her with such intensity, her heart sped up. This wasn’t the sort of polite contempt that well-bred servants routinely visited on dishonored guests. This was genuine menace.
“I can tell,” Mr. Collins said, “because Gertie dropped a tray while bringing up last night’s supper. Surely you make no accusations?”
“Lady Juliet merely asked a question. There’s no reason so take offense over so small a thing,” Ben said firmly.
Mr. Collins took a step back. Unclenching his hands, he folded them together, perhaps to keep from balling them into fists again.
“Did you pack the phenolphthalin?” Juliet asked Ben. He nodded.
The chemical reagent called phenolphthalin was a key part of the detective’s armamentarium, as Juliet had recently learned. Ever since she’d helped Ben catch his wife’s killer, she’d been eagerly studying the art of private detection. Finding crime fiction thick on the ground, but manuals for aspiring detectives almost nonexistent, she’d enrolled in an American correspondence course called Private Dick Academy.
The course promised to transform an ordinary citizen into a steely-eyed gumshoe in just thirty-six monthly lessons. That amounted to three years, or the time Ben had spent in medical school, but Juliet was undaunted. She’d inhaled lesson one, The Kastle-Meyers Scientific Test for Confirming the Presence of Blood, successfully performing it in Ben’s office while his back was turned. Now she longed to try it “in the lawbreaking arena,” as Private Dick Academy’s founder, retired American police sergeant Dirk Diamond, called a crime scene.
“Odette, with your permission, I’d like to test the stain,” she said.
“Milady, with your permission, I’d like to set about rubbing it out,” Mr. Collins countered.
“It’s midafternoon,” Ben reminded them, pointedly checking his watch. “We’ll be lucky to get Bobby sorted, and only if we crack on.”
“I agree,” Lady Maggart said. “Show them the room, Collins.”
The unassigned servant’s room was cramped and unadorned, lit by a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The only furniture was a chest of drawers, an empty wash basin, and an iron-framed bed. A corpse in this bleak limbo seemed fitting, even inevitable.
Bobby Archer lay on the blue-ticked mattress, naked except for a pair of black silk underpants. They were the latest kind, with wide leg openings and an elasticized waist, similar to what boxers wore in the ring. In life, he’d been uncommonly handsome, with curling black hair and sculpted features. In death, he’d lost not only his dignity but his good looks.
A jagged wound across his throat gaped wide, exposing the trachea. His flesh had gone milk-white with deep blue undertones. His eyes were open, the corneas frosted. As for his position, it was peculiar to the brink of black comedy. He was flat on his back, knees drawn up, heels perpendicular to the bed. His left arm hovered above his chest; his right arm extended toward the ceiling, palm up. He didn’t look like a man who’d died in bed. He looked like a statue, knocked off its plinth and carelessly dumped in an empty room.
“I’ve never encountered a dead body frozen that way,” Juliet said. Like most women in Birdswing, she’d seen a few corpses over the years, though most had died of natural causes. “Where’s the blood?”
“Wherever he died, I should think.” Ben turned to confront Lady Maggart and her butler. “Why was the body moved?”
Lady Maggart tried an open-mouthed routine similar to the poor fox around her shoulders. Mr. Collins frowned as if his ears deceived him.
“Right. Let’s start at the top,” Ben said. “I’ll ask the questions. Lady Juliet will act as scribe.”
Startled by this, Juliet set down her canvas bundle atop the chest of drawers. She’d been so focused on the possibility of revenge on Lady Maggart, she’d neglected to bring the obvious accoutrements, such as paper, a clipboard, and a fountain pen.
She dug in her handbag. Uncharitable types called it the saddlebag, because it was big, brown, and patched with contrasting leather, but it held everything Juliet required to get through her day, plus a little additional firepower. She came up with a pocket notebook and a pencil stub.
“Proceed.”
“You mentioned no member of staff is assigned to this room,” Ben said. “Is it used for anything at all?”
“No,” Mr. Collins said.
“Who has access to the room?”
“No one. It’s kept locked.”
“Who has access to the key?” Ben asked.
“Only myself. That is to say, it hangs on a peg near the house phone for convenience. But everyone knows they’re not to touch it,” Mr. Collins said.
“So the body was discovered when one of you unlocked the door?”
“No,” the butler said, his face assuming that impenetrable blankness. “One of the maids, Betsy, passed the room shortly after getting up and noticed the door was open. She looked inside, saw the dead man, and alerted Mrs. Grundy.”
“So the housekeeper was the first person in authority to see him,” Ben said. “Why isn’t she here?”
“She’s in her room, composing herself,” Lady Maggart said. “Mrs. Grundy is a sturdy woman, but it was a ghastly shock.”
“Were you here at the time?” Ben asked her.
“No, I breakfasted early and set out for Birdswing before half-eight.”
“When were you alerted?” Ben asked Mr. Collins.
“Around nine. Perhaps half-nine.”
“I see. Lady Juliet, do you have all that?”
Juliet’s penmanship, which tended toward the hieroglyphic, looked worse than usual as she struggled to get everything down. “I believe so,” she said, scribbling faster.
“Stop,” Ben said sharply. “Now. Take this down. Maid, Betsy, noticed door open after getting up. Housekeeper alerted. Butler alerted. Time approximately nine or thereabouts.” As Juliet’s pencil scraped, Ben continued, “I’ve never lived in a stately home, but given what you’ve just told me, it seems one of your maids got up between half-eight and nine. That’s rather slug-a-bed, is it not?”
“She was under the weather,” Mr. Collins said.
Juliet glanced at his face. It betrayed nothing, but the tops of his ears had turned pink.
“And Lady Maggart, you breakfasted early and set out for Birdswing,” Ben said. “I just made that journey. It isn’t long. Lady Juliet, when did you arrive at the vicarage?
”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“And Lady Maggart was already there?”
“Yes. The better to accuse me.”
“I see.” Ben looked from the baroness to the butler. “Thus far, I’ve been told no one here has the slightest connection to Bobby Archer. That he must have slipped into Fitchley Park without help, entered a room that’s kept locked, cut his own throat, and bloodlessly bled to death.”
“Without a knife,” Juliet put in.
“Fair point. So let me see if I have this right,” Ben said. “No servant noticed the open door but the one who rose the latest, pushing the discovery into midmorning. Lord Maggart never cottoned on, which I can accept, at least for now. But Lady Maggart missed the commotion because—why? She was making the half-hour drive to Birdswing over the course of approximately two hours?”
Juliet wanted to cheer. Mr. Collins’s ears were now bright red. With any luck Lady Maggart would follow suit and spontaneously combust.
“Dr. Bones,” Lady Maggart said sweetly. “Benjamin. May I call you Benjamin?”
“Ben,” he said, looking as uncertain as Juliet felt.
“Ben, yes, thank you. Your eye for detail is remarkable. I fear Birdswing’s special constable is not quite so exacting. Then again, perhaps as a lifelong resident, he understands that all great houses have their share of skeletons, not all of them figurative. I expect Lady Juliet has told you that I repudiate the occult and reject those who practice it. What is perhaps less well known is my struggle to cleanse and purify Fitchley Park.”
Juliet stopped writing and looked up, wondering what Lady Maggart was getting at.
“No doubt you saw St. Gwinnodock’s on your way to the park,” the baroness continued. “The rector, Father Rummage, is a frequent guest. We’ve prayed together, blessed the house both as a whole and room by room. We’ve reconsecrated the chapel and compelled all staff members to attend Sunday service, either here or St. Gwinnodock’s. Nevertheless, strange doings still plague this house. The mystery of my long drive to Birdswing is easily solved. I stopped along the way to drop in on a friend. But the mystery of how this poor man’s blood disappeared may never be solved. Or, indeed, what lured him here in the first place.”