“Oh, I beg your pardon.” Her fretful gaze lightened at the sight of us. “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Kent. Lady Popham said you were returning.”
“How is your sister?” I asked her gently.
She blinked rapidly, her lashes sparkling with tears. “Not . . . not good.”
I offered her a sympathetic smile. “Is Dr. Razey looking after her?”
Her brow darkened with anger as she glanced over her shoulder at the inspector, who had risen to his feet at the sound of our voices. “As much as he’s allowed.”
I met Thoreau’s gaze, finding it remarkably unruffled given the discovery of our interference in yet another of his inquiries. But then, maybe he’d already known. “I believe my aunt is looking for you,” I told the maid.
“Of course,” she murmured, her eyes searching mine before she skittered away.
I entered the room, glancing to the left at the sergeant seated against the wall, a notebook and pencil in his hands for taking notes. I recalled that during my previous interaction with Thoreau, he’d preferred to have his subordinates sit behind those he was questioning, so that the witness or suspect would not be distracted by their scribbling.
Chief Inspector Thoreau strode forward, his coal-black eyes twinkling with something akin to regret. “Mr. and Mrs. Kent, I would like to say it’s a pleasure . . .”
“But under the circumstances, it’s not,” I replied for him without any rancor.
He shook Sidney’s hand and then gestured to the threadbare sofa. “Care to enlighten me how you got mixed up in this affair?”
“Aunt Ernestine invited us down to look into some other matters for her, namely, the damage the RAF officers wrought to some of the rooms.”
He folded his tall frame into the narrow club chair across from us, his eyes glinting in understanding that what my aunt was truly after was Sidney’s influence.
“There was no suspicion of murder when we arrived. Minnie Spanswick, the maid whose body I understand was found two days past, was already missing at that time, but everyone seemed to think she’d run off to London to pursue a career as an actress. Apparently, it was all she ever talked of.”
“Who told you this?”
“Miles, and the other two housemaids—Opal and Agnes. And my aunt also informed me that when she’d contacted Minnie’s parents they weren’t in the least concerned.”
His eyebrows arched, making me wonder if he’d been told something different by Minnie’s family.
“Opal mentioned something similar. She said something about her not getting along with her stepmother, and it having been only a matter of time before she struck out on her own.”
“Don’t forget her beau,” my husband interjected as he removed a cigarette from his case, before tipping the case toward the inspector to offer him one.
He declined.
“Yes, Opal also mentioned that Minnie had been meeting an officer from the airfield. That they met frequently at the place along the river where Froxfield adjoins the west park.” I inhaled a deep breath scented with the aromatic smoke from Sidney’s Turkish cigarettes, grateful for anything to mask the damp and must permeating the room. “I’ve heard the local police have been attempting to pin the maid’s murder on Mrs. Green with some nonsense about her husband having had an affair with Minnie, but I’d like to know what evidence they have to suggest such a thing.”
“Miss Musselwhite complained of the same thing,” Thoreau admitted, crossing one long leg over the other, before straightening the fall of his crisp suit. “She claims there’s no way her brother-in-law would ever have cheated on her sister, especially not with someone like the victim.”
“Given what I’ve heard of Minnie, I doubt she would have ever become enamored of a man like Mr. Green either. She was more interested in actors and celebrities. A brave RAF flyboy sounds more in her line.” My eyes fell to the side as guilt began to fill me that I hadn’t looked into her disappearance more fully. “Truthfully, I thought maybe Minnie’s flyboy had helped set her up in London. And I’d wondered if she might be responsible for the few small items that have gone missing from Littlemote House. Whether she’d stolen them to help fund her new life. I suppose such an assumption wasn’t fair to her, was it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that.”
I eyed the inspector in keen interest.
He clasped his hands before him, his olive-skinned features tightening in deliberation. “A number of . . . incompatible items were found with the victim’s body,” he eventually admitted. “Items that seemed beyond the means of a housemaid.”
I leaned toward him. “Such as?”
“An ivory calling card case and a porcelain shepherdess figurine.”
I straightened. “Those are among the missing items. As well as a vase, a gold letter opener, and a box of old coins. The butler has the full list. But I take it those other things were not found?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
I frowned. “What of Minnie’s baggage? As I understand it, she took all of her possessions with her.”
“That has not been located either.”
I sank back, puzzling over this new discovery.
Sidney leaned over to stub out his cigarette in a pewter ashtray. “That’s why the local police suspected Minnie of having a beau, and of it being Mr. Green, isn’t it? Because of the case and the figurine.”
He nodded. “They believed someone had given them to her, and the likeliest explanation was that it was Mr. Green.”
“Don’t you mean the neatest?” I scoffed.
He did not dispute this.
I shifted on the lumpy cushion, trying to dredge up some empathy for Titcomb and his constables. Presumably most of them had known Minnie. It couldn’t have been easy to be confronted with her body after four weeks of decay.
“She was buried near the riverbank, I hear?” With an ivory calling card case and a porcelain figurine in her pockets, but none of her other belongings. That seemed rather odd to me. “In her maid uniform?”
“No, a pale blue dress and a brown coat,” Thoreau explained.
“Poisoned?”
“ No. ”
This made me perk up, for I’d simply presumed this was the case when the local police had made such a connection between the two bodies.
“The victim was stabbed in the abdomen by a long, narrow blade.”
This changed things significantly, and my sluggish mind scrambled to find purchase as I blinked at the inspector. “That would have made a considerable mess.”
“Quite.”
Sidney seemed much struck by this, as well. Poisoning was a cool and removed crime, but a stabbing was visceral and immediate, an act in which the assailant literally had their victim’s blood on their hands. “Where do you suspect it happened?”
Thoreau’s gaze cut toward his sergeant. “We don’t know yet, but we’re going to begin with Minnie’s room. I’ve given it a precursory search, but I’ve got some men coming down from London to fingerprint the room and search for any traces of blood. If the attack happened there, the culprit cleaned up the blood remarkably well. Either way, we shall know who has been in that room.”
“As long as they didn’t wear gloves or wipe down the surfaces they touched,” Sidney countered.
The inspector tilted his head in acknowledgment. “But most criminals do not think to do such things. And someone packed up the victim’s possessions and removed them if she didn’t do so herself.”
That was true. Which raised the question again, where were they? If they weren’t buried with the body, then they must be hidden somewhere, or already destroyed. That had to be considered, as well. But how? When?
I stared somberly across the room at a water spot in the silk wallpaper that bore a striking resemblance to the profile of a unicorn, wishing I’d tried harder to search for Minnie. It was true, no one who had known her seemed to have raised any alarm about her being missing. I could hardly be blamed for that. But no
netheless, I still felt that I’d let the poor girl down. I’d been so eager to write her off and return to what I’d deemed a more important matter—exposing Ardmore—that I’d not done a thorough job. In fact, I’d been distracted and exerting only a halfhearted effort at best in regard to every aspect of the investigation I’d conducted here at Littlemote. How much had I missed because of that? How shoddy had my deductions been?
“As I understand it, the victim was noticed missing sometime around midday on September twenty-first,” Thoreau said, his keen eyes assessing me.
I swallowed my own sense of blame, determined to help in whatever way I could now. “Yes, as far as I understand, most of the staff were off duty so that they might attend church services in the village. When they gathered for luncheon, Minnie was not present, and later when she still didn’t show up for duty, her room was checked and it was found emptied of all her belongings.”
“Did you ask about her at the railway station?”
I shook my head. “I never got that far.” I shrugged futilely. “As I said before, no one seemed very concerned that she was missing. No one but Opal, that is,” I added for the sake of honesty. “But even she admitted that it was probable Minnie had run off to London. I considered asking in Hungerford at the train station, but it seemed just as likely that her officer from the airfield might have driven her.”
“The police wouldn’t have done much more,” Thoreau told me kindly. “Not if there was no genuine alarm about her disappearance or signs of foul play.”
I appreciated his effort to assuage my guilt, but I knew from experience it would not be appeased until we’d at least brought the truth to light and her killer to justice.
“Then, I’ll certainly want to speak with this Opal next, and then the rest of the staff,” Thoreau told his sergeant, who pushed to his feet, going in search of the butler to request these people be sent to him. “We’ll need to discover their movements, as well as who may have seen the victim last.”
“What of the toxicology tests being run for Mr. Green?” I asked as the younger policeman stepped from the room. “Have the results come back?”
“Not yet, but these things take time,” he assured me, relieving my worries that the local police had botched the matter.
“As I understand it, a mark was found on the back of the neck,” I ventured carefully, deciding it would be best not to mention my speaking to Dr. Razey, lest I get him into trouble. “One that might have been made with a needle.”
Thoreau’s eyebrows shot skyward. “I am, as ever, impressed by your ability to come by such information,” he remarked wryly.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is annoyed, not impressed,” Sidney chimed in, reclining deeper in the couch, though in truth it was rather difficult not to slump entirely, as the back of it sagged.
He shook his head resignedly, accustomed to our bedeviling him. “I suppose I should cease being surprised. You convince me to talk, after all.”
I grinned back at him unrepentantly.
He gave a single bark of laughter, but was too canny to commit to more than the basics. “I’ve reviewed the autopsy report and will bear all evidence in mind.”
I nodded, content that Thoreau would leave no stone unturned. He was, after all, like his name said, very thorough, and in these circumstances, I found that fact comforting.
“Now, then, before Sergeant Crosswire returns.” He glanced at the door, his gaze turning shrewd. “Is there anything else I should know about this investigation? Or am I to believe you’re only here at your aunt’s behest?”
Sidney and I shared a look of mutual guilelessness. Though my conscience smarted to mislead the inspector, I was not at liberty to explain anything I knew about Ardmore, or the late Earl of Ryde, or any of my suspicions that Froxfield and Littlemote might be the location alluded to in one of his riddles. Perhaps even the final one. Thoreau might be with Scotland Yard. He might be a proven ally. He might even suspect my connection to British Intelligence. But he was not a member of the Secret Service or a chosen former asset.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I replied disingenuously.
His mouth pursed as if he’d tasted something sour—like my lie—and I didn’t think for a moment that he believed me. “If you say so.”
Fortunately, at that moment, we were interrupted by the return of the sergeant, who gestured for a distraught-looking Opal to enter the room. The slight, young maid shrank into herself as she inched forward. At the sight of me, her eyes widened in alarm, and then she scowled as if it was my fault she was being called in to speak with the Scotland Yard inspector.
“Please, have a seat,” Thoreau told her, and then introduced himself. I was faintly surprised when Inspector Thoreau did not insist we leave as he conducted his interviews, as he had in London, but perhaps distance from his disapproving superiors and our glaring involvement in the investigation up to this point had decided him in our favor.
She plunked down on the club chair he’d indicated before darting another look at us. The dark smudges that had been under her eyes during out last interview with her were still there, and if possible her complexion was even more pallid. However, contrary to last time, her fatigue had made her testy. “I don’t know what they told you, but I don’t have anything to do with Minnie’s death. Or . . . or Mr. Green’s. I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“No one is accusing you of anything,” Thoreau said in a soothing voice. “Nor are we disputing what you said. But I’m afraid I do need you to go over it again for me. It’s standard procedure.” When still she didn’t relent, he tried a different tact. “And I have a strong suspicion you may be able to help me. Will you do that?”
Her shoulders lowered a fraction, and then she nodded.
Thoreau offered her a small smile, one that transformed his face into something quite handsome, and Opal seemed helpless not to smile back.
“Now, let us speak of Miss Minnie Spanswick first. I understand she was a fellow maid, and a friend, at that. I’m sorry for your loss.”
She softened even further under this gentle handling, even beginning to sniffle. “Thank you. Yes, I suppose you could call her my friend.”
“Tell me about her.” He allowed her to ramble on for a few minutes about her friend, and I could practically see his mind culling through the information for any vital details. When it became obvious that much of it was useless, he redirected her. “I understand that Minnie was stepping out with someone from the airfield. An officer?”
At this, Opal’s gaze shifted to meet mine and then back. “Yes, she thought it was serious. I don’t know about him.”
“You met him?”
She fidgeted in her seat. “Yes, once.”
“Do you know his name? Can you describe him?”
“Captain Willoughby. She called him Lucas.”
I had to resist the strong urge to look at Sidney, somehow having expected this answer.
“He was tall and tan, with blond hair and a thin mustache.”
Something he must have recently shaved, for he’d not had one when we’d met him in the west park.
I was now gladder than ever that I’d spoken to Alec that morning before we left London and asked him to look into this Captain Lucas Willoughby, lately of the Royal Naval Air Service and currently part of the RAF. I wanted to know everything there was to know about the fellow.
“Do . . . is that who you think killed her?” Opal gasped, her hands pressing tightly to her rib cage.
“We don’t think anything at this point,” Thoreau told her. “We’re merely gathering information.”
“Oh, yes, I see. It’s only . . . he was ever so nice, and handsome,” she claimed ingenuously, as if amiability couldn’t be feigned and the level of a person’s attractiveness was an accurate judge of their potential to commit murder. “It was the other one who gave me a funny feeling in my stomach.”
“The other one?”
“His office
r friend. Said his name was Smith.” She shook her head. “I didn’t like him at all.”
What Thoreau actually thought of all this, I couldn’t tell, but his expression appeared absorbed. “Did Captain Willoughby or his officer friend ever visit Littlemote House?”
She frowned, considering this. “I don’t think so. She always met him at the bridge connecting the airfield to the park.”
“And the day she went missing, can you recall what happened? What did you do when you woke?” he elaborated in answer to her furrowed brow.
“I performed my normal tasks: dusting and sweeping the drawing room—”
“Yes,” he interrupted her before we were subjected to a litany of chores. “And then?”
“And then I ate breakfast and cleaned myself up for church.”
“Did Miss Spanswick attend church?”
“No.” Opal scrunched her nose. “She claimed she was getting a head cold like Miss Musselwhite, but I knew she was lying.”
“Then you saw her that morning? Miss Spanswick?”
“Oh, yes. She dallied through her normal tasks, as usual. I had to help her finish. And she seemed fine at breakfast. I thought she simply wanted to sleep.”
“Is that the last time you saw her?”
Opal’s countenance lowered, her irritation dissolving. “Yes, she didn’t join us for luncheon. And when Mr. Miles sent me to fetch her from her room, I discovered she was gone, and all her things, too.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I know the others thought she’d run off to London, but I knew she wouldn’t have done so without saying goodbye.”
It was true, she had voiced some objection to this theory, though not as strong as that, and she’d come around to accept the others’ assumption easily enough. But, of course, memory has a way of twisting itself, and vague ruminations suddenly manifest into unbearable intuitions.
“What did you think happened to her?” Thoreau asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. But something.” I noticed she’d abandoned the ghost theory she’d handed me and Sidney, or perhaps had wisely deduced that the Scotland Yard inspector would not give it credence.
A Pretty Deceit Page 27