The chauffeur shook his head, answering much like the rest of the staff. “Nay. What would he have to say to them?”
Everyone’s general consensus that he hadn’t had much interaction with any of the housemaids, including Minnie, seemed to put paid to the suggestion that he and Minnie had been conducting an affair, or that Mrs. Green would have any reason to suspect such a thing. Most of the staff also seemed to have alibis for the time of Minnie’s disappearance and presumed murder, many of them having attended church together. All but Mr. Plank, Mr. Green, and Miss Musselwhite. But the housekeeper had confirmed that my aunt’s maid was suffering from a terrible head cold, and that she’d recommended Miss Musselwhite lie down and rest while she could.
“I’m curious to hear from this Mr. Plank,” Thoreau remarked after he’d dismissed the chauffeur. “From what I can gather, he’s somewhat of a curmudgeon.”
“He is,” I confirmed. “But a gentle one, at that. I wonder whether he or Miss Musselwhite saw anything.”
“I’m wondering if Mr. Green saw anything,” Sidney remarked, picking up his cup of tea. “Whether that’s what got him killed.” He grimaced as he took a sip, for it must have grown cold. “Do you think it’s too early for something stronger?” he asked, as he glanced toward the waning light spilling through the eastern-facing windows.
Ignoring the last, I focused on his supposition about Mr. Green. “You know, that does make some sense.” I turned to Thoreau. “Did I tell you Miss Musselwhite told us Mr. Green had also been employed by the airfield to help maintain their grounds? Apparently, he’d been flimflamming, as you might say, working there in the early morning and afternoon when he was supposedly doing chores about the estate.”
His eyes widened. “Do Lord Reginald and Lady Popham know this?”
“Yes, and as you can imagine, they were none too happy to find out.”
“Are you certain they didn’t know about this before?”
“My aunt, as I’m sure you’ve noticed”—I looked about at the dilapidated furniture—“does not allow her displeasure to go unfelt.”
His lips quirked.
“And I’m quite sure if a member of her staff had displeased her rather than Scotland Yard, she would have expressed herself directly. As for my cousin . . .”
“He’s not under suspicion,” Thoreau interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand, and absurdly I felt my hackles rise.
“Why? You don’t think a blind person capable of murder?”
His cool, dark eyes assessed me. “Oh, undoubtedly. But if he killed Miss Spanswick, he had an accomplice capable of helping him bury the body and clean up the mess. And I fail to see how he could have administered the poison to Mr. Green, for he was unlikely to prepare or offer him food, or sneak up on him in the forest and plunge a syringe in his neck.”
When put like that, I recognized my affront was rather ridiculous, but I couldn’t help leaping to Reg’s defense. Especially after witnessing how frustrated he was by his inability to read for himself in the library.
“Calm yourself, Ver,” Sidney cajoled, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “I doubt your cousin would appreciate you suggesting him as a murder suspect.”
He had a point. I lowered my head.
“I think I must pay a visit to RAF Froxfield this evening,” the inspector said. At the sight of a man standing in the doorway—one of his, I presumed—he went to speak with them.
“Don’t tell me. You want to try to tag along?” Sidney’s voice was wry.
“Actually, no. For one, I doubt Chief Inspector Thoreau would let us,” I explained in answer to his look of disbelief. “Or that the RAF would allow us entry, even if you traded on your war hero status.”
“And second?” he prodded.
“I’m curious to hear how Captain Willoughby answers his questions without us present.” And just as curious to hear whether he offered us the same answers when we questioned him the next day, for I was already making plans for us to speak with him without Scotland Yard listening in.
CHAPTER 24
When Thoreau rejoined us, it was clear the news he’d received was not welcomed. “Not a trace of blood was found in Miss Spanswick’s room. But I suppose this doesn’t really surprise me, as I’ve just learned that the housekeeper ordered one of the maids to clean it some days after her departure. She claims it was a shocking mess, with papers and crumbs strewn about.” He lit a cigarette, standing before the window to gaze out at the drive. “I don’t blame her, but I also can’t help but think of the evidence we lost.”
“Was Minnie’s room normally in such a state?” I asked, rising to my feet to join him. Anything to stretch my muscles and relieve my sore bottom and back.
He nodded, exhaling a stream of smoke. “They all say she was notoriously untidy.”
“Then it seems to me she couldn’t have been murdered there. For if someone had cleaned up after the fact, wouldn’t they have cleared away the rest? How else could they know they’d gathered up all the evidence of their crime?”
“Indeed.”
“I would say it also argues that the maid packed her bag herself,” Sidney added, sliding his hands in his pockets as he ambled forward. “Wouldn’t the killer, in their haste, have taken all of those papers, as well? Not knowing what was important and what wasn’t.”
“Unless they did, and then replaced them with other paper,” Sergeant Crosswire suggested, reminding us of his presence.
“A supposition we cannot test because those papers have long since been disposed of,” Thoreau turned to remark. His jaw hardened. “We shall just have to see whether the fingerprints have anything to tell us.”
“Anything other than the fact that half the staff have admitted to being inside the victim’s room at one time or another,” Sidney said. All information willingly and nervously given when Thoreau told them their fingerprints would be required.
“Yes, well, if someone’s prints are there that shouldn’t be, then perhaps we’ll have something.”
Someone like her beau, Captain Willoughby. But I thought it unlikely he’d ever set foot in her room. Given the evidence before us, it seemed more probable that Minnie had packed up her belongings while the others were at church and slipped away. Whether she was meeting Captain Willoughby or intent on making her escape alone, we didn’t know yet, but someone obviously prevented her from going any farther than the river. They’d murdered her and buried her not far from the spot where it happened. Had the recent rains not uncovered her body, they might have gotten away with it, too.
“I see ye got yourselves on ’er ladyship’s bad side.”
We all looked up as Mr. Plank flashed us a gap-toothed grin and then hobbled forward in his shambling way.
He gestured to the water-stained walls. “Or has all the manor fallen into this state o’ disrepair since the last I seen it?”
“Mr. Plank, I presume.” Thoreau moved forward to resume his seat, but the stablemaster waved him back.
“No, stay standin’. There’s no need for the formalities with me.” His eyes twinkled. “I imagine yer backside’s smartin’ about now. But I’m sure ye won’t mind me takin’ a seat.” He sank down on the edge of the chair, rubbing his knee. “When ye get to be my age, the joints aren’t so well-oiled.” The smell of liniment lingered about him, like the type used on horses, and I wondered if he used the same remedy on himself.
“All right, then, Mr. Plank, could you tell us what you can remember about the morning Miss Minnie Spanswick was last seen?”
“I didn’t go to church, if that’s what ye mean,” he declared, leaping straight to the heart of the matter. “Can’t stand the way that new vicar rambles on about nonsense as if we’ve all got time to sit twiddlin’ our thumbs. No, I was ’ere. Arrived just after seven, like I always do. Took care o’ Miss Marmalade. The mare,” he explained. “Saw the others leave, oh”—his gaze lifted to the ceiling as if he was trying to remember—“about nine. Then I had tea with Mr. Green
, and—”
“Mr. Green was here then?” The inspector cut in to confirm.
“Yes, shorin’ up the foundation o’ the gazebo those fool airmen knocked a hole in a year ago. The wall was crumblin’ further and ’er ladyship asked ’im to fix it afore it all came tumblin’ down.”
Then he might have seen something. Seen something and not even known what it meant.
“What of Miss Musselwhite?”
He shook his head. “No, didn’t see ’er.” He tilted his head. “Usually goes to service wi’ the others, but I’m guessin’ by your askin’ me that she didn’t that day.”
The corners of Thoreau’s lips curled, appreciating this was Mr. Plank’s way of showing him that his mind was still sharp even if his body was failing him.
“But I did see Miss Spanswick.” That he also knew this was a critical piece of information was clear, for his eyes glinted with satisfaction at being the person to share it. “I’d come up to the kitchen to nab somethin’ to eat and I was about to leave when I heard someone comin’ down the stairs. Decided to hide myself and wait to see who it was, and in comes that maid. She be a saucy one. She were actin’ all furtive like, lookin’ over ’er shoulder as if to be sure she was alone. I understood why when she took a loaf o’ bread and a towel full o’ tarts from the table where Cook ’ad left ’em to cool. We all knows which food is meant for the master and which for the servants, and yet the minx took them, as cool as you please, and scampered back up the stairs.”
“Did she have any baggage with her?” Thoreau asked, his brow furrowed.
“No, but she wasn’t wearin’ her uniform. She ’ad on some frilly dress and a brown coat and hat.”
Then she must have been preparing to leave. Perhaps the bread and tarts were to be provisions. One last thing to tuck inside her baggage before she departed.
“What happened after she went up the stairs?” Thoreau prodded.
Mr. Plank’s shoulders slumped, as if he’d expected to draw a more incredulous reaction from us. “I went back to the stables. Stayed there until the others returned.”
“Did you see or hear anything else suspicious?”
“No, and Miss Marmalade didn’t alert me either.”
“Would she have?”
“Oh, yes. Horses ’ave keen senses.”
That was true enough, but all that meant was that no one had passed through the estate yard or near the stables. Minnie could have easily exited through any of the doors opening onto the terrace and the gardens beyond, or out the front.
Then I recalled something Mr. Plank had told me during my first visit with him nearly a fortnight ago. “You told me that you stayed on during the war. That you worked for the RFC and later RAF officers living here at the house.” I sank down on the edge of the chair Thoreau had inhabited all afternoon, leaning toward the stablemaster. “Did you ever meet a Captain Willoughby?”
He considered my question and then shook his head. “Nay, can’t say I recall ’im.”
Then he must have come to Froxfield after the war, which fit with what Goldy had told me about his flying for the Navy before the merger, not the Flying Corps.
“What about after the war?” Thoreau interjected. “Did you ever see any airmen hanging about the estate?”
He lifted his chin knowingly. “Yer talkin’ about those fellows the maid would meet at the bridge. No, I never saw ’em. Rarely venture that far myself. But Mr. Green used to shake ’is head at ’er. Said she was askin’ for trouble. And it looks like she found it.”
With his moving back and forth between the airfield and the estate, it wasn’t surprising Mr. Green had known about Minnie’s relationship with Willoughby, or that he’d disapproved, but at least here was confirmation. And confirmation that Minnie might have known that Mr. Green was working two jobs and cheating Sir Reginald and Lady Popham.
Mr. Plank scratched the whiskers at his chin. “Aye, and there was that other chap. The one Mr. Green was ’elpin’. But he didn’t seem to be military. Dressed like a real toff.”
I straightened. “When was this?”
“Oh, not long before the war ended. Mr. Green was home on leave for just shy o’ a fortnight. Recoverin’ from some infection he’d picked up in the trenches. The RAF chaps asked ’im to fix the bridge between the properties that the lower officers used to come and go. I ’spose that’s ’ow he met him.”
A tingling feeling began at the back of my neck. One I’d felt many times before when it seemed I’d stumbled upon something important. I’d forgotten Mr. Green had been home briefly in the autumn of 1918. That he’d fixed the bridge. Which meant he’d probably met any number of the officers, and possibly any other personnel touring the airfield and its surroundings. What if the late Earl of Ryde had been one of them?”
“How was Mr. Green helping him?” I pressed.
“He never said. But I saw ’em together, pokin’ around in the west park.” He chuckled. “I thought he was either showin’ ’im where the locals were carryin’ on about the ghosts bein’ near the riverbank or pointin’ out the site where the remains o’ that Roman villa are likely buried.”
The sergeant looked up in surprise from his seat across the room where he’d been taking notes when Mr. Plank mentioned the ghosts, but I was more interested in his allusion to the Roman villa, particularly after he’d failed to mention it before. Perhaps this made up for it.
“What did this gentleman look like?” I knew I was tipping my hand a bit to Thoreau, who turned to look at me in interest at my pursuing this line of questioning. After all, what could a gentleman visiting the estate a year ago have to do with the two murders carried out in the last month? But then he didn’t know as much as we did, and we couldn’t yet tell him.
“Older chap. Tall. Gray hair. Sharp nose.”
All things that could describe Max’s father. I sank back, ruminating on this and the possibility that Ryde had come here. Until now, I’d wondered if perhaps I was straining to make a connection to the earl’s cryptic messages and Ardmore’s desire to conceal whatever information they were leading to. If perhaps I wanted it to be so in order to justify my distraction and poor efforts in searching for the maid and solving Mr. Green’s murder. After all, it was ridiculous to think Ardmore hid behind every corner, that he had his hand in every strange crime. And yet this seemed to prove I might be right. We would have to wait for confirmation of the earl’s schedule from Max, but this seemed to indicate I was not jumping at shadows.
I felt Sidney’s gaze resting on me and lifted my eyes to meet it. That he was contemplating much the same thing was evident from the watchfulness of his stance. If Ryde had been here, if Mr. Green’s and possibly the maid’s deaths were somehow tied up with that, then matters had just become a great deal more complicated and dangerous.
Thoreau posed a few more questions to Mr. Plank about Mr. Green and his death before releasing him and calling in Miss Musselwhite, who hovered in the doorway uncertainly.
“You wanted to see me again?”
The inspector gestured for her to come forward. “Yes, please come in.”
We all arranged ourselves in the seats we’d occupied for much of the afternoon, knowing Miss Musselwhite would never be comfortable answering questions with us all standing over her.
“I merely wanted to ask you about the morning Miss Spanswick disappeared,” Thoreau prompted.
“Oh, well, of course. Though I’m not sure I can tell you anything.”
She was wearing the same drab gray gown and apron, and today it made her look almost sickly. Even her guinea-gold hair had lost its sheen. But I supposed that was understandable. Many people would be shaken by one murder taking place where they lived and worked, let alone two, not to mention the fact her sister had been accused of the crimes.
“I understand you were ill that day.”
“Why, yes.” She seemed rattled by the fact that he already knew this. “I felt rather miserable, and Mrs. Ford told me I should rest. So I t
ook one of my family’s cold remedies. The tincture rather knocks one out.”
It very well might, depending on how much alcohol it was dissolved in.
Thoreau dipped his head in understanding. “Then you didn’t hear anything from Miss Spanswick?”
She shook her head. “I . . . I’m not even certain I saw her that morning. Maybe she was seated at the breakfast table when I spoke with Mrs. Ford, but I . . . I wasn’t really paying attention.”
As you wouldn’t if you were sick and thinking of nothing but yourself, and completely unaware that one of your fellow servants was about to go missing.
“Had you not taken that remedy, do you think you might have?”
She eyed him warily. “Well, I don’t know what you mean, but my room is at the opposite end of the hall from hers. So I doubt it.”
“You liked your privacy, then?” Thoreau asked more warmly, trying to set her at ease.
But she wasn’t willing to be soothed. “I did. Least I didn’t like hearing the housemaids clumping up and down the steps and carrying on at all hours.”
“Did you know about Miss Spanswick’s officer up at the airfield?”
Here again, she almost seemed to retreat into herself. “I heard rumors.”
“But you never saw him yourself?”
She shook her head, but there was a hesitation to it. One that Thoreau also noted, for he arched his eyebrows.
“No, at least . . . I don’t think I had,” she replied, fumbling to explain herself.
Thoreau studied her carefully, her fidgety manner, her almost cowering posture. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us? Anything about Miss Spanswick, or Mr. Green, for that matter? Anything you’ve recalled that might be pertinent?”
“No,” she replied, though even that seemed to take the form of a question.
His kindly gaze scrutinized her once more, and then Thoreau nodded and told her she could go. She was barely past the threshold when he spoke. “She knows something.”
“And it frightens her,” I added.
What that could possibly be, we could only guess. But I decided she bore watching, for rare was the person who could resist the urge to return to the source of their distress. When they would be best served to keep quiet and stay away, in their panic most people found themselves irresistibly drawn toward the person or thing they should most stay away from. I suspected Miss Musselwhite would be no different. In fact, I counted on it.
A Pretty Deceit Page 29