Murder in Black Tie

by Sara Rosett

  Gwen watched them for a moment, then murmured, “Something’s wrong.”

  “Inspector Longly seemed a bit withdrawn,” I ventured.

  “Yes, he is.” A combination of irritation and puzzlement infused Gwen’s tone as her gaze tracked the car. “But it’s more than that. There’s an atmosphere—a tension—” She shook her head, which caused the tendrils of her fair hair that had escaped from her bun to shift about her face. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?” This was more than Gwen being irritated with a trying houseguest, and she wasn’t the sort of person who worried needlessly, fretting over minor details and blowing up little incidents into phantom problems.

  The Alfa Romeo disappeared through the Parkview gates, and Gwen’s brow lowered into a frown. “I can’t describe it, except to say the atmosphere is rather fraught.” She shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll be able to figure it out. You’re much better at these intuitive, under-the-surface things.” Returning to her normal good-natured manner, she looked down at the birdcage. “It appears Mr. Quigley and I have been abandoned. Can you give us a lift?”

  “I think I can squeeze you and Mr. Quigley in,” I said as Gwen picked up the birdcage and went around to the passenger side.

  “Goodness. What’s all this?” Gwen’s gaze ranged over the passenger seat of the motor, which was stuffed with my luggage. The dickey seat was packed as well with my trunk and more boxes. “What’s happened?” A smile lit up her face. “Are you moving back to Nether Woodsmoor?”

  “No, far from it. At least, I hope not—as much as I’d like to be near you, living with Father and Sonia is just too grim to contemplate. Climb in and I’ll explain all.”

  Chapter Two

  We shuffled my belongings around to make room, then Gwen settled into the motor with a valise on her lap. As I put the Morris in gear, she looked over Mr. Quigley’s cage, which was positioned between us. “So if you’re not moving back to Nether Woodsmoor, what’s happened? Don’t tell me you’ve been kicked out of the boardinghouse.”

  “Essentially, yes. Mrs. Gutler is getting married. She’s been seeing a very nice bachelor who also owns a house. They decided to put her boardinghouse on the market, and she’s moving in with him as soon as they’re married. So I no longer have a place to live in London—well, after next week I don’t. I hoped I could store some of my belongings at Parkview until I sort out new living arrangements.”

  “Of course. This is something you want kept quiet, I take it?”

  “Heavens, yes. Please don’t mention it to Father or Sonia.” My father was a retired vicar and had been a widower for over a decade, but then Sonia came along and changed everything.

  “They won’t hear a word from me. Have you looked for other lodgings?”

  “Yes, but no luck there. I do have a bit of money saved, and I thought I could afford a small flat.”

  “You can’t?”

  “The absolute best place I’ve seen is a basement flat only slightly larger than a wardrobe with the wallpaper curling away from the wall because of the damp.” I navigated the motor through Parkview’s gates, then turned to the right onto the road that branched off the main drive and looped around the wooded grounds of the estate, which would give us time to chat. We rolled along the long tree-lined road, the bare limbs of the oaks and elms creating a stencil against the gray sky.

  Mr. Quigley let out a squawk followed by a stream of clicking sounds. I jumped, and the steering wheel vibrated as the motor drifted to the edge of the lane, churning up gold, red, and yellow leaves. I adjusted the wheel, bringing the Morris fully back onto the road. Mr. Quigley trotted back and forth on his perch and spread his wings.

  “I think he likes my driving,” I said. “Enough about me. I’m sure I’ll sort out something.” I ignored the throb of worry that had grown stronger as I fruitlessly searched London for a new room. I pushed away those thoughts. “So what’s this about the atmosphere at Parkview?”

  Gwen shifted on the seat and gripped the valise tighter. “I don’t know. Everyone seems so . . . on edge is the only way to describe it. There’s tension between Inspector Longly and Captain Inglebrook.”

  I cut my gaze to her. “I can tell you why that is.”

  She gave a little laugh. “It’s not me, if that’s what you think.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. From the moment he arrived, Inspector Longly has made it clear he’s not interested in me at all.” Her voice caught on the last words. She looked away out the window.

  “Are you sure?” I asked over Mr. Quigley’s clicking sounds. “When I saw Inspector Longly at Blackburn Hall, he was anxious for any details I could share about you. Men generally don’t act like that unless they’re interested in a lady.”

  “Perhaps he was interested at one time, but that’s certainly not the case now. He’s made that abundantly clear, despite all his letters.”

  “Letters?”

  “We wrote to each other while I was away.”

  That was news to me. Gwen hadn’t mentioned she was corresponding with Longly. “How often?”

  “A few times a week.”

  “I see.”

  “And he was so different when we met in London for tea.”

  “You met in London?” That was interesting as well. Apparently, things between her and Longly had progressed much farther than I’d realized.

  “Yes, Mother had several appointments in town, and I went up with her. I’d mentioned I’d be there, and Inspector Longly suggested tea.” Her voice softened. “We met at a little tea shop in Piccadilly and strolled in the park afterwards. A few days later he invited me to dinner. We had a lovely time.”

  I was pleased for her. “So you have a sweetheart.”

  “Don’t be cross that I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Not even Aunt Caroline?”

  “Especially not Mother. I would have told you, but—I know it sounds silly—but I thought if I told anyone I’d jinx it. It all felt exactly right. I didn’t want to spoil it, but somehow it’s all gone wrong.”

  “Have you and Inspector Longly argued? Had a disagreement?”

  She shook her head. “He’s hardly spoken to me since he arrived.”

  “I’m sorry, Gwen.”

  She lifted one shoulder. Her throat worked up as she swallowed. “It’s fine. Really, it is,” she said in a choked voice.

  Clearly, it was far from fine. It was just like Gwen to keep her growing fondness for the inspector to herself. The fact that she hadn’t told me about it meant she did indeed care about him. “He’s an imbecile if he doesn’t want you.”

  Mr. Quigley chirped, then announced, “Foolishness of fools is folly.”

  After a startled second, we both giggled. Gwen said, “So Mr. Quigley does talk. Was that a quote?”

  “From Proverbs, I think.”

  “Deena did say he was owned by a missionary.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Quigley knows heaps of Bible verses?” I asked in a leading tone as I glanced away from the road to the parrot.

  He fixed his small eyes on me but remained silent.

  Gwen put her hand to her chest. “Oh my. What if he’s a scripture-quoting parrot? I think that’s much more exotic than Deena wanted.”

  We tried to coax another phrase out of Mr. Quigley, but he twisted his head around and gave his attention to grooming the feathers on his wing, so I said, “Tell me about Captain Inglebrook.”

  “He’s as charming as ever,” Gwen said, her voice flat.

  “Perhaps a little too charming?” I asked, thinking of the captain’s lingering gaze when we were introduced and the way he’d held my hand, almost caressing it. “Bit of a Don Juan?”

  “More than a bit. A legendary one, I believe.” She ran her finger along a seam on the valise. “When we met him in France, he was so amiable and entertaining, but now . . . he seems—oh, this is terrible to say, but—he seems shallow. He’s all surface and gloss. No depth.�
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  “I see.” Gwen wasn’t the sort of woman who wanted a dalliance. “Well, perhaps Inspector Longly will come around. It’s possible he’s worried about something to do with his work. A case might be bothering him.”

  “Perhaps,” Gwen said, but she sounded unconvinced.

  Irritation at Violet flared inside me. Her matchmaking had gone awry. “I’m surprised Violet didn’t go to Nether Woodsmoor with you.” I’d never known Violet to pass up a shopping expedition, even if it was only to the village.

  “She’s not here. She’s visiting James’s family.”

  “Oh my. So it is serious.”

  “Yes. I thought she’d forget all about James in France, but she wrote to him almost every day. He replied just as often, and his letters always cheered her. When we arrived back, she and James picked up exactly where they left off. I think we’ll be planning a summer wedding.” Gwen said this without any jealousy or envy.

  “You really are too sweet-tempered sometimes,” I said. “You should be at least a little upset with Violet for putting you in this awkward situation. I wish she hadn’t fixed it so that both Inspector Longly and Captain Inglebrook received invitations.”

  “Oh, I’m not pleased about that,” Gwen said quickly, but then her expression softened. “But I do want to see Violet happy. That’s more important than a little”—she swished her hand back and forth—“tension in the air for a few days.”

  “You may feel like that, but I want to have a little chat with Violet. She needs to stop interfering.” I shook off the exasperation I felt because this conversation wasn’t cheering Gwen up. She still had the worried furrow between her brows. “Tell me, who’s here? Has everyone arrived?” I asked, hoping to distract her.

  Gwen touched her fingers as she ticked off names. “Inspector Longly. Captain Inglebrook. Gigi—although I haven’t seen much of her. She didn’t come down until two o’clock today.”

  “That sounds like the Gigi we know.” Gigi—Lady Gina Alton—had been at finishing school with us. Gigi skated along the surface of life, her focus on fashion, makeup, and her own comfort, but she was great fun. Except for our paths crossing for a few moments at parties, I hadn’t seen her in ages.

  “Miss Miller made her disapproval of Gigi quite clear.”

  “That name sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “She’s a friend of mother’s, a dithery spinster who lived with her brother until he passed away last year. She has a tendency to ramble on. Peter was her partner for bridge last night, and he was marvelously patient. Thank goodness she wasn’t partnered with Father. Nothing irritates him more than someone who hesitates and second-guesses, which is how Miss Miller plays every hand.”

  The road branched again, and I took the left fork, which would wind through the trees and back to Parkview. “How is Peter?”

  “Better—much better. It’s such a relief to Mother and Father. Peter seems—well, almost back to normal. He’s taken an interest in the estate, and Father’s handed off the management of several areas to him. Peter doesn’t seem as nervous as he used to. He’s finally sleeping better too, which is a great help.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Peter had served in the Great War and had come home without a single injury—at least, no visible injuries. It was only after he’d been back for a few months that we all began to realize he was suffering from what he’d seen—nightmares and a mental anguish none of us could understand.

  Gwen continued, “And of course your father and Sonia will be here tonight for dinner, if she’s feeling up to it. They came for tea but had to leave because Sonia wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Not feeling well? Sonia?” That combination of words didn’t make sense. I slowed the motor and turned to Gwen to make sure I’d heard her correctly over the noise of the engine. Sonia had the constitution of a Clydesdale horse and the tenacity of a mosquito. I couldn’t imagine her ill. She’d overpower any sickness with the force of her will—it simply wouldn’t be allowed. She’d been a nurse—Father’s nurse, in fact—before they married. I imagined she bullied her patients back to wellness.

  “I don’t know what was wrong,” Gwen said. “Sonia was very pale. They left shortly after everyone arrived for tea.”

  Sonia was my least favorite person in the world, but I didn’t want her to be ill. Even though I couldn’t imagine what Father saw in Sonia, he was fond of her. If she were ill, he’d be distressed. I hadn’t stopped at Tate House when I drove through the village because I knew Father and Sonia were to be guests at Parkview for a few days, and I’d thought I’d see them there. I’d have to send a note around and check on them once I was settled at Parkview.

  “Who have I forgotten?” Gwen tilted her head as she ran through a mental list. “Oh yes. Mr. Vincent Payne.”

  “Another unknown for me.”

  “For me as well. Father is interested in some maps Mr. Payne inherited from his grandfather. You know Father and his maps.”

  “Yes, like your mother and her painting.” Aunt Caroline spent every free moment painting landscapes of the surrounding countryside—at least that’s what she told us they were. To me, her oil paintings looked like blobs and splotches—something akin to a blotting paper—but I wasn’t artistic. Perhaps her paintings were quite good, and I was just quite dense and couldn’t see it. Uncle Leo, on the other hand, didn’t create. He had two main interests, hunting and collecting maps. Because of his interest in maps, the library at Parkview had nearly as many maps as it did books, and scholars often visited to study them.

  “And is Mr. Payne as old and dusty as his maps?” I asked, thinking he might make a good dinner partner for Miss Miller.

  “Hardly. He’s . . . well, he’s hard to describe.”

  “What is it?” I asked. “I can tell from your tone that there’s something else—something unflattering—and you don’t want to mention it, but it’s bothering you. You can tell me. I won’t pass it on.”

  “Well—” Gwen swiveled so she faced me. “He’s . . . pushy. Father wants to buy his maps. In fact, I know Father will buy his maps, but Mr. Payne keeps going on and on about how rare and valuable they are and how Father must have them. And this morning, I didn’t want to take a stroll in the garden with him, but he insisted.”

  “And you were too nice to make an excuse.”

  “He’s a guest.”

  “A pushy guest. You don’t owe him anything—a walk in the garden or anything else.”

  “I know that, but he looked devastated when I said I had to look over the menus, which wasn’t a lie.”

  “Oh, I know it wasn’t a lie.” Aunt Caroline could be lost in the clouds, especially when it came to her painting, and she left much of the day-to-day running of Parkview to Gwen. “So he’s pushy and manipulative.”

  “Now I’ve given you a dislike of him.”

  “You’ve done nothing of the sort, only given me a bit of a warning. I’ll be perfectly polite to him. Thank goodness I’m not in the market for antique maps.”

  “And then there’s Deena,” Gwen said.

  “Yes. I didn’t know she would be here. You didn’t mention her in your letter.”

  “It was a last moment thing. Mother and I were at Lady Smith-Wentworth’s card party a few days ago. I went to the withdrawing room to retie my sash, and Deena was crying in a corner. She was engaged to Mr. Cathcart, you know.”

  “Cathcart? Eddie Cathcart, who I heard last week is engaged to Miss Felicity Knight?”

  “Yes, that Eddie Cathcart. The news of his engagement to Miss Knight came out during the card party.”

  “How awful for Deena,” I said. “That explains her sudden return to Charles Manor.”

  “Yes, she wanted to escape the rumors and the speculation and the pitying looks, I’m sure. Of course, after a slight delay, the news did reach Nether Woodsmoor.”

  “One would suppose someone of her fortune wouldn’t have trouble holding onto a fiancé,” I said.

  “Miss Knight’s
fortune is even larger than Deena’s.”

  “I see. Then it’s sad that Mr. Cathcart is a cad and a fortune hunter. At least that’s something we’ll never have to worry about—fortune hunters, I mean. Me, less than you.” Except for my small bit of savings, I was penniless. While Gwen would have a nice dowry, the estate of Parkview was entailed and would go to Peter.

  “Thank you for pointing out a blessing I didn’t realize I had.”

  “It’s good to see you smile,” I said in reply to her joking tone. “In all seriousness, though, Deena’s had a lucky escape if that was the only reason Mr. Cathcart was marrying her.”

  “You and I can see that, and I think she’s coming around to that view, but that wasn’t how she felt at Lady Smith-Wentworth’s card party. I do feel sorry for her. She spends so much time trying to be fashionable and—well, to be like Gigi—but she doesn’t quite . . .”

  “No. She doesn’t have Gigi’s flair. Deena is trying too hard. If she’d relax and be herself, I’m sure it would all be fine.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Gwen said as I turned the wheel, bringing the motor around a gradual curve. Woods spread out on each side of the road, dense thickets of trees and drifts of fallen leaves.

  Several yards ahead of us, a woman in a full-length fur coat emerged from the trees at the side of the road. She didn’t glance in our direction as she stalked down the road away from us in the direction of Parkview.

  “That’s Gigi,” Gwen said, surprise in her tone. There was no mistaking Gigi’s petite frame and gorgeously cut designer coat. “What’s she doing way out here?”

  Gigi wasn’t one for long rambles. The only type of strolling she did was along Bond Street as she went from shop to shop. I eased my foot off the accelerator as I pulled alongside Gigi and called a greeting.

  Gigi came over to the Morris. Two midnight black curls peeked out from under her hat brim and lay against her cheeks. “Oh, hello! I was lost in my own little world and didn’t hear the motor. It’s lovely to see you, Olive.”