by Sara Rosett
Colonel Havens took his pipe from his mouth. “How could you tell?”
“Peter was searching for a pulse.” Of course that was what he was doing. I stopped myself before I mentioned Peter’s blank gaze and confused state. Longly had said nothing directly to indicate he suspected Peter was involved in Payne’s death, but his detailed questions made me nervous for Peter.
Longly looked back at a previous page of his notes. “And he didn’t say anything to you when you arrived?”
“No.”
“But you spoke to him?”
“Yes, I said we should send for Sonia, and he agreed.” I pushed the thought of Peter’s mute state out of my mind.
“And you asked him what had happened?”
“Correct. As I told you earlier.” We’d been through these details before, along with questions about Payne’s friends, family, and business, which I couldn’t tell Longly a thing about, except that Payne sold maps. I clamped down on my impatience with Longly’s thoroughness. I was anxious for the questioning to end before I slipped up and said something that might make Longly more suspicious of Peter.
“And what did Mr. Stone say?”
“He thought he’d tripped over the chaise lounge.”
Longly pounced on the word. “Thought?”
The cold finger of worry traced along my spine. “I don’t remember exactly what he said word for word.”
“I see.”
To derail his line of questioning, I asked, “What about the dirt?”
Longly’s pencil paused. “Dirt?”
“There were two faint lines in the dirt on the floor. They ran from the overturned pot to Mr. Payne’s heels, but when Deena went to fetch Sonia, she smudged them. Were any traces of the lines left?”
“The conservatory is currently being documented with photographs and drawings.” His tone indicated the subject of the dirt on the floor was closed. Longly flipped to a new page in the notebook. “And what was Mr. Stone’s mental state?”
The cold grip of fear squeezed my heart. It was the question I’d been afraid would come up, and I didn’t want to answer it. “What do you mean?”
“How did Mr. Stone seem? Was he confused? Muddled?”
“In his right mind, you mean?”
My tone was sharp, and Longly put down his pencil and rubbed his shoulder on the side of his evening suit with the empty sleeve. “I know this is difficult, Miss Belgrave. But these questions have to be asked—especially after the incident in the drawing room yesterday.”
I pushed back my chair. “Then I suggest you find somebody who is an expert in these things to answer your questions. All I know is that Peter was checking for a pulse, and Mr. Payne was clearly dead when I arrived.”
“Olive, old bean,” a voice called. I was halfway across the entry hall and hadn’t noticed the figure at the door handing his overcoat, top hat, and cane to Brimble. Jasper came across the black-and-white tiles, his long legs moving at his usual unhurried stride, his fair curls rumpled from his hat and untamed by hair tonic. “I had a spot of bother with the motor and left it in Upper Benning for repairs.”
“Jasper, thank goodness you’re here.” I crossed the room to him, hands outstretched. Before I thought about it, I pressed myself to his chest. After a second, his arms closed around me.
His voice was low and soft as he said in a completely different tone, “What’s all this? Don’t get me wrong—I find it an enchanting welcome, but this is not the normal reception I receive, even when I’m rescuing a hostess from serving dinner to thirteen guests.”
I pushed back from him. “I’m sorry. I forgot myself for a moment. But I’m so glad you’re here. Something terrible has happened. Mr. Payne is dead, and Inspector Longly suspects Peter did it.”
All trace of humor drained from Jasper’s face. “Peter?”
“Yes, because of an incident in the drawing room last night. A window was opened, and the draft caused the door to slam. Peter reacted as if he were back in the trenches. It was quite frightening and—well, at the time we just thought it was embarrassing, but now, with Mr. Payne’s death and Peter’s black eye . . .” I stopped and drew in a deep breath. “I’m making a hash of all this. Come with me to . . . um . . . the music room. It should be deserted. I’ll tell you everything.”
Jasper followed me into the music room, and I said, “You’d better close the door. I don’t think anyone should overhear this.”
The sound of our heels tapping across the hardwood floor echoed around the empty room. It was a contrast from the prior evening when the room had been filled with music and applause.
I sat down on a backless settee with scroll arms, and Jasper drew an armchair over. As I summarized what had happened, Jasper listened with his elbow propped on the chair’s arm, his chin resting on his hand and his fingers curled against his mouth.
When I finished, he pulled his hand away from his face. “You think Peter did it.”
I bristled at his astonished tone. “I’m afraid he did it. I don’t want to believe he did it. Oh, if you’d seen his face—that glazed look. I’m sure he was confused and—and—muddled, is the only way to describe it. He didn’t know what had happened.”
“He didn’t do it,” Jasper said. “There are boundaries that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—cross.”
“But what if something set Peter off, like the crash of the door in the drawing room last evening? He was completely immersed in those awful memories, acting them out among us. My knees still ache from when he slammed me to the ground.” All my worries came pouring out. “I don’t think Peter would intentionally harm Mr. Payne. Of course I don’t. But perhaps Peter was in the middle of one of his . . . episodes. If he thought he was on the battlefield . . .”
Jasper shook his head. “I can assure you Peter would never do anything like that.” Jasper’s normal temperament was rather lighthearted. He didn’t take life too seriously, but he was more somber now than I’d ever seen him.
I leaned forward. “Then how did Peter get his black eye? He and Mr. Payne must have fought—”
“Tell me about Mr. Payne.”
“All right,” I said, glad to move away from the subject of Peter’s mental state. “Mr. Vincent Payne. Where to begin?”
“With that face you just made, I suspect there was something unsavory about the chap.”
“He was an odd mix. He became too—well, he overstepped with Gigi. She slapped him.”
“Gigi always could take care of herself.”
“True. But Gigi’s rebuff didn’t seem to faze Mr. Payne. I mean, he did look upset, but only for a short time. He was contrite and apologized, then he acted as if nothing had happened,” I said, thinking of the way Mr. Payne had held out his arm, ready to walk with Gigi back to Parkview. “A little later, he was mingling in the drawing room—although, he did give Gigi a wide berth.”
“I’ll bet he did. Maps, you said? Sir Leo must have been interested in those.”
“Of course. In fact, that’s the reason Uncle Leo invited Mr. Payne to Parkview. Uncle Leo wanted to buy maps from him.”
“So Mr. Payne sold antique maps?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t a dealer, I gathered. More something he dabbled in on the side. Although Mr. Payne was forceful about them.”
“Hmm . . . map dealers rarely turn up dead in suspicious circumstances, I believe.”
“I know.”
Jasper leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Now, what’s this about dirt that you mentioned earlier?”
I explained about the overturned pot and the soil scattered across the floor in more detail. “There was a swath of dirt.” I flattened my hand and swept it in an arc. “The odd thing was that there were two parallel lines in the dirt that ended at Mr. Payne’s heels, but Deena went out that way to find Sonia and they came back the same way, so their footsteps obliterated most of the lines.”
“But it looked as if Mr. Payne’s heels had been pulled through the dirt over to the
fountain?”
“Exactly,” I said. Thinking about the positioning of Mr. Payne’s body, I added, “His limbs were aligned, with his legs straight and arms lying by his side.”
“Which probably wouldn’t be the case if he’d fallen,” Jasper said.
“It doesn’t seem likely, no.” I frowned. “Captain Inglebrook assumed Mr. Payne’s death was an accident, that he’d fallen and hit his head—Deena must have told him what she’d seen in the conservatory—but it does seem as if Mr. Payne was attacked, then dragged over to the fountain and arranged so it appeared as if he’d fallen backward into the rim and hit his head, but his head looked—”
“Quite,” Jasper said quickly. “You don’t have to describe it again. You went rather white the first time. If someone moved Mr. Payne’s body, that’s hardly the reaction of someone in the midst of an episode of shell shock, which should be a point in Peter’s favor, assuming Inspector Longly thinks Peter was caught up in some sort of delusion. Peter wouldn’t drag Mr. Payne to the fountain. That’s the action of someone trying to obfuscate the truth. If Peter were muddled and confused, he’d be in no state to think as clearly as that.”
“Perhaps Peter thought Mr. Payne was an injured man on the battlefield,” I said, hating to even put my thoughts into words. “Maybe Peter thought he was dragging him back to safety?”
“And then posed Mr. Payne with his head balanced on the rim of the fountain?” Jasper shook his head. “No, it sounds far too lucid, especially if Peter was in the grip of a war neurosis. Perhaps Peter simply walked into the conservatory and saw the dead body, which gave him a bad turn.”
“Then how did he get his black eye?” I asked. It was another question I didn’t want to dwell on, but we couldn’t ignore it. Longly certainly wouldn’t.
“You said Peter thinks he tripped at some point,” Jasper said. “Perhaps Peter came into the conservatory, caught sight of Mr. Payne, and didn’t see the overturned chaise lounge.”
When Jasper said the words caught sight, something pinged in my mind. “Oh! The mauve fabric!”
“Mauve fabric?”
“Someone else was in the conservatory. When I followed Deena in, I caught a glimpse of mauve-colored fabric through the greenery. I couldn’t see anything else, but there was a definite mauve fabric showing through a small gap between the plants.”
Jasper said, “The conservatory does have several paths. Someone could have taken the one that curves around the outer edge of the room and wraps back to the doors.”
“Only one person was wearing mauve tonight—Miss Miller.”
“Refresh my memory. Who is Miss Miller again?” Jasper asked. “I know you mentioned her in your earlier synopsis of the situation, but I don’t remember what you said about her.”
“That’s because there’s not much to tell. She’s a spinster, one of Aunt Caroline’s bridge partners. She kept house for her brother, but he recently passed away. She’s flighty and tends to ramble on.”
“Hmm . . . no reason to attack Mr. Payne?”
“None that I can think of. And she seems frail. I’m not sure she could do . . . something like that. But when Longly listed the people he wanted to speak to first, those who’d been in the conservatory this evening, she didn’t say a word. I meant to tell him earlier, but it completely went out of my head when I spoke to him in the library because I was so worried about Peter. I should tell Inspector Longly immediately. Perhaps Miss Miller saw something that will clear Peter.”
“Why didn’t she speak up straightaway?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. I hope it was because she didn’t want to become involved in a police investigation. Gently bred ladies avoid things like that.” Jasper grinned, and I cut him off before he could make a comment. “I, on the other hand, am a special case. I must involve myself in these situations. My work requires it.”
“And you’re curious.”
I grinned back at him. “That, too.”
Jasper stood and extended a hand, pulling me up. “I hope you’re right and Miss Miller can help clear up what happened. I’m off to find Peter and have a chat.” He squeezed my hand before he released it. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort this out.”
We met Brimble in the entry hall. “A cold dinner buffet has been laid out in the dining room,” he said.
“Thank you, Brimble,” I said. “Perhaps later.”
“Is Peter in the dining room?” Jasper asked Brimble.
“No, sir. I believe he’s retired to his room for the evening.”
Jasper thanked Brimble, then said to me, “Let’s meet later. Perhaps in the billiard room?”
“I don’t think I’ll be up for a game of billiards.”
“No, to compare notes. That’s how this sleuthing bit works, correct?” He gave me a quick smile and strode off down the corridor, at a much quicker pace than his usual saunter.
I didn’t go into the dining room. Since I was a working girl, I tended to take advantage of every lavish meal I possibly could. Any break from my threepenny buns and tepid tea was welcome, but I wouldn’t be able to eat tonight. My stomach felt too queasy.
I tapped on the open library door. I must have caught Inspector Longly between interviews because he was alone. “Miss Belgrave, please come in.”
“I won’t take up much of your time, Inspector. I wanted to mention something I forgot to tell you earlier.”
Longly gestured to the seat across the table from him and reached for his notebook as I told him about seeing the mauve color in the conservatory.
“Mauve? Could it have been a flower or vine of some sort?”
“No. It was fabric. It had a sheen like silk.”
Longly’s gaze tracked back and forth across the surface of the table, and I thought he was probably mentally reviewing everyone’s evening attire.
“Only one person wore mauve tonight—Miss Miller. I hate to be a tattletale, but I felt I had to mention it.”
He consulted his notebook, turning back the pages. “Miss Miller says she rested in her room after tea then went straight down to the drawing room before dinner.” He made a note. “I’ll speak with her tomorrow. She’s retired for the evening. Thank you, Miss Belgrave.”
Chapter Eight
I moved along the hallway, reading the name cards beside each door. Longly had to wait until tomorrow to speak to Miss Miller. It would be bad form to request to speak to her after she’d retired for the night. He might be a detective inspector, but summoning an elderly guest from bed just wasn’t done. However, I was a fellow guest and might be able to chat with her if she was still awake.
Down the corridor, a maid came out of one of the rooms, pulled the door closed, and walked away from me. The same door opened, and Miss Miller leaned out with her back turned to me as she called the maid back. Miss Miller was in a dressing gown, and her fair hair was woven into a long braid that hung down her back.
I hurried forward so that I could speak to her before she disappeared back into the room. I reached her door just as Miss Miller held out a pair of cream-colored shoes to the maid. “These need to be cleaned.”
The maid reached for the shoes, which had a black smudge on one of the toes. “I’m sorry, miss. I’ll see to it right away.”
As Miss Miller handed the shoes to the maid, she tilted them, exposing the soles. Bits of deep black dirt—the same shade as the potting soil that had been spilled on the conservatory floor—were ground into the soles of the shoes.
“Wait a moment,” I called to the maid, who’d half-turned away, and she halted.
Miss Miller spun around. I reached for the shoes and turned the soles upward. “You were in the conservatory this evening, weren’t you, Miss Miller?”
Her face went as white as the lace on her dressing gown. She swayed. I caught one of her arms, and the maid caught the other before Miss Miller crumpled.
I stumbled back, holding her up. Worry washed over me. Was Miss Miller in bad health? I shouldn’t have let my question burs
t out like that. She wasn’t faking a spell, as some ladies did. Miss Miller was a dead weight. “Help me get her to the bed,” I said to the maid.
The maid and I got her to the bed, and I sent the maid for smelling salts. I arranged a blanket over Miss Miller, and my concern receded a bit because she was breathing easily, and her color was coming back to normal. I bent down and collected the shoes the maid had dropped when she helped me catch Miss Miller. I put them on a chair at one side of the room, then returned to the bed, where the maid was waving smelling salts under Miss Miller’s nose.
She gasped and opened her eyes, then waved her hand. “My handkerchief. I need my handkerchief.” The maid handed her a freshly laundered one from a drawer, and Miss Miller wiped her eyes and nose, then lay back against the cushions. “I’m sorry,” she said to me. “My vision went all spotty. I suppose I shouldn’t have skipped the cold buffet dinner, but I couldn’t stomach any food tonight.”
I turned to the maid. “Fetch Miss Miller a cup of tea and perhaps some dry toast.”
“Yes, miss.” The maid curtsied and left the room.
I drew the chair from the dressing table over to the bed and sat down. “You’ll feel better once you have some tea and toast.”
“I shouldn’t have taken the sleeping draught on an empty stomach. That never goes well,” Miss Miller said in a distracted tone.
“I apologize. I shouldn’t have made such an abrupt statement. I didn’t mean to shock you.”
Miss Miller’s gaze had begun to dart about the room while I spoke. She spotted the shoes on the chair and lunged forward to grip my hand. The quick movement surprised me. Her thin fingers were cold and strong as they clamped down on mine. “I didn’t know what to do this evening when Inspector Longly asked who else had been in the conservatory—it’s so sordid to be involved in a police investigation. Winston would not have approved.”
I patted her hand in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. “It’s not pleasant, but you must tell Inspector Longly.”