The Last Mrs. Summers

by Rhys Bowen

  He gave a cheeky grin. “Yes, you’d probably need to do that. I think the builder can do a good job for you. He’s a reliable man. And I can keep an eye on things if you want to go back to London at some point.”

  “So you’ll be staying down here?” she asked. “You don’t have to go with your employer when he travels?”

  “Some of the time,” he said. “It depends where he’s going and why. But I like it down here. If you don’t want White Sails, I’d be happy to buy it from you.”

  “Your own little smuggling retreat,” she said.

  He looked at her and laughed. “Is that what you’ve pegged me as? A smuggler?” He shook his head. “I have to admit my ancestors did very well from the trade. But I assure you I’ve chosen a more honorable route. So where are you heading now?”

  “I have to find a hotel room so that I can meet my solicitor when he arrives. Somewhere near the station. Do you know Truro at all?”

  “The Royal Hotel is probably the only choice for someone like you,” he said. “Just down the hill from the station. Right in the center of town. Can I give you a lift? I have the boss’s car.”

  “Oh, that’s kind of you but I brought Belinda’s car for her,” I said and got a daggers look from Belinda.

  “Well, you’re all set up, then.” He gave Belinda a friendly nod. “I’m really glad they got this sorted out so quickly for you.”

  I thought she might have said that her good pal Georgie helped get it sorted out, but she didn’t. Jago gave a cheery wave and then sauntered off again. As soon as he was out of earshot she spun toward me. “He offered me a lift,” she said, “and you had to say that I had my own car. What kind of friend are you?”

  “Belinda, my darling,” I said, “I had no idea that you were interested in him.”

  Of course I had realized, but I hadn’t picked up that the offer of a ride was more than simple transportation. I was still clueless when it came to interactions and subtle hints between men and women. In fact it was a miracle that I had managed to snag one of my own. Actually quite a good one.

  She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It’s silly, isn’t it? I mean, he’s a little rough around the edges, absolutely NOCD. That has never worked, apart from Lady Chatterley, has it?”

  (And in case you don’t know, “NOCD” is upper-class shorthand meaning “not our class, dear.”)

  “I’ve never actually read Lady Chatterley,” I said.

  “You haven’t, darling? No wonder you are so naïve. I’ll have to find you a copy. But anyway, Jago is regrettably quite unsuitable. Unless I’d like to settle at White Sails and learn how to gut fish.”

  I couldn’t tell her that Jago really worked in the same kind of hush-hush activity as Darcy. But I did say, “He has a good job now, traveling the world, managing properties. . . .”

  “For a shady millionaire. Not exactly stable. He’ll probably be the scapegoat when the shady man is arrested and he’ll wind up in an Argentinean jail.”

  “Anyway, as you’ve said, he’s not suitable marriage material. Now let me escort you to your own motorcar and we’ll find this Royal Hotel.”

  We located it easily enough. It wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting. It was an old yellow stone building in the middle of town, but we were greeted with great deference, indicating that Belinda’s arrest had not ever made it to the newspapers. She was so happy I had brought her suitcase of possessions with me in the motor. “My clothes,” she sighed. “A long hot bath and clean clothes. Bliss. And you can take back Jonquil’s cashmere dress. I never want to see it again.”

  I waited until she had changed and reluctantly took possession of the dress. I wasn’t about to go to Trewoma to return it.

  “I’ll be back,” I said. “You don’t mind if I borrow Brutus, do you?”

  “He seems to like you,” Belinda said. “I’m sure you’ll be nicer to him than I am. I seem to do horrible things to his gears.”

  “Well, I’ll be on my way, then,” I said, feeling suddenly awkward.

  Then she flung her arms around me. “You’ve been an absolute brick,” she said. “The way you spoke to that inspector! Darling, you could be a barrister. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be languishing in there, living on bread and water. Shall we go and have a jolly good lunch somewhere?”

  “I’m afraid I have to meet a person at a specific time,” I said. “You enjoy your lunch. I’ll see you later.”

  I watched her waving to me as I drove off, back to Rock. This time I had to put my foot down and go rather faster as I had that assignment with Darcy to keep. I arrived back in the village at 11:45, left Brutus by the church and then sauntered across to the village shop. That was when, of course, I remembered that it was Sunday. The shop was closed. There were a couple of men heading for the pub but apart from that the village was empty and silent. It wasn’t the kind of weather to be sitting outside or messing about in boats and I supposed everyone would be at home, preparing to eat Sunday lunch. This reminded me I was hungry. And no shop open to buy supplies if I spent the night at White Sails again. Then I reasoned I could do nothing more useful here after I had seen Darcy and I didn’t want him risking his safety by taking the motorboat to see me in the middle of the night, however much I had appreciated his presence.

  I looked around, then sat out of the wind on a bench beside the church and wrote a note, mentioning all the details on Colin and why he might have anything to do with two deaths. Then I sealed it and addressed it to Mr. O’Connor, just in case he was not able to be present himself. I strolled around, admiring the view, watching the ferry, then, as the clock on the church tower tolled twelve, I wandered back to stand outside the shop again. I was just in time to see Darcy heading toward the shop, stopping short as he too realized it was Sunday, and then looking around. I knew enough not to acknowledge him. I got up, walked behind him then called out, “Excuse me, sir. I think you dropped this?”

  He turned and I handed him the envelope I had prepared.

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said in his distinctive Irish brogue. “It looks like the weather might be turning nasty again, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does,” I replied. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  “I’m staying at a house nearby. It’s no distance at all, not for an Irishman like myself, used to inclement weather.”

  “It’s no trouble,” I said. “I’m driving out to a property on the coast myself.”

  “In that case I wouldn’t say no,” he replied. “I didn’t think to bring an umbrella.”

  I walked over to Brutus and got in. He climbed into the passenger side and we drove off.

  “That was quite smooth. I’m impressed,” he said. “But where did you get the car?”

  “Belinda’s. It’s called Brutus. It feels horribly powerful,” I said.

  “Is she still in jail?”

  “No. They released her this morning. It seems the autopsy revealed that Tony had been partly drowned first. And since I pointed out to the inspector that if she wanted to kill Tony, she’d hardly have half drowned him, then dragged him the length of the hall to stab him where everyone would pin the crime on her, he reluctantly had to agree. But she’s to stay in the area.”

  “And what’s in the note?”

  “It may have nothing to do with anything now,” I replied. “Belinda had a sudden hunch, but it had to do with a boy’s death years ago. Jonquil, Tony and Belinda were all with the boy when he died.” And I told him as much as I knew.

  “And you think this might be a motive for killing now, after all this time?”

  “I don’t. Belinda had all night to lie and brood and this was her idea. I said I’d look into it. Do you have anyone who could do some digging?”

  “Of course. Are you going back to White Sails?”

  “I’m not sure there is any point. I can’
t go near Trewoma and Belinda is staying at a hotel in Truro. It’s called the Royal Hotel—not particularly royal, off the main square. Her solicitor is arriving.”

  “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here,” he said. “Some of the party have already left.”

  “I know. We saw Jago in town,” I said.

  “Ah yes. He seemed very concerned about Belinda. Is there something there I don’t know?”

  “There could be. He’s definitely interested and so is she. It’s the problem of class, isn’t it?”

  “It does seem to be. Silly, isn’t it, but it really matters. Lucky we found each other and you didn’t have to wind up with Prince Siegfried.” He broke off, looking up. “Ah, here we are. This is where I leave you.”

  “Do you know when you are coming home?”

  He made a face. “I don’t, exactly. I’ll be here at least another day. Then I may be heading over to Dublin.” Then he covered my hand with his own. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing too dangerous. We might already have what we need on Panopolis and his friends. I’ll probably be home shortly after you.” He opened the car door. “And if I wanted to find you? The Royal Hotel with Belinda?”

  “I suppose so. She’s not allowed to leave yet and I’ll have to keep her company.”

  He nodded. “Many thanks for the lift, ma’am. Nice to have met you.”

  And he took off down the driveway just as the raindrops started in earnest.

  Chapter 31

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 20, AND THEN MONDAY, OCTOBER 21

  THE ROYAL HOTEL, TRURO, AND OUT AND ABOUT

  Feeling a bit at loose ends now that Belinda is off the hook, but I’d really love the police to solve this murder and thus clear Belinda’s name completely.

  After such frantic activity it felt strange to have nothing to do. I drove on, up to the entrance to Trewoma. I had been warned to stay away, but I was dying to know if the police might be there yet, searching the grounds for the wagon or the wet towels on the bonfire. I didn’t think they would have burned completely. I was really tempted to try and find one of these things for myself, but I reminded myself it was no longer any of my business. Belinda was no longer suspected and it was up to the police to solve the case. I drove through Rock, lamenting that the bakery was closed and I was awfully hungry, suddenly feeling that I’d like to go home. Back to Eynsleigh, back to Queenie’s cooking—which shows you how low I was feeling.

  Eventually I drove back to Truro in a nasty squall of rain to find Belinda sitting in the hotel parlor having tea with a distinguished-looking white-haired man who looked so much like a solicitor that I didn’t have to wonder who he was. Belinda looked up and saw me.

  “Oh, Georgie, you’re back,” she said. “This is Mr. Haversham, my solicitor.”

  The man rose to his feet and extended a hand. “Delighted to meet you, my lady. I hear you have been instrumental in securing Miss Warburton-Stoke’s release. A nasty business, and a perplexing one. Have they actually made an arrest yet?”

  “Not that we know of,” I said.

  “In any case I plan to stay in the area, just in case the police wish to interview my client again,” he said. “Not a bad little hotel. Quite comfortable.”

  “I should leave you to talk,” I said, now not sure what I should be doing. Should I also get a room here for the night? I had told Darcy this was where he could find me. So I asked at reception and was given a minute single room, just enough space to get in and out of a narrow bed. At least it was better than White Sails. I was told I was too late for Sunday lunch when I presented myself at the restaurant but they did manage to produce some grilled cheese on toast, which was better than nothing.

  I joined Belinda and her solicitor for dinner, which was a most satisfying roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Still no sign of her father, but that was to be expected if he had to make his way from the Scottish Highlands.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY we had a leisurely breakfast and the solicitor announced he was going to visit the police headquarters to ask that they permit Belinda to return to London. We waited in the hotel drawing room, idly reading local newspapers with fascinating snippets about the disappearance of a pair of combinations from a washing line and the Women’s Institute making a record sale of their chutney. We had lunch and just after, the solicitor came back to say the police would like her to remain in the area a little longer. He was going to stay another night and planned on visiting an old friend who lived nearby.

  Belinda suggested we go and see the builder again and persuade him to come out to White Sails. This time I let her drive so we sped through the lanes considerably faster, until we came upon a flock of sheep, just released from a field. Belinda managed to stop inches from the nearest sheep’s backside. There was much baaing and cursing from the shepherd who waved his crook at her.

  “Silly man,” she grumbled. “Sheep have no right to be on a public highway.”

  “It’s hardly a highway.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s still supposed to be for motorcars,” she said, inching Brutus forward as the sheep progressed at a snail’s pace. Eventually we were free and found the builder in the village of Rock. He was an amiable sort and said if we gave him half an hour he’d have time for us. “Not that I can guarantee when I could get to the work,” he added. “It all depends on how much that foreign bloke wants done. My word. Talk about fancy. All those bathrooms!”

  We left him and wandered down to the quayside. The tide was coming in and it was interesting to watch how quickly the sandbars were swallowed up and the boats suddenly bobbed at their moorings. The sun had come out and it transformed the view into a perfect picture-postcard scene.

  “It’s lovely here, isn’t it?” I said when at the same time Belinda muttered, “Oh no. Not Uncle Francis again!”

  And he was coming up the steps from the jetty toward us. There was no way to avoid him. He saw Belinda and reacted with surprise.

  “You’re not in jail. I heard you’d been arrested. You didn’t escape, did you?”

  “If I did, I’d hardly be waiting on a public dock for the police to find me,” she said.

  “You might be trying to get somebody to sail you across to the Continent,” he replied. “So they let you out on bail. That’s good of them, considering that you’d be a flight risk. But, my dear child, I have to shake your hand for doing the dirty deed for me. Getting rid of that blighter Tony Summers. What a coup! I’m sure the watermen of Cornwall will erect a statue to you after you are no more.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Uncle Francis,” Belinda said calmly, “but I am no longer a suspect in the murder of Mr. Summers.”

  “You’re not?” I could read the disappointment on his face. “But I thought you were caught red-handed, holding the knife over his body.”

  “Alas no,” Belinda said. “The police jumped to the wrong conclusions.”

  “The police actually questioned me,” he said. “Apparently you told them I had a good motive. Not very sporting of you, I thought.”

  “You did suggest that I might put poison in his tea, I remember,” Belinda said.

  “But, my dear girl, that was a joke. Simply a joke. My God, Belinda. If I hadn’t drunk a little too much that night and stayed on at the pub, I might have found myself behind bars. Usually I’m all alone on my boat. But thank God, for once I got involved in a game of dominoes.”

  “I’m sorry if I wrongly suspected you,” Belinda said, “but I did ask myself why you had shown up at the house that day. You’d seen the daggers displayed.”

  “Apology accepted,” he said. “So I expect you’ll be hightailing out of here as fast as you can?”

  “Not at the moment,” Belinda said. “I’ve a builder coming to see White Sails. I need to put in a proper bathroom with some privacy.”

  She put a hand on my arm. “Come, Georgie. Let�
�s go and see if that builder is ready yet.”

  When we were out of earshot she turned to me. Her face was red with anger. “Did you see him. He was so disappointed I wasn’t languishing in a jail cell. Odious man. I’m going to make sure the builder puts in good doors with good locks at White Sails. I can’t believe I ever considered giving him the cottage.”

  As we came back to the road a large car was approaching. It was the Rolls-Royce with Jago driving. It slowed when it saw us and Jago wound down the window. “I was told to give you this note, my lady,” he said and handed me a letter, before speeding off again. Belinda stared after the car. “Wasn’t that Darcy in the backseat with another man?” she asked.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Darcy is abroad. I suppose all Irishmen look the same to you.”

  “What is the note, then?” she asked. “And since when has Jago been handing you notes?”

  “I had someone looking into a few details for me,” I said, “in case we needed them.”

  “Details about what?” She was truly curious now.

  I opened the envelope, praying that Darcy had not signed the note. It simply said,

  Colin Huckerbee. Easy to trace. Parents still in area. Both work at Cadbury’s Bournville factory outside Birmingham. Colin was only child. Adopted at birth. They did not know birth mother but, since they are Catholics and the adoption was arranged through the Church, they understood the child came from St. Anne’s Home for unwed mothers in Coventry.

  The home cooperated, knowing this was a police investigation. The mother’s name was Alice Mannering.

  Our eyes met.

  “Mrs. Mannering?” Belinda said. “Someone connected to Mrs. Mannering? Her daughter?”

  I shook my head. “Housekeepers always call themselves “Mrs.” even though they are not married. It’s her. She was the only other person who could have pulled it off. Come on, let’s go up to Trewoma and see if any members of the police are still there. We have to stop them from arresting Rose.”