by Sofia Daniel
Blake and Edward sat opposite each other, observing me with concerned faces. Blake tilted his head to the side, while Edward’s posture remained rigid.
“What did she say?” Blake’s gaze flickered from my eyes to Rita’s table.
I took my seat and stared at my empty plate. “It’s Mr. Carbuncle.”
Henry sat opposite. “You don’t know that for sure.”
While Henry poured us both a cup of tea, I repeated Rita’s account of last night’s events. Blake and Edward’s faces hardened as I spoke. Neither of them shared Henry’s optimism. A regular burglar would break into the empty International House or one of the other houses at the edge of the campus. It had to be Mr. Carbuncle.
When I finished, Blake shook his head. “He’s becoming more of an immediate danger than Rudolph.”
My shoulders sagged. “We need to do something about him.”
“He hasn’t yet replied to my text from the confiscated phone,” said Blake. “When he does, I’ll arrange a trap.”
Nodding, I brought my cup of tea to my lips. Hopefully, Charlotte hadn’t found a way to tell him we were now in control of her phone.
Edward picked up a slice of toast from the rack. “I’ve just introduced myself to Mrs. Carbuncle, saying that I am a concerned student who would like to meet her to see what I can do to help her son. She told me she’d be delighted to join us for afternoon tea at the village teashop.”
We arrived at Muriel’s Tea Rooms at four o’clock, which was apparently the time everyone decided to visit. A young server led us to tables Edward had reserved. The plan was to have Blake and me at a nearby table observing, while Edward and Henry poured on the charm. I ordered a slice of chocolate fudge cake, Blake ordered the strawberry shortcake, and we waited for Mrs. Carbuncle to show her face.
At quarter-past four, an elderly woman arrived at Muriel’s Tea Rooms, wearing a worn, tweed suit with a brown blouse, and an oversized chiffon scarf with a houndstooth pattern. Her thinning, silvery hair was pulled back from her face into a severe bun, but it only highlighted her soft features.
“That can’t be Mrs. Carbuncle.” I leaned into Blake and whispered, “She doesn’t look like him at all.”
“It has to be her,” he whispered back. “All the other old ladies arrive in pairs or gangs.”
I glanced around the tea room at the groups of elderly women sitting around the tables enjoying afternoon tea served in tiered cake stands. He was right. My gaze traveled back to the old lady, who glanced around the room until she spotted Edward and Henry, sitting at the table for four next to ours.
She strode across the room at a brisk pace, considering her walking stick. Edward and Henry stood at the same time. While Henry pulled out the old woman’s chair, Edward gave her a dazzling smile. “Mrs. Carbuncle, I presume?”
The old woman offered her hand. “How wonderful to meet you, Viscount Highdown.”
Edward pressed his lips on her knuckles. “Please, call me Edward.”
With cheeks flaring brighter than the strawberries on the shortcake, Mrs. Carbuncle took her seat and gave Henry an admiring gaze. “And who is this handsome fellow?”
“Henry Bourneville, at your service.” He gave her a gallant bow and kissed her hand.
“Not the Bourneville Bourneville’s from London?”
“The very same,” he said in a deep voice that made my nipples pebble.
Mrs. Carbuncle clapped her hands over her flushed cheeks. “And you say you’re acquaintances with my Ernest?”
Rolling his eyes, Blake placed a huge chunk of strawberry shortcake in his mouth.
“We’ve known him since we were eleven.” Henry nodded his thanks to the server, who placed a butterfly-patterned tea set on the table. “Edward has known your son for longer, as he’s lived on the academy grounds his entire life.”
The old woman’s eyes shone with pride. “He never said, but that’s my Ernest for you. Rubs shoulders with the high class and is never one to boast.”
“Rubbing more than shoulders with the girls, I would say,” drawled Blake.
I gave him a kick under the table. Snickering, Blake poured me a cup of Lady Grey tea from a pot patterned with pink roses and took another bite of his cake.
Mrs. Carbuncle fluttered her eyelashes. “What can a humble lady like myself do for you, young sirs?”
“We’re trying to find him,” said Edward. “Someone fired birdshot at the poor fellow, and we believe he requires urgent medical attention.”
“It’s nice of you boys to worry about Ernest, but he came to me late one night for help. I used my tweezers and fillet knife and a whole bottle of Dettol.”
I set down my teacup and gaped at Blake, who narrowed his eyes and smirked.
“Did you get it all?” asked Henry.
She rubbed the side of her face. “As much as I could. I wanted to do more, but he refused, the stubborn ass.”
The server brought scones, finger sandwiches, and a slice of every cake available in the tea shop.
The old lady’s eyes gleamed. “Which one is mine?”
“We didn’t know what you liked.” Henry raised the milk jug in silent question. When the old woman shook her head, he poured the tea. “Why don’t you take a bite of each?”
Edward raised the bowl of lemon slices, and the old woman gave a vigorous nod.
“I wish those two would stop fucking about and interrogate the old battle-ax,” muttered Blake. “Can’t they tell she’s putting on airs and graces for show?”
“Quiet.” I pushed my chocolate fudge cake to his side of the table.
Blake picked up his fork and cut himself a huge chunk. The corners of my mouth curled into a smile. I didn’t know he could be subdued so easily.
Mrs. Carbuncle raised the cup to her lips with her pinky finger up, while Edward and Henry drank their tea without the pretensions. I chewed on my lip, hoping they would get to the point, but this was a delicate matter. If I was on the run from the police, Mom wouldn’t reveal my location to strangers, even if they were as handsome and as cultured and as well-connected as Edward and Henry.
The old woman raved about the cakes and brought up her recipe for a lemon drizzle pudding. Blake, who had finished my chocolate fudge cake, melted into a stupor of boredom. My own eyes glazed, and I slumped in my seat, marveling through my daze at how the boys remained attentive through Mrs. Carbuncle’s monologue. It was hard to tell if she knew about her son’s crimes or if she believed him to be innocent of all accusations.
“It’s lovely to be out and about,” she said. “The local police have kept me a virtual prisoner.”
Blake and I jolted awake.
“What do you mean?” asked Edward.
“Poor Ernest had a bit of trouble with a nasty American trollop at the school. Apparently, she wanted access to another girl’s room and threw herself at my boy.”
Edward tutted. “How distasteful.”
Henry’s face blanked.
After declaring the orange marmalade cake delectable, Mrs. Carbuncle leaned forward. “Do you know what she did next?”
“I dread to think,” replied Edward.
“She got all the other little girls to report him to the police for hanky-panky.”
My brows lowered. Mom used to play a catchy old Madonna song called Hanky Panky. I leaned into Blake and whispered, “Does that mean spanking?”
“In this context it means fucking,” he murmured. “Or close to it.”
I ground my teeth. That lying bastard. And how could Mrs. Carbuncle believe any woman with good eyesight and a sense of smell would throw themselves at her grimy gorilla of a son and then take such drastic revenge because he turned her down?
“Why are policemen harassing you?” asked Edward.
She sniffed. “They think I know his whereabouts, but I don’t. He’s a great outdoorsman, my Ernest. He took his sleeping bag and might be anywhere.”
Blowing out a breath, Edward shook his head. “I’m certainly
glad this trollop didn’t get the better of dear Mr. Carbuncle.”
“But I’m the one who suffers.” She took a bite out of the red velvet cake. “Do you know reporters came to my house, wanting to take photos? And a seedy Frenchman called Philip.”
“Philippe?” asked Henry.
“How did you know?”
He shrugged. “Je parle Français.”
Mrs. Carbuncle pressed a napkin to her lips. “They teach you all sorts in that Mercia Academy, don’t they? It was where the aristocrats used to go to school when I was a girl. I wanted to work in the kitchens, but they said I wasn’t qualified.”
“And the academy is poorer for not being graced by your lemon drizzle pudding,” said Edward.
“He could charm the knickers off a goat,” muttered Blake.
“So can you,” I whispered. “Let’s pay attention.”
“Does Mr. Carbuncle have connections in France?” asked Henry.
“No.” She reached for one of the finger sandwiches. “But each time this Phillip leaves an envelope for Ernest, the police come to visit days after.”
I swallowed a chunk of citrus peel in my lady gray. Mr. Carbuncle probably used Mercia as a base with his mother’s address as a pick-up point for his instructions. Since he had his mobile, he likely visited his mother whenever Philippe left a package. But what the fuck did Philippe send him?
“I think he’s the trollop’s fancy man, set out to get his revenge. He’s always getting my boy into trouble.”
I rolled my eyes.
Edward placed his hand on his heart. “It’s a travesty that so many should harass an innocent woman. Why don’t you stay in my guesthouse for a few days? It overlooks the mansion’s rose gardens, and we have a butler available to tend to your needs. You can see it as a sort of holiday until the trollop is caught and reprimanded.”
Her scone dropped to the china plate. “Y-you would do that for me?
My jaw dropped to my chest. I leaned forward and whispered, “Edward’s kidnapping an old woman?”
“I believe he’s treating her to a luxury holiday she’ll never forget,” said Blake.
“Edward,” said Henry. “Why don’t you escort Mrs. Carbuncle this evening in your limousine?”
“I’ll be ready at seven o’clock,” said the old woman. “Do you think they’d let me take home the cakes I didn’t eat?
A boulder of dread rolled through my belly. What would Mr. Carbuncle say if he knew we had taken his mother?
Chapter 15
Henry, Blake, and I decided to conduct a little mission of our own. If we could find one of the envelopes Philippe left for Mr. Carbuncle, we might be able to better implicate Rudolph in their crimes. At six-thirty, we set off in separate vehicles.
Estermere village wasn’t as quaint as the village by Mercia Academy. According to Edward, our village shops received a lot of patronage from the academy, the duchy, and all the buildings were listed by the government as warranting preservation for special interest. Potholes marred the main thoroughfare of Estermere village. Tall, plastic trash cans stood on the sidewalks outside flat-fronted cottages with brick facades marred by water damage and satellite receivers.
Blake, who had been taught to drive by one of the royal bodyguards, drove a jeep behind Edward’s limo. Henry and I sat in the front seats, tracking our progress with Google maps on my smartphone.
“They’re going to park in a moment.” I squinted at the screen. “Turn right onto… Scratchy Bottom Street, and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”
The boys snickered. Henry said, “It’s still a better place name than Shitterton, Happy Bottom, and Shaggs.”
“You’re making that up.” I placed my phone into my pocket. We had all dressed similarly for the occasion: black, long-sleeved tops and black pants.
“They’re in Dorset.” Blake pulled up by the street sign. “Edward brought us there in our second year to take a look.”
I undid my seatbelt. “What did you find?”
Henry opened the front passenger door and stepped out. “Nothing worth the journey, but the fish and chips weren’t bad.”
“He liked the cockles and mussels,” said Blake. “And the spotted dick.”
Pushing aside the mental image to concentrate on our mission, I grabbed them both by the hands, and we stood at the corner to watch Edward step out of the limo and knock on a door covered in peeling, red paint.
Mrs. Carbuncle answered the door, carrying a leather suitcase almost half her size. Edward gave her a gallant bow and took her case. Then he led her to the limousine and handed the suitcase to the driver, who carried it to the trunk.
“Let’s hope she doesn’t return for the kitchen sink,” muttered Henry.
“That’s why I brought these.” Blake reached into the pocket of his black jeans and pulled out a handful of unused stockings.
“Why do you have those?” I whispered.
“Don’t ask,” they both replied at the same time.
If we weren’t about to commit the crime of breaking and entering, I would have pressed for more information. But since Mr. Carbuncle could be anywhere, including close by and watching his mother’s house, I kept my mouth shut and slipped on a pair of leather gloves.
When the limo disappeared down the road and out of the village, we walked through the street, acting as though we were on our way to visit a friend. Henry knocked on the red door, waited, and stepped back. Blake slid in front of him and forced open the lock with a credit card.
A breath caught in my throat. “Where did you learn that?”
“One time at the palace, everyone was bored of waiting for Mother and the prince to emerge from their chamber. To pass the time, a pair of detectives taught me the basics of lock picking.”
The door swung open, and the scent of strong air freshener filled my nostrils. Wincing, I stepped into a darkened hallway. Floorboards creaked with every step. I turned the knob of the first door and entered.
Threadbare, floral sofas took up most of the room, and a fluffy, brown rug made up of four sheepskin covered splintery, wood floors. A thick envelope lay on the side-table. Henry picked it up and placed it in a bag.
“We should search his bedroom,” I said. “He’s bound to keep something incriminating up there.”
Upstairs was a bathroom with a dark purple toilet, sink, and bath, complete with a bidet. Mauve, damask carpets covered the ground, along with fluffy, aubergine bathmats.
“There’s only one toothbrush,” I spotted a plastic brush with splayed bristles standing in a grimy, enamel mug.
“Indicating that she lives alone,” added Henry.
“Indicating that Carbuncle lives here part-time,” said Blake. “His mother would have packed hers for her little trip.”
A chill shuddered down my spine. “I think you’re right.” That was an excellent observation, although I’d seen Mr. Carbuncle’s teeth up close, and it wouldn’t surprise me if this was the only toothbrush he owned. I turned around and glanced through the bathroom door into the upstairs landing. “We’d better hurry in case he decides to visit.”
The next room was a pink bedroom with a quilt-covered bed that obviously belonged to Mrs. Carbuncle. I opened the next door, which contained a water tank and mauve towels on a shelf.
“Where does he sleep?” I muttered.
“In that bed with his mother?” asked Blake.
“Charlotte mentioned a basement,” said Henry.
A tight fist of apprehension clenched my stomach. “What if he’s already down there, lying in wait?” I could imagine him happily telling his mother to stay at Edward’s and using her time away to snatch me. My mind conjured up images of being suffocated to death, then melted in a bathtub of acid. “It rained last night. What if he got fed up with sleeping in his truck and snuck home?”
“One of us will stay on the downstairs landing while you and the others go down and investigate,” said Blake.
“I’ll go down with you.” Henry bal
led his hands into fists. “If he’s there, he won’t last long.”
Worry rippled through my insides. Henry and Mr. Carbuncle were both of an even height, but while Henry had the build and musculature of a heavyweight boxer, the former caretaker was built like a mountain gorilla and likely had the strength of the criminally insane.
“Are you sure you can take him on?” I whispered as we descended the creaky staircase.
His blond brows rose. “You doubt me?”
“Mr. Carbuncle is a man on the run. He’s got nothing to lose.”
Blake placed a comforting hand on the small of my back. “I’ve seen Henry fight four rugby players and still come out looking pretty. He can handle Carbuncle.”
“Don’t call me pretty.” Henry strode to the end of the darkened, downstairs hallway.
We reached a set of stairs that led underground. Blake huffed and folded his arms. “Between Emilia’s fretting and Henry’s semantics, we’ll be here until Carbuncle comes to pay mummy dearest a midnight booty call.”
I wrapped my hand around Henry’s, and we walked down a set of rickety wooden stairs. The surface of the wood crunched under my feet, making me wonder if it meant woodworm. What we stepped down into was more like an underground pantry than the dungeon of a psychopath. Wooden shelves lined one side, mostly laden with cleaning supplies and empty preserve jars.
“That’s where he must sleep.” Henry pointed the flashlight of his smartphone at a folded z-bed propped against the wall, which was mostly covered in blankets.
Next to it stood a chest of drawers. I crossed the room and opened the first one. Photos filled the entire drawer. One of them was from the Valentine’s party. I lay on the four-poster bed, kissing Henry on the mouth while Blake sucked on my collarbone. Every ounce of blood drained from my face. “How did he get this?”
Another photo had been taken through the window of Edward’s study. I was naked and bent over, Henry’s head was between my ass-cheeks, my free hand gripped Blake’s erection, and my lips were wrapped around Edward’s prick. A cold mix of fear and disgust skittered over the lining of my stomach and climbed up my gullet. I gulped several mouthfuls of air and clutched the drawer.