Murder at Archly Manor

by Sara Rosett

  I tilted my head to the side. “But can you prove that you were asleep in your room?”

  Her gaze skittered around the room. “I suppose not.”

  “Then you know exactly how Violet feels. I suggest you keep your insinuations to yourself. They’re particularly hurtful to Gwen.”

  “But then that means if Violet didn’t do it, someone else here did.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  Thea’s hand went to the neckline of her dress. “That’s . . . such a disturbing thought. We may not be safe here.” She jumped up. “I must speak to Muriel about the children and call a maid to have our things packed.”

  “I’m afraid no one is allowed to leave.”

  “Not allowed to leave?” Her voice was shrill. “What do you mean?”

  “Until the police complete their investigation, we all have to stay here.”

  “Why that’s—that’s unacceptable. I’ll have Sebastian speak to the inspector.” She hurried off. I shook out my skirt and left the drawing room. I’d managed to offend two women in the space of less than an hour, but I didn’t feel much remorse. Their attitudes toward Violet were inexcusable.

  I found Tug and Monty in the billiard room. They had given up their game and were sitting in club chairs, drinking whiskey. Monty offered to get me a drink, but I declined and sat down in another chair beside them. “Tug, you’re just the person I wanted to talk to.”

  He looked a bit stunned. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Did you spill a drink on Lady Pamela during the party?”

  “Still complaining about that, is she?” Monty asked.

  “It was a complete accident,” Tug said. “Someone hit my elbow, and before I knew it, I’d soaked her.”

  Monty said, “She was furious.”

  Tug snickered. “That’s putting it lightly.”

  “You were there too?” I asked Monty.

  “I wasn’t beside Tug, but everyone within about a thirty-yard radius heard Lady P’s screech,” Monty said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard her gown had been ruined, and I was curious about what happened.”

  Tug seemed to take my answer in stride, but Monty gave me a long look. He put down his drink. “I think I’ll take a stroll in the garden. Would you like to come with me, Miss Belgrave?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  As we left the room, Tug reached for the whiskey. I said to Monty, “I wouldn’t leave him alone with that decanter too long. At least, not if we want him to be coherent at dinner.”

  “I’ll come back and put away the drink in a moment.” He stepped back so I could go through the door to the terrace first. We went down the steps and into the garden with its boxwood hedges and masses of flowers. Our feet crunched on the gravel path as Monty said, “The inspector from the Yard interviewed me.”

  “Yes, I know. It seems we alibi each other.”

  He smiled fleetingly. “Handy that we were together, wasn’t it? I am glad the police aren’t hectoring me as they are your cousin.” He turned and walked sideways as he asked, “Did they ask you about the cufflink?”

  “No—well, Inspector Longly did ask me about jewelry, but he never mentioned a cufflink.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything to you, then. Well, too late now, isn’t it? I suspect that you’re the sort of person who will pester me until I tell you what I know, so let me save us both a great quantity of time and tell you. But first, I suppose you’d better swear not to tell.”

  “I swear,” I said, feeling a bit like I was humoring a small boy.

  “Good. I suppose that will do. When the police . . . er . . . checked over Alfred on the terrace, he was missing a cufflink. They searched all the flagstones and even the gardens nearby.”

  “They must not have found it.”

  “No, and I think it came off as he went over the balustrade.”

  “Why do you think that? He could have lost it earlier during the evening.”

  Monty shook his head. “No, he had both of them before he went off to find Violet before the fireworks began. He and I were talking, and he adjusted his cuffs. I saw both cufflinks. Later, before the police shooed me off of the terrace, I heard someone up above on the balcony pointing out a gouge in the stone. A long, deep scratch, he called it. Apparently they could tell from the position of . . . er . . . the body that it was where Alfred had gone over. The scratch was at that exact spot on the railing. They speculated a button or tie tack had caught on the stone as he went over. Shortly after, they went over—um—the body rather thoroughly. That’s when they noticed the missing cufflink.”

  “What did the cufflinks look like?”

  “Silver with his initials engraved on them.”

  “When you saw the cufflinks, what part of the evening was it?”

  Monty frowned. “Not long before the fireworks.”

  “And was Violet with Alfred?”

  “No, that was a bit of a sore spot with him, in fact.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I said something about him managing to get away from Violet—bit of a joke, you know, because they’d been dancing together all night. But he took it the wrong way. Bit off my head, actually.”

  “What did he say?”

  Monty tugged at his collar. “Don’t remember exactly.”

  “Yes, you do. You don’t want to make me uncomfortable because it wasn’t flattering toward Violet, right?”

  Monty sighed. “Yes, that was it. Said she was a pushy baggage.”

  “Not flattering at all,” I said. Their conversation must have taken place after Alfred and Violet had argued while Violet was dancing with other boys.

  We walked a few steps in silence. Why hadn’t Longly asked me about the cufflink directly? Monty linked his hands behind his back. “So you’re checking up on suspects?”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “Perhaps.”

  “There’s no perhaps about it. You’re conducting your own investigation, something the inspector wasn’t too happy with earlier today. He took out most of his frustration on Gwen.”

  I grimaced. “That’s not what I intended.”

  “So what have you found out?”

  I considered for a moment whether I should tell him or not, but he was with me when Alfred was pushed off the balcony. We had both watched it happen from the lawn, so Monty couldn’t have been involved. “You must promise not to tell anyone else.”

  “It’s juicy stuff, then.”

  “That’s not a promise.”

  “No, all right. I officially promise not to breathe a word of what you say—nary a syllable shall pass my lips.”

  “That’s better. Violet and I went to London today and talked to Jane, a maid who left last night.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down as he raised his eyebrows. “My, you have been busy.”

  “Jane was well away from the house before Alfred was killed. But Jane, Lady Pamela, Thea, and even Gwen were upstairs—oh, and Muriel and the children as well. I wonder if Muriel let the children watch the fireworks or if she put them to bed . . .”

  We circled around a flowerbed and headed back to the house. “My governess wouldn’t have let me watch the fireworks, but Muriel seems a bit more lenient.”

  “That’s another thing I’ll have to check on.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing specific.” Unlike Inspector Jennings, I wasn’t about to air my suspicions until I had something to back them up. And I wasn’t going to mention Alfred’s blackmailing scheme either.

  “You realize the police are set on your cousin as a suspect, but you disagree?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to do everything I can to help Violet.”

  “I can see that. Be careful.” He squinted at the gleaming white exterior of Archly Manor. “Remember, if you’re right, and I think you are—I don’t see Violet murdering Alfred—then someone in that house is a murderer.”

  Chapter Fifteen
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  Sunday passed quietly. It was as if we were waiting for the inquest, which had been scheduled for Monday. I hadn’t expected Sebastian’s household to attend church, and no mention was made of going to the service, so Gwen and I spent the morning strategizing in the sitting room, another room decorated in the rococo style but with a lighter touch. The over-the-top curves, flourishes, and gilding had been kept to a minimum. Lady Pamela, Thea, and Violet weren’t early risers, and the men were playing a game of billiards, so we didn’t have to worry about being disturbed.

  “I think our best chance is to see if we can find out who these people are.” I tapped the list Violet had made.

  Gwen pursed her lips as she stared at the paper. “I hate to have a defeatist attitude, but it does seem daunting.”

  “Well, we have to try. We’ve already figured out Lady Snooty and the initial J, so that only leaves three. We are making progress.”

  “I suppose.” Gwen smoothed a strand of hair off her forehead and drew the paper closer. “I’ve no idea about Muncher or Songbird. No idea at all.”

  “Then you work on the doctor. You met the cook and housekeeper on the night of the party. Find some excuse to speak to them again and see if Alfred had any contact with the local doctor.”

  “I suppose I could do that.”

  “Good. I’ll work on the other two.”

  Gwen pushed up from her chair and moved to the door slowly. I said, “You’re not on your way to your execution, you know. You’re only asking a few questions.”

  Gwen smiled. “You’re right, of course.” She straightened her shoulders. “Just a few questions dropped here and there,” she muttered to herself. “Here goes.”

  Poor Gwen. She hated subterfuge, but she’d do anything to help Violet, even something that went against her natural inclinations. I tucked the paper away in a pocket and followed her out of the room.

  The billiard game had broken up, but I heard voices out the open window and walked through the shrubbery until I found the men. Sebastian stood behind a camera on a tripod that was set up in a sunken portion of the garden, waving his hand. “Over to the left.”

  Tug stood a little way down the path from Sebastian. He took a step away from a statue of Venus, which was set on a stone plinth.

  “No, your left,” Sebastian said. “Yes, another step—wait. Back a half step. There. Don’t move.”

  Monty sat on a stone bench positioned on the upper portion of the garden. He asked, “Care to join me?” I sat beside him, and he said, “It’s a bit like an amphitheater, being on this raised bit of ground. Excellent seat for the show.”

  “How did Sebastian convince Tug to get into his tux at this time of day?”

  “Promised him the immortality of being photographed by one of the world’s greatest artists. That’s Sebastian, in case you didn’t know.”

  “Are his photographs any good?”

  “Amazing, actually.”

  “Really? Why doesn’t he have any hung around Archly Manor?”

  “Don’t know. I suppose it’s his fragile artist’s ego. Sebastian thinks of himself as a genius, but the slightest tidbit of criticism crushes him. Sends him right off into a foul mood. Strange creatures, these creative types.”

  Sebastian directed Tug to lean on the plinth and look up at the Venus statue. “And don’t squint.”

  “Can’t help it,” Tug said. “The sunlight is too bright not to.”

  “Then pretend it’s overcast. Immortality, my good man. Do you want it or not?”

  “How did Tug get his nickname?” I asked.

  “Haven’t the faintest.”

  “Did Alfred come up with it? He was a fan of nicknames, wasn’t he?”

  Monty frowned. “Occasionally, yes. He called Sebastian the artiste. Sebastian liked it.”

  “Any more?”

  “Hmm . . . I wonder why you’re asking. Could it be because of your interest in finding his killer?”

  “Perhaps. Can you think of any more of Alfred’s nicknames?”

  “Let’s see . . . dormouse, that’s what he called Muriel.”

  “She does seem timid.”

  “And he called Babcock—well, ah . . . perhaps that’s not one for mixed company. Oh, here’s another. You know what a prig Lord Harlan—Lady Pamela’s father—is?”

  “I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard he’s a stickler for propriety.”

  “Too tepid a description, actually,” Monty said. “Once Alfred was attempting to describe Lord Harlan as Mr. Pompous, but he’d—Alfred, I mean—had rather too much to drink, and it kept coming out as Mr. Pom-Pants.” Monty sighed as he looked across the garden. “That was a jolly good time. I ran into Lord Harlan at my club not long after, and I nearly slipped and called him Mr. Pom-Pants. I’m terrified now I’ll actually speak the words aloud sometime.”

  “So Violet was right about Lord Harlan, that he’s strict?”

  “Imagine Hugh in thirty years’ time. They’re not related, but it’s a fairly accurate picture.”

  “Then her father is the opposite of Lady Pamela,” I said.

  “Yes. He’s doing all he can to bring her in line with his expectations—limits her funds, that sort of thing.”

  “Really? I assumed Lady Pamela was quite well set up.”

  He shook his head. “She never pays her own way. I bought the train tickets to get us here—first-class, of course. Why do you think she spends so much time with Thea?”

  I tilted my head to the side. “They aren’t very alike.” The women weren’t the same age, and they were at different stages of life. Thea was a matronly mum of two children, fighting every sign of aging, and she was several years older than Lady Pamela, who was single and childless.

  “Thea likes the distinction of having an aristocratic friend, and Lady Pamela likes Thea’s open purse.” Monty lifted his chin toward the two men in the garden. “It’s why Lady Pamela lets Tug tag along after her. His father is generous with his allowance, and Tug is more than happy to lavish dinners, outings to nightclubs, and the best champagne on Lady Pamela.”

  “Smile wider,” Sebastian said to Tug. “Pretend that’s Lady Pamela you’re looking at. There—perfect.”

  Later that afternoon, I was the first one down to tea. The empty day had stretched out endlessly. I wanted to talk to the other members of the house party, but Thea remained in her room most of the day, and Tug rowed Lady Pamela around the lake for hours. Monty and Sebastian closeted themselves in Sebastian’s study and smoked cigars. The slow passage of time grated on me. I liked movement and accomplishing things, but it was impossible to make progress when no one was around.

  As I entered the drawing room, a flicker of movement caught my eye. A foot slithered under one of the blue toile settees. I walked over, dropped to my knees, and found myself looking into Paul’s face. He held a large slice of cake in one hand, and crumbs dusted the corners of his mouth.

  “Needed a bite to eat?” I asked.

  He swallowed and licked the crumbs from his mouth. “Er—yes. Muriel doesn’t let us eat until they bring our tea to the nursery, and that won’t be for hours and hours.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s actually that long from now.”

  “But it feels like it.”

  “I imagine it does.” A boy with as much energy as Paul was probably hungry all the time. “Then you’d better slip out now while you have the chance. Go out the doors to the terrace and the west garden. I’ll keep your secret.” However it was obvious that a large chunk of cake was missing from the table where tea had been laid out.

  A grin split his face. “Thanks.” He wiggled out from under the settee, holding the cake so that it didn’t brush against the furniture or himself—quite a feat of dexterity, actually.

  He was almost to the door when he turned back. “I don’t do this all the time, you know.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.” It suddenly struck me that Paul could answer one of my questions. “Paul, the night of the party,
did you watch the fireworks?”

  His eyebrows lowered, and his mouth flattened into a line. “No. Muriel wouldn’t let us.”

  “But I think you were probably determined to see them, right?” He hesitated. I said, “It’s okay, I’ll keep this secret too. Did you slip out and watch them?”

  He nodded.

  “Muriel didn’t see you?”

  “No. I’m quiet.”

  “I noticed. Did Muriel stay in the nursery?”

  His gaze shifted over my shoulder. He whispered, “Yes,” then melted out the door.

  I turned. Muriel stood in the doorway, scanning the room. “Paul’s slipped away again. Have you seen him?”

  “He’s not in here,” I said.

  She pounced on a bright bit of paper on the floor. “Fruit gums. Paul’s been in here. And I told him to throw the wrapper in the trash.” She crumpled the paper and stuffed it into her pocket as she made a quick circuit of the room, looking behind the furniture. “I’d better check the kitchen. He has Cook keeping back sweets for him too.”

  Muriel left, and I sent up a quick prayer of thankfulness I hadn’t been hired as a governess. It would have been me chasing after schoolboys and probably keeping up with my mistress’s correspondence too, as Muriel had to do for Thea.

  Everyone drifted in for tea. No one commented on the missing slab of cake, but Babcock did sigh when he checked the table. Nearly half an hour later, Muriel appeared with Paul and Rose. Paul avoided my gaze as they entered, but when Muriel was turned away, I winked at him. He giggled, then stifled the sound as Muriel turned sharply toward him.

  I’d hoped to compare notes with Gwen while everyone was sipping their tea, but we weren’t able to separate from everyone for any length of time. It had to wait until later when we went upstairs after dinner. I clinched the tie of my dressing gown and tapped on the connecting door before going through.

  Gwen put down her brush and turned from the glass. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m afraid I wasn’t successful. The doctor hasn’t been summoned here in months, and he hasn’t dined here either. Apparently, Sebastian doesn’t invite the local neighbors to his events.”