Death in a Stately Home: Book Three in the Murder on Location series

by Sara Rosett

  Mrs. King pressed her lips together and let out another disapproving breath through her nose. “I’m afraid so. You’d best see for yourself.” She pointed Ella and me in the direction of an upholstered bench along the wall, opposite the case of butterflies.

  If Beatrice hadn’t arrived, I would have gone to my room to find my phone and call the police myself, but since she was here, I didn’t. She would see they were called. I sat down beside Ella. Her color looked better, but I noticed her hands were shaking as she smoothed her apron over her black skirt. “How are you doing?”

  “A little better now. I just couldn’t believe it. It scared me so bad, when neither one of them moved. I know I should be examining myself, my reactions, my thoughts, for later—for parts, you know—but I can’t seem to do it.”

  “I expect you’ll remember how you felt for a long time.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t even want to go in. It felt awkward. I know it’s part of creating authenticity, making it feel like it’s 1811, but I was afraid that they wouldn’t like it. Having to wake someone out of a sound sleep…that didn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “Especially when that someone is Monique,” I said, dryly.

  Ella gave a faint smile. “Yes, that was it, exactly. But Mrs. King said Mrs. Clay was clear—she wanted to ride, so I had to go in. Mrs. King said I could knock, but if they didn’t answer straightaway, I was to use the key and go in.”

  “Do you have a passkey?” I asked. Her hands weren’t shaking as much. Talking seemed to be calming her.

  “Oh, no. I only had that key,” she looked toward the door to the Mahogany bedroom, where a skeleton key with a white label on a string dangled from the lock. “It’s from Mrs. King’s key ring, the one she keeps in her jacket pocket. No one else has keys to the bedrooms.”

  “No one? Not even Bea—I mean Lady Stone?”

  “No,” Ella said, “It’s all to do with security and the house guests. It was part of the briefing we had before the first party of house guests arrived. The locks have all been rekeyed, and only the guests have a key to their room. If they lose it, then we have to go to Mrs. King. She has the only other copy.”

  “But how will you get in to clean the rooms and make the beds?”

  “Mrs. King accompanies us. She unlocks the doors and stays in the area until the rooms are clean. Then she locks up again. ”

  And inspects the results, I bet.

  “It should have worked. We only have six rooms to clean.”

  “Six?”

  “Yes, the three couples have a room, the butterfly guy has a room, the hen party ladies are sharing a room, and you. That’s six. Three in this wing and three in the other wing. Mrs. King said we should be finished with the rooms before lunch, but I don’t think that will happen now.”

  Beatrice emerged from the room, a cell phone already pressed to her ear. Mrs. King followed her, then shut the door firmly.

  “Yes,” Beatrice said into the phone. “Send emergency services. Can you get in touch with Inspector Quimby? Oh. In that case, have them send whoever they can spare. Because it’s murder, of course. Why else would I ask for the inspector?”

  Chapter 7

  “MURDER?” I ASKED, SHOCKED.

  ELLA sucked in a breath, and Mrs. King, her face scandalized, looked up and down the hall quickly. “Beatrice,” she whispered in a warning tone.

  “It is, Nancy. No doubt about it. And it won’t do us any good to pretend it’s not. Any doctor worth his salt will recognize the signs.”

  “What signs?” I asked.

  “Petechial hemorrhages.” The medical term rolled off Beatrice’s tongue. Seeing that none of us knew what the word meant, she added, “Tiny broken blood vessels in the face and eyes. He’s been suffocated. You didn’t notice the small red dots on his face?”

  Mrs. King shook her head, and Beatrice looked to me.

  “I didn’t notice them either. It was dark with the bed curtains blocking the light, but if you say they were there…”

  “Yes. Definite signs of asphyxiation.”

  “But how do you know about—I mean, surely that’s not a common thing…” Mrs. King trailed off then said, “I’m sorry. It’s the shock.” I had a feeling that the housekeeper was in distinctly unusual territory. She didn’t strike me as someone who was normally tentative or unsure of herself—or someone who questioned her employer, either.

  Beatrice patted her arm. “It’s fine, Nancy. I was a nurse. Before I met Harold, I trained and worked in the casualty ward. You don’t forget the things you saw there.”

  “I see,” Mrs. King said, but it was clear from her tone that she hadn’t known this bit of information about Beatrice.

  I hadn’t either, but it didn’t surprise me. I could see Beatrice treating patients with a firm, yet kind manner.

  “It was a shocking disappointment to my family, of course. I did partially redeem myself by marrying Harold, though.”

  “What about her—Mrs. Clay?” Ella said suddenly. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “One too many sleeping pills, I’d say. Not much to be done for her until after the doctor sees her.”

  “Shouldn’t someone be in there?” Ella asked. “In case she…you know…wakes up?”

  “Yes, I’ll wait with her,” Beatrice said. “The constable will be here soon. Nancy, wait for him in the entry hall. Bring him up as soon as he arrives. I doubt it will be long. Ella, you go down to the kitchens and tell the caterer to give you a strong cup of tea with lots of sugar in it.”

  Ella nodded and hurried after Mrs. King, who was already striding away.

  “I suppose I should wait in my room—” I broke off at the sound of fabric rustling that came from the Mahogany bedroom.

  Beatrice motioned for me to follow her and strode quickly into the room.

  Monique had a hand over her eyes, shielding her face from the muted light of the overcast day that filtered in through the glass doors. “Who opened those windows?” Keeping one hand over her eyes, she struggled up to a sitting position, then pulled the sleep mask off her forehead. She slammed it down on the bed and connected with Toby’s shoulder. Something about it must have felt wrong to her because she froze and looked down at him, then she opened her mouth and let out a scream that I was sure resounded up and down every corridor at Parkview.

  Monique refused to wait in the Mahogany bedroom for emergency services. She sat, wrapped in my rather worn cotton robe, her blond curls falling over her face, huddled in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.

  Her screams had brought some of the guests and several staff members. It had been a chaotic few minutes as Monique scrambled out of the bed and threw herself at Beatrice. Her bare shoulders heaving, Monique had stood with her head turned away from the bed, her white silk gown trembling with each sob.

  The guests and staff had poured into the room, their questions and shocked exclamations creating a din that, at first, drowned out Beatrice’s request for them to leave. The footmen and maids had followed her directions and filed out first, followed by the rest of the guests. Beatrice had maneuvered Monique out of the room. Her screams had tapered off into a series of hiccupy sobs and then silence.

  I was glad to finally see Constable Albertson’s familiar face. He had arrived while we were milling about the hallway, and after a quick look around the Mahogany bedroom, he had called for more officers, who gave all of us curious looks, reminding me that some of us were in period clothes.

  Albertson took down everyone’s name and then had sent everyone off to their rooms to wait for further instructions—everyone except Monique, who had shied away from the now closed door to her room. Beatrice had suggested Monique wait with me in the Rose bedroom. She sat with a box of tissue in her lap, dabbing at her puffy eyes, with a shell-shocked, slightly dazed manner, yawning occasionally. The medical people had examined Monique. Other than a residual grogginess, she seemed to be fine.

  A rap on the door sounded, and Constable A
lbertson poked his craggy face around the door. “The surgeon has examined the body, and the DCI is on his way. He’ll want a place to set up.”

  “Certainly. He can use my office,” Beatrice said. “Did the surgeon indicate…” she trailed off as she looked at Monique.

  Albertson glanced at Monique quickly, then shifted his shoulder so that his back was to her. “He agreed with your assessment,” he said quietly.

  Beatrice blew out a long breath. “I see.”

  Monique, tissue pressed to her nose, stared at Albertson’s back. She sniffed, balled the tissue, and dropped it onto the pile on the floor beside her. “I don’t understand…the DCI?”

  Albertson turned to her. “Detective Chief Inspector Hopkins, ma’am.”

  “The police? Why?” Monique asked, her forehead wrinkling.

  “To investigate. Your husband…,” he cleared his throat. “The DCI will tell you.”

  Monique ran a hand over her eyes and fought off a yawn. “No. Tell me. What is going on?” She held out a hand to him, her face confused and lost. “Please, I have a right to know.”

  Albertson looked uncomfortable. “The death of your husband was…It appears there was foul play.”

  “Foul play? You mean…murder? No. It couldn’t have been.” Her curls bounced as she shook her head. “He had a weak heart, but he didn’t want anyone to know. He said it would put him at a disadvantage so he kept it quiet. Very quiet.” She rubbed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, I’m so tired. I shouldn’t have taken that second sleeping pill. Toby told me not to, but I was so wound up.” She sat up straighter and opened her eyes wide, clearly an effort to stay alert. “Only a few people knew about his heart, but that’s what happened. His heart just gave out.” She breathed in deeply and hid another yawn behind her hand, finally speaking around the tail end of her yawn. “So you can send the inspector chap away.”

  Beatrice said, “We can’t do that.”

  Constable Albertson nodded. “The police surgeon confirmed it. It must be investigated,” he said gently to Monique. Albertson turned to Beatrice. “I’ll send for you as soon as the DCI arrives.” The door clicked closed, and Monique focused her puffy gaze on Beatrice. “Why did he say that…about agreeing with your assessment?”

  “There were certain signs…I shouldn’t have said anything,” Beatrice said. “I should have left it to the officials.”

  Monique stood and the tissue box fell at her feet. She ignored it and crossed the room to grip Beatrice’s hand. “Tell me. Please. What did you see? I am—was—his wife. I should know.”

  Reluctantly, Beatrice said, “Tiny red dots on his face and eyes, hemorrhages. It’s a sign of asphyxiation.”

  “Asphyx—” She turned and walked a few steps, the silky hem fluttering around her bare feet. “But then that would mean, it happened during the night.” She rubbed her hand over her face, her bright red nails contrasting sharply with her pale skin. “He was fine when we went to sleep.” She spoke more to herself than to us. “That means—someone came into the room…” she faltered then shivered. “It happened while I was in bed with him. I could have been murdered, too.” Her hand went to the lapels of the robe. She gathered the material around her neck.

  Constable Albertson tapped and opened the door. “The DCI is here. He’s examined the scene, and he’d like to speak with all of you. If you’ll follow me, please?”

  Beatrice and I moved toward the door, but Monique only blinked. “I can’t go like this.” She waved at my robe.

  “You can’t remove anything from your room at this time. I’m sorry,” Albertson said. “I’ll have some clothes sent to you as soon as possible.”

  Monique’s mental grogginess seemed to be clearing. She blew out a little disapproving breath through her nose, but she must have decided that she wouldn’t be able to move the constable because she only said, “And my makeup. I must have that as well.”

  “I understand,” Albertson said. “My wife wouldn’t be without hers either. I’ll see that a set of clothes and your other items are transferred to you as soon as possible.”

  Monique gave a little nod, but still wasn’t happy. She threw a frustrated look at me, and seemed to be on the point of asking if she could borrow something from me, but she must have decided that my clothes wouldn’t be up to her standards. “Oh, very well,” she said to Albertson. “I suppose that will have to do.” Then she turned to me, extended a bare foot, and wiggled her toes. “Do you at least have some slippers I can wear?”

  “I have sandals.” I went to the closet while she moved to the dressing table and leaned over to look at her reflection. “I look awful.” She rubbed her fingers under her eyes, removing some mascara smears, pushed her curls back behind her ears, then put on my sandals and followed Albertson out the door without saying thank you.

  I wanted to change, too. I was still in my Regency day dress, but there was no way I could get out of my dress without help, and, with Monique sobbing in my room, ringing for Ella hadn’t seemed like the thing to do.

  We didn’t see anyone during the long trek to the estate office. Once we arrived, Beatrice went into her office first to meet with the DCI, a rotund man with wavy black hair streaked with gray and dark black eyes. After a few minutes of waiting, I took a seat at a nearby desk, careful not to push the wheels of the rolling chair over my long skirt. Monique went to the tall windows and gazed out at the old stables and the new playground. After a few moments, she spun around abruptly and said, “This is all a mistake. Once I explain to him about Toby’s heart, it will all be cleared up.”

  I glanced toward the closed door, which was so thick that we couldn’t hear more than the faint murmur of voices. The police certainly seemed to be taking it seriously. “But the physical evidence…”

  “I’m sure they’re wrong.” She waved her hand. “A few red dots does not add up to murder. I mean, it doesn’t make sense. Why murder Toby?”

  “Surely he had enemies and rivals? A businessman of his stature would have to,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “Of course he had, but no one who would kill him. It’s too absurd to even consider.”

  “No shady business deals at all?” I asked, and she picked up on the disbelief in my tone.

  She let out a short bark of laughter. “Not with the media constantly breathing down our necks. We couldn’t go out to dinner without being photographed and mentioned in the gossip press. If there were any hint of Toby being associated with someone less than aboveboard, it would have been all over the news.” She moved to the desk where I was seated and picked up a glossy magazine, which was folded back to an inner page. “See, here we are, two weeks ago in Mayfair. We can’t even go for a walk without it being documented.” She tossed the magazine down and idly plucked a postcard of the village from the computer monitor, then flicked it onto the magazine. “And why not kill me as well?” She demanded suddenly. “I was right there, too, as helpless as a…a newborn. I couldn’t have fought back.”

  “So you didn’t wake up at all? You don’t remember anything?” I asked out of real curiosity. I had never taken sleeping pills and didn’t know how strong they were.

  “No. The last thing I remember was telling Toby to come to bed. I was so groggy at that point. The first pill didn’t seem to be working, so I’d taken another.” She looked toward the ceiling. “I know I’m not supposed to do that, but I always begin to feel lethargic after about thirty minutes, but it didn’t happen last night. I was still furious about my dress. That’s probably why. Anyway, I took another, and it wasn’t long before it kicked in. The last thing I remember was Toby turning out the lights.”

  “Did Toby take a pill, too?” I asked, remembering how she’d offered him one in the drawing room.

  “Yes. He was just back from a trip to the States. He always takes one after traveling back, otherwise he wakes up at two in the morning.”

  The door opened. Beatrice emerged, and DCI Hopkins, moving lightly on his feet for such a large man, solemn
ly ushered Monique into Beatrice’s office and closed the door. Beatrice pulled another rolling chair over and sat down beside me.

  “I told him everything—all about the poison pen posts and the note last night at dinner, so if you think of anything that might help him that’s related to these attacks on Sir Harold, go ahead and tell him. There’s no need to keep anything back or keep anything secret now.” She ran her hand over the fabric of her dress. We were both still in our Regency attire, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the police thought of us, dressed up in costume at a crime scene. “Poison pen letters are one thing, but murder…” Beatrice pleated the fabric together and sighed. “It will all come out now…the accusations in the poison pen posts, but a man has been murdered.”

  “The DCI confirmed it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But surely the death of Toby Clay has nothing to do with the insinuations about Sir Harold,” I said.

  “I’m afraid they may,” she looked toward the window. “Until yesterday, the Mahogany bedroom was our room, Sir Harold’s and mine.”

  Chapter 8

  “YOU’RE SAYING THAT UP UNTIL yesterday, Friday, the Mahogany bedroom was your bedroom? Yours and Sir Harold’s?”

  “Yes. It has been for years, but after the first house party, we decided we’d like to remove ourselves a bit from the main house. We had more people arriving for this house party, and while we have many nice rooms at Parkview, not all of them are in tiptop shape, if you know what I mean. Especially since we’re charging quite a significant amount for our house party guests, we want them to have the very best accommodations.” She looked at the fabric of her dress where she’d been pleating it. She smoothed out the folds. “Removing to the Lodge seemed the best solution. It was set up as a holiday cottage, but wasn’t booked for this weekend. By moving there, it freed up one of the nicest rooms, and would allow the servants to concentrate more on the guests.”