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

by Sara Rosett

  “Sure, he smiles vaguely,” Holly spit out, oblivious to—or unconcerned about—the rising anger on Sir Harold’s face or the bewilderment on Beatrice’s face. “He didn’t care when he turned an old lady out of what had been her home for thirty years. No, all that is important to him is the bottom line. Did he care that my gran had to move into a dirty little bedsit after he kicked her out? No, he has no compassion. Everyone should know what kind of hypocrite he is. What kind of hypocrites you both are.”

  Hopkins opened his mouth, but Beatrice held up her hand. “So you are Eileen’s granddaughter.”

  Still breathing raggedly, Holly said proudly, “Yes.”

  “I can see the resemblance now. I couldn’t before.” Beatrice’s words were tinged with sadness. “But I suppose it was all an act. The helpfulness, the eagerness to learn the job and gain my trust.”

  The tension eased from Sir Harold’s posture. He tilted his head. “Eileen Brogan?” At Holly’s nod, Sir Harold continued to stare at her, his face no longer angry. His expression was intense, as if he was trying to classify an unusual butterfly. “You think I turned your grandmother out of Aster Cottage?”

  “I know you did. That’s why I posted those things online,” Holly said to Beatrice. “People should know what you’re like—what you’re both like.”

  Beatrice reeled back and shook her head, speechless. Sir Harold removed his arm from her shoulder and took over the conversation, his arms crossed as he leaned toward Holly. “And how do you know this?” He addressed her calmly, almost reminding me of a teacher drawing out a student.

  “She told me herself.”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you that wasn’t true?”

  “Of course not. In fact, I expected it. That’s why I posted things on the Internet. I knew if I confronted you, you’d only deny it.”

  Sir Harold looked at her a moment more. “Right, then,” he said, his tone unruffled. “I suppose the only way to convince you is to show you.” He went to one of the bookcases, removed a ring of small keys from his pocket, and unlocked the glass doors that enclosed the books. He ran his finger along a shelf, then switched to the one above it. “Yes, here it is.”

  He took a book down and flipped through the pages as he slowly walked back across the room. As he passed by me, I saw the book was a ledger filled with neatly handwritten columns. The book fell open. A long piece of paper about two inches wide and eight inches long was pressed into the binding.

  He removed the paper and handed the ledger to Holly. “If you’ll look at line fifty-seven, I believe, you’ll see a payment.”

  “Eileen Brogan?” Holly’s gaze ran along the line to were the amount had been entered. I could see the amount at the end of the line was bigger than most of the other entries and had quite a few zeros after it. Holly gasped at the figure.

  “That date is the day before she moved out,” Sir Harold said.

  Holly stared at the book a moment, then pushed it away. “No, I don’t believe you. You took it away, the cottage. You didn’t buy it from her.”

  Sir Harold handed her the piece of paper. I inched closer. When she flipped it over, I realized it was a check, a canceled check with a signature on the back along with the bank stamp. “But that means…” Holly trailed off, and the check slipped from her hand, floating down to the patterned rug.

  Beatrice picked up the check. “It means your grandmother lied to you.” She replaced the check in the ledger and closed it then sat down on the sofa beside Holly.

  “I don’t understand.” Holly’s voice was small, and her face was perplexed. “I thought Gran didn’t own the cottage.”

  “She didn’t,” Beatrice said. “Harold’s father let her live there after Cecil passed away so unexpectedly. Harold honored the agreement when he inherited. Eileen lived there even after she married and had your mother and later when she was a widow.”

  “But she told me you forced her out. Made her leave.” Holly looked at the ledger. “I don’t see how…I mean, she told me…”

  Beatrice sighed and looked as if she didn’t want to go on. “Eileen met a man…not a gentleman, I’m afraid. But she didn’t know that then. None of us did. He seemed prosperous, if a little…slick.” Beatrice paused, her fingers tracing along the edge of the ledger. “He proposed. She accepted. They talked of purchasing a flat in London and investments that were poised to triple their return.”

  Beatrice glanced toward Sir Harold, who had moved around and was leaning on the back of the sofa. “He tried to convince us to invest as well, but Harold wouldn’t. Eileen, on the other hand, scraped together everything she had, and then she came to Harold.” Beatrice’s voice had been reluctant and her gaze tinged with pity as she watched Holly, but now her voice changed. It was charged with indignation. “She demanded Harold pay her for the cottage. She said that Harold’s father had intended her to own it, but never done the paperwork, which was not true.”

  Sir Harold patted Beatrice’s shoulder and said mildly, “I could see she was convinced…that she’d worked it around in her mind until she believed that. It would have been a long, messy process involving lawyers and—”

  Beatrice cut in. “Harold was generous. He gave her the check and had her sign a paper—the lawyers drew it up—saying she released the cottage to the estate and would not present any further claim or some language to that effect. The lawyers have a copy of it still, I’m sure.”

  Holly gestured at the ledger. “But if you gave her the money, why would she say those things?”

  Beatrice’s outrage faded quickly, and her tone was back to pity. “Because the man was a fortune hunter. He took it all, all of Eileen’s money, as well as the ‘investments’ of several other people. He left her penniless. Of course, word got back to us here eventually, and we sent word that Eileen was welcome to return, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Too embarrassed, I suppose. I’m afraid in her mind, she must have twisted the story so that she wasn’t to blame. It’s much easier if you can blame someone else for your mistakes. Unfortunately, the story had to have a villain. It sounds as if she cast Harold.”

  She threw a sad smile at Sir Harold then returned her attention to Holly. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid Eileen has lied to you.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Holly said, but her gaze stayed on the ledger.

  “You know your grandmother better than I do now, I suppose. I haven’t seen her in years, but people’s personalities tend not to change drastically. Eileen never accepted that the car wreck that killed Cecil was his fault. He’d been drinking. It was a well-known fact, but she always insisted it was the weather, and the fact that the turn was too sharp where the main road met Westonworth Road.”

  Holly looked down at the rug. “She is good at revising history and assigning blame to someone else.” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “My not making a good score on my exam wasn’t my fault. My tutor hadn’t prepared me well enough.” She looked up at Beatrice, her dazed expression was replaced with growing dismay. “I believed her about you and Sir Harold, and said those terrible things. I wanted to get back at you. Make you pay for what you’d done to her.”

  “Is that why you murdered Toby Clay?”

  I’d been so swept up in the story that I’d completely forgotten about Hopkins, but now he stepped forward, his face still impassive, but there was a light in his eyes as his gaze bored into Holly. “A murder at Parkview is horrible publicity.”

  Holly’s throat worked as she swallowed. “No. I had nothing to do with that, I swear.” She scooted back on the sofa as Hopkins approached, shaking her head from side to side. “I didn’t do that. I only wanted to expose Lady Stone and Sir Harold, to show the world what hypocrites they were. I know it looks bad. The timing is terrible—that’s why I was leaving. I knew that because of the murder there would be an investigation, that you’d find out what I’d done. I destroyed the phone I used to take the photos that I’d posted online. But I swear it was
only the posts and pictures…and the note under the tablecloth at dinner,” she added, looking back down at the rug. “I wanted to embarrass them in front of their guests. I figured that would hurt them the most.”

  Her gaze flickered to Beatrice and Sir Harold. “I’m so, so sorry. If I’d known, I never would have…but murder?” She twisted back toward Hopkins. “No. That wasn’t me.”

  “Where were you last night from eleven until two this morning?”

  “At home.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “Yes,” Holly hesitated, then said, “Gran lives with me. She was there.” She finished in a rush, “I know you won’t take her word for it, but it’s true. I was there all night. I swear to it. It’s a ground floor flat, you see, with a basement. It flooded last night, as it always does—oh,” she said suddenly. Her face brightened. “Tom, you can ask him. He’s the building manager. We had to call him. He came first, then sent the plumber,” she said with relief.

  “And what time was this?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. Late. The plumber didn’t arrive until nearly one in the morning. You can check my phone,” she said, digging into a pocket. She handed the cell phone with the hot pink cover to Hopkins, and he looked through the call logs.

  “The plumber’s number is in there. He said to call him if we had more trouble. It’s supposed to rain again today—oh, it’s already started,” she said looking at the windows.

  Rain was indeed tapping on the windows and running down the panes in rivulets. I’d been so wrapped up in the drama playing out in front of me that I hadn’t even noticed it.

  “Oh dear,” Beatrice said, “And I’d hoped for a clear afternoon for the guests.” She looked toward Sir Harold. “What do you think? Will it clear?”

  Harold glanced out the window. He had an uncanny knack for being able to predict whether or not it would rain. I wouldn’t have believed it, but had seen him do it before. “She’s right. It will last until sunset, I think.”

  “What a shame. I had planned to give a tour of the gardens this afternoon.”

  Hopkins gave the phone back to Holly. “I’ll need you to make a formal statement, and I also need to speak to your grandmother.”

  “She’s home today. She said she was going to stay in.”

  Hopkins looked to the door and gave a nod. Sergeant Cannon stepped forward. I hadn’t seen her slip into the room. “Sergeant Cannon will take you home.”

  Holly nodded, subdued.

  The door inched open, and Waverly drifted to my side. “Excuse me, Mrs. Sharp. You have a visitor.”

  “Me?” I asked. Who would visit me? My two closest friends from the village had already been to Parkview today.

  “In the sitting room.”

  Chapter 13

  AS I LEFT, THE LIBRARY, I nearly ran into Jo. She stepped back quickly from the door. “Is Sir Harold in there?”

  “Yes, but he’s very busy at the moment,” I said.

  She nodded and moved away, but only after Waverly came out behind me and closed the door firmly then gave her a long stare. Waverly moved down the hall and opened the door to the sitting room. I didn’t see anyone. I was about to turn away when a small voice said, “Over here.”

  Grace, hair sopping wet and shirt plastered to her shoulders, stood in the far corner of the room near one of the windows. “I didn’t want to get the rug wet.” She looked down at the floor, where a puddle of water was forming around her feet as water dripped from her long hair and from the hem of her untucked shirt. She shivered and looked at me with a miserable expression.

  “Grace, what happened?”

  “I didn’t think it was going to rain. I mean, the sky wasn’t even that dark when I left.” With her rain-flattened hair, her face looked more rounded.

  “It caught me by surprise, too,” I said and some of the tension in her shoulders eased, but then she shivered again.

  “I got bored. Alex wasn’t back, and I thought I’d walk here to meet him, but then it started to rain—just sprinkles at first. I thought it would quit. I was closer to Parkview than the village so I kept walking. By the time I got to the woods inside the gate, it was pouring. So I came to the door, like Alex and I did earlier, but the butler guy said Alex isn’t here…” her voice wavered on the last word.

  “Perhaps the young lady would like a towel,” Waverly intoned from beside me, making me jump. He held out a tray, which now had a stack of towels on it.

  “Yes, of course.” I took the towels and crossed the room, shaking out one as I walked. I wrapped it around Grace’s shoulders and realized a couple of tears sparkled on her lashes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to make trouble. I should have gone back to the cottage, but it would be a long way in the rain.”

  “It’s fine.” I draped another towel over her head and tucked it under her dripping hair. “I think perhaps you should take your shoes off.” They were coated in mud and bits of wet grass. “I’m sure Waverly knows someone who can clean them.” I looked at him, and he nodded.

  Grace worked off her shoes, then stripped off her soaked socks. Waverly held out the silver tray that he had used to deliver the towels. Grace hesitated a moment, then deposited the sodden pile of footwear on the tray with a worried glance at him.

  “We’ll get you into some warm clothes, and you’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Should I have tea sent up to the Rose bedroom?” Waverly asked.

  “Yes, good idea.” I was glad to see some of the worry drop off Grace’s face. She used the edge of the towel to dab at her saturated bangs and then wiped her eyes. I pretended not to see.

  Once Grace and I were in my room, I opened the cabinet doors and revealed the tub.

  “Brilliant! I want one of these in my room at school.” She sounded more like her normal self.

  “I’ll ask Ella if there might be some clothes you can wear while yours dry, and I’ll call Alex.”

  “Oh, he won’t be worried. I left him a note.”

  “Still, I think I better call.”

  “I can do it.” Grace removed a phone from a pocket on her shorts. “I don’t think it got too wet.”

  “I think the first order of business is to get you warmed up.” Grace was only shivering occasionally, but I knew she had to be chilled. “Extra towels are on that shelf there. Add some of that bubble bath, if you want.” I tugged on the bellpull then headed for the door.

  “Kate,” she said, and I paused with my hand on the door. “I know this is a bother. Thanks.”

  “Anyone could have gotten caught in the rain. It’s no big deal.”

  “That’s not what my mom would say. She’d say it was a bother. She hates it when I’m a bother. That’s why she said boarding school was a good idea.”

  My hand tightened on the handle. I knew all about mother-daughter conflict, but I had a feeling that Grace had a whole different set of issues to deal with than I did.

  At least, my mom thought she had my best interests at heart. Granted, my definition of “best interests” and hers were very far apart. She wanted different things for me than I wanted for me. From what I’d heard about Grace’s mom, her own interests were her top priority…maybe even her only priority. But perhaps that was unfair. I’d never met the woman, after all. Grace had shown that she could be…challenging, to say the least. On the other hand, she had been near tears in the sitting room, which seemed an extreme reaction to finding yourself stranded in a strange house during a rainstorm, but it was quite a grand house. The setting was intimidating, and if she’d been afraid I would be angry and make her walk back to the village in the driving rain…well, maybe that was the reaction she usually got from her mom.

  “No harm done,” I said, but Grace still looked worried, so I added, “As Louise would say, ‘no worries, luv.’” I said it in my best imitation of Louise’s accent, and Grace smiled. “I’ll be back soon.”

  I closed the door behind me as I stepped into the hall
where I met Ella. “Did you need something?” she asked.

  “Would there be any clothes in the house that would fit a twelve-year-old?” As I explained what had happened, a crack of thunder shook the house, rattling the window panes. Ella glanced up at the ceiling. “The bridge is going to flood, and it will be tomorrow for sure before I can get home.”

  “It didn’t flood last night.”

  “No, but two storms so close together on top of all the rain we’ve had this summer,” she shook her head. “It will happen. It usually does. I’ll see about those clothes. I’m sure I can find something.”

  I pulled out my phone from my shorts pocket and dialed Alex’s number. He sounded hurried and distracted when he answered. “Kate, I can’t talk right now. I can’t find Grace. She wasn’t in the cottage when I got home. I’ve been down to the pub, but she’s not there—”

  “She’s here, at Parkview,” I cut in quickly.

  “What? She went out in this storm?”

  “No, she said it wasn’t raining when she left. She thought she’d meet you on the way back, but didn’t see you. Then it began to rain, and she was closer to Parkview than the village, so she came on here. She said she left you a note.”

  “There wasn’t a note. Nothing but an empty house…wait.” He grunted. “Here it is, under the kitchen table.” He blew out a breath then gave a shaky laugh. “I knew she was probably fine, but I couldn’t help but worry…”

  “Completely normal reaction,” I said.

  “All right. Well, I’ll be up there to pick her up in a few minutes.”

  “You’d better wait a bit. She’s warming up in a bubble bath in my room right now.”

  “So, in my limited experience with tween girls, I’ll translate that to mean it could be an hour or so before she’s ready to go?”

  “At least.” I spotted Constable Albertson coming down the hall in my direction. “You’d better give us two hours. Ella is finding her dry clothes now.”