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

by Sara Rosett

  I repressed a sigh and stood. “We’d better figure out what you’re wearing to dinner tonight.”

  Grace looked down at her droopy t-shirt and baggy jeans. “I don’t suppose I can wear this, can I? It’s not nearly grand enough.”

  “No, and it is completely the wrong century. Beatrice made it clear that we did have to dress for dinner, and she wants us in period costumes.”

  “Oh, I love dressing up. Do you have anything that will fit me?”

  “I don’t know.” I went to the bellpull. “Let’s see what Ella can do.”

  “Are you sure I look okay?” Grace asked an hour later, pausing outside the drawing room.

  “You look amazing. Remember, Alex said you looked gorgeous.”

  She made a face. “He’s my brother. He has to say that.”

  “Yes, but it’s true.”

  Ella had been able to find a dress that fit Grace. It was a cream color trimmed in blue. With her hair piled on top of her head, she looked much older than twelve. I’d texted pictures of her to Alex. He’d called me back immediately, first telling Grace how pretty she looked, then he’d asked to speak to me to make sure there weren’t any boys her age in the house. “That neckline…” he’d said.

  “Is historically accurate,” I said with a grin. He’d grumbled some more, and I assured him I’d keep an eye on Grace. I was relegated to the status of chaperone, which was historically accurate, too. During the Regency, a twenty-six-year-old woman would definitely be “on the shelf,” which meant her hopes of marrying would have long since faded. Of course, my mother still believed that in the twenty-first century, so maybe things hadn’t changed that much.

  “Smile,” I said. “And watch Beatrice at dinner to see which fork to use,” I added as we entered the room.

  Beatrice, tonight wearing a mustard yellow silk gown and matching turban, welcomed Grace and exclaimed over how nice she looked then took her around the room, formally introducing her to everyone. Torrie scooted closer to Beth and invited Grace to sit on a sofa beside her. Monique and Beth were bent close together. I noticed that Monique had on a smart black evening dress that was not historically accurate, but it was beautiful. Beatrice must have overlooked Monique’s modern dress. Despite the black dress, Monique didn’t look like a grieving widow, but she also didn’t look like someone who spent her spare time reading classics of English literature either.

  Beatrice stopped at the drinks tray, then worked her way around the room to me. She handed me a crystal tumbler. “Try that.”

  I sipped and nearly did a classic spit take, but managed to swallow instead. Barely.

  “It’s my own concoction. Regency punch.”

  I waited for my eyes to stop watering and made a mental note to keep Grace away from the punch bowl.

  “Harold told me about the encounter with Jo in the library.” Beatrice pushed her slipping turban back above her eyebrows. “Jo is persistent, I’ll give her that, but that’s all we’ll give her.”

  I followed Beatrice’s glance across the room. Jo, wearing another exquisite gown in fuchsia with a gauzy net overlay embroidered with tiny flowers, stood beside Sir Harold, speaking quickly. Jay sat in a chair a few feet away, his attention fixed on the window. I squinted and spotted a thin wire that ran from an ear bud and disappeared into the complicated folds of his cravat. So he was listening to the games, not watching them now.

  Sir Harold had a polite expression on his face. He nodded then excused himself to greet Audrey, who had just entered the drawing room.

  “So you’re not interested in Jo’s proposal at all?” I asked Beatrice.

  “No, of course not. They approached us a few months ago, requesting a meeting, but that sort of thing doesn’t appeal to us. I suppose she thought if she could make her offer in person it would make a difference. I could have saved her a lot of trouble—and expense.” Beatrice shook her head and looked fondly at Sir Harold. “He may seem fussy and lost in his own world, but when it comes to Parkview, he has definite ideas. He takes his responsibilities seriously.”

  “So neither of you think selling to a corporate chain would benefit the village?”

  Beatrice sighed and her turban shifted again. “Initially, it would bring in money, but we try to think about these things in the long term. You’ve seen some of the tourist spots—they’re circuses, all show and gloss. Everything becomes a caricature with every aspect of the local economy dependent on tourism. Of course, tourism is part of the economy here now, but it’s dependent on the beauty of the land, on nature.”

  I swirled my drink and thought of the cyclists and the ramblers who descended on Nether Woodsmoor in the spring.

  She sighed again. “It may come to that…someday, but not now.” She repositioned her turban and grinned. “Of course, I’m wearing a historical costume and entertaining paying guests, so I do realize I could fall into the category of the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “But you and Sir Harold have the best interests of the village at heart. Your decisions are not made with the bottom line in mind.”

  She snorted. “True. The accountant and financial advisor have learned not to argue with us. They just shake their heads and mutter now.”

  “Well, I did discover that another guest is also involved in the hospitality industry.”

  Beatrice’s raised eyebrows disappeared under the edge of her turban.

  “Michael. I only have Grace’s word on this,” I said, warningly. “But she says she saw an email on his laptop today.” I described the contents, then said, “So Grace has pegged him as a corporate spy.”

  Beatrice watched Michael as he strolled across the room toward us. He discretely aimed his phone at the drinks tray and tapped the screen, photographing it, as he went by it.

  “I have to say that it does seem slightly more believable than his story about his mother. Surely she isn’t that interested in the drinks tray?” I said.

  “No, I think Grace is probably right. How like Alistair,” Beatrice said.

  “Alistair?” I asked.

  “Alistair Cartwright. He bought Cresthill Towers…oh, a dozen years ago, I think it was. He has a silly competitive nature and thinks everything is a contest. Of course, if he’s going to have guests, he wouldn’t simply ask us what we do. No, he’d send someone to come in ‘undercover.’ We’d be happy to share information and tips with him, but he’s the sort to think that no matter how open we are, that we’d still hold something back.”

  Amanda came into the room, spotted Michael, and joined him. He quickly pocketed his phone. She asked him how the research was going as they ambled by us. I missed his short reply, but noticed he wasn’t staring at the floor or ducking his head like he usually did. In fact, he was looking at Amanda, a sort of bemused, but dazed expression on his face. “So butterflies…how did you get interested in them?” Amanda asked.

  I missed part of his reply, but I did catch the phrase, “…a school project…fascinating.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Beatrice. She said, “For his sake, I hope he is interested in butterflies. Amanda doesn’t seem like the type to put up with a liar.”

  “No, she doesn’t. At least not now,” I said, thinking of what Torrie had said about suspecting Amanda had been involved with someone manipulative.

  Simon entered the room and came straight toward me. His direct approach was intimidating, but I forced myself not to fall back a step. He was again turned out in Regency finery, wearing his cutaway coat that strained across his biceps, giving him the look of a boy stuffed into clothes he’d outgrown. He ran his finger around the tight neckcloth as he approached. “I’m sorry for letting myself into your room, even if it was unlocked. Audrey,” he glanced across the room to his wife. She caught his gaze and dipped her head, indicating he should go on. Simon continued, “she says I press ahead without thinking, and I’m afraid that’s what happened today. I shouldn’t have accused you like that.”

  I could read between the lines, and I could
tell what he’d left unsaid was that he would still have taken the information to the police, but he was trying to smooth things over so that the evening wasn’t awkward. For Beatrice’s sake, I said, “Thank you for the apology. I’m sure everything will work out in the end.” I said the words, but inside, I wasn’t so sure. The suspect list still only contained one name—mine. I may have managed to wiggle out the background on a few guests, but that hadn’t widened the suspect pool.

  Beatrice put a hand on Simon’s arm. “I believe Waverly is pouring you a drink,” she said, giving him a way to exit gracefully.

  Once he was gone, Beatrice exchanged a look with me. “I heard from the inspector this afternoon. He’s keeping me updated on the progress of the investigation. Holly’s alibi has been confirmed, and he’s also spoken with the Clays’ doctor. Toby did have a heart condition, and Monique refilled her sleeping pill prescription on Friday morning.”

  “I don’t suppose Hopkins has uncovered someone with a motive to want Toby dead?”

  “If he has, he didn’t tell me. He did say for me to expect him tomorrow by ten. The forecast for the night is clear, and he expects the river to recede enough that he can make it across the bridge. He told me that we’re not to let anyone leave tomorrow until he arrives.”

  I took a gulp of my drink.

  She patted my arm as I shuddered. “I’m sure it will be fine. Ah, there’s the signal from Waverly,” she said and went off to organize us for the procession into the dining room.

  “Torrie’s fun,” Grace commented later as the ladies exited the dining room and returned to the drawing room.

  “Is she?”

  “Yes, she played I spy with me during one of the courses.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told her,” Grace lowered her voice. “Torrie said it was more fun than talking about dresses with Beth and Monique.”

  I had thought that dinner might be awkward, but it went smoother than I expected. I was the one who used the wrong fork. Grace followed Beatrice’s guide and did fine. The table had again been set with glittering and elegant tableware, but the mood was more informal than the night before. The etiquette barriers were down, and we all ignored the rule of taking turns speaking to only the person on your right or left according to which course was being served. Conversations ranged around the table, and the staff moved unobtrusively, wafting dishes to and fro and expertly keeping our glasses filled. The footmen came and went carrying dishes and trays, but Waverly was a constant presence.

  Once we were settled in the drawing room, Waverly appeared with the after dinner tea, coffee, and drinks.

  I watched him, directing the rest of the staff with a nod, a lift of his chin, or simply a glance. Grace and I took a seat on one of a pair of sofas that faced each other. Would it be possible to find out more about Waverly? If he was a temporary hire, then the rest of the staff might not know much about him or his background beyond his entertaining circus skills. I could always ask Beatrice what she could find out about him. She probably had hired him through an agency. They might know more. Somehow I didn’t think a conversation with him would produce any results. I had a feeling he would look at me with his impassive face—which was rather like Inspector Hopkins’s expression, come to think of it—and only tell me the barest of information, but I got up from the sofa and crossed the room to him. “Waverly, I’d love to hear more about your time as a magician.”

  His face was stoic, but he was suddenly busy aligning the crystal decanters. “It was a long time ago. May I pour you a drink or another cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you. It is interesting, though. Most people would never guess you could do things like spin plates and juggle spoons.”

  Waverly gave me a long stare, then said, “Most people see what they expect to see.” Thomas stepped into the drawing room and caught Waverly’s attention. He said, “If you’ll excuse me, miss,” and slipped out the door.

  I smothered a sigh and returned to the sofa, sitting down beside Grace. Monique and Beth were on the sofa opposite, continuing a discussion of whether it was better to explore the French Riviera by car or boat. Beth said, “We found the most perfect little village inland from Cannes. It would be ideal for a honeymoon, but then I think—no beach in an inland village, and I love the idea of a tropical honeymoon.”

  “There’s always Tahiti,” Monique said as she looked away from Beth. She lifted her eyebrows at Waverly, who had returned to the room. He moved to her side instantly. She murmured something to him.

  “We could stay in one of those little huts over the water. That would be bliss,” Beth said.

  “Go to one of the private islands. Less riffraff, if you know what I mean. I’ll give you the name of the resort where Toby and I stayed at last year.” A pained look came over her face, which surprised me. Since her bout of weeping this morning, she hadn’t exhibited any signs of grieving. Intrigued, I watched her, wondering if she was experiencing a momentary pang as she remembered happier times with Toby, or was she grieving, but not showing any outward signs of it. Private grief didn’t seem to go with the public personality she’d cultivated over the years, mugging for the cameras and courting coverage with her outrageous life choices.

  Monique took out her black envelope clutch and removed a pill bottle. “They have a sublime spa there.” She removed the lid and tipped a single pill, which must be her nightly sleeping pill, into her hand then took the tumbler of water from the silver tray that Waverly had returned with. She downed the medicine and returned the glass to the tray without looking at Waverly, not missing a beat in the conversation. “Open air spas near the cliffs and tropical pools. Very nice.”

  Distantly, I was aware that the double doors opened. The men filtered into the room. Waverly returned, poured drinks for them, then stepped out into the hall, closing the doors behind him, probably staying out of my way so I couldn’t ask him more awkward questions. I noticed Waverly’s quick exit, but it only vaguely registered. I was thinking about Monique. Something pulled at the edge of my thoughts, bothering me about the last moments…what was it? Something about that pill. She’d been so low-key about it tonight. Not like last night. Last night, she had been—what?—more showy, almost theatrical…

  Grace pulled me out of my reverie. She twisted around on the sofa to speak to Amanda, who was carrying a teacup as she moved along the back of the sofa. “I saw your slackline today when we were in your room. Do you think you’ll set it up tomorrow before you leave, if it’s not raining?”

  Amanda paused and gripped the back of the sofa with her free hand. Despite the dimness of the room, which was again lit only by candlelight, I could see her face clearly as the color had faded from her cheeks. “Um—I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know, slackline. The flat webbing. You put some in a box,” Grace said.

  “No, I didn’t,” Amanda said, her voice sharp. “You must have seen something else.”

  “No, I know what it is. I saw the label on it and everything. My friend’s brother had some. I tried slacklining and liked it. I want to do it again.” Grace twisted around and looked my way. “You saw it, too, didn’t you, Kate?”

  I glanced from Grace to Amanda. Amanda’s chest, so visible in the low cut gown, was moving up and down with her rapid breathing. Her eyes were wide with fear, I realized. Suddenly, I knew exactly what Grace was talking about. I had seen the rope, but I’d thought it was a belt. It had been flat, like a nylon tie down, but I’d only seen the end of it as Amanda stuffed it into a cardboard box.

  Thoughts zipped through my mind. Torrie and Beth teasing Amanda about her weird hobbies. A slackline in the same color as the natural stone of Parkview Hall. The strange clear stripes on the balusters. Amanda spilling her tea when I had half-jokingly said that someone must have levitated onto the balcony.

  Could that be the answer? Had Amanda somehow rigged a slackline between her balcony and the balcony of
the Mahogany bedroom, crossed it during the night, and killed Toby?

  I looked back at Grace, giving her a warning shake of my head, but she wasn’t looking my way.

  There was a natural lull in the conversation, and Grace’s words drew everyone’s attention as she said, “My brother thinks slacklining is dangerous. Maybe you could talk to him when he comes to pick me up tomorrow…” she faltered to a stop as the expression on Amanda’s face finally registered. Grace shot me a puzzled look.

  I cleared my throat, and tried to think of something innocuous to say. We still had the rest of the evening and the night to get through before the police would, hopefully, be back. “The Versailles bedroom is quite a sight,” I said into the quietness of the room.

  Everyone had picked up on the tension radiating from Amanda. Michael had taken a seat on one of a pair of small decorative chairs, but he tensed, poised to stand as he watched Amanda.

  Amanda closed her eyes for a second then looked my way. “It’s no use, Kate. I can’t keep it secret any longer. I should have known I couldn’t keep it quiet.”

  “Secret?” Beatrice asked. “What secret is that?”

  “That I slacklined across the courtyard last night and broke into the Mahogany bedroom.”

  Chapter 20

  A SECOND OF SILENCE FOLLOWED Amanda’s words, then several people began talking at once. Michael jumped up so quickly that his chair tumbled over. “That can’t be true,” he said, his voice carrying over the din.

  Grace sent me an anguished look. She looked like a bird poised on a wire, ready to fly away in an instant. The last thing I wanted was for Grace to leave the room. To get to the door, she’d have to go right by Amanda. Amanda! My thoughts stuck there. I never would have thought she was the murderer. I motioned for Grace to stay where she was.

  “Perhaps you’d better tell us about it,” Beatrice said. “Keeping secrets hardly ever turns out well, in my experience. Much better to get it out in the open.”