Death at Dinner

by L. A. Nisula

  “I asked him if I could see the books so I could tell Mr. Sharma that his fears were groundless, but Uncle Edgar just snapped at me that I wouldn’t understand them. Which was very odd since he normally doesn’t mind if I looked at company records. I suppose it must be stressful for him.”

  “With everything that’s been going on.” I purposely kept it vague to see how she would interpret it.

  “I suppose so, with the merger falling apart, and he’d just gotten Mr. Warland properly broken in.”

  “So Mr. Warland hadn’t been his secretary for long?”

  “About a year. Uncle Edgar has a complex filing system and the book-keeping, and — well, it takes a while for someone to learn all of it.”

  “And Mr. Ainsworth?”

  “Oh, he’s been with Uncle forever. He’ll be impossible to replace.” She sighed. “So you can see why he’s terribly worried. I can’t get any information for you. I am sorry.” I could see she was eager to be gone.

  “Thank you for trying, though. Would you like to have some tea?”

  “No, I need to be getting back.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was in a hurry to get home or to be away from me. Either way I said, “Thank you for your help then. I might get something anyway. The scones we ordered last time were very good.” It gave me a good excuse to stand there considering the menu taped to the window until Miss Carrollton found a cab to take her home. When it disappeared into the traffic, I went back to the corner and down Conduit Street to the blue door.

  “Merrman School of Art” was painted on the window in swirling script. There was a class schedule taped to the window. Only one class met Monday and Thursday at 2pm. Life drawing. No wonder she didn’t want anyone at home knowing about it. So, was she a student or a model?

  The blue door opened and a young man came out, fixing his collar and tie as he did. He was tall, blond, it would not have been a stretch to call him an Adonis. He saw me staring and gave me a very white, very charming smile.

  That answered that. He was clearly the reason all of the young ladies were flocking to the drawing course. I was almost tempted to sign up myself. Then he continued down the street and the spell was broken. I gave the model a chance to go where he was going then started for the tube station.

  Miss Carrollton was a dead end. I’d have to come up with another line of inquiry if I wanted to help Mrs. Pomeroy.

  There was Mr. Sharma's meeting. His card had been in Miss Kurtfield's room. It seemed my best chance.

  Back on Regent Street, I went into a post office with a telephone box to consult the directory. There were three tea shops with Henderson in the name listed, spread out all over London. I chose the one closest to the Prescott Guest House and took the Underground back there.

  Chapter 25

  THE HENDERSON TEA ROOM was nearly empty, so it was easy for me to spot Mr. Sharma sitting alone at a table in the back. I pretended to wave to him as I slipped around the cashier’s table and into the dining area.

  Mr. Sharma didn’t notice me until I was sliding into a chair at his table.

  “Miss Pengear, correct? Is this a chance meeting?”

  “No, it isn’t. Mrs. McWade told me you’d be here.”

  “And you wanted to find me? I assume this has to do with Inspector Hamilton’s investigation. I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble.”

  “I managed to get myself into more, so no, you didn’t. But I did want to know about two of the guests at the party.”

  “Certainly, although I had the impression, from what Mrs. McWade said, that you had talked to everyone.”

  “Everyone who was at the party.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Sharma gave his teacup a wry smile. “You are here to ask me about guests that were not at the party. May I ask how you found the connection?”

  “I visited Miss Kurtfield’s rooms and saw your business card tucked into a picture of Mr. Garland. Why weren’t they at the party?”

  “I’m afraid I was pulled into that affair by Miss Carrollton. She insisted it was a terribly romantic plan. I’m not sure how much you know about our office Romeo and Juliet’s dilemma, but his family wants money, and she hasn’t any. When Miss Carrollton was showing me the steamworks, she managed to convince him that he should run away to Gretna Green with his bookkeeping paramour, and volunteered me to help with the logistics of it. Given the circumstances, I couldn't very well say no.”

  “And they chose the night of the dinner party because...?”

  “That was Miss Carrollton’s idea. She arranged for them to be invited, and she was the one who said they were unable to attend. She thought it would give them plenty of time to get away from London before his family missed him.”

  “When did they leave for Scotland?”

  “They met at nine in the morning, when the office would have been opening. It gave them the most time possible to get away before he was missed.” Mr. Sharma looked up. “You mean you think they—”

  “Are you sure they left?”

  “Yes, I saw them get on the train. That was part of my role in this, to get them on the train and have the tickets ready. But I should be able to confirm it soon. That is why I’m here. Another of Miss Carrollton’s suggestions. I am to meet a Mr. Bridgeton, who is a friend of Mr. Garland. He was going to meet them in Scotland and act as a witness at their wedding, then come back here to report. The wedding was to take place yesterday. He sent word to the Guest House that he would meet me for tea. The choice of location was prearranged, if you were wondering.”

  “Chosen by Miss Carrollton?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll have to tell Inspector Hamilton.”

  “Certainly. I would have told him myself if I had thought there was any connection to the murder, but they were both far away, I’m quite certain.”

  “Then he’ll clear them as soon as he’s been in contact with their hotel.” I was less than certain, but for Mr. Sharma’s sake, I hoped he was right. Of course, then it looked as bad as ever for Mrs. Pomeroy.

  “I’m sorry, I should have offered you some tea.”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right. I should be getting home anyway, before the Underground is too crowded.”

  “Then I hope to see you again in happier circumstances.”

  “So do I.” Although I doubted it. I always seemed to be meeting people over murder cases.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  When I got back to Paddington Street, I found Mrs. Albright getting ready to go out. “Cassie, you’re just in time to come with me. I’m going to visit Mrs. Pomeroy and see how she’s getting on after her ordeal.”

  I didn’t have any other ideas on the case, so having a look at the scene of the crime seemed better than doing nothing. Besides, there was the possibility of walnut cake. “I’d love to come.”

  Chapter 26

  WHEN WE GOT TO PARKSIDE HOUSE, Mrs. Pomeroy was waiting for us at the kitchen door. “You both came. How nice. Come in, come in.” We followed her inside.

  The kitchen had been tidied back to its original state. Mrs. Pomeroy had tea all ready for us and brought it to the table as we sat down. “Such a relief to have my kitchen back. And in one piece. And Mr. Belmont said he’s feeling better. James is still moaning every time someone goes by his room, but he insists he doesn’t want the doctor so I think he’s just playing for sympathy. And that means I’ll be rid of Ross soon. We really should celebrate. I know. The Bordeaux. We never opened it at the dinner party. Cassie, would you be a dear? It’s in the room next to the one where the flowers were that night.”

  “Of course.” I went to the storage room and found the crate. I was about to grab a bottle when I noticed an empty space in the crate.

  Ross stumbled in, presumably looking for a bottle. “Sorry, I’ll come back.”

  An empty space in the box. “The pipe was under the sofa?” That was what Inspector Hamilton had asked when I told him about it. Under the sofa. And it had been red wine on the shirt. That me
ant...

  “Sorry, Miss?”

  “Mr. Ross, I need you to be perfectly honest with me.”

  He stopped. “Of course.”

  “Did you take a bottle of the Bordeaux that night?”

  “For myself? No, Miss.”

  I stared at him.

  “I swear it. I had a bottle of good Scotch whiskey in the teapot, and another under the serving cover upstairs. And one in a coat pocket in the hall closet. I wouldn’t have mixed the two.”

  That was a story I could believe. I remembered he hadn’t taken any wine in the study either. “And Mr. Carrollton really did tell you to open the crate?”

  “That’s right. Open the crate, then deliver a bottle of the Bordeaux to the study. Like I said, none for me.”

  It fit. It was crazy, but it was the only way it all fit. But why, that was still the question “All right. I need you to go to Scotland Yard and tell that to Inspector Hamilton. Tell him I sent you, and that I served Burgundy in the study afterwards.”

  “You believe me, then?”

  “I do now. Go.”

  Ross nodded and darted to the back door.

  I stared at the wall. There was one question I hadn't asked myself in all of this, how could a man like Mr. Carrollton, who ran a good but not large business, afford a house in even the shabbier side of Mayfair. Or the dresses I had seen receipts for on the desk. Or any of this. His company was supposedly in good shape, but it wouldn't have given him enough to afford this place. Not unless he was the embezzler.

  I was still staring at the bottles when I heard someone coming down the kitchen stairs. As far as I knew, the only other person in the house was Mr. Carrollton. I stayed quiet, waiting to see if he'd leave.

  “Mrs. Pomeroy? Oh, you have guests. I thought I heard voices.”

  I’d been right. It was Mr. Carrollton. I scanned the room. There was a bottle of sherry on the shelf across from me. I grabbed it and went back into the kitchen.

  Mr. Carrollton was smiling at everyone. “Not a problem at all, Mrs. Pomeroy. Just glad it’s not the police again.” He heard me and turned. “And Miss Callie, right? Nice to see you.”

  Mrs. Pomeroy turned to me. “Did you bring the—”

  I cut her off. I held up the sherry and said, “Right here.”

  “Oh, I thought I said—”

  “The brandy, I know. But I couldn’t find it, so I brought this.”

  I could see Mrs. Albright poke Mrs. Pomeroy in the back.

  “Oh, right, dear. That will do.” Mrs. Pomeory took the bottle from me and put it near the wine glasses.

  Mr. Carrollton sat down at the table and watched us. “Where did Ross go?”

  I shrugged. “He said he was feeling poorly.”

  “Did he now?”

  Mrs. Pomeroy snorted, “Drunk, no doubt.”

  Mr. Carrollton looked at the bottle of sherry on the table. “Were you going to serve that?”

  Mrs. Pomeroy snapped to attention. “Of course. I’ll get the glasses.”

  Mr. Carrollton turned back to me. “You’ll join us, won’t you, Miss Cassie?”

  So he did remember my name. I was torn between going for help or staying to try to keep an eye on Mrs. Pomeroy and Mrs. Albright. Mr. Carrollton was watching me, so I sat down. The best thing to do was pretend everything was fine. Surely Inspector Hamilton would understand what I had seen. Surely Ross would make it there. And how could Mr. Carrollton know I'd figured it out? I would just sit quietly for a change and wait for Inspector Hamilton.

  “Would you like a sugared almond?” Mr. Carrollton reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of candy.

  “No, thank you.”

  “I insist.” He stood up and came around the table to lean over my chair. He held the candy box in front of me. “Then Mrs. Pomeroy can serve her almond cookies.”

  I tried to lean away, but Mr. Carrollton had his other arm blocking my way.

  “Mr. Carrollton, you know I haven’t made almond cookies in months.” Mrs. Pomeroy sounded very chipper, too chipper.

  “Then it’s a good thing I bought some when I went to the shops. You can all enjoy them.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I'm not asking you to—” And then there was the sound of metal hitting something hard, and Mr. Carrollton collapsed onto the floor.

  Mrs. Albright was standing behind him, shaking, with the cast-iron skillet in her hand. “Please tell me I hit the right person.”

  “You hit the right person.”

  Mrs. Pomeroy glanced at the pan. “Put that aside, Agnes, so I don’t cook with it by mistake.” She stepped over Mr. Carrollton. “What should we do with him?”

  Then we heard pounding on the kitchen door. “Ross must have already made it to Scotland Yard,” I said.

  “I’ve never been so happy to see Inspector Hamilton,” Mrs. Pomeroy said as she ran to the door.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  It wasn’t Inspector Hamilton, even he couldn’t have gotten there that quickly. But he was from Scotland Yard, and he did have handcuffs to restrain Mr. Carrollton until Inspector Hamilton arrived.

  When we were certain we weren’t in any danger, Mrs. Pomeroy put the kettle on again. “Lucky Ross was able to find you so quickly.”

  “Not luck at all, ma’am, thank you.” Constable Fulton took the tea he was offered and sat in the chair closest to Mr. Carrollton’s still-unconscious form. “I’ve been following Miss Pengear at Inspector Hamilton’s request. Seems he thinks you might get yourself in trouble.” He grinned and looked down at Mr. Carrollton. “Can’t think why.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful under the circumstances or furious. Mrs. Albright put a cup in front of me. “Try a biscuit, dear. These are walnut, not almond.” So she was voting for grateful.

  Constable Fulton accepted one of the cookies. “I put Mr. Ross in a cab to Scotland Yard, so Inspector Hamilton should be here any minute now.”

  “I’ll just go wait for him upstairs,” I said. “To let him in.”

  I had intended to give Inspector Hamilton a piece of my mind for the high-handed way he’d acted having me followed, but when he arrived with three other officers and a fingerprint man, it all seemed so official that I contented myself with glaring at him whenever he looked my way. He ignored it. In fact, all he said to me was to come by Scotland Yard in the morning to give my statement. We were all relegated to the sitting room while Inspector Hamilton revived Mr. Carrollton, then marched him out of the house.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  When the police had left, we all went back to the kitchen, and Mrs. Pomeroy grabbed the kettle and got tea ready. Mrs. Albright got the cups. “You’ll have to tell us how you figured it out.”

  Mrs. Pomeroy handed me a cup. “Yes, that was terribly clever of you.”

  “Not really. Once I realized Mr. Ainsworth didn’t die at dinner—”

  Mrs. Pomeroy interrupted. “Didn’t die at dinner? But you all saw him collapse.”

  “Exactly. He collapsed. That’s all we saw. But he couldn’t have died then. There was no way for the poison to be administered at the table. And his symptoms were all wrong for what he was given. Besides, he had a wine stain on his shirt, and I found a pipe under the sofa in the study.”

  “Couldn’t he have gotten the stain when he collapsed?” Mrs. Albright asked.

  “It was red wine. When I mended his shirt, it was clean. And he collapsed as we were serving the soup. We’d only served white wine at the table up until then. So when did he spill the red? There wasn’t time for him to get anything after he left the kitchen with his mended shirt. It had to have happened after he collapsed. Once I figured out that his collapse was as much an act as Miss Carrollton's fainting, it was just a question of who had the opportunity and how.”

  “The Bordeaux?” Mrs. Pomeroy asked.

  “Exactly. Ross kept insisting he put a bottle in the study. We all thought he was covering for taking it himself, but he had his own Scotch hidden around the house
. When I realized he might be telling the truth about the wine in the study, I wondered what happened to it. When I served wine in there later, after the police arrived, there was an unopened bottle of Burgundy, but no Bordeaux. And we were short two glasses. I had to offer the inspector tea.”

  “And if it was poisoned, Mr. Carrollton would have to get rid of all traces of it,” Mrs. Albright said.

  “Exactly. That and Mr. Ainsworth's pipe under the sofa showed he was alive when he was in the study, probably sitting up with his pipe drinking the wine. When he collapsed for real, he spilled the wine and dropped the pipe. Mr. Carrollton probably kicked it under the settee by accident.”

  Mrs. Pomeroy refilled the cups. “But why poison James and Belmont?”

  “So you would ask Ross. He knew Ross would be drunk enough by the first course to be suggestible. Then he would have someone to help him move the supposed body without giving away the game.”

  “And what was the game?” Mrs. Pomeroy asked.

  That had been the sticking point. I could only come up with one theory. “I think it had to be the embezzlement. Mr. Carrollton must have been embezzling money from his own company. I saw a little bit of Inspector Hamilton’s report, and it looked like there were two embezzlers. I think Mr. Warland was the other one. Inspector Hamilton’s report said the amount missing increased nine months ago; that would be just after Mr. Warland started working for Mr. Carrollton. When Mr. Sharma started to examine the books, he discovered that there was money missing. Mr. Ainsworth was going to discuss something with Mr. Carrollton, so he must have figured out Mr. Warland was embezzling. But if Mr. Warland was found out, there would be a full audit, and everyone would see that it went far beyond him, so Mr. Ainsworth had to die before he could reveal anything. Then Mr. Warland had to die since he might figure it out. His death was meant to look like suicide so he could take the blame for Mr. Ainsworth’s murder, but it didn’t work.”

  “So how did he poison the pills?”