The Castle Mystery

by Faith Martin

  ‘But we did,’ her ladyship said, then stopped, confused. ‘No, wait a minute, we didn’t. Of course we didn’t. But we should have.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Jenny said, her voice rich with satisfaction. ‘You should have seen the murder, because you were on the terrace. Not in the sunroom.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ his lordship said, becoming more and more confused. ‘What does having tea on the terrace, instead of in the sunroom, have to do with anything at all?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Bishop growled.

  Jenny sighed. Really, they were being so dense! ‘Because the effect of having tea on the terrace meant that you should have seen the murder, but didn’t! That caused us all so much trouble. Why didn’t you see the murder?’ Everybody stared at her for a long, long moment.

  ‘Because it wasn’t committed in the conservatory?’ her ladyship offered tentatively at last.

  ‘No, your ladyship,’ Jenny said patiently. ‘It was committed in the conservatory all right, just not between three and half past.’

  Again, everyone stared at her.

  ‘But the dagger,’ Bishop said, his voice faint.

  ‘Oh yes. The dagger,’ Jenny said. ‘How that had me fooled,’ she admitted softly.

  ‘Look, I’ve had enough of this,’ Lord Avonsleigh said, getting quite heated. ‘Just assume, Miss Starling, that we’re all duffers. As thick as two short planks and all that. Just tell us, simply, step by step, how the man killed that poor girl.’

  Lady Vee shot her husband a loving look. So did Bishop and Myers.

  Jenny stared at them, utterly defeated. ‘But I just did,’ she wailed.

  ‘No, Miss Starling,’ Lady Vee said gently. ‘You didn’t. We’re nowhere near as clever as you. Just do as his lordship asked, please.’

  Jenny, nonplussed but willing, shrugged. ‘Very well. At some time between half past two and three o’clock, Malcolm lured Ava into the conservatory and killed her. He then found Lady Roberta and together they went into the music room. There they stayed until Meecham found them and told them about the killing.’

  ‘But the dagger,’ Bishop said again, feeling a shudder of déjà vu flicker up his spine. ‘The dagger was clean at three o’clock.’

  ‘But he didn’t kill her with the dagger,’ Jenny said patiently. ‘He killed her with Elsie’s knitting needle.’

  ‘Eh?’ Avonsleigh said, feeling a bit like Alice, who’d just stepped into the opening of the rabbit hole. ‘Knitting needle?’

  Jenny blinked. ‘Elsie had lost a knitting needle. I learned she was always losing things, but I wonder now if Malcolm just stole little things from her to set up a pattern, so that nobody would think twice about it when she complained that her knitting needle was missing. I wouldn’t put it past him. Besides, if he’d used the dagger why would he put it on display for all to see? It was to misdirect us.’

  ‘But the medical examiner said it was the dagger,’ Bishop insisted, not letting himself get sidetracked. ‘The blood on the dagger definitely belonged to Miss Simmons.’

  ‘The medical examiner,’ Jenny corrected him, ‘said that Ava was killed by an oddly shaped, rounded-edged instrument with a very sharp point, consistent with the Munjib dagger,’ Jenny corrected him. ‘But a knitting needle is long and thin with a rounded edge. And honed at the tip, it too would have a very sharp point.’

  Lady Vee leaned back in her chair slowly. ‘So he stole the knitting needle, sharpened it, and killed Ava some time before three in the conservatory. Then what?’

  ‘Then he went to the music room. Roberta confirms he didn’t leave for more than a minute. She said he was acting just like usual, fingering a small jar of red paint, teasing her just like always. It was the red paint that put me on to it all, of course,’ she continued. ‘Not that he didn’t always have paint in those pockets of his. That was not unusual. But Malcolm had run out of red paint the day before — or was it the same day? — that Ava was killed. Lady Roberta had used tons of it on a sunset painting she’d been doing. I myself heard Malcolm ask Janice if she would get him some more when she went into Bicester. So, if he’d run out of red paint, what was he doing fingering a jar of it in the music room? The answer, of course, was that he wasn’t.’

  ‘You mean Roberta lied?’ his lordship asked, aghast.

  ‘No, my lord,’ Jenny said quickly. ‘She didn’t lie. She just didn’t know what she’d seen. She assumed a little jar of red liquid in Malcolm’s hands would be paint. But it wasn’t.’

  Lady Vee felt her stomach turn queasily, but she had to ask. ‘So what was it?’

  ‘It was blood,’ Jenny confirmed her worst fears. ‘Ava’s blood. He’d collected it from her wound after killing her. Janice told me that she’d seen Malcolm cleaning out one of his glass jars very thoroughly, even using bleach or whatever, and rinsing it out over and over again at the sink. At the time I thought it was because the jar had contained oil paint. But in reality, he just wanted to make sure that the jar was completely spotless, so that no traces of water colour, oil paint, turps or whatever would end up in the blood sample he intended to collect from his victim. Later on, after the murder, I saw him rinsing out some other glass jars in quite a haphazard way, so I knew he was not, by nature, a particularly meticulous man.’

  ‘But why did he collect the blood in the first place?’ Bishop asked.

  ‘To put on the dagger of course,’ Jenny said, ‘during the “Minute Waltz.” Lady Roberta was sure he was gone from the music room for no more than a minute, as he in fact was. But you were with me, Inspector, when we talked to her. The hall with the dagger was less than a few yards away. You yourself proved that he didn’t have time to kill Ava. But by then, Ava was already dead. What he did have time to do was take down the dagger, pour Ava’s blood over it, put it back on the wall and return to the music room. He knew Roberta would never give him an alibi if she thought he could have killed Ava. But if he could prove he was only gone for such a short time, then he was in the clear. Which is why he manipulated Lady Roberta into playing the “Minute Waltz” in the first place. It was perfect. Except, of course, the family was having tea on the terrace, and not in the sunroom, as he’d thought. So you never saw the murder. Because it had already been committed. If you had been in the sunroom, as he planned, nobody would have questioned it. Ava was dead. The dagger was clean at three o’clock, dirty at three-thirty, and he knew you’d see it. Ergo, Ava was killed during that time. Except that you all saw for yourself that she couldn’t possibly have been killed between three and three-thirty in the conservatory, because you’d have seen it happen. Apart from that, Malcolm had the perfect alibi. Roberta was the perfect witness. It was all so easy. But he must have had a nasty time when he learned that you and your guests had been on the terrace the whole time.’

  Lady Vee stared at her aghast. ‘Then all that time we were having tea, the poor girl was lying in the conservatory — dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Inspector Bishop slumped back in his chair. ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ he said. And winced as Myers kicked his shin. ‘Beg your pardon, your ladyship,’ he mumbled.

  Lady Vee leaned back in her own chair, ignoring his apology. ‘It was easy, wasn’t it?’ she said in wonderment.

  Jenny nodded. ‘All that I needed to do then was to prove it. That was easy enough. All I had to do was get Basil Simmons to confront Malcolm. Tell him that his daughter had confided her suspicions to him, and demand to be let in on the action or he’d shop him. And in this case, Basil Simmons’s rather, shall we say, rough and ready reputation in the art world came in handy. Malcolm could well believe that Basil wanted in on the money. So he agreed. And in agreeing, he admitted his own part in the art fraud, and, by association, the murder of Ava Simmons.’

  ‘We did better than that,’ Bishop put in jubilantly. ‘Basil Simmons actually got Powell-Brooks to admit to the killing,’ he told them, giving a happy grin that would have made the Cheshire cat go green-eyed with jealou
sy. ‘And me and Myers here heard it all.’

  There was a discreet tap on the door. Meecham walked in, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Er, there’s a visitor to see you, my lord,’ he said, and stood theatrically to one side.

  They all rose as a young man walked into the room. He was tall, lean and big-nosed, an obvious younger version of his father. By his side was a very lean, very beautiful, very elegant young woman.

  ‘Richard!’ Lady Vee yelled, launching herself to her feet, opening her arms wide and engulfing the young man in a big bear hug.

  Bishop and Myers began to sidle out. Their job was done.

  ‘Mother!’ Richard, heir to Avonsleigh, stood back from her, smiling warmly, then shook hands with his beaming father.

  ‘My boy,’ Lord Avonsleigh said happily. ‘We weren’t expecting you for weeks yet!’

  Meecham beamed. The two policemen had already disappeared. Jenny began to sidle to the door. She had dinner to prepare. Pigeon and pheasant pie. With that nice oxtail soup for starters, she thought. She was in a meaty mood.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t wait any longer to introduce you to my bride. I know you must be a bit disappointed, me marrying over in America and everything, but’ — the young man drew forward his blushing bride — ‘I just knew you’d love her when you met her.’

  Lady Vee met the American woman’s eyes and smiled. ‘Hello, m’dear.’

  ‘Your ladyship,’ the new bride said, her accent thankfully quite mild, and not at all the drawling tone Lady Vee had come to expect from watching so many American films on the television.

  Cynthia Beatrice, in fact, came from Boston, her ladyship would learn later, not Hollywood.

  ‘Oh please, call me Vee,’ Vivienne Margaret said. ‘Well, this is quite a surprise. And a wonderful one.’ She caught sight of Miss Starling, sidling to the door, and smiled. ‘It’s been quite a day, I can tell you. Richard, we have a lot of catching up to do. But first, you must be famished,’ she said.

  Jenny’s ears pricked up almost as high as those of the English Setter, who was watching the proceedings with a swishing of his plumy tail.

  ‘Oh, we are,’ Lord Richard said.

  ‘Miss Starling,’ her ladyship said. ‘Some soup and sandwiches I think.’

  ‘I have some oxtail soup already made,’ Jenny said brightly, making for the door.

  Now that the murder was solved, the castle was happy again. The heir and his bride had returned from overseas, and the cook could see only happy days stretching ahead of her. Long, happy days of cooking the great British dishes, in a great British castle, for a real lord and lady. Bliss!

  ‘Oh, not for me, thank you,’ Cynthia said quickly. ‘I don’t eat meat.’

  ‘Don’t eat meat?’ George said, his voice an appalled whisper.

  Lady Vee’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Oh no,’ Cynthia said. ‘I’m a vegan.’

  ‘Vegan?’ Lady Vee echoed faintly. ‘But I thought you were an American?’

  The newlyweds both laughed. ‘She is, Mother,’ Richard said. ‘But she’s a vegan, too.’

  ‘A vegan!’ Jenny yelped, unable to restrain herself. Everyone turned to stare at her. Lady Vee met the cook’s outraged face, and her own eyes mirrored the sentiment. Jenny drew herself up to her immense height, her back becoming ramrod straight. A vegan!

  Lord Avonsleigh, for once as quick on the uptake as his wife, and knowing how his son would be desperate for them to be inclusive, saw his spotted dick and custard fade into the distance, and his shoulders sagged with resignation.

  ‘Yes,’ Lord Richard said, his voice quiet but firm. ‘Do you have a problem with that, Miss er . . . ?’ He had no idea who this stranger was, but he didn’t appreciate her look of horror one little bit. Any hint that his darling wife wasn’t as perfect as she so obviously was, was most definitely not going to be tolerated.

  Jenny said nothing. She was, at that moment, and for the first time in her life, utterly speechless. Instead, she looked forlornly at Lady Vee. Lady Vee looked forlornly and helplessly back.

  And before either one could disgrace themselves, Jenny turned and quickly walked out.

  EPILOGUE

  Meecham knocked on the door to the breakfast room and came in gingerly. He took a quick look around, but Lord Richard and the American bombshell were nowhere in sight.

  Avonsleigh looked up from his paper. Lady Vee, who was standing at the window looking out over the west garden and the village, turned to glance at him, a mournful look on her face.

  Meecham coughed. ‘The cook has just left, m’lady,’ he said miserably. His lordship ducked back quickly behind his paper, lest the butler see the sadness in his eyes. Meecham glanced at the breakfast plates. Segments of fruit and raw vegetables still lined them.

  Meecham remembered the good old days of last week, when he’d collected empty plates marred only by bacon rind, smears of egg and the odd bit of tomato skin. He sighed and picked up the plates, then stared down at an untouched carrot stick and felt woefully inadequate. He coughed. ‘Er, we in the kitchen, that is, the staff, have taken of late to . . . er . . . buying some cereal, your ladyship. In a packet,’ he added, not sure whether they were au fait with cornflakes. When his lordship looked at him, he coughed again. ‘I was wondering, my lord, if you and her ladyship might, er, possibly benefit from a dish of cornflakes of a morning. That is, if . . .’

  ‘Meecham, you’re a godsend,’ Lady Vee boomed from her window, cutting across his nervous embarrassment. ‘By all means, sneak us a bowl of cornflakes whenever you can. But make sure he doesn’t catch you.’

  Meecham bowed. He was the new chef Richard’s American bride had all but forced down their throat. An American, like herself, he was one of those new guru-type of individuals that had sprung up lately, preaching healthy living and cursing all animal fats.

  ‘No, m’lady,’ Meecham said, with feeling. ‘I’ll make sure the, er, chef doesn’t catch me.’

  There was something almost rabidly fanatic about the new chef. The way he chopped vegetables was really alarming. And all the new kinds of vegetables he was bringing into the kitchen . . . well, Meecham didn’t like the look of them at all. Foreign things they were. Things you’d never even heard of, let alone wanted to eat. Ugli fruit for instance. Ugli it looked and ugli it tasted, in his opinion.

  He sighed woefully. For a week now he’d been forced to watch Miss Starling showing the new chef around, standing aside as he cooked, her lips pulled into a thin, grim line. She’d looked fit to blow a gasket, but she never had. Instead, she’d always managed to cook around the chef, coming up with something good for the staff. And with Meecham’s help and some expert planning, they had even managed to slip the family the odd steak and kidney pie or fish and chip supper when the American bombshell and Lord Richard were dining out.

  But no more. Miss Starling had given her notice on the day of Lord Richard’s arrival, and for a week they’d been dreading the day she’d go. And now the evil moment was upon them. Even the odd clandestine steak and kidney pie was now but a pipe dream. If only Lord and Lady Avonsleigh would make a stand and insist on having their usual food, with a concession made for Lady Cynthia, of course. But they knew that butting heads with their son so soon after his arrival was more trouble than it was worth.

  Meecham heaved another sigh, collected the plates and left.

  Lord Avonsleigh waited until he was gone, then got up and joined his wife at the window. ‘I must say, I do think it’s a bit thick,’ he complained. ‘I never thought Miss Starling was the sort to abandon us in the trenches.’

  Lady Vee snorted. ‘Nor is she, George, nor is she. But you simply can’t ask a cook of her calibre to restrict herself to vegetables. It, well, it’s demeaning. It’s insulting. It’s like asking Sir Christopher Wren to restrict himself to designing garden sheds. Or asking one of those orchestra johnnies to play a violin with one string missing. It just isn’t cricket.’

  Her husband nodded glumly. As ever, his darling
wife was right. ‘She might have stayed on and cooked my puddings, at least,’ he mumbled, unwilling to let it rest.

  ‘With what, dearest?’ Lady Vee snorted. ‘I’ve looked up what “vegan” means. It means not only is meat off limits, but anything else that comes from a bird or animal. So poor Miss Starling wouldn’t be able to use eggs, so there goes any kind of sponge pudding. She mustn’t use milk, so bang go our tapioca and rice puddings. Unless it was fruit, fruit, fruit, it would never get past that creature Richard hired.’

  George went pale. ‘I’ve been thinking, old girl. That new chef of ours. Do you think we might , well, bump him orf?’

  ‘Bump him orf?’ she repeated, giving her husband a fond look. ‘Well we might, George. And with Miss Starling gone, we’d probably get away with it too. But’ — she patted his hand fondly — ‘I don’t think it’s quite on, do you? After all, the chap’s a foreigner. You can’t go about potting foreigners. They do take on so.’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose so. So what do we do?’

  Lady Vee smiled. ‘We wait, George. Richard is the next Lord Avonsleigh, and his wife Lady Avonsleigh, so we must be careful not to alienate them. For the moment, the American bombshell — that’s what the staff are calling her behind her back, you know — is having it all her own way, because Richard is still so young and head over heels in love with her. But the honeymoon stage doesn’t last long, and the rose-tinted glasses will come off, sooner or later, you mark my words. And don’t forget, George dear, Richard is our son. He’ll soon start to crave a nice bit of rump steak. He’ll start dreaming of roast lamb and mint sauce. And then . . .’

  ‘Then we’ll get Miss Starling back,’ his lordship said firmly.

  ‘Exactly. I’ve got her details, and when the time comes I’m sure she can be persuaded to return. Despite having to always cook one vegan dish for the bomb . . . er, Cynthia, she’ll come back to us.’