The Mitford Murders

by Jessica Fellowes

  ‘When did you last see your godson?’ he asked. She didn’t respond and he repeated the question.

  ‘He’s in France, fighting in that ghastly war. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.’ Her eyes went wide and she withdrew into her chair. ‘Have you come to tell me something about him? Is he dead?’ She peered at Guy. ‘Who are you, anyway? Why are you asking me all these questions?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,’ said Guy, deciding to parry the question for now. ‘That’s not why I’ve come. But I am trying to find out where Mr Lucknor might be. I’m not sure that he is still in France.’

  ‘Then where could he be?’ She looked afraid.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Guy. ‘Does the name Alexander Waring mean anything to you?’

  Violet’s pale eyes blinked. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

  Guy could see she was starting to flag. ‘Might you have a photograph of Mr Lucknor that I could see?’

  ‘Oh, yes, in my room. You’ll have to push me there but I can show you the way.’ She seemed quite perked up by the prospect and it was only as they were along the hallway that she turned and stage-whispered to him, ‘They’d leave me by that window all day if they could. Now they’ll have to come and fetch me from my room.’ She turned back, giggling into her hand like a little girl.

  Violet’s room was painted white but there were pretty, thick yellow curtains hung at the window and a number of silver-framed photographs on a dressing table that stood beneath it. Guy pushed her in front of it and she leaned forwards, picking one or two up with her long fingers.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘this is when he was in Paris, with his friend. Such a nice young man.’ She smiled. ‘He came to see me not long ago and brought me some beautiful flowers, like the ones my mother used to grow in our garden.’

  Guy took the photograph, which wasn’t in a frame but had been stuck in front of the glass of another. The framed photograph showed a man in an officer’s cap – Roland? The loose picture had two men standing side by side, grinning at the camera. Guy couldn’t make much out but that they looked relaxed and happy. One of them had a luxuriant moustache.

  ‘Who came to see you?’ he asked. ‘Can you point to him in the photograph?’

  Violet looked up at him and Guy saw her eyes were losing focus. He held up the picture before her. ‘Which one is Roland?’ he said.

  She pointed to the man on the left, with the moustache, but only for the briefest second before her hand fell into her lap.

  ‘The other man came to see you, did you say?’

  ‘Xander,’ she said. ‘Such a sweet boy. Such lovely flowers.’

  Guy was startled. ‘Xander Waring, do you mean?’

  But Violet had lapsed into a thoughtful silence, holding another photograph in her lap of a Victorian woman. Guy could just make out the long skirts and corseted waist. She turned her head away. ‘I’d like to be left alone now, please.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Guy, ‘of course. Thank you, Mrs Temperley. You’ve been so helpful.’

  Gently, he replaced the framed photograph on the table. The loose photograph he slipped into his pocket.

  Two men in the picture. He knew what he had to do next.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Lord Redesdale stared at his daughter. ‘Do you know, I think I will sit down,’ he said and sat on the armchair by the fire. A small puff of dust blew up as he did so.

  Louisa felt calmer now that Nancy had said it all. To hear the story retold by her had only made it seem even more true and real than it had before.

  ‘Are you saying you think Roland killed Florence Shore?’ he said quietly after a minute or two.

  ‘I know it seems shocking—’ began Nancy.

  ‘Shocking? It’s outrageous! You’ve made a mistake somewhere. And how do you know all of this, anyway?’

  Louisa decided she had better speak up now. ‘It’s because of my friend, my lord – Guy Sullivan. He’s a police officer, for the railway police.’ She decided that the detail he had been sacked was one she could leave out for now. ‘He’s been working on the case since it happened. It’s only since the burglary was reported that these facts have really come to light.’

  ‘You say facts, I say theories,’ said Lord Redesdale crossly, but in a tone that sounded very much like his bluster shortly before he gave way to what was always referred to as ‘the thin end of the wedge’.

  ‘Is there anything you can think of about Roland that either supports or refutes these facts?’ pressed Nancy.

  ‘There’s no need to interview me,’ said her father. ‘You’re not a policeman and I’m not a suspect.’

  ‘Nevertheless, can you?’ Nancy had her bone.

  Lord Redesdale cast a glance at Louisa. ‘One doesn’t really talk in front of—’

  ‘Louisa’s not like a servant,’ interrupted Nancy, ‘and besides, she’s involved in this, too. We’ve got to talk about this together.’

  Louisa dared herself. ‘My lord, forgive me for asking, but I did overhear an argument you had with Mr Lucknor in France. That is, I didn’t hear what was said exactly but I heard him shouting.’

  ‘The impertinence!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Farve, dear,’ said Nancy, ‘do stop all that. Just think, would you?’

  ‘Roland was in some sort of terrible trouble; I don’t know what it was. He wanted money …’ he began. Nancy gave him an encouraging look. Ignoring Louisa, he talked to his daughter. ‘I’d already invested in his golf business but I couldn’t give any more. Bill had just died and …’ He stopped and leaned forwards with his hands clasped. ‘I had refused to lend Bill any money. I couldn’t give any more to Roland’s investment. That’s all I’m prepared to say.’

  Nancy and Louisa caught each other’s eyes.

  ‘Farve, Roland is coming to my birthday dance. We don’t know where he is at the moment but I feel sure he’ll turn up.’

  ‘Yes, he’s already written to ask if he and I might have a private meeting before it starts. I had rather hoped … Well, it doesn’t matter what I’d hoped.’

  ‘We can arrange for the police to be there, my lord,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Does it all really have to happen that night? Lady Redesdale will be very upset. She’s put an awful lot of planning into that party. I don’t want all those ghastly neighbours gossiping about us for months afterwards.’ Lord Redesdale looked stricken.

  ‘I’m sure they will be very discreet,’ said Louisa, though she wasn’t at all sure they would. ‘My lord, this is a very important case that the police have been trying to solve for months. I’m sure that any help you give will be seen as a great public service.’

  This was a clever thing to say, Louisa thought.

  ‘Yes, I do see.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Still, I do wish it wasn’t happening at my house. I know what you say sounds right but I can’t help feeling there’s something wrong somewhere. I don’t believe Roland is a killer. I’m sorry but I don’t.’

  ‘I’m going to have to return to London briefly, to see Mr Sullivan,’ said Louisa. ‘I’ll be in touch, to let you know what’s happening. I’ll see you in a couple of days, I suppose.’

  Nancy stood and held out her hand to Louisa. She took it, gratefully, and smiled at her friend, come back to her. ‘Thank you, Miss Nancy,’ she said. ‘I know what it took for you to come here. I won’t let you regret it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nancy, with the composure of a worldly adult. ‘I trust you, Lou-Lou.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  At the post office, Louisa sent a telegram to Guy at his house:

  Lord R agrees to help STOP Returning to London STOP Meet at Regency Cafe this afternoon 3 p.m. STOP Louisa Cannon.

  When she walked into the café just before the appointed hour, she felt the clouds lift to see Guy already there, waiting for her. She slid into the seat opposite and he looked up, caught unawares. He had been staring at the photograph, trying to make sense of it, though of course he had met ne
ither of the men in it.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ he said. ‘Such a lot has happened.’

  ‘I know,’ said Louisa. ‘For me, too.’ She ordered a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, suddenly starving after her journey down.

  Guy handed her the photograph, explaining as he did so how he had come by it.

  ‘That’s Roland, all right,’ said Louisa, ‘though it’s obviously a few years ago. He looks a bit younger there. A bit happier, too, I’d say. It must have been before the war.’

  ‘Which one did you say was Roland?’ said Guy.

  ‘That man,’ said Louisa, pointing. ‘The one on the right.’

  ‘No,’ said Guy. ‘Mrs Temperley said her godson was the one on the left. The man with the moustache. Are you sure?’

  Louisa looked again. ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just shaved his moustache off and now he looks like the friend,’ said Guy.

  ‘No,’ said Louisa. ‘I know they are quite similar-looking, but no, that’s definitely Roland. Did she say who the other man was?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Xander Waring. I mean, she was a little vague but she said the man on the right was the one who had been to see her. She hadn’t seen Roland since before the war, she said. Actually, she thought he was still in France, fighting.’

  ‘Hang on, didn’t you say it said Roland Lucknor in the visitor’s book?’

  Guy nodded. ‘But she was a muddled old lady. It’s quite possible that she thought it was Xander when it was Roland who came to see her.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s it,’ said Louisa, staring again at the picture. She could see a French street sign behind them. Rue Ravignon. They were each wearing cravats instead of ties and their shirt collars were undone. They looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world. There was no doubt in her mind: the man on the right was the man she knew – and Nancy knew and Lord Redesdale knew – as Roland Lucknor. But he wasn’t Roland Lucknor; he was Xander Waring, if the old lady was right. And why shouldn’t she be?

  The sandwich was put before Louisa but her appetite had vanished. She pushed the plate to the side. ‘Hear me out,’ she said. ‘What if Xander killed Roland and stole his identity? What if the man we all think is Roland Lucknor is, in fact, Xander Waring? What if Florence Shore discovered this, when she went to the flat and rowed with him, and that was why he killed her?’

  Guy’s eyes went wide. He thought about it. ‘Why would he do that, though? Why go to that trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Louisa. ‘But it’s the only answer I can think of.’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Guy, ‘but I know a man who might.’

  Less than an hour later, Guy and Louisa were ringing Timothy Malone’s doorbell. He came to the door and looked pleased to see Guy. ‘Ah, hello!’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? And I see you’ve brought a friend.’ He looked behind him. ‘I’m afraid the place is rather in a mess …’

  ‘Please don’t worry about that on my account,’ said Louisa. She liked him instantly, with his air of faded grandeur and gentleness. From her time with the Mitfords, she could recognise a well-made shirt when she saw one, even when the collar was soft from years of washing.

  ‘Then the more the merrier, I say. Do come in.’

  The two of them were ushered into his room. Louisa took in the single bed, the damp corners and the unwashed cups in the sink. There was a newspaper on the table, the page folded for the cryptic crossword. Timothy saw her eye on it.

  ‘I’ve been trying to do it all morning,’ he said genially. ‘Are you any good? You might help me with eleven down.’

  Louisa shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said and regretted it. She’d have liked to have sat with this man and given him some company for an hour or two.

  ‘We can’t stay long, I’m afraid,’ said Guy when Timothy offered tea. ‘We need your help with something. Can we sit?’

  The three of them went to the table by the window, where the light was good. Guy handed Timothy the photograph. ‘Could you tell me who those men are, if you recognise them?’

  Timothy took it carefully with both hands and studied it, moving aside an empty glass.

  ‘Of course. It’s a few years ago, I’d say, but that’s Roland Lucknor and Xander Waring. In Paris, by the looks of it.’

  Guy and Louisa exchanged a look.

  ‘Could you point and tell us which is which?’ asked Guy, almost unable to get the words out for anticipation.

  ‘Yes, that’s Roland, on the left, with the moustache. Xander is on the right.’

  Guy and Louisa stood on the pavement outside a few minutes later. ‘What do we do now?’ said Louisa.

  ‘Now we need to identify him as Florence Shore’s killer,’ said Guy.

  ‘Mabel Rogers would know if he was the man in the brown suit,’ said Louisa.

  ‘We need at least one more witness, if we can find them, otherwise it’s just her word against his.’

  ‘What about Stuart Hobkirk? He said someone had been to see him and we know it wasn’t a policeman. Someone asking him intrusive questions and so on. If that was Roland – or Xander, whoever he is – would that help?’

  Guy almost slapped her on the back. ‘Yes, that’s it. We’re going to need Harry’s help, though. Come with me.’

  Harry ran his hands over his head and gave a low whistle. The three of them were in Victoria station, standing by the newspaper kiosk. Louisa had fetched Harry from the LB&SCR Police office and his curiosity had not been able to stop him from following her out. Guy had been waiting, trying to look anonymous by pretending to inspect the headlines. The owner had just asked him either to buy something or go away when Harry and Louisa arrived.

  Harry had given Guy a nudge in the side and whispered, ‘I can see what all the fuss is about now,’ but Guy had shut him up. Now they had told Harry of the events and shown him the incriminating photograph.

  ‘What are you thinking of doing next?’ said Harry. ‘I mean, it’s all very well but the super’s going to blow his top with all this stolen evidence. You’re going to have to make it add up to something or get him to confess.’

  ‘I know,’ said Guy. ‘I thought, if you could get the photograph sent by express to Stuart Hobkirk in Cornwall, then he could telegram to us if he recognises the man in the photograph as the one who went to see him, asking him lots of questions and so on. Because we think whoever that was was probably the killer.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’ said Harry.

  ‘Because that person wasn’t a policeman, but wanted to know about Florence Shore and the murder case. Who else would it be? If Hobkirk identifies the man in the photograph as the one we call Roland, then that gives us a witness connecting Roland to the murder. That’s not all – we’re going to go to Nancy’s birthday ball on Saturday night. Roland Lucknor—’

  ‘Or Xander,’ interrupted Louisa.

  ‘Or Xander,’ said Guy, throwing her a grateful look, ‘whatever his name is, he will be there.’

  Louisa turned towards Harry. ‘We’re going to ask Mabel Rogers to come to the ball. That way she can get a good look at him, without him noticing, and tell us if he was the man in the brown suit that got on the train.’

  Harry noticed the newspaper seller wigging his ears and shuffled the three of them further away. ‘And then what?’

  ‘Well, I thought – you could be there,’ said Guy, ‘to arrest him. We’d have enough to charge him by then.’

  Harry looked doubtful. ‘I’d have to get permission from Jarvis for all that.’

  ‘I know,’ said Guy, ‘but you’ve got enough reason to ask him. I’m only asking for you, another police officer and a car.’

  ‘Did you take the letter to the Met?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Yes, to Haigh, but he said I needed more. I’ve got it now: I’ve got the photograph. All we need is for Stuart Hobkirk and Mabel Rogers to say that’s the man they saw before and we’ve got him. We’ve got Florence Sh
ore’s killer.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  There was only a little over twenty-four hours until the dance for Nancy’s eighteenth birthday. The journey back to the room Louisa had taken in the village seemed to be a thousand miles. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. She couldn’t yet return to Asthall Manor, in spite of Lord Redesdale’s assurances that he would be helping, because she didn’t know if anything had been said to Lady Redesdale. The other servants, in any case, could not be told any of the details. She did, however, need to let Nancy know what the plan was, so asked a boy in the blacksmith’s to cycle around with a message to her, asking if they could meet. There was an hour or so of daylight left.

  While she waited, Louisa fidgeted and paced around the room until she thought she may as well go downstairs and ask Jonny’s mother if she could help prepare supper or something. But as she was coming down, there was a knock at the front door. Nancy.

  ‘Goodness, I rushed here on my bicycle,’ said Nancy, dispensing with the niceties of greetings in all the excitement. ‘Blor was in a frightful state about it, saying I need my sleep before tomorrow and what was I doing going out now and, well, you can imagine the rest.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Don’t be!’ said Nancy. ‘I’m almost a grown-up now. Blor can’t tell me what to do.’ She peered into the gloom of the hallway, the door of the dusty parlour just beyond. ‘Shall we go for a walk around the village?’

  Louisa grabbed her coat and hat, and the two young women set off, arm in arm, slightly huddled against the cold. There was a great deal to tell Nancy.

  ‘You’re saying that Roland isn’t Roland, he’s Xander Waring?’ said Nancy afterwards, slowly and in shock.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to take in,’ said Louisa. She explained that the photograph was now on its way to Stuart Hobkirk and that they would wait for confirmation from him that the man they all knew as Roland was the one who had been to see him. And then, as delicately as she could, she explained that Guy Sullivan was going to see Mabel Rogers, to ask her to come to the party, so that she could identify ‘Roland’ as ‘the man in the brown suit’.