The Mitford Murders

by Jessica Fellowes

  Guy took Florence’s letter to Mabel from his pocket and laid it flat on the desk before him. He read it again, trying to see if there was a detail he had missed.

  I think Roland killed Xander.

  Why didn’t she write that Xander killed Roland? Surely she must have recognised that the man leaving the hut wasn’t Roland? Unless Xander had started the impersonation immediately, put on his friend’s uniform and the officer’s hat, and then perhaps the darkness and the shadows had helped him fool her. In the photograph, the two men had had a certain similarity to them; once Roland’s moustache had been shaved off, it might have been difficult to tell the difference.

  If Florence had gone to Roland’s flat to confront him, would she have dared to do so alone if she suspected him of being a killer? When she saw him, she must have immediately realised that he was not, in fact, Roland, but Xander. Had she suspected that beforehand?

  Guy took the two bank books out of his pocket and put them on the desk, too. Why was Xander’s bank book showing money being paid out for the care of Roland’s godmother in the nursing home? Then there were the large cash withdrawals from Roland’s account. Some of these sums were very similar to the payments for the British Home and Hospital for Incurables, and Guy could only suppose that Xander was using the money paid in by Lord Redesdale to fund those bills. This in itself did not seem quite like the act of a callous murderer. Then there were those other cheques cashed, annotated by a PO box address. Who could those have been for? Florence Shore? Had he been paying her to keep quiet?

  Something still did not add up correctly and Guy was running out of time to work it out.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  At a quarter past seven, Guy was back in the hall, hovering, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible by stoking the fire. He had the sense of being in his own pocket of calm, as the hubbub around him got louder and the lights became brighter while the evening outside grew darker. The guests had come out of the drawing room now and were making their way to the library – the main room for the party – but with new guests constantly arriving in the hall, they became a teeming mass of squeals and twirls as girls showed off their dresses and exclaimed in delight as they saw each other. There were also a number of older men and women – neighbours, presumably. There were very few young men. Two men arrived, leaning heavily on walking sticks, revealing flattened white hair when they removed their top hats. Louisa had told him that Lord Redesdale had been instructed to round up men from the House of Lords to try and swell the numbers. Hardly the stuff of romantic dreams for an eighteen-year-old girl, thought Guy.

  Lord and Lady Redesdale were now close to the front door, greeting the guests as they came in, once Mrs Windsor had announced their names. Then, through the front door, walked a lean, well-dressed man Guy recognised instantly from the photograph: the man on the right – Xander Waring.

  Lord Redesdale went towards him and shook his hand. ‘Dear boy,’ he said, ‘it’s good to see you.’

  Guy noticed that the man was less hearty in his response, his eyes shifting over the other guests. Although he knew Roland – he couldn’t call him Xander – wouldn’t know who he was, Guy kept himself to the edges, making sure he drew no attention to himself.

  Nancy overheard her father and broke away from a gaggle of girls, like goslings around a goose. Guy watched as she glided towards Roland, her face tilted up, her greeting effusive. ‘Mr Lucknor,’ she said, ‘now we can begin the party.’ She gave him a broad smile and Roland looked back at her as if she had offered him deliverance. ‘Walk me into the library,’ she said. ‘We have to go outside to get there, as you know, but Farve has cleverly had oil stoves lit along the way to keep everyone warm.’

  As soon as Roland had handed over his coat and hat to a maid standing by, Nancy took his proffered arm and walked out through the front door, calling out to her friends behind to follow her.

  Lord Redesdale turned and caught Guy’s eye just before he went out with them. The look was not a friendly one.

  So now Roland was here. Where, thought Guy nervously, was Harry and the rest of the police? And when would Mabel and Louisa get here?

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  At the station, Louisa stood by the car with the driver, waiting for the train to get in. Aside from their exchange at the house, they hadn’t spoken. He had driven fast and they had pulled in almost at the same time as the train had braked at the platform. Only a minute or two later, the passengers started to come out of the station. Louisa realised that although Guy had given her a brief description, she wasn’t entirely sure what Mabel Rogers looked like. One old lady walked out and Louisa prepared herself, but then at the last second she was greeted by someone else and the two walked off. Almost one of the last to emerge was a woman, not old but not in her prime either. Before Louisa had moved towards her, the driver had opened the car door in readiness.

  ‘Miss Rogers?’ said Louisa, as the woman approached.

  ‘Yes. Have you come from Asthall Manor?’ said Mabel, her voice timid. She was swamped by the fur coat she was wearing.

  ‘I have,’ said Louisa. ‘Please, do get in the car. It’s cold out here.’

  Mabel took nervous steps towards them. She caught the eye of the driver and handed him her umbrella without saying a word, then climbed into the car, rather awkwardly, keeping a tight grip on her handbag. Louisa got in on the other side, forgetting to wait for the driver to come around and open the door for her. She was not used to drivers opening doors for her. She was not even especially used to cars. Sitting next to Mabel on the back seat, she rather felt the two of them shared the same unease.

  After they had exchanged polite comments about the journey, the business of why they were both in the car together raised its head.

  ‘Is the man there?’ asked Mabel.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Louisa. ‘He wasn’t when I left but he was expected to arrive soon, so he should be by the time we get there. It shouldn’t take us more than half an hour at the most.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mabel, her mouth a slash, almost invisible.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ said Louisa, kindly. ‘He won’t be able to do anything to you. There will be plenty of policemen, and Lord Redesdale, all on the lookout.’

  Mabel nodded but her face looked no less vexed. Louisa was conscious of what they had asked this poor woman to do – to come on a train journey out of London, to a house and situation that would be very intimidating, and confront the man who had killed her long-term friend and companion. The man who had robbed her of a happy old age and left her instead in penury and loneliness.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Louisa, hoping Mabel would understand what she was apologising for. ‘If there was another way to do this, we would have done it. But by the end of tonight, it will all be over and justice will be done for your friend.’

  Mabel said nothing but looked to the side. Louisa saw the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror watching them both. If he was listening, he must have thought it all very curious indeed.

  Just twenty minutes and they would be at the party. She crossed her fingers that Guy was ready and waiting for them both.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Guy went outside the front door to see if there was any sign of Harry. Cars were still pulling up and disgorging young women in dresses that seemed to carry their own light, but the rush of arrivals was over. There was a delicious smell from the kitchens and Guy’s stomach rumbled; he hadn’t eaten much that day. The cigarette smoke and the quick, high notes of music that came up on the air jangled against his nerves, making him feel hollow inside. Mrs Windsor was directing everybody immediately through the Cloisters to the library and they moved like a circus parade through town, all noise and celebration, feathers and triumphant cries. Had someone produced a trumpet and a flag, it would have seemed entirely in keeping.

  Guy could see the oil stoves throwing off thick smoke, which, judging by the coughs of some of the guests, was blowing in the wr
ong direction. There was a lull and then Guy saw Harry come around the large oak tree that stood in the drive, looking particularly diminutive as he led three officers in Metropolitan uniform and, to Guy’s shock, Detective Inspector Haigh.

  Lord Redesdale had also come out of the library and was walking towards Guy. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘must everyone be out here? I don’t want any talk.’

  Haigh stretched an arm out. ‘Good evening, Lord Redesdale. We appreciate everything you’re doing to help us.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ said Lord Redesdale, caught off-guard by this. ‘I’ll show you the way to my study. You can wait in there, though I’m still not entirely clear exactly what we’re waiting for.’

  The men were all standing awkwardly to the side of the front door, when a boy came up on a bicycle. ‘Telegram for Sergeant Conlon,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing that’s one of you,’ he added cheekily, as he caught sight of the uniforms.

  Harry took it from him and the boy zipped off as sharply as he had arrived. ‘This will be from Stuart Hobkirk,’ he said. ‘I told him to send any messages here.’

  ‘Who is Stuart Hobkirk and why is he sending telegrams to other men at my house?’ said Lord Redesdale in a voice that threatened to tip into a roar at any moment.

  ‘He’s Florence Shore’s cousin,’ said Guy. ‘He told me that someone had been to see him, asking lots of questions about the case, and we know that it wasn’t a policeman because none of us had been sent there. We sent him the photograph, to identify Roland in it. It will give us another witness that connects him with the murder.’

  ‘Do you want me to open it or not?’ said Harry.

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Haigh, and took it. He read it and his face fell.

  ‘What?’ said Guy. ‘What does it say?’ He prayed Haigh wouldn’t hand it to him to read; he’d never be able to make it out in the dim light.

  ‘It says that he doesn’t recognise either of the men in the photograph.’

  There was a deathly pause.

  ‘Well, what does that mean?’ said Lord Redesdale. ‘Does that mean Roland isn’t the man you want?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Harry. ‘Perhaps Roland wasn’t working alone. We know it had to be two people who were there at the time of the attack. Whoever was working with Roland might be the one who went to see Hobkirk.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Guy, ‘but something isn’t right. I need to get closer to Roland, see if he says anything else this evening.’

  Haigh nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Lord Redesdale, may I have your permission to borrow a footman’s outfit?’ said Guy, turning to the bewildered baron.

  ‘All I wanted was a nice quiet life,’ muttered Lord Redesdale. Without answering the question he wandered off back through the Cloisters.

  ‘Come on. We haven’t got a moment to lose,’ said Guy, marvelling at his ability to take charge in front of a detective inspector and wondering simultaneously if it would ever happen again in his life. If only his brothers could see him now. ‘Mabel Rogers will be arriving any minute.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  The driver, Louisa noticed, was not haring down the roads at the same breakneck speed they had gone to the station, but as they didn’t have a train to meet, perhaps this made more sense. It was safer, at any rate.

  When they were still a good ten minutes from the house, Mabel turned towards Louisa slightly, as if her neck was stiff. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, ‘perhaps it would be better if you asked Roland Lucknor to come out to me, in the car. Rather than me going into the party.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry about everybody at the party,’ said Louisa. ‘They’re all very friendly.’ She wasn’t quite sure this was entirely true but she felt Mabel needed the reassurance.

  ‘I would feel safer in the car,’ said Mabel, ‘and if we get him on his own, he wouldn’t be able to run, would he? Perhaps we should stop the car before we even get to the house, just a little way off, then he could be brought out to me there?’

  ‘I’m not really sure …’ Louisa began but she saw the worry etched on Mabel’s face. ‘We’ll see. I’ll ask G— the policeman in charge, to see what he can arrange. I promise you, you’re in completely safe hands, no harm will come to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mabel, and turned back to face the front again. As she did so, her coat fell open slightly and Louisa saw a pretty necklace catch the light. It was a gold chain with two amethysts hanging from it. Anxious to distract Mabel from what lay ahead, Louisa complimented her on it.

  ‘What a lovely necklace,’ she said. ‘It’s rather unusual, isn’t it? Two amethysts.’ As she said it, she pulled herself up short. She had remembered something.

  Something very important.

  Back at the house, Guy was in a small room near the kitchen – an old scullery, he supposed – struggling to put on a footman’s trousers. Inevitably they were too short and he tried to pull his socks up as high as possible so that the gap wouldn’t be visible.

  A young man ran in. ‘Have you seen a chauffeur’s livery in here?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ said Guy.

  ‘A chauffeur’s livery. I usually have it in here. I come down and drive Lady Redesdale now and then, and they asked me to help tonight with the guests and I can’t bloody well find it. I hung it up while I had a cigarette. I’m supposed to be picking up more guests and my jacket and cap have gone completely bloody missing!’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Guy, uncomfortable but dressed in a footman’s costume – he couldn’t really bring himself to call it a uniform – walked into the library, which was now full to bursting of party guests. A three-piece orchestra was playing gay tunes from the corner, smoke hung in a blue pall above them and the overwhelming sensation was of riotous colour and noise. Nobody seemed to talk or to listen, but to shout almost incessantly at the person standing opposite them. The older women wore tiaras and understated dresses but the young had feathers, chokers and sequins, tassels that swung from their hips and wore stockings of all colours. They kicked their heels and fiddled with their strings of pearls, flashing white teeth and diamonds in their ears.

  Guy felt rather sorry for Harry, missing out on this bit. He stood in a corner, close to Nancy, who had left Roland talking to her next-door neighbour, a safe old chap who was renowned for his endless anecdotes about the Boer war.

  ‘You’d think it was an anagram, the way he goes on,’ Guy heard Nancy say to a friend, and the friend laughed just a little too enthusiastically at the joke.

  Guy was holding a silver tray with nothing on it. He’d intended to look as if he was collecting empty glasses but soon realised he didn’t trust himself not to drop them.

  A passing young buck pointed to him and shouted over to his friend, ‘I say, do you think that bally waiter can’t see he’s got no champers on his tray? Have you ever seen such thick glasses?’

  ‘The wrong kind of glasses!’ his friend hooted back and Guy flushed in fury but said nothing.

  His attention was soon distracted as he saw Nancy approached by a much older man with a stomach that arrived at its destination a good two steps ahead of the feet.

  ‘Mr Johnsen,’ said Nancy politely. ‘So good of you to come.’

  ‘Jolly good of you to ask me,’ said Mr Johnsen. ‘Lovely Champagne.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Nancy and risked half an eye at her friend, who giggled behind her hand.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that case you came to see me about,’ he said.

  Nancy’s attention was caught. She turned her back to her friend with an apologetic smile and bent a little towards the solicitor. ‘And what have you thought?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it’s just … I thought it was funny that you said her brother, Offley Shore, you know, was in such a temper about the will because he was never the original recipient of the estate that Miss Shore established.’ He stopped and took another big gulp of wine.

  Nancy looked at Guy and he gave her a
nod. She needed to find out more.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  The car drew up and parked by the side of the road, a short distance from the gates of Asthall Manor. Louisa could see the rain falling in the light of the headlamps, quite heavy now.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Louisa to Mabel, a little pointlessly.

  ‘Bring the man here,’ said Mabel, ‘but not anybody else. Please.’

  The driver handed Louisa the umbrella belonging to Mabel. ‘You’ll need this, miss,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’d better wait here. I can’t leave the car and Miss Rogers alone.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Louisa. She took the umbrella, which had a long, straight wooden handle, completely plain but for a strange, dark mark. It flashed through her mind that it looked like blood.

  Nancy sidled a little closer to Mr Johnsen. ‘Who was the original beneficiary?’ she asked.

  ‘Her friend, Mabel Rogers,’ said Mr Johnsen. ‘She’d been the recipient for years and then it was suddenly changed. I checked the papers again just before I came here. I think I’d forgotten because the funny thing was, she never came to the office herself. She always sent a friend, a man called Jim Badgett. I never quite understood why but he only relayed the messages between us so far as I could tell.’