Chapter Seventeen
Downstairs, Hazel collected her wool coat from Shrewsbury then ducked her head into the kitchen to let Alice know she wouldn’t be in for breakfast that morning. “I’m having Duffy run me back to Lady Etienne’s so I can hopefully get more information about that blasted corset and why in the world Doris would be buying it if she wasn’t pregnant.”
“Good luck, madam,” Alice said, pausing in kneading dough for bread later on. “With luck, this case will be solved soon and things can get back to normal.”
“Oh, madam,” Maggie said, rushing in. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but I met with a friend who introduced me to the Wakefields’ maid Betsy last night. She said she’ll be out in the rose gardens near the back of the Farnsworth property this morning to scrub the birdbath. She said that would be a good time for you to speak to her again as there won’t be anyone else around, madam.”
“Perfect.” She stopped by the kitchen door and grabbed a pair of Charles’s old black wellies to cover her pristine white shoes. “I’ll have Duffy swing by there before we head into town. Thank you, Maggie.”
Fifteen minutes later, Hazel had Duffy stop near the forest at the edge of the Farnsworth estate near the rose gardens where Maggie had arranged the meeting for her with Betsy. There was a lovely wrought-iron fence lining the garden, and she smiled as she pulled her late husband’s oversized boots on over her shoes. It wasn’t particularly muddy since it hadn’t rained here in ages, but she didn’t want to take any chances with her new wardrobe. With her coat pulled tight around her, Hazel waited until Duffy helped her from the vehicle then made her way over to the fenced-in area. There, just beyond the gate, stood Betsy, scrubbing a large ornate cement birdbath, as promised. She waved the maid over.
“Madam,” Betsy said, wiping her hands on the front of her apron then dropping into a quick curtsy. “Maggie said you wanted to speak with me again?”
“Yes, thank you.” Hazel batted away an errant clumsy bumblebee that had somehow managed to survive this late in the season. Most of the insects were dead by mid-September. “I wondered if you could clarify for me again exactly what you heard the night of Doris’s argument in Lord Wakefield’s study. Are you sure she said, ‘not paid off’?”
“Yes, madam.” Betsy glanced around to make sure no one was listening then stepped closer. “That’s exactly what I heard. And that’s all she said too. I didn’t hear anything else.”
“And you still don’t have any idea who it was exactly she was arguing with?”
“No, madam.”
“You’re positive it was the Thursday prior to Doris’s death and the time the fight occurred was just before dinner?”
“Thursday prior, that’s correct, madam. And I’m sure about that time because, as I said, that’s when I go there to dust the books in the library. Same time, same day, every week. That way I don’t disturb the family’s reading time.”
“Right.” Hazel exhaled slowly and tapped her fingertips against the cool metal of the fence. There had to be more that happened that night. She just needed to find out what it was. “Tell me about what happened the night Doris died. What do you remember?”
“Well, madam, like I said, at that time every Thursday I’m in the library, dusting the books. Next thing I knew, I heard a scream then the pounding footsteps as everybody ran to see what was going on. I headed straight for the back stairs in the kitchen, since that’s the direction the scream came from. I immediately thought something might’ve happened in the turret room since that’s the only way to access that section of the house, and, well, that whole space scares me. So dusty and gloomy up there.”
“Was Mrs. Crosby in the dining room when you ran past on your way to the kitchen?” Hazel asked, hoping to corroborate the other woman’s story.
“Yes, madam. I remember running past her, but I didn’t slow down because the situation seemed so urgent. I knew it would take her longer to get there since she was older, so I went on ahead to see if I could help.”
“I see. And when you reached the kitchen, who was in there?”
“The cook and her staff,” Betsy said.
“Were any of the Wakefield family members present?”
“No, madam.”
“And when you reached the third floor, who did you see?” Hazel pulled a small notebook from her pocket to jot things down.
“Let’s see. Mr. Donovan, the estate manager, George, the under-butler, and Harrison, the butler, were already in the turret room by the time I got there, madam. Then Mrs. Crosby and Mr. Thomas came up the stairs right behind me. From where I was standing, I could see into the turret room, and the window was open, but I… well, I didn’t go any farther to look out, madam.”
“What about Miss Eugenia?” Hazel looked up from her notepad. “Where was she?”
“I didn’t see her, madam. But Mary said Miss Eugenia was in the privy at the time. She’s very delicate. Because of her sensitivities, Mary said she made sure she didn’t come out to see Doris that way. They were so close, after all. It would have devastated her.”
Unfortunately, this conversation had provided her with nothing new, only the same information about how close the two women were. Hazel sighed and put her pad away. “Is there anything else you remember about that night, Betsy? Anything at all that might help us catch Doris’s killer?”
“No, madam. I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“You have been an enormous help, Betsy.” Hazel smiled. “Thank you for talking to me again.”
The maid curtsied once more then went back to her birdbath while Hazel carefully made her way across the deeply grooved roadway back to the Sunbeam. The clunky boots made walking awkward, but they’d done their job and protected her outfit, which was good. Duffy was waiting and helped her into the passenger seat then walked around to climb behind the wheel again.
“Where to now, madam?” Duffy asked, tipping his hat to her.
“Lady Etienne’s, please.”
Half an hour later, she was in town once more and marching up to the front door of the tiny shop again, sans boots. From the outside, the shop looked quite attractive, with pastel-pink-and-white awnings over the sparkling display windows and crisp gold lettering on the glass. But inside… well, that was a different story.
It wasn’t that the merchandise wasn’t top quality. From the talk she’d heard, Lady Etienne’s only used the finest Parisian silks and laces in their…products. But still. Thirty-eight years and not one foot in that scandalous establishment, and now two visits in one week. This time she didn’t hesitate, just opened the door and made a beeline directly for the shop owner. Filigreed wrought-iron racks of tiny lingerie swirled around her.
“Ah, back again,” the same assistant who’d helped her the other day said as Hazel approached. She was wearing the same drab brown cotton dress with the same tape measure around her neck. It seemed the decadence of the lingerie didn’t extend to the employees’ uniforms. “What may I help you with today?”
“I had a few more questions about that pregnancy corset we discussed the last time I was in the shop.” She gestured for the petite French woman to follow her to a more secluded corner of the store, away from the few other patrons who were milling about. “What I would like to know is if such a corset could be used for faking a pregnancy.”
“Oh, well.” The woman frowned. “That’s not what that garment is intended for at all. But I suppose if one was desperate...” Her voice trailed off, and her dark brows knitted, her round face scrunching into a frown. “You know, come to think of it, that maid did purchase an odd size. I knew by looking at her that it would not fit her properly, and I told her so—because the proportions were all wrong. It would have gapped in the waist area, even with a growing infant inside her. But perhaps, if she was using it for the purpose you suggest, then the extra room would be welcome.”
“And she didn’t mention anything further about the corset or why she wanted it?” Hazel asked.
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“No. It was rather odd.” The woman glanced at a patron who brushed past them then leaned in closer to Hazel. “As I said, she rushed off without the receipt. I’d seen her walk past earlier with Lady Wakefield, and I didn’t want there to be any problems with household monies and a lack of receipt, so later I had the receipt delivered to Farnsworth Abbey. With the corset being the wrong size and all, I guessed she might need it in case of a return. The poor dear was in such a hurry that day. She seemed very flustered and upset. I take it the pregnancy was not a blessing?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Hazel said, shaking her head as she headed for the front door.
Chapter Eighteen
After her two morning meetings, Hazel returned to Hastings Manor more confused than ever. Her investigation into Doris’s death was stuck, and she knew of only one way to push it forward—working on her next book. Something about working through revisions and plot twists always got her juices flowing. She went upstairs to her writing room, Dickens close on her heels, and flipped through the manuscript from the beginning.
“Oh dear,” she said to the cat. “We mustn’t forget to add the acknowledgment. Lady Wakefield will be very upset with us if we do that. She’s so determined for her family name to get the recognition it deserves.”
Dickens meowed loudly.
“And she’s so concerned with how things look. Nothing improper, nothing unseemly.”
Another meow.
Dickens jumped from his favorite chair where he was sitting on to the windowsill nearby, leaving several pieces of silver-beige fur in his wake. Hazel wrinkled her nose and picked up the fluff. She’d never known the cat to shed that much, just the usual stray hairs left on unsuspecting laps like Shrewsbury’s. But those were always one or two fine needles of fur, not as many as this. Maybe it was time for a good brushing. Alice would have a fit and fall in it if she found a pile of cat hair like this anywhere near her kitchen. And she and Dickens were just starting to warm to each other too.
As she stared at the fur in her hand, a memory stirred. That first day she’d visited Farnsworth Abbey and looked out the turret room window, there’d been a clump of fur on the roof near the edge of the guttering. Then, later, Mrs. Crosby had said that Doris loved the Wakefields’ cat, Norwich, and used to chase him down from trees and rooftops to keep him safe.
Dickens purred loudly as he groomed his paws in the sunshine, and Hazel chuckled. “I’m sure you’d love to climb trees and get on rooftops, wouldn’t you?”
As if in response, the feline looked at her, gaze narrowed, then glanced back out the window, scooting away slightly before meowing loudly again and jumping down off the sill. Perhaps her Dickens wasn’t a climber like Norwich after all, and for that Hazel was glad. She shuddered at the thought of the cat getting stuck out there on a precarious ledge and her having to go after him to fetch him back.
Hazel straightened as her thoughts screeched to a halt. Wait. Could that have been what happened to poor Doris? Had Norwich gotten out again and she went out on the roof to go get him then slipped and fell by accident? The cat’s presence would certainly explain the tuft of black fur she’d seen on the rooftop too.
But that didn’t make sense. Several of the staff had mentioned seeing Norwich down on the ground level by Doris’s body after she fell. There was no way he could have jumped from a three-story height and survived unscathed, nine lives or not.
And that line of thought still didn’t explain the pregnancy corset or the incorrect size.
Hazel slumped back in her chair, toying absently with the clump of Dickens’s fur. None of the puzzle pieces fit together like a proper case should, and it was getting irritating. Mrs. Crosby had specifically said she was in the turret room and looked out the window to see Norwich and the other staff members downstairs around Doris’s body.
Frowning, she rifled through her drawers to find the map she’d drawn that day down in the kitchen to show Alice and Maggie where the rooms at Farnsworth Abbey were located. Per her conversation with Betsy earlier, George, Mr. Donovan, and Harrison were already in the turret room when she got there. Mrs. Crosby and Thomas followed up the stairs shortly thereafter.
The only person who hadn’t been present and accounted for was Miss Eugenia, but Betsy had said she was in her rooms, not feeling well. She’d said the girl had been sick. Lord Wakefield had an alibi, and Mrs. Crosby passed Mrs. Wakefield coming down the stairs from the turret room and—oh!
“That’s it!” she said, snapping her fingers at Dickens to get his attention. “We need to call Inspector Gibson right away. I know who the killer is and the reason behind the murder. And they got it wrong. All wrong!”
Chapter Nineteen
At four p.m. sharp as they’d arranged, Hazel met Detective Chief Inspector Gibson at Farnsworth Abbey. She figured teatime was as good as any to catch the entire Wakefield household together. Harrison, the butler, answered the door and let them inside then took their coats. Hazel smoothed her hand down the front of her plum-colored day dress then pulled Betsy aside as she scurried past and whispered for her to go up to the attic and search for one thing.
The maid nodded and rushed off.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” Michael asked as the butler led them toward the dining room, where the family was gathered. “You believe that strongly in your hunches? Hunches you’ve yet to share with me?”
“I do.” Hazel nodded, clasping her hands together in front of her to hide their nervous tremble. Her Charles had always said that catching a criminal was eighty percent facts and fifteen percent instinct—with the other five percent being pure luck—and she was about to prove him right. Harrison announced their arrival, and all the Wakefield family looked up at her and Michael in unison, their expressions shocked, to say the least.
Lord Wakefield was the first to recover, his tone deliberately bland, in direct opposition to his irritated expression. “You again, Chief Inspector? I do hope you’ve solved the case this time, so we can be done with this nasty business.”
Michael looked from the lord to Hazel, his kind brown gaze twinkling mischievously. “Indeed we have. Or should I say, Mrs. Martin here has a theory.”
“A theory?” Huffing, Lord Wakefield sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Well, spit it out then, Mrs. Martin.”
“Well, sir, I believe Doris’s murder was somewhat of a misunderstanding,” Hazel said.
“A misunderstanding?” The lord’s frown darkened. “And what does this misunderstanding have to do with any of us? I was led to believe the death had something to do with that no-good chauffeur of ours disappearing.”
“As did we. At first.” Hazel glanced at Michael then turned to Lady Wakefield. “I believe you said you were in your sewing room and your husband was in his study that Thursday night when you heard Doris’s scream. Is that correct, Lady Wakefield?”
Lord Wakefield cleared his throat.
“Well.” Lady Wakefield’s gaze darted to her husband then back to Hazel. “Yes, that’s correct. Though by now you know I was mistaken about my husband’s location, as he’s told you. But as for the rest of it, yes. As I said, I was working on my new shawl.”
“Right. And a lovely shawl it is too.” Hazel moved to Eugenia next. “And you were in your room when you heard the scream, Eugenia?”
She glanced at her brother then nodded.
“And you, Thomas,” Hazel said. “Where were you when all this was happening?”
“I was in the front hallway,” he said, setting his teacup down then wiping his mouth. “Just coming back from the garage, actually.”
“Ah.” Hazel raised a brow at him. “Checking to make sure a certain Alphonse Ash was no longer there?”
“No.” Thomas visibly bristled, his posture stiffening and dots of crimson appearing on his pale cheeks. “I have no idea what you mean, Mrs. Martin.”
“Really?” She tilted her head. “So you didn’t fight with the chauffeur, as oth
er witnesses have testified, and demand he leave the employ of this house?”
Eugenia pushed to her feet, her pale cheeks flushed now as well. “Thomas did not kill Doris, if that’s what you’re implying!”
“I’m not implying anything, dear. Please sit down before you make yourself even more unwell,” Hazel said, gesturing toward the girl’s chair. “Though I will admit your brother was on my suspect list for a while, as were many others. But you see, in the end, I couldn’t find one single person on my list who had all three elements—means, motive, and opportunity. But then again, I had the motive part all wrong until today.” She glanced around the table and gave a small smile. “As did the killer.”
Lord Wakefield stood as well now, grousing. “Just what are you blasted well getting at, Mrs. Martin?” He threw his linen napkin down on the table and glowered at Michael. “Is this completely necessary, Inspector? Since when do you let civilians run around accusing members of the aristocracy of murder?”
“I’m only doing my due diligence here, sir.” Michael held up his hands in supplication. “As a public servant. And please, just hear the lady out. She’s to be trusted, I swear. After all, she’s well bred, and she learned her investigative skills from the best, her late husband.”
Warmed by the compliment and bolstered by his confidence, Hazel continued, turning her attention back to Lord Wakefield. “You originally claimed you go to the club on Thursdays, though you were at a different location the night of Doris’s murder, weren’t you? You were actually across town on Grove Street that night, yes? At Mrs. Pommel’s house, correct? The police have verified your alibi, which takes you off the list of suspects.”
Murder by Misunderstanding Page 11