A Stab in the Dark

by Karen Chester

  “How dare they!” Lady Winthrop had followed her. Now, she reached out as if to lift the glass lid.

  “No, my Lady!” PC Bawtree exclaimed, leaping forward. “Don’t touch anything! Er, please, ma’am.”

  Lady Winthrop gave him a death stare that would have felled him in ten seconds, but the constable was saved by the doors opening and another man entering the library.

  “Paul.” Araminta started in surprise when she recognised the plain clothes policeman.

  He nodded at her before presenting his warrant card to Edwina. “DS Paul Kumar, from Farrington Police. You must be Lady Winthrop.” His brisk calmness brought an air of authority to the room. He knew his job. Within minutes he had apprised the situation, persuaded Lady Winthrop to leave the library and gather the household in a central location, and ordered PC Bawtree to go out and help his colleague collect as many witness statements as possible.

  When Araminta was alone with the detective sergeant, he finally let his mask of officialdom slip to give her a warm smile. “Araminta, it’s good to see you. Sorry we’re meeting in these circumstances. You look well.”

  There was an edge of concern in his scrutiny. Detective Sergeant Paul Kumar had worked under her late husband for many years and had been a frequent visitor to their house, but since the funeral she’d hardly seen him at all, whether on purpose or by accident she couldn’t say. Now, seeing his careworn face and the flecks of grey in his hair that hadn’t been there before, she realised she’d missed him.

  “Thank you, so do you,” she said. “Though I can’t say the same for him.” She gestured towards the dead body lying nearby, thinking how odd it was making small talk in the presence of a corpse.

  Paul grimaced. “Can you tell me what you know?”

  She told him about the tour, Joel Taylor, and the collection of knives, including the contretemps with Tristan and his mother Debra.

  “This staircase.” Paul motioned at the open bookcase. “It wasn’t part of the tour?”

  “No. We didn’t want the general public to know about it.”

  He examined the opening more closely. “It isn’t locked, though.” He stepped into the stairwell, carefully avoiding the corpse, and peered upwards. “Where does it lead to?”

  “It comes out on the first-floor hallway.”

  “And what’s up there?”

  “Some bedrooms, my aunt and uncle’s studies, and the gallery.”

  “Okay.” He moved back into the library. “I’ll get a uniform to man the top of the staircase. Forensics should be here soon. If you could wait with your aunt and uncle somewhere close by, that would be good.” He paused for a moment, fiddling with his watch. “Er, just so you know, DCI Clegg will be leading the investigation.”

  Araminta pressed her lips together. Of all Ian’s colleagues, Detective Chief Inspector Sidney Clegg was the one she’d missed the least. But a man had died, and it wasn’t her place to quibble.

  “I thought you were still in Europe,” Paul added. “I didn’t realise you were back in Cranley.”

  “It was a last-minute thing,” Araminta said. “I came back to help my aunt and uncle.”

  “It’s good you’re here for them. You know how these investigations proceed.”

  Araminta wasn’t sure how much help she’d be to her relatives. It was true Ian had handled many complex cases, but he’d always kept the grim details from her. But he wasn’t here to protect her anymore, and even if he were, this case was very different. This was no abstract investigation. A man had been killed in the very heart of her ancestral home.

  As she left the library, she couldn’t help worrying what would happen next. There was a time when she’d thought her future was secure, until two years ago. Since then, she’d learnt that life could change in seconds, and that nothing was certain. With a dead man in the library and a murder investigation underway, what would it all mean for the Winthrops and the future of Missenden Hall?

  DIRECTED BY A CONSTABLE, Araminta entered the drawing room to find her aunt sitting ramrod straight in a winged back chair, Isla looking like a petrified deer, and her uncle pacing back and forth like a caged tiger.

  “What the devil is going on?” he growled as soon as he caught sight of Araminta. “My house overrun with plods! Greasy fingers everywhere. Poking their fat noses where they don’t belong.” Lord Winthrop’s own nose was cherry red as were his eyes. Whisky fumes wafted from him, making Araminta pause. She’d been right to guess he’d been drowning his sorrows all afternoon. And now he’d have to face the police. Wonderful.

  “They’re just doing their job, Uncle George.” She glanced towards her aunt, hoping for help in calming her uncle, but Edwina remained impassively Sphinx-like.

  Lord Winthrop came to a halt at a window and glared outside. “Why are those rubberneckers still here?” He jabbed an unsteady finger at the remaining visitors who were gathered on the lawn. A few uniformed police mingled among them, scribbling in their notebooks. “Araminta, tell them to clear off. Right away.”

  “I can’t, Uncle George. The police need to take statements from them.” Araminta kneaded her temples where a headache was starting to brew.

  Hetty bustled into the drawing room, with Cherise in her wake, both of them bearing trays of teapots and crockery.

  “My, my, my! What a to-do! I’ve never seen anything like it.” The housekeeper set her tray on a table, then brushed loose strands of hair away from her flushed face. “Thought everyone could do with a nice, strong cup of tea and something to eat. Cherise, pick up your feet.” She motioned impatiently at her assistant.

  At that moment a short, thickset man marched into the room. Clad in a raincoat and a flat cap, he planted himself in the centre of a rug and looked around him, exuding a palpable air of self-importance. At the sight of him, Araminta’s heart sank.

  “DCI Clegg,” the newcomer announced, waving his warrant card at everyone. He glanced around the room, his lips pursing as if he disapproved of what he saw, before his sharp eyes zeroed in on Araminta. He advanced on her. “You discovered the body?”

  Before Araminta could reply, there was a loud crash. Cherise squeaked and stared in horror at the dropped tray, broken crockery, and puddles of milk lying at her feet.

  “Noooo!” Hetty practically howled. “Not the Crown Staffordshire!”

  Choking back a sob, Cherise dropped to her knees and began to gather bits of broken crockery. Lady Winthrop remained in her chair, her fingers digging into the arm rests, while her husband looked nonplussed.

  Araminta hurried across the room to assist Cherise. “You poor thing, you’re in shock,” she said as she noticed the other woman’s trembling hands.

  “It—it was an accident—” Cherise gulped, fresh tears springing to her bloodshot eyes.

  “You’ve been cack-handed all afternoon,” Hetty muttered as she creakily bent down on one knee. “Now, get out of the way before you cut yourself and bleed all over everything. Go and get a brush and pan and some paper towels from the kitchen. Go on, go!” She made shooing gestures as Cherise, pale and shaking, continued to hover over the detritus.

  DCI Clegg cleared his throat loudly. “Do you mind?” he demanded. “This is a murder investigation. I don’t give a monkey’s chuff about some spilled milk.”

  “Inspector,” Lady Winthrop broke in. “I’m sure my staff are willing to answer any questions you have, but could you let Hetty and Cherise deal with this while you question the rest of us?”

  The Chief Inspector puffed out his cheeks, frowning, but eventually relented. “I suppose,” he said gracelessly.

  As soon as he said it, Cherise scuttled out of the room, her head bowed. DCI Clegg returned his attention to Araminta. “Well? The body?”

  “Yes, I found him in the library,” Araminta slowly replied. His abrupt manner grated against her nerves. He hadn’t greeted her or her aunt and uncle, she’d noticed. He’d never liked her, but did he have to be so boorish towards her relatives, too?
r />   “What time?”

  “Around five to four.”

  “What can you tell me about the deceased, this Joel Taylor?”

  “Not much. I only met him today when I conducted the two o’clock tour. He seemed nice enough.”

  “Was the hidden staircase part of the tour?”

  “No, definitely not. He must have wandered back into the library afterwards.”

  “He shouldn’t have been there,” Lord Winthrop grunted out.

  DCI Clegg swung his attention to him. “Why not? He’d paid his ticket, hadn’t he?”

  “Only for the guided tour.”

  The inspector’s upper lip curled. “Don’t want the great unwashed getting too close to you, eh, Mr Winthrop? Might give them ideas above their station, hmm?”

  A look of confusion passed over Araminta’s uncle, as if he didn’t know who this ‘Mr Winthrop’ was that the inspector was addressing. Then, his bushy eyebrows drew together. “Not at all, Chief Inspector.”

  DCI Clegg spread his stubby legs further apart on the red-and-white Chinese carpet. “And where were you between three and four, sir?”

  Lord Winthrop’s jaw sagged. “What? You can’t think I did it? How preposterous!”

  “Answer the question. Where were you, Mr Winthrop?”

  “Outrageous!” Lord Winthrop spluttered for a few moments before adding curtly, “If you must know, I was in my study taking a nap. I didn’t know anything had happened until my wife woke me and told me the dreadful news. Does that satisfy you, Chief Inspector?”

  The Chief Inspector turned to Lady Winthrop. “And you, Mrs Winthrop?”

  Edwina sucked in her cheeks. Araminta wondered if her aunt was going to lecture the chief inspector on the correct way to address the wife of a baron. She must have thought it not worth her while because she briefly replied, “I was in my study with my secretary, Isla.” She motioned at the woman who had been sitting motionless in a corner all this time.

  DCI Clegg peered at Isla as if this was the first time he’d noticed her. “And you are?”

  “Isla Mackenzie,” the secretary murmured, fingers fidgeting with a hairclip.

  DCI Clegg cupped his ear. “And you were with Mrs Winthrop in her study between three and four?”

  “Yes.” Isla’s voice sank to a barely audible whisper.

  “Speak up, please. Where is this study?”

  Isla replied a fraction louder, “On the first floor.”

  “Ah.” DCI Clegg’s nose twitched. “Near the hidden staircase?”

  Isla chewed on her lower lip. “It’s a few rooms away,” she admitted.

  “And did you see or hear anything unusual during that hour?”

  Isla shook her head, and the inspector turned away, appearing to lose interest in her. “And you, ma’am?” he asked Hetty, who was still picking through the broken shards of china. “I assume you’re the housekeeper. Your full name, please.”

  Huffing, Hetty rose to her full height and rested her workworn hands on her ample hips. “Henrietta Collins,” she said with all the loftiness of a duchess. “I have been Lord and Lady Winthrop’s housekeeper for more than twenty years. I was in the tearoom all afternoon and run off my feet, so I can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

  “The tearoom. That’s in the building just to the side of the main house?”

  “That’s right. And Cherise was there, too. She’s the butterfingered lass.”

  “Did Joel Taylor visit the tearoom?”

  “He did indeed. Complimented me on my lardy cake. He asked for a corner piece. More caramel, you see.” She nodded proudly.

  “What time was this?”

  “After the first tour finished, about three-ish? I was busy, so don’t hold me to that.”

  “Did you notice him talking to anyone?”

  “Couldn’t say.” Hetty shook her head. “Everyone on that tour was wanting their tea at the same time, and some woman with a teenage kid was whinging on about something or other. I didn’t have time to scratch me own nose, let alone see who was talking to who.” She folded her arms, resting them on the comfortable mound of her belly. “This Joel fella had no business wandering around the house on his own. If he’d stayed in the tearoom and had his lardy cake, he wouldn’t be lying dead in the library now, and that’s a fact.”

  5. The Jolly Fox

  “BUGGER, I MISSED ALL the action.” Laura lifted her wineglass.

  Araminta tilted her head, eyeing her friend over the scarred wooden table. They were in The Jolly Fox, sitting in a quiet corner. “It wasn’t all beer and skittles, you know. By the way, Sidney Clegg’s in charge of the investigation.”

  Laura pulled a face. “Ugh. Was he horrid to you?”

  “I expected nothing less from him. But he was just as vile to my uncle and aunt. He was curt and insensitive, and he made a point of calling them Mr and Mrs Winthrop. I know the whole concept of the aristocracy is outdated and undemocratic and rotten in this day and age, but civility never goes out of fashion. I think he went out of his way to offend them just because of me; he never could stand me. He was horrible and rude.”

  A shadow fell across their table. “Horrible and rude? Has someone been talking about me?”

  Araminta glanced up and grinned at the newcomer. “Hi, Garrick. Join us, won’t you?”

  Garrick Yorke had moved to Cranley eighteen months ago and opened Good Nosh, a delicatessen and cafe Despite his antisocial tendencies, the business had flourished, perhaps because of the delicious produce he stocked, and customers appeared to have grown used to and almost come to expect his reluctant customer service. Laura had become one of his earliest regulars, and of course no one could resist her charms, which was how Araminta had gotten to know Garrick and appreciate his quirkiness.

  He set his glass of beer on the table and took the seat next to Araminta, awkwardly folding his long legs. He pushed the thick, dark hair that invariably flopped over his eyes and glanced at the two women.

  “Well? I can tell something big has happened,” he said.

  “Oh, Garrick.” Laura set down her glass. “Surely you must have heard. Wasn’t there a lot of gossip and chatter in your shop this afternoon?”

  He shook his head. “I shut at two today so I could work on the window display. I can’t manage that with shoppers cluttering up the place.” He looked quite pleased to have turned away his customers. “So? What have I missed? Who was horrible and rude?”

  Araminta quickly related to him what had happened at Missenden Hall. His eyes gradually grew wider and wider.

  “You say the dead man was Joel Taylor?”

  “That’s right.” Araminta looked more closely at Garrick. “Did you know him?”

  “Briefly...” He downed a mouthful of beer. “He is—was a financial planner. He had an office in Farrington; I think that’s where he lived as well.”

  “How do you know all this?” Araminta asked.

  Garrick shrugged. “He tried to get me as a client. Offered me special finance in order to expand the business.”

  “You turned him down?”

  “Of course. The last thing I want is to expand my business. Can you imagine? Having to deal with even more customers?” He shuddered at the prospect. “He talked a good game, I must admit. Spun me these visions of opening dozens of shops across England. Had me almost wishing I was more ambitious.”

  “Whereas in fact you’re the enfant terrible of the grocery world,” Araminta remarked.

  Laura chortled, and Garrick snorted with laughter and was forced to mop his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, yes, that’s me. The unorthodox genius of selling ham and cheese and smoked haddock.”

  “He was rather dishy,” Laura mused. “Joel Taylor, I mean.”

  Garrick wrinkled his brow. “Dishy?”

  “Hunky. Bodacious.” Laura paused. “Handsome.”

  “Ah. I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “He flirted with Araminta.”

  “Oh?”


  “She batted him away as if he were a fly.”

  Araminta set down her wineglass. “He did not flirt with me. He was simply being pleasant. He said something about how much he admired Missenden Hall and how he planned to visit again.”

  “Well, he won’t be doing that anytime soon,” Laura said. “Unless he comes back as a ghost. Now that would pull in the crowds, plus he’d make a good-looking ghost.”

  Garrick sighed and shook his head. “Cranley always struck me as the epitome of bucolic bliss. How could murder happen here?”

  Araminta snorted. “It might be all hanging baskets and cobbled streets to visitors, but behind the cuteness there’s plenty of blood and gore. Medieval battles, the Black Death, the civil war. Men—and women—have been killing and maiming each other here for centuries.”

  Garrick stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So you think our English manners are just a veneer? That beneath it we’re seething with bloodthirstiness?”

  Araminta’s thoughts flew to her late husband’s career. Ian had certainly witnessed the best and worst of humankind, and she’d seen the effects on him. “Sometimes,” she said.

  “All this talk of blood and gore is making me thirsty,” Laura remarked and raised her glass to drain it.

  “Let me buy the next round.” Garrick rose to his feet, the top of his head brushing against the blackened rafters of the pub. “The same again, is it?”

  “Not for me, love.” Laura stood and slung her leather tote bag over her shoulder. “I promised Seb I’d be home in time for dinner. He’s making lasagne tonight.” She kissed them both goodbye before trotting out of the pub.

  Garrick went to the bar where Dawn Hicks, the sixty-something-year-old owner, was pulling pints. A few minutes later he returned to the table with a glass of wine for Araminta, a pint of beer for himself, and a bowl of olives.