Murder in the Manor

by Fiona Grace

  “Please tell this meddling American she’s gotten completely the wrong end of the stick here,” he barked, sounding like he reached the end of his patience. “That you and Sheila have a rock-solid marriage and a successful business.”

  But Henry didn’t speak, and Lacey saw Ben’s gaze flick down to his brother’s left hand, to the space where his wedding band should be.

  “Henry?” Ben said, the tone in his voice shifting.

  His resolve was fading, and Lacey seized upon it.

  “I’m afraid to say, your brother has indeed been under a lot of stress recently. His marriage ended. He came back to London, turning up on Clarissa’s doorstep for help. That’s when she concocted her devious plan. She saw the stress of the divorce had reignited something in Henry that hadn’t been there in years, the wild, volatile side of him that had come out before during the years of his gambling addiction. She knew she could get him to lash out. One more time. At your mother. Clarissa set the whole thing up and—”

  “ENOUGH!” Benjamin suddenly bellowed, thumping his fists onto the table. The gravy jug went flying, spraying thick brown globules onto the tablecloth. “Someone get this imbecile out of our home. She’d not welcome here with her spurious accusations.”

  But no one moved.

  “Lacey can stay,” Nigel said, in a quiet, solemn voice. He looked at Ben sympathetically. “And I think you ought to hear her out.”

  Ben shook his head furiously. He flew to his feet so abruptly his chair almost tipped over. “If she won’t leave, I will.”

  He thundered for the dining room door. But at the exact same moment, the door flew open and Tom entered, flanked by Superintendent Turner and DCI Beth Lewis. Behind them, being wheeled in on a large trolley by some police officers, was the antique grandfather clock.

  “What is that doing here?” Ben stammered, his fury transforming into confusion and disbelief. “That’s supposed to be on a flight to South Africa!”

  “I’m afraid we had to seize the clock as evidence in the murder of Iris Archer,” Superintendent Turner said. He looked over at Clarissa and Henry, who were both looking down at their untouched dinner plates. “And we’re ready to make our arrests.”

  Ben froze on the spot. He looked at his brother and sister.

  “What is going on?” he demanded of them.

  But neither spoke. They just sat there blinking at the tabletop as if it might provide some answers.

  Something in Ben shifted, like reality was starting to dawn on him. Slowly, his face now devoid of all color, he returned to his seat. Like a balloon deflating, Benjamin sank back into it. All the fight had gone out of him.

  He looked from his brother to his sister. “Is it true?”

  Neither spoke.

  Benjamin looked up at Lacey, wearing an expression of agony. “Tell me what happened. I need to know.”

  Lacey took a breath and began.

  “All your lives, it was Ben and Henry against Clarissa. Even though your mother had said none of you would benefit from the will, you two boys were convinced you would. So Clarissa was alone. Always alone. Trying to bond with her mom through fashion, making jewelry out of bits of junk. The boys always damaged your creations, didn’t they, so you took to hiding them. The Bible was just another place to keep your jewelry safe—not that it mattered, you never did quite achieve the bond you wanted with Iris, did you? Even when you studied business at the university and started your own fashion brand, it failed. I’m sure you thought your mother would help you keep the company afloat with a bailout, but she refused. She was sticking firm to her resolve to never give any of you handouts. The company folded and your bitterness grew.”

  Lacey turned her gaze to Henry. “So how do you come into it, Henry? All your life, you’ve been on the same team as Ben. The two boys united against their sister. Only, at my auction I saw you two working together, trying to outbid Ben for the clock. That’s when I realized you’d switched allegiances. It wasn’t Ben and Henry versus Clarissa anymore, it was Clarissa and Henry versus Ben. So what changed?”

  She spread her hands onto the tabletop and answered her own question. “You see, I thought it was interesting that you both happened to be in England when your mother died. Only it wasn’t a coincidence, was it? You’d come here specifically, hadn’t you, Henry, because you were out of money? Your business had failed and you’d gambled away the profits. You couldn’t face asking Ben to help you—he’d rub it in your face—but Clarissa had been through the same thing, hadn’t she? Maybe she’d be able to help. You turned up on her doorstep and asked her what she’d done when she’d been facing destitution. And that’s when Clarissa concocted her plan.”

  She looked again at the woman. “You lied to Henry, didn’t you? You told him that your mother had helped you. That she’d supported you through your time of crisis and that if you went to the house together, you’d be able to persuade her to help Henry too. But all along you knew that she would refuse him because she’d already refused you. And you knew the second Henry heard his mother refuse him money at his time of desperation, it would push him over the edge. That he’d snap. You knew your mother was too frail to survive a fall, that it wouldn’t take much to kill her. So why did you need her dead, if you weren’t going to inherit any money from the will? Because of the painting.”

  She paused, giving everyone a moment to let what she’d said so far to sink in. “You’d sat on that couch in your mother’s room enough times to notice Lady Isabelle’s painting hidden amongst all the others. You knew the lore behind it, that its sale would set you up for life. And you knew you couldn’t steal it, not while your mother was alive. But if she was dead, it would be added to the estate’s ledger and sold to charity. The only way to get it out of the estate, legally, was to hide it. You’d been hiding things for years, to keep them safe from your brothers. There was that Bible, up in one of the third-floor guest bedrooms, where you’d hidden all your handmade jewelry. But that felt too risky. That’s when you remembered the ‘lost’ key to the grandfather clock, the one you’d turned into a necklace just like you’d seen your mother wear.” She held up the photo she’d found of Iris in the Bible. Clarissa must have been so inspired by her mother’s glamor, she’d kept it, and had made her own necklace in an attempt to be just like her.

  “The grandfather clock gave you the perfect set-up,” Lacey continued. “It was from your playroom, which meant one of you would get it in the will. Then once it was out of the house, legally, you’d only need a brief moment alone with it to unlock the cabinet and retrieve the painting.

  “With the plan in place, you just needed to set it in motion. But there was one problem. You were too much of a coward to kill your mother yourself. You admired her, after all. You even loved her, although she never made you feel loved in return. You’re not a violent person. That’s when Henry came in. You maneuvered him into the position. You set the whole thing up; persuading your desperate, volatile brother to ask for money when you knew he’d be refused, when you knew it would push him over the edge and make him strike his mother, just as you’d witnessed him do all those years before. You knew she was too frail to survive a fall. It hardly counted as murder in your mind, did it? Just a little shove with deadly consequences. When the deed was done, you left the room—under the pretense of shock, I presume—retrieved the key and hid the painting in the clock. You gave one another alibis for the time of the murder. And the key? Well, that left the house with you, Clarissa, on a chain around your neck.”

  Superintendent Turner stepped forward. “Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be,” he said to Clarissa. He held out his hand. “The key.”

  Clarissa paused. For a moment, it seemed as if she might refuse—and Lacey tensed, really not wanting to see an ugly scene with the police grappling the woman. But she must’ve done such a thorough job of exposing Clarissa, the woman finally let out a large sigh and reached for the nape of her neck.

  “Miss Archer,” her law
yer said, “I must advise you not to take any action right now.”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Gus,” she snapped at him. “It’s over.”

  She unfastened the latch behind her neck and removed a necklace from the myriad she was wearing. She held it up to the room. There, dangling like a pendant, was a small silver key. She dumped it into Superintendent Turner’s outstretched palm.

  The detective flashed Lacey a look that said, You’d better be right about this.

  He went over to the clock and turned the key in the compartment at the bottom. The small door opened. There, nestled in the little space beside all the unworking cogs and mechanisms, was Lady Isabelle’s infamous miniature painting.

  All the air seemed to leave the room.

  Ben turned pained eyes from one sibling to the next. “How could you?” he stammered.

  Henry blew up. “I never had any fame to launch my business like YOU TWO! Mother kept me hidden from the press. No one even knew I existed! Do you know how much that held me back? She did everything she could to make me fail!”

  Ben ground his teeth. “It wasn’t Mother who made you waste all your money on slot machines! You had just as many opportunities as Clarissa and I did.”

  Superintendent Turner approached Henry and cuffed him. DCI Lewis did the same with Clarissa.

  As the two siblings were led toward the door, Nigel broke down and shook his head.

  “Iris only ever kept you out of the spotlight for your own protection,” he said to Henry. “She had a whole account set up to pay for your rehab when you were ready.”

  Henry looked stunned.

  As the detectives left, Superintendent Turner turned back over his shoulder to look at Lacey.

  “Excellent job, Ms. Bishop. I’ll make it known publicly that you didn’t have anything to do with Iris’s murder.”

  Lacey nodded, relieved.

  It was over.

  At the table, Ben began to weep.

  Lacey had disliked the man from the second they’d met, but at this moment, she felt nothing but compassion toward him. His siblings had betrayed him. He’d lost his mother. Her heart ached for him.

  She looked over at the painting wedged in the hidden compartment.

  “What are you going to do with the painting?” Lacey asked Ben. “It’s yours now. You bought it fair and square.”

  He looked up through tear-stained eyes. “I’ll give it to the museum. That’s what Mother wanted.”

  Nigel looked perplexed. “How do you know that?”

  “Because Mother told me all about Lady Isabelle one night as my bedtime story. She read to me rarely, and it was the only time I ever felt loved by her. I savored every last detail of those stories. She told me how the woman was forbidden from painting by her husband, and how it drove her to insanity, and that all her art was burned. I thought it was make-believe, especially the twist at the end about how Mother had found one single miniature that survived the blaze, and how the art world would be turned upside down when she donated it to a museum after her death.” His voice trailed away. “I cherished those bedtime stories. Mother had a wonderful imagination…” His tears began anew.

  Empathy aching in her chest, Lacey looked over at Nigel. He looked just as glum as she felt. They may have cracked the case, but there was nothing to celebrate.

  Epilogue

  “I still don’t understand how you pieced it all together,” Tom said, looking over at Lacey. “I’m thoroughly impressed.”

  “Thank you,” Lacey said with a smile.

  They were strolling along the beach, taking the languorous route to their respective stores, the morning following the exposé. It was so early in the day, the sun had barely risen over the ocean, and the whole world seemed bathed in blue.

  Chester skipped across the sand ahead of them. He’d been delighted when Lacey had awoken him extra early with the news he was going on his walkies.

  The coffee cup clutched between Lacey’s hands warmed her from the early morning chilly air.

  “Maybe you should switch professions,” Tom suggested, in his usual jovial manner. “Become a detective.”

  “I think I’ll stick with antiques,” Lacey replied. “That is, if my store can ever recover from this.”

  She felt a tightening in her chest. Today was crunch time. If there were no signs of the store bouncing back by the end of today, she’d have to accept that it was time to give up on her dream.

  “Didn’t you make enough from the auction sale commission to keep it open?” Tom asked, sounding tense.

  “That was a one-off,” Lacey replied. “The bank needs to see a steady revenue. I need customers. If sales don’t pick up today, then I guess I’ll be on a flight back to New York City by the end of the week.”

  Silence fell between them. Then Tom stopped walking.

  “You can’t leave,” he said, and Lacey felt her heart begin to race from the earnest expression in his eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you left Wilfordshire. I know it’s only been a few weeks but I feel like you’re a part of my life now. And I’ve only been waiting because of all the Iris stuff, but it’s over now, so I think it’s time I told you I think there’s something special growing between us. I’d like us to have a real date. An actual date. Not a joke one at a vet’s office, or elevenses across your counter with a teapot. I understand if it’s too soon after your divorce, but I just had to—”

  Lacey reached out and put a finger to his lips. “Shh. It’s not too soon. And I’d like that too.”

  She kissed him gently.

  *

  They could see the crowd from the bottom end of the high street.

  “I see you finished your new macaron display,” Lacey said with a chuckle.

  But Tom shook his head. “I already told you, I spent the whole evening last night making a new batch of pastry. It’s not my display that crowd’s there for. It’s your store!”

  Lacey did a double take. Tom was right. The crowd was mainly congregated around her storefront.

  They hurried along the cobbles to see what was going on.

  As they drew up outside the antiques store, Lacey saw a large sign had been stuck to her grating. The police insignia was in one corner and her face was right in the middle.

  Wilfordshire Police would like to extend a huge and heartfelt thank you to Lacey Bishop, who volunteered her time and effort to help us solve two recent cases. Thanks to her perseverance, we have suspects in prison, and the residents of Wilfordshire can sleep soundly knowing their town is a safer place.

  Lacey read the notice with disbelief, her cheeks growing warm.

  The people around her started patting her on the back and congratulating her.

  “Come on then, open up,” Jane from the toy store said.

  Lacey looked at her, mystified. The terror she’d seen in the woman’s eyes that time had completely vanished.

  “I’ve had my eye on a lamp for days,” she explained.

  “I’ve wanted to come in, too,” another local said. “I just heard all the rumors. I’m sorry.”

  Lacey didn’t need to hear apologies. All she cared about was the gaggle of customers eager to get inside her store.

  Excitement making her fingers tremble, she fumbled to get the shutters up and unlock the door.

  “Come in, come in,” she exclaimed, wedging it open with the heavy door stop.

  People poured in past her, rushing over to the displays for the items they’d been desperate to buy all this time.

  Lacey was rushed off her feet trying to serve them all. But they were patient with her, and kind, and each person apologized for falling for the rumors as they handed their pound notes across the counter. By the time the initial rush of people had cleared out, Lacey’s till was filled with stacks of money.

  Just then, the door tinkled and Lacey looked up. It was Taryn.

  She was about to tell her to leave, because she just didn’t want anyone bringing her down right now, when Taryn laun
ched into a monologue.

  “About Keith. I just want you to know that I didn’t tell him to go to your house or anything like that. He’s an old school friend, just out of jail, and I was trying to help him get back on his feet by paying him to do some handywork. And well, I guess I shouldn’t have been so generous because he took things way too far.” She shrugged nonchalantly, barely making eye contact. “He must’ve heard the rumors about you and took matters into his own hands.”

  Lacey folded her arms, nonplussed by Taryn’s rather overt attempt to cover her ass. “You mean the rumors you started?”

  “I didn’t start the fire, Lacey. I merely—”

  “—stoked the flames?”

  Taryn’s lips formed a thin line. “I merely passed on what everyone around town was already saying.”

  Lacey replied, raising an eyebrow. “You know there’s another term for that. Gossiping.”

  Taryn huffed. “Look, I’m trying to apologize here.” Her tone was abrupt, and about as far away from apologetic as it could be.

  “Are you?” Lacey. “Don’t apologies usually contain the word ‘sorry’?”

  “I’m sorry, all right?” Taryn snapped. “Is that what you want?”

  “It’s a start.”

  The boutique store clerk narrowed her eyes, then turned on her heel and marched away.

  Lacey watched her go, feeling like the feud between them was far from over, though perhaps they’d made the smallest of steps forward.

  The bell over the door tinkled and a group of tourists crowded inside the store. All thoughts of Taryn vacated Lacey’s mind instantly.

  As Lacey helped her customers, she felt a swell of pride for her store, for the business she’d created on her own. Coming to Wilfordshire had been the best decision she’d ever made. Even if she hadn’t gotten that far in discovering what had happened to her father, she was closer than she’d been before. The town had more clues to offer. There was no way she could leave this place.

  During a lull, Lacey picked up her phone and called Ivan.