Murder at Blackburn Hall

by Sara Rosett

  The woman behind the counter whisked a speck of dust off the cash register. “He’s not in, and his secretary is gone as well. Closed up early on account of the tumble he took.”

  “Yes, I heard about that, but I thought he was back at work now.”

  “Only two hours a day from nine to eleven. He’s already gone home.”

  “Do you know where—”

  “And no visitors allowed there. His wife turns everyone away. Doctor’s orders, you understand. I imagine he’ll be back tomorrow at the same time.”

  “Thank you. I’ll return then.”

  Since I couldn’t speak to the solicitor, there was one other person who might be able to help me find Mayhew’s manuscript. A small sign with the words Doctor’s Surgery pointed to the other end of the village, away from the pub and the golf course entrance.

  Dr. Finch’s house was at the end of one of the short lanes that crossed the main road. Built of red brick, it was designed along similar lines to Blackburn Hall but quite a bit smaller. Dr. Finch’s surgery, a separate building of the same red brick, sat to the side of the house.

  Since I wanted to speak to Anna, I went to the house and rang the bell. A maid answered, and when I asked if Miss Finch was in, she asked me to wait a moment. The muted clack of typewriter keys and the ding of a bell drifted through the house. The rhythmic noise cut off, and the maid returned a few seconds later. “Miss Finch is in the garden. Please follow me.”

  I trailed the maid through a spacious drawing room and out into the garden, where Anna was seated at a small wooden table that was bare except for a typewriter and two stacks of paper, one blank and the other turned facedown with the imprint of dark letters faintly showing through. Anna pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and placed it on a stack under a paperweight that was protecting the pages from being blown away. “Hello, Olive. I’m so glad you dropped by.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your work.”

  She waved a hand. “You’re not interrupting. In fact, I was about to take a break.” She asked the maid to bring tea, then gestured to a grouping of white wicker chairs under a chestnut tree. “It was too delightful of a day to stay indoors. I love the fresh-washed smell of the air after a storm.”

  “It was quite a storm last night. Did you have any damage?” I glanced around the garden with its towering trees.

  “A little standing water at the bottom of the garden, but that always happens. It’s a bit low lying down there.”

  “A tree came down in the river between Blackburn Hall and the golf course.”

  “Oh, that’s such a shame.” She tilted her head up and looked at the branches. “They look so steady and immovable, but it does happen occasionally when the ground gets saturated. They just can’t stand up and topple right over like toothpicks.”

  I wasn’t sure how I should approach the subject of Mayhew with her. I’d spent the time on my walk thinking about how I would speak to the solicitor, but I’d decided to visit Anna on the spur of the moment. “Have you heard any news from the village?”

  “No, I’ve been out here in the garden typing all morning. I haven’t gone anywhere. Why? Has something happened?” She leaned forward, her eyebrows raised and her face alight with interest.

  “I’m afraid so, but it’s rather tragic.”

  She straightened and pulled in her chin. “Tragic? Is Dad needed?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  “Oh. Who?”

  “Mayhew.”

  Her brow furrowed, and she glanced at the table with the typewriter. “But that’s—”

  The maid approached with a tray, and Anna waited until the maid had returned to the house. “What happened?”

  As I described the scene at the river, Anna crossed one arm over her stomach, propped her elbow on it, and pressed her fingers to her mouth for a moment. When I stopped speaking, she was silent, her gaze fixed on the tea tray, which she hadn’t touched. She moved her fingers from her mouth and said, “That’s—so difficult to believe.” She had fair translucent skin, but it had gone a shade lighter than usual, causing her freckles to stand out. “And they think he was there for a while?”

  “Yes. Serena saw Mayhew when she was playing golf last week.”

  She lunged toward the tray. “Oh, the tea. I’m sorry. I’m being a terrible hostess.” The cup rattled in the saucer as she handed it to me.

  “Thank you.” I stirred my tea while Anna poured hers. “So you haven’t had any contact with Mayhew?”

  “No, I only type what he’s sent, then send it back, dropping it off at his cottage each time.” She focused on her teacup as she replied. The answer seemed to be a mechanical response she’d spoken many times.

  “And you haven’t seen Mayhew at all lately?”

  “No.” She blinked and looked at me. “Never.” She leaned back in her chair, whirring her spoon around her cup. “It’s so strange . . .” She continued to stir her tea, her gaze focused across the garden.

  “There’s something else that’s even more curious.”

  She stopped stirring. “What do you mean?”

  “When Serena found the body, it was wet from the rain. The clothes were molded to the body, and . . . well, it was a woman’s body.”

  She stopped stirring. “I’m not sure I understand. What are you saying?”

  “Mr. Mayhew was actually a woman.”

  “A woman?” Her cup tilted, and tea splashed onto her skirt. “Oh—”

  “Oh no. Did it burn you?”

  “No, it’s a thick material.” She plonked her cup and saucer onto the tray, took a handkerchief from her pocket, and blotted the stain. “Are they sure?”

  “Yes, it appears Mayhew was living in the cottage, dressing as a man, and wearing the tin mask to hide her identity.”

  Anna pressed the handkerchief to the fabric. The joints around her fingers turned white from the pressure. “But then that means—why would she do that?”

  “I have no idea. I hoped you’d know.”

  “Me? I know the least of anyone, it appears. All those weeks of working with him—I mean, her. It’s amazing. I never guessed.” She flicked a glance at the surgery. “Never even suspected.”

  I tilted my head and looked at her through narrowed eyes. “But someone else did?”

  Anna jumped a little bit and looked at me as if she’d forgotten I was there. “No. No, of course not.” She blotted and brushed at the stain with renewed energy.

  “You think your father knew? Did he treat Mayhew for something?”

  Anna’s hands stilled. She stuffed the handkerchief down the side of the chair and turned fully to me. “Dad came home one night . . . I don’t know, a year or two ago. It was before I went to London. That’s neither here nor there, but he behaved so strangely that night. Not like himself at all. He said Mr. Mayhew had pneumonia. I knew Dad wasn’t telling me everything, but I couldn’t get it out of him.” She sighed. “He does that, closes up tight as a clam and never releases a bit of information. But I knew something bothered him. He never spoke about it, and I couldn’t figure it out. It had to be about Mayhew.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Oh, it’s such a relief to have someone to talk to—someone my own age. You don’t know what it’s like to live here and be the only young person.” Her gaze shifted to the middle distance as she looked out over the garden. “But to think Mayhew was actually a woman . . . unbelievable. I know R. W. May was a pen name. Who was she, really?”

  “I don’t know. I believe Police Inspector Calder is working on that now.”

  Anna made a huffing sound. “Well, we may have to wait awhile. Police Inspector Calder is a nice enough man but not exactly the most intelligent chap.” We sat for a few moments in silence, then she poured herself another cup of tea and offered me one.

  I shook my head and returned my teacup to the tray. “I’m afraid this is going to sound mercenary, but one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you today is about Mayhew’s last book. I
have to telephone Mr. Hightower and let him know what’s happened with Mayhew, but before I do that, I wanted to check with you to see if you had a copy of the last manuscript.”

  “A copy of the manuscript?” She glanced over her shoulder at the table with the typewriter. “Why would you need that?”

  “Because Hightower Books hasn’t received Mayhew’s manuscript for Murder on the Ninth Green.”

  “But I finished it weeks ago, and he sent it off.”

  “Mayhew had some sort of Machiavellian system. She would send it to Hightower Books through the local solicitor here, but with his accident . . .”

  “Oh, that makes sense now. Mayhew did have me drop—” Her cheeks went pink. “Er . . . something off with the solicitor once.” She hurried on, her words coming quickly. “How terrible—about the manuscript, I mean. Hightower Books is probably beside themselves wondering what happened to it.”

  I leaned in. “That’s actually why I was sent here—to find out what happened without causing a lot of fuss.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case . . .” She caught her necklace between her thumb and fingers and rubbed her thumb over the beads. “I never told Mr.—I mean, Miss—Mayhew, but I kept a carbon copy of the manuscripts I typed.”

  “Don’t look so guilty. I think that’s wonderful. Mr. Hightower will be very grateful, I’m sure.”

  Her thumb traced over the beads more quickly. “I thought Mayhew might want changes. If I had my own copy, it would be so much easier.”

  “You don’t have to explain to me. Would you entrust your copy to me to give to Hightower Books?”

  Her words came slowly as she said, “I guess I could do that.”

  “It would ensure the book is actually published. I don’t know if the copy Mayhew sent to the solicitor will ever show up.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I suppose if you promise to hand-carry it to Mr. Hightower, I could give it to you.”

  “I think that would be the best thing to do. We wouldn’t want it to get lost in the post.”

  “That would be disastrous.”

  I’d said the line about it getting lost in the post as a bit of a joke and blinked at the intensity of her tone. She seemed rather passionate about the manuscript, considering she had only typed it. But I supposed she was invested in the book and wanted to see it in print.

  She dumped her cup onto the tray with a clatter. “I’ll get it for you now.” She disappeared into the house and returned a few moments later carrying a flat box tied with string. She held it with two hands and hesitated a moment before she handed it to me. “There you go. That’s Murder on the Ninth Green—the only copy I have.”

  “Thank you. I’ll personally hand it to Mr. Hightower.” I settled the box on my lap.

  Footsteps sounded, and Dr. Finch came through the garden toward us. “What’s this? No typing?”

  “Hello, Dad. I’m taking a break to talk to Olive.”

  “Oh, hello, Miss Belgrave. I didn’t see you there for a moment. The racket of the typewriter is usually constant. Silence is the exception rather than the rule around here.” He sat down. “I believe I’ll join you.”

  Anna poured him a cup of tea. “Have you heard the news about . . . Mayhew?”

  “I’ve been in the surgery all morning, catching up on paperwork. No one’s been in. What’s happened?”

  Anna looked at me. “You’d better tell him since you were there.”

  Dr. Finch looked at me over the rim of his cup with what I thought was polite interest. By the time I finished, he was taking sips of his tea in a rote manner, and his relaxed demeanor was gone, replaced with a stiff posture.

  Anna touched his sleeve. “Dad, you knew, didn’t you?”

  Dr. Finch leaned forward and put his cup on the tray, breaking the contact of her hand on his arm. “I don’t know what you mean, my dear.”

  “It’s no use, Dad.” Anna refilled his empty cup. “You behaved so oddly after Mayhew had pneumonia. You wouldn’t say a word about what was bothering you, but this has to be what you discovered. I’m sure you had to . . . examine Mayhew. You would have been . . . um . . . aware of Mayhew’s gender. You had to have known.”

  Dr. Finch waved off the brimming teacup Anna held out. “And now she’s dead.” He ran his fingers through his thinning reddish hair.

  “Did Mayhew tell you why she was masquerading as a man?” Anna hesitated. “Was she . . . did she . . . well, I’ve heard about people who do that sort of thing because they enjoy it. Was she that way?”

  He stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I need something stronger than tea.” He went into the house.

  I looked at Anna with raised eyebrows. “Will he come back?”

  “Oh yes. It’s been weighing on him. He wants to talk about it. I can tell. He just has to work up to it.”

  The deep rumble of Dr. Finch’s voice floated out of the open window of the house, then he returned carrying a tumbler of amber liquid and a large envelope. He took his seat again and put the envelope on his knee, but he didn’t speak for a few moments. “I’ve telephoned Colonel Shaw. He’ll be here shortly. He was home and said he’d come straightaway.”

  “I’ll ring for more tea.”

  “Better have the whiskey brought instead.”

  Anna gave him a doubtful look but called the maid, gave the instructions, and then turned to me. “Colonel Shaw is the Chief Constable. He lives up the lane and should be here any minute.” Anna shifted her attention back to her father. “So you do know why Mayhew pretended to be a man?”

  Dr. Finch nodded. “Yes, and I suppose you’d better stay and listen. Otherwise, rumors”—he arced his glass through the air—“like those things you mentioned, will get started. That would be unfair to her.”

  Although I was dying to hear what Dr. Finch had to say, I inched to the front of my chair. Good manners dictated it was time for me to leave. “I should go.”

  “No, you were there, and you’re with Hightower Books,” Dr. Finch said. “They should know as well. Heaven knows, it will impact them.”

  Anna turned sharply to him. “What’s this about Hightower Books?”

  Dr. Finch patted her hand. “And it will affect you too, my dear.”

  “Of course it will. All those . . . manuals . . .”

  “But they weren’t manuals, were they?” Dr. Finch said.

  Anna stared at him a moment, then her gaze dropped. “I don’t—um—know what you mean.”

  “You knew I was keeping a secret but thought I didn’t know you were doing the same thing?” Dr. Finch gave a small smile. “I never did believe that claptrap about Mayhew writing technical manuals. You were typing manuscript pages—reams and reams of them. And then you had a sudden interest in crime fiction. You’d never read an R.W. May book—or any book of detective fiction—until you started typing up the ‘manuals.’ No, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together when you borrowed all my books by R. W. May and then started muttering about fictional detectives and red herrings and clues. You thought I wasn’t paying attention. Let this be a lesson to you, my dear. Fathers always keep an eye on their daughters—especially grown-up daughters. Ah, here’s the colonel.”

  Chapter Nine

  Colonel Shaw was a tall, skinny man somewhere in his late sixties or early seventies with a weather-beaten face, grayish hair, and a white toothbrush mustache. Introductions were made, chairs were shuffled, and drinks distributed. Shaw looked at me as if he’d like to shoo me away, but Dr. Finch said, “I believe Miss Belgrave should remain, Colonel. She works for Hightower Books, which, as you’ll see, is related.”

  The colonel didn’t look happy, but Dr. Finch’s word must have carried a lot of weight because after a second’s pause, Shaw nodded his assent and turned to Dr. Finch. “You said this is about Mayhew? You know about—” He cleared his throat and darted a glance at Anna and me.

  “That Mayhew was a woman?” Dr. Finch said. “Yes.” He gestured to Anna and me. “And they know as well. The whole vill
age knows at this point, I’m sure.”

  “In that case . . .” Shaw leaned back in his chair and indicated that Dr. Finch had the floor.

  Dr. Finch took a gulp of his whiskey, then held the glass with both hands and stared down into it. “Two years ago, Mayhew came down with pneumonia. She went for over a week before she sent for me. She was fatigued and had a high fever. We both ignored the obvious fact that she was a woman until after she began to recover. Once she began to feel better and didn’t have a hacking cough, she wanted to explain. I told her there was no need. But she said she wanted to tell someone, that she’d feel better. In case anything happened to her, someone would know the truth.”

  Shaw paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. “You mean she worried someone would try to harm her?”

  I leaned forward. Lady Holt had been so insistent that Mayhew’s death had been an accident. Calder seemed willing to go along with it, but I supposed the likelihood of Mayhew being pushed was just as possible as the likelihood of her falling and being buried in a landslide at the riverbank.

  Dr. Finch tilted his glass one way and then the other, watching the liquid slosh from side to side. “I’d say she wasn’t in fear for her life at that moment. She was worried, though. Apparently, she had reason to be.”

  Anna patted Dr. Finch’s shoulder. “There’s nothing you could have done. I’m sure she swore you to secrecy.”

  “Yes, she did. But she did want her story told if anything happened to her.” He tossed back the rest of the drink and set the glass down with a thump. “Have you heard of the pixies at Pikenwillow House?”

  Anna said, “Yes, of course. It was a hoax that took in so many foolish people. What does that have to do with Mayhew?”

  I straightened as Mr. Hightower’s words echoed in my head. What had Mr. Hightower said about Mayhew’s pen name?

  Dr. Finch said, “Mayhew’s pen name of R. W. May was based on her given name, Ronnie May.”