Murder at Blackburn Hall

by Sara Rosett

  The call must have connected because he moved the mouthpiece closer. “It’s me. I know—I’m sorry. I couldn’t get away. No, no. It’s not like that. I wanted to come. But Pearce had a fit—a seizure of some kind—and died. Yes, frightfully shocking. Had to stay. Questioned by the police, and the whole bit. Impossible to stroll out . . . yes, tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

  I scampered back up the stairs and down the hall to my room. I closed my door and leaned against it, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. As my breathing returned to normal, I heard the faint strains of whistling. It grew louder, continued past my door, then faded. Faintly, I heard a door open and close, then the hall was silent.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, I put on a light layer of powder and a dash of lipstick, and decided that was the best I could do to distract from the dark circles under my eyes. Between trying to figure out who Zippy was telephoning, wondering if it had anything to do with either of the deaths, and trying to work out who could have known about the dangerous ingredients in asthma cigarettes, I hadn’t slept much.

  In the darkness last night, I’d been more focused on the asthma cigarettes, but in clear daylight, it struck me that figuring out how Pearce had been murdered was the least of my concerns. I should be more worried about Inspector Longly’s questions about my connection to Pearce and my opportunity to add something into his coffee. I expected Inspector Longly to arrive shortly to continue our conversation from the night before. I put down my comb and tried to slough off the uneasy, fidgety sensation that hung over me like a cloud. I was sure that by now the inspector would have looked into Pearce’s background—and mine as well—and he’d have more pointed questions today.

  I shoved those thoughts away and turned from the glass. I went to the desk. Instead of focusing on worry and speculation, I had actual work to do. I removed the box with the manuscript of Murder on the Ninth Green that Anna had given to me. I hesitated over the pages of the original draft manuscript, the ones with the handwritten notes between Mayhew and Anna.

  I curved the pages back and forth as I debated what to do with them. The perfectly straightforward thing to do would be to give them to Longly and let him sort it out, but I’d promised Anna I’d keep her secret—and I would, too, as long as she was telling the truth. I replaced them in the desk and lingered at the dressing table until Janet entered to remove the tray with the hot chocolate she’d brought earlier.

  “Janet, did you grow up here in Hadsworth?”

  Janet paused on her way to the door, the tray in her hands. “Yes, miss.”

  “Good. Perhaps you can help me. Is Birchwick Farm nearby?”

  “Yes, miss. It’s north of Sidlingham.”

  “Oh, you know it?” I put down the hairbrush and pivoted on the stool so I faced her.

  “My aunt and uncle live there.”

  “I see. Miss Finch mentioned Birchwick Farm. She and Dr. Finch went there last week so her father could deliver a baby . . .”

  Janet nodded. “That’s right. Little Henry was a week old two days ago.” Her normal reserve fell away as she grinned widely. “He’s ever so sweet. Just coos and sleeps. Not at all like my aunt’s first baby. Colicky, that one was.”

  “So it would have been Wednesday,” I said more to myself than her as I calculated the days in my head.

  But Janet heard me and said, “He was born on the stroke of noon. Isn’t that interesting? And after five hours of labor too.”

  “I suppose Miss Finch helped her father?”

  “Oh no. Miss Finch is the squeamish sort. She entertained my aunt’s eldest and sat with my uncle. My mother went out to help Dr. Finch.”

  “I see.”

  “My uncle doesn’t handle that sort of thing well. He said he’d have gone out of his mind if Miss Finch hadn’t been there. She may not be good at nursing, but he said Miss Finch makes a good cup of tea.” Janet’s expression suddenly closed down as if she was worried she’d said too much. “If that’s all, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Janet closed the door behind her, and I swiveled on the stool, turning back to the dressing table, where the manuscript box with Murder on the Ninth Green rested. At least now I could keep Anna’s secret without my conscience pricking at me. I picked up the manuscript box along with Serena’s paper about decomposition that I’d removed from the medical book. After I’d raced back to my room last night, I’d placed it under a perfume bottle. I folded Serena’s paper and slipped it into my pocket. Hopefully, I’d be able to ask Serena about it today.

  As I came down the stairs, Mr. Busby trotted up the lower flight, pushing his fall of dark hair off his forehead. He met me on the landing. “Miss Belgrave. Just the person I was looking for.” He raised his eyebrows and dipped his head at the box in my arm. “May’s manuscript, I believe.”

  I handed the box to him. “I was bringing it to you. With everything that happened yesterday, I didn’t have a chance to give it to you.”

  “Yes, quite.” A maid was crossing the entryway, and Mr. Busby snapped his fingers at her. “You there. Yes, you. Come up here.”

  The maid tucked the feather duster to her side and climbed the stairs to the landing. Mr. Busby handed her the box. “See this is put in my room.”

  She swallowed and glanced up the next flight of stairs then back to Mr. Busby. “Begging your pardon, sir, but which room?”

  “You don’t know which room your guests are in?”

  “Sorry, sir. I’ve been out ill.”

  “I am Mr. Busby. I’m in the Hepplewhite room.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take it there directly.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and scurried up the next flight of stairs.

  I watched her go, then turned back to Mr. Busby. “That’s the only copy of the manuscript.”

  “You think I should keep it under lock and key?” His tone conveyed he thought I was a silly woman. “I know how to do my job, Miss Belgrave—unlike an upstart like you. I know you think you work for Hightower Books, but I assure you that this little excursion for Mr. Hightower will be your last for the publishing house.”

  A movement behind my shoulder caught his eye. He shifted to the side, his face transforming into a wide smile. “Good morning, Lady Holt.” He brushed by me, climbed the stairs, and extended his arm.

  I’d have loved to tell Mr. Busby I had no desire to go on working at Hightower Books as long as he was employed there, but I only said good morning to Lady Holt, then went downstairs ahead of her and Mr. Busby.

  Bower met me at the bottom of the stairs. “A telephone message for you, Miss Belgrave, from Miss Finch. She’s engaged this morning but invites you to visit her at home at three o’clock. She said it was in regard to a note you discussed.”

  Anna must have found the typed note she received from Mayhew. I thanked Bower for the message and went into the breakfast room, intending to eat quickly and leave as soon as possible. I didn’t want to be around Mr. Busby any longer than I had to be.

  Since Anna wasn’t available until later, I went in search of Serena after breakfast. I tapped on the door of her workroom, and it opened at my touch. I stepped inside, but the room was empty.

  Tall uncurtained windows lined one side of the long, narrow room, and two chandeliers hung from plaster ceiling medallions. The chandeliers were the only ornate fixtures in the room. No carpets or soft furnishings here. Several trestle tables stood on the bare hardwood floors. Cabinets had been fitted across the room’s shorter walls, and bookcases lined the longer wall opposite the windows.

  It was such an interesting space that I couldn’t leave without a quick look around. Pens were scattered across the work surface of one of the tables along with bits of fabric and pots of ink. Another table held a Bunsen burner, glass test tubes, and flutes along with metal tongs and thick gloves. Wooden boxes mounded with dirt were enclosed in a miniature glass house on another table. I drifted close enough to read the labels affixed to the boxes—velvet, tweed, canvas, ch
intz, leather, and felt. A sheet of paper filled with meticulous notes rested in front of each box, describing the state of the material over time. Mold spores present. Right edge fraying. Extensive staining. The handwriting was similar to the messy cursive I’d seen on the paper tucked into the medical book last night.

  Another table was strewn with the parts of a disassembled vacuum, while the glass-fronted cabinets at the far end of the room held various bottles and jars filled with specimens preserved in liquid. I recognized an octopus, an eel, several types of fish, and a few things that looked suspiciously human—like eyeballs and fingers—but surely Serena wouldn’t have human specimens in her workroom . . . would she?

  I moved to the door but stopped and returned to look at the books. Several medical texts lined the shelves. If Serena wanted to look up datura stramonium, she had plenty of opportunities to do it here. Why would she look for a book in Blackburn Hall’s library and leave one of her papers in it? It was another question I couldn’t answer.

  I left the workroom and paced around the rest of Blackburn Hall, but I couldn’t find Serena. I discovered her golf clubs were still in the closet under the stairs, so I didn’t think she was on the course. As I backed out of the closet, Bower’s voice sounded at my shoulder. “May I help you find some sporting equipment, Miss Belgrave?”

  “No, I’m actually looking for Serena. I see her clubs are here.”

  “Miss Shires has gone to the village. I believe she intends to return before lunch. Would you like me to tell her you wish to speak to her?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Very good.”

  “Has Mr. Rimington stopped by today?” Since Bower kept tabs on everyone, I might as well use his knowledge.

  “He and Mr. Brown breakfasted early and departed for the golf course.”

  It took me a second to remember Mr. Brown was Zippy. “Thank you. I believe I’ll walk in the garden until lunch.” I intended to go out the French doors in the drawing room to the garden, but as soon as I reached them, I halted.

  Mr. Busby was seated at a round table on the terrace, smoking a cigarette and reading the manuscript I’d given him that morning. The box sat on his lap, and he’d propped a stack of pages on top of it. I didn’t want to encounter him again, so I went back through the drawing room to the morning room, intending to leave the house through those doors because they opened to the gardens on the east side of the house.

  Lady Holt was arranging flowers in the morning room. “Pardon me,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  “It’s quite all right. In fact, I’d appreciate your opinion on this arrangement.” She turned a vase with irises so I could see it from every side. “Will it interfere with dinner guests seeing each other across the table?”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem at all.” The vase alone reached nearly to my elbow, and the flowers Lady Holt had arranged in it were strong-stemmed purple irises. The few bits of trailing ivy that softened the arrangement didn’t hang over the edge.

  “Good,” Lady Holt said. “I do hate droopy flowers blocking my view.”

  Lady Holt picked up an iris from a basket on the table. Since Serena wasn’t here, this seemed to be an ideal time to ask Lady Holt about the herbal. I asked, “Would you like some help?”

  “Yes, if you could hand me those clippers—thank you.” Lady Holt turned to a second vase of irises and snipped a few leaves.

  I couldn’t ask Lady Holt about the herbal directly. I gathered the leaves as she cut them, brushing them into a pile. “I noticed the herbal on your desk when we were working on the etiquette book. I wonder if Mr. Busby would be interested in publishing something along those lines?”

  Lady Holt paused, her clippers held in midair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It might be interesting to compile a list of recipes and remedies for publication. I suppose your herbal goes back many generations.”

  “It does.” She rested the handles of the clippers against her chin. “It would have to be edited. Some of the information is outdated, but it does have some interesting and useful recipes.”

  “You still use it?”

  “Oh yes. In fact, I consulted it a few days ago to confirm my recipe for hand cream contained a full tablespoon of honey.” She gave a little shake of her head. “Henderson—my maid—insisted it was only a teaspoon. But I knew it was a full tablespoon.”

  “You should mention the idea to Mr. Busby and see if he’s interested.”

  Lady Holt adjusted the position of one of the irises. “I will. It’s an excellent suggestion.” She twisted the vase around and added flowers to the other side. “These are for dinner tonight. You’re staying on?”

  “Yes, if it’s not inconvenient. With Mr. Pearce’s death . . .” Yesterday I hadn’t seen how I could extend my stay at Blackburn Hall any longer. Once Mr. Busby was on the scene, there wasn’t any need for me to cosset Lady Holt, but I doubted Longly would want me to race off to London immediately after a suspicious death. Longly had an issue with me leaving a country house when an investigation was underway.

  Lady Holt swiped the clippers through the air with an impatient motion. “Such an upset. Of course you must stay until that dreadful inspector stops his pestering questions and the—er—inquest is held.” She stabbed a few more flowers into place. “And the cheek of the inspector to think someone would do that”—she waved her clippers back and forth again, and I assumed she didn’t want to actually say the word murder —“during one of my evenings, and during a bridge game as well. So rude.”

  I thought murder went far beyond rudeness, but I was her guest and kept that thought to myself. Instead, I asked, “Do you have any idea what Inspector Longly thinks happened?”

  She sheared off a sagging leaf. “No idea. He wouldn’t tell me or Lord Holt anything. Very disrespectful. The least he could do is keep us informed.” Another leaf hit the table. “The silly man seemed to think one of the guests intentionally poisoned Mr. Pearce. I told him that was impossible. No one disliked Mr. Pearce.”

  “Mr. Pearce had a good reputation in the village?”

  “Of course.” She said it as if anyone who associated with Blackburn Hall had a sterling reputation by default. She inserted some ivy into the arrangement. “And poor Emily.”

  I picked up the last of the stray leaves and added them to the pile. “How is she?”

  “Devastated. Such a sweet woman. So devoted to her husband. I don’t know why that inspector treated her so roughly.”

  “Inspector Longly upset Mrs. Pearce?”

  “Had her in tears. I intervened, of course. She’s a delicate woman. Nervy, you know. Mr. Longly said he was only asking routine questions, but he must take into account a person’s disposition. Emily is delicate. He shouldn’t take the same line with her as he would with a hardened criminal.” Lady Holt stepped back to view the second flower arrangement, then twitched a few stems. “I’m sure Inspector Longly will find it was all an accident.”

  Accidents seemed to be Lady Holt’s default answer for anything she didn’t like that happened at Blackburn Hall. I didn’t try to argue with her. She twisted the vase to examine it from all sides. Her tone said the subject was closed, so I cast around for a new topic of conversation and thought of Zippy’s telephone calls and nighttime rambles. “Will Zippy’s friend join us for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Whom do you mean?” Her tone was as sharp as her clippers.

  “Oh, doesn’t Zippy have a friend here in Hadsworth? Someone he’s especially close to? Didn’t he mention—?”

  “No. He does not.” Lady Holt’s lips pressed together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The door to the morning room opened, and Serena walked in. She’d obviously just returned because she still wore a hat and gloves, and carried a small metal handbag of silver mesh. “Hello, Maria,” she said to Lady Holt.

  “Serena,” Lady Holt said in a frosty tone.

  I glanced between the two women, se
nsing tension in the air. Lady Holt focused on the flower arrangements. Serena ignored Lady Holt. “Hello, Olive. Bower said you were looking for me.”

  “Yes, I’d like to chat with you for a moment, if it’s convenient.”

  Lady Holt put the clippers on the table. “I’ll leave you then.”

  “There’s no need,” Serena said to Lady Holt then turned to me. “Why don’t you come up to my workroom, Olive?”

  As we climbed the stairs, Serena said, “I must apologize for Maria. She’s not happy with me.”

  “I think it’s me she’s upset with.”

  The metal of Serena’s bag clicked as her arm swung. “You? Why would she be upset with you?”

  “I asked about Zippy’s friends here in the village, and Lady Holt wasn’t pleased. I heard Zippy was—um—close to someone in Hadsworth . . .”

  “Well, good news for me,” Serena said. “That should distract Maria from being upset with me for a while. Zippy does have a special friend nearby, but it’s not someone Maria approves of. None of the families are up to her standards—at least, that’s what she believes, which is absurd. Anna, for one, would be good for Zippy, but his interests are engaged in another quarter entirely, shall we say.”

  “Currently engaged?”

  “Oh yes. No doubt about it.”

  So Lady Holt said Zippy didn’t have a “close friend” in Hadsworth, but Serena said he did. I thought Serena’s assessment was probably the more honest of the two.

  Serena pushed open the door to her workroom and waved me inside. “All the better for me. I’ll let Zippy take the attention off me today.”

  “Why would your sister be upset with you today?”

  Serena tossed her handbag on one of the tables, and it landed with a clink. “Maria’s irritated with me because I attended the inquest into Mayhew’s death.” Serena tugged at the fingertips of her gloves. “According to Maria, we should completely ignore events such as the inquest because that makes it as if they didn’t exist—at least in her world.” Serena dropped her gloves on top of her handbag and pulled a bench out from under one of the trestle tables. “Have a seat, won’t you?”