Murder at Blackburn Hall

by Sara Rosett

  “And raises the question of who wanted Pearce dead—besides me, of course.”

  Jasper rubbed his chin. “Let’s run through your list of suspects for Mayhew’s death. Are any of them connected with Pearce?”

  I sighed. “I’ve been pondering that and can’t come up with a motive or even a connection between Pearce and anyone I suspected might be involved in Mayhew’s death.”

  Jasper leaned back in his typical languid manner, but his hooded gaze was sharp. “Talk me through it.” He propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and cupped his fingers around his chin.

  “All right.” I began to shift the chess pieces back to their typical places on their respective sides of the board. “Operating on the theory that Mayhew’s death was murder and that the same person committed both crimes, we can eliminate Anna and Dr. Finch.”

  Jasper flexed his fingers away from his lips as he spoke. “Neither of them were present after dinner when Pearce’s coffee was poisoned. With the qualifiers you’ve set, that makes sense.”

  “Emily Pearce has to be at the top of the suspect list of course.”

  “Emily?”

  “The spouse is always a suspect.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly. But what reason would she have to do away with Mayhew—or her husband—for that matter?”

  “I don’t know in either case. Her husband was older than her—at least a decade or two, don’t you think? Perhaps she wanted to be free of him. She had opportunity. She was at the bridge table with us.”

  “But anyone could have taken one of the asthma cigarettes and emptied the contents of it into Pearce’s cup while the card tables were arranged.”

  I slumped back against the chair. “I know. It was chaotic there for a few minutes as the tables were set up. And I haven’t heard a whisper of scandal about Mrs. Pearce. Lady Holt says she was devoted to Mr. Pearce.”

  “Yet Mrs. Pearce seemed as skittish as a colt,” Jasper said. “Of course, her husband took a tumble down the stairs and then was poisoned, so she has every reason to be nervy.”

  “Then there’s Zippy,” I said. “Originally, I wondered if he was hiding something, but now we know he wasn’t putting on an act of nonchalance when Mayhew died. Zippy’s so besotted with Lucy, I doubt he’s even given Mayhew’s death, not to mention Pearce’s, more than a passing thought.”

  “It seems that way,” Jasper said.

  “And then we have Lady Holt and Serena. If I’m right and Mayhew was already dead when Serena spotted someone on the path, that wipes out both her alibi and Lady Holt’s.”

  “Any connection between either of them and Pearce?”

  “Nothing worth murdering someone over. At least, I haven’t uncovered anything like that in the time I’ve been here. The two families socialized, of course, but Serena said the Pearces were new acquaintances.”

  “Perhaps she’s lying? Maybe she and Mr. Pearce were . . . involved.” Jasper flared an eyebrow. “Perhaps she wanted him to divorce Mrs. Pearce and be with her?”

  “You haven’t been around Serena much, have you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She’s much more interested in her work—her scientific studies—than anything romantic. I can’t see her carrying on an affair with a neighbor.” I paused. “Her work, though. It centers on decay and decomposition.”

  “Rather macabre.”

  “Yes.” I tilted the bishop playing piece back and forth. “I did wonder if she was somehow involved in Mayhew’s death . . . if perhaps—oh, it sounds absurd.”

  “We’re theorizing. No theory too strange.”

  I set the bishop down. “Well, this one is definitely on the gruesome side. Seeing Mayhew’s body didn’t faze Serena. In fact, she studied it—avidly, I thought. I had to insist we leave and notify the police.”

  “Ah, I see what you’re thinking. Did she carry her interest in decomposition a little too far?”

  “See, it does sound absurd. No one would murder someone just to study decay.”

  Jasper lifted a shoulder. “If they’re unhinged, they might.”

  I shook my head. “Serena is practical and forthright. If she wanted to study human decomposition she’d—I don’t know, request a cadaver from a medical school or some such thing.”

  “But would they give it to her?”

  “Now you’re just playing devil’s advocate.”

  “Guilty.” Jasper grinned briefly. “But you’re the one who brought it up. What about Lord Holt?”

  “He only seems to be interested in golf, but perhaps that’s a front?”

  “If it is, he should be on the stage. Golf seems to be his single focus.”

  “Even when the men stay behind in the drawing room?”

  “Especially then.” Jasper stared at the ceiling a moment, then shook his head. “No, can’t say I’ve heard him mention anything else. And he didn’t seem to be friendly with Pearce. They didn’t have much interaction. What about Lady Holt? Perhaps she invested in Hartman Consolidated on Pearce’s advice?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Lady Holt said she never bothers with anything to do with money. I’m sure she considers it vulgar.” I looked out the window to the far side of the terrace, where the servants were positioning chairs and tables for this evening. “Funny how once you have plenty of money, you can pretend it’s tawdry.”

  I gave myself a mental shake. It wouldn’t do any good to succumb to jealousy. I had enough money to get by—at least for a little longer. “It sounds as if she and Lord Holt leave all that sort of thing to their estate steward,” I added.

  “I agree,” Jasper said. “They don’t seem to be the most involved land owners.”

  “Even if their steward did invest the money unwisely,” I said, “I doubt Lady Holt would know about it.”

  “Perhaps she was having a torrid affair with Pearce.”

  “Be sensible. Can you really picture that?”

  “I’d rather not. Don’t frown at me like a school matron.” Jasper levered himself higher in the chair. “I’ll be serious. No, our hostess doesn’t seem the type to indulge in dalliances of that sort. But you realize where that leaves us?”

  “Yes. Back with one viable suspect—me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Despite Lady Holt’s original plans to keep dinner simple, it turned out to be a long and elaborate meal with three more courses than usual. Emily Pearce smiled at all the appropriate times and participated in the conversation, but her manner was reserved. I was glad for Mrs. Shaw’s presence and soothing demeanor. She and Lady Holt combined forces to carry us through dinner’s stilted atmosphere. I think the tense atmosphere was because we were all on guard, making an effort not to refer to Pearce in any way. Mrs. Shaw’s soothing murmur of conversation, which flowed as steadily as a slow-moving stream, provided a nice counterpoint to Lady Holt’s dictatorial control of the dialogue around the table.

  When Lady Holt led the ladies out of the dining room, she guided us to the entryway, around the stairs, down a short passage, and then out the French doors that opened onto the terrace, where tables and chairs were set up along with coffee and after-dinner drinks. It was warm, but it wasn’t as muggy as it had been last night. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees and made the paper lanterns strung up around the terrace bob.

  I took a seat next to Emily Pearce in the hopes that I could guide the conversation and she’d reveal something about Pearce I hadn’t uncovered. I’d been seated at the other end of the table from her and hadn’t yet had the opportunity to talk with her.

  “Hadsworth is such a picturesque village,” I said.

  Mrs. Pearce gave a perfunctory smile. “Yes.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Nearly a year.” Her reply was perfectly polite but also conveyed she’d rather not chat about Hadsworth.

  I tried another topic. “Were you originally from the area?”

  “No. I’d lived in London all my life.” She fell silent.

/>   I stifled a sigh. This was hard going. If I could barely get her to talk about herself, how could I pry any information out of her about her husband? Had Emily Pearce come to dinner because Lady Holt insisted? Mrs. Pearce didn’t appear to want to be here or to be enjoying the evening.

  The men joined us at that point, and Mr. Busby strolled over, his hands in his pockets. I tensed, ready to parry a disparaging comment about either me or my work with Hightower Books, but he only said, “Lovely evening tonight.”

  So we were in a truce state—at least as long as we were in polite company. “Yes, it is,” I said. “A perfect night to be outside.”

  “I believe I’ll get a cup of coffee,” Mr. Busby said. “Would you like one, Mrs. Pearce?”

  She’d been staring out into the dark garden and turned her head when he said her name. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Mr. Busby jingled some coins in his pocket. “Care for a cup of coffee? I’m getting one for myself.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Mr. Busby looked to me. “I’m fine, thank you.” I wasn’t anxious to drink anything I hadn’t poured myself.

  Mr. Busby returned in a moment and handed Mrs. Pearce her cup before he took a seat. He brought his own cup of coffee, which was full to the brim, to his lips. Mrs. Pearce’s cup was half full, and the coffee was a pale taupe color. She put it down on the table without sipping it. Maybe Mrs. Pearce also felt cautious about her drinks. She adjusted the angle of the cup’s handle in the saucer but didn’t pick it up.

  A little alarm bell clanged in my mind as I stared at her cup . . . something about coffee . . .

  Then it came to me. After the last dinner party, when I went to get coffee for myself and Mrs. Shaw, Mrs. Pearce had been at the table in front of me. She’d only filled her coffee cup halfway before adding cream. And during the bridge game, when Pearce had brought her another cup of coffee, he’d also only filled her cup halfway.

  My gaze pinged from her half-full cup of buff-colored coffee to Mr. Busby, to Mrs. Pearce, then back down to the coffee. At that moment, I thought of the list of names Jasper had copied out of the guest ledger at the Sidlingham pub. I didn’t remember them all, but I knew one of them had been a Mr. Leighland. Had Mr. Busby, Mr. Leland Busby, been staying at the Sidlingham pub during the time Mayhew was killed? Had he registered under a variant spelling of his first name, Leland, instead of Mr. Busby?

  Mrs. Pearce noticed I was looking at her untouched coffee. I glanced away and cast around for something to say. “Mr. Busby, have you finished reading the manuscript I gave you?”

  “Yes. It’s adequate. I’ll have to edit some of it heavily, but I suppose the fans of the series will be pleased.”

  Mrs. Pearce stared at her coffee cup, a wrinkle between her eyebrows.

  I pushed my chair back. “Excuse me, I’ve changed my mind. I think I will have coffee.” As I stood, Mr. Busby half rose. He and Mrs. Pearce exchanged a glance that sent a jolt through me. It was a look that communicated things, and only people who knew each other well exchanged glances like that.

  I poured a cup of black coffee, the spout clattering against the coffee cup, then ambled along the terrace until I was near the French doors to the house. I hadn’t wanted to speak to Longly earlier in the evening, but now I wished he were here. I had to get in touch with him straightaway.

  I slipped through the door and went down the short passage to the entry hall, where the telephone was positioned near the stairs. The deeply shadowed entry hall was silent. The dark paneling seemed to absorb any sounds from the rest of the house. The servants would be clearing the dining room, but they were on the other side of Blackburn Hall, and I couldn’t hear them at all. My coffee cup rattled in the saucer as I put it down on the table beside the telephone. I perched on the edge of the wingback chair’s cushion, picked up the handset and earpiece, and asked the operator to connect me to The Crown.

  Was that a footfall on the parquet? I pulled the earpiece away and twisted around with a jerk.

  Shadows filled the deepest corners of the short passageway leading to the terrace. The terrace doors stood open, but no one was in the doorway. The faint murmur of conversation drifted in from outside.

  I swept my gaze around the entry hall, but it was empty too—what I could see of it. Electric sconces on the staircase only lit up the expensive runner on the steps and didn’t penetrate the cavernous expanse of the entry hall.

  Don’t be a rabbit, I lectured myself. But I shifted around in the chair so I could keep an eye on the French doors. A blast of sound came out of the earpiece. I pressed it to my ear.

  A gravelly voice said, “The Crown.”

  “Inspector Longly, please.” I’d telephoned the pub after I’d talked with Jasper this afternoon, intending to tell Longly what I suspected about Mayhew and Pearce’s death, but the inspector had been out. He hadn’t returned my call before dinner. Surely he’d be in now.

  A sharply drawn breath sounded behind me. I twisted and saw a flash of movement. Pain crashed through my head. I felt myself falling forward, but I couldn’t seem to put my arms out to break my fall. Then, darkness.

  The sibilant noise of whispered voices penetrated the dark tunnel I was in. My head felt as if it were the dinner gong and someone was enthusiastically pounding away, announcing dinner was served. At the same time, I had the definite sensation I was on a boat, complete with seasickness. But that couldn’t be right. There was no smell of the sea, no breath of wind. I opened my eyes, but all was blackness. I was lying on my side on something cold and hard. The voices continued, and the discordant sounds sorted themselves into words.

  “. . . of course I’m sure. She knows.”

  “How could she? We’ve hardly spoken a word to each other in weeks.” The second voice was deeper, masculine. I cautiously tilted my head. The pounding intensified. I went still, and the pain dropped a notch.

  The higher-pitched voice of the woman answered. “It was the coffee. You only poured half a cup—that gave the game away. You should’ve poured me a full cup. Someone I’d met a few days ago couldn’t know I only drink half a cup.”

  The mental fog cleared. A half-full cup of coffee, Emily Pearce, and Leland Busby. I stayed motionless, concentrating on the voices as the roiling sensation in my stomach subsided. The deeper voice, Mr. Busby’s, said, “You’re overreacting, Emily.”

  “I’m not.” The pitch of Mrs. Pearce’s voice went higher. “She knows. Don’t argue with me. We don’t have time.”

  I tilted my head slowly in an effort to prevent the gong-banging sensation from worsening. The pain stayed on the low-level pulse, not the bone-shattering crash I’d initially felt. The nauseous feeling didn’t return, but a band seemed to tighten around my chest, the first sign of one of my asthma attacks. Breathe. In. Out. Steady on. I went through the words and actions that had calmed me so many times in the past. I turned my head and saw a strip of light at my eye level. I blinked and focused on the line of brightness, which highlighted a parquet floor. The sight comforted me, although I couldn’t work out why. My head felt mussy, but my breathing was easier.

  “We have to do something.” It was the woman’s voice, Mrs. Pearce’s, still shrill and edged with panic.

  The brightness hurt. I closed my eyes and rubbed them, then I probed the back of my head. I had a huge lump at the base of my skull. I opened my eyes and squinted as I held my fingers to the light. They were dry. No blood.

  “I could see it in her eyes when she looked at me,” Mrs. Pearce said. “She knows what you did.”

  I had to move. They were talking about me. I couldn’t stay here—wherever here was.

  Mrs. Pearce continued, “What are we going to do? I can’t believe this. If you hadn’t been so rash, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  I inched myself up. For a brief moment, I felt as if the darkness were about to spin around me. I held still, and the sensation faded.

  “What do you mean? You wanted your husband gon
e, and we agreed to do it.” Mr. Busby’s voice was casual and not strained at all. “I saw an opportunity and took it.”

  I eased into a sitting position. It was fortunate I was moving slowly because my forehead bumped something solid. I stilled until the vibrations of pain tapered off. Thank goodness I’d been moving slowly. If I’d sat up quickly, I’d probably have knocked myself out again.

  Mrs. Pearce continued, her tone high and angry. “But you did it with me there. After Mayhew, we agreed no more of that.”

  “You wanted to be rid of Pearce as much as I did,” Mr. Busby said.

  “Yes, but I didn’t want you to do it in a room full of people—with me there. You put both of us under suspicion. I told you it was too soon after Mayhew.”

  So I’d been right—Mayhew and Pearce’s deaths were linked. I would have enjoyed being vindicated more if I wasn’t locked away in the dark, fighting down nausea after being bashed on the head.

  Mr. Busby’s voice was brisk. “Forget that. It doesn’t matter now. What are we going to do with her? Why did you have to hit her on the head?”

  “She was calling the inspector. I told you, she knows. I had to do something.”

  “You couldn’t just disconnect the call?”

  I reached out into the darkness around me. My fingers traced over the low ceiling. It was stair stepped, so I was in the closet under the stairs. That’s why the parquet looked familiar. Part of my fuzzy brain had recognized the pattern of the wood. I knew where I was. At that thought, the tightness in my chest faded. I wasn’t in a good situation, but at least I was still inside Blackburn Hall. I shifted closer to the strip of light and explored the edges of the door, looking for a latch.

  “Oh, why does that even matter now?” Mrs. Pearce said. “What’s done is done. Let’s figure out what to do, how to . . . get rid of her.”

  I paused in my exploration. Get rid of me? I did not like the sound of that.