Murder at Blackburn Hall

by Sara Rosett

I ran my hands up and down, racing along the edge of the door, looking for a door handle, but I only found a tiny seam wide enough for a fingernail. Of course there wouldn’t be a handle on the inside of a closet door.

  If I screamed, would anyone hear me? I could only barely hear the voices of the conversation on the other side of the door. The thick wooden paneling on the walls of the entry hall and stairs would probably stifle most of the noise I could make. Screaming would only alert Mrs. Pearce and Mr. Busby that I was awake.

  No, better to bide my time. I could make a racket when the door opened—that was a better plan.

  “And you should have left well enough alone with Mayhew,” Mrs. Pearce said, circling back to what was obviously a sore point with her. “Mayhew never spoke to anyone.”

  “You forget. He wrote books.”

  Mrs. Pearce went on as if Mr. Busby hadn’t spoken. “I still think you overreacted. He might not have heard us at all. And you should have waited and not poisoned Don until this Olive person returned to London. She’s been making a nuisance of herself all over the village. She’s one of those tiresomely dogged females. She’s not the type to give up, I can tell.”

  Dogged? Anger fired through me. Mrs. Pearce had attacked me then shut me in a closet, and she was calling me dogged? Right. Emily Pearce had no idea how determined I could be. I patted around the closet quietly to find something to defend myself with.

  “It’s not her we need to worry about,” Mr. Busby countered. “It’s the inspector. Mayhew’s death is officially an accident, remember? So stop worrying about that. Now let’s focus on what we need to do here. I overheard Miss Belgrave and Pearce arguing about some investment that went bad. Miss Belgrave had plenty of animosity toward Pearce. In fact, this actually may work out well—she dies, taking the blame for Pearce’s death, which leaves us out of it. Yes, this may work out much better than I first thought. The only question is how we do it.”

  My fingers felt the scratch of wool—mittens or a scarf—and the slick rubber of boots. I touched an oblong shape made of canvas and traced my hand along the edges of it. A section of it lifted away. A strap, I realized. It was a bag of golf clubs, probably the one I’d taken with me to the course.

  I let my fingers play across the clubs until I found a weighty one, then worked it out of the bag, making sure I didn’t bang it against the stair-stepped ceiling.

  Mrs. Pearce’s voice was now almost at full volume, and the pitch was reaching into soprano territory. “It must look as if it were an accident. After what happened with Don, we can’t have any questions—none at all! And we have to do it quickly. The servants are occupied in the dining room, but someone might come along here any minute.”

  “The servants are using the door at the far end of the terrace. They won’t come through here. We have a few minutes before someone notices we haven’t returned from our stroll in the gardens. Where’s that doorstop you hit her with? Do you still have it?”

  “Here.”

  I inched to the door and shifted to a standing position. I could stand up straight, but I had to tuck my head under one of the stair treads. My head whirled for a second, but I pressed my hand against the rough wood of the stairs. I clung there, deep breathing until my head cleared and I didn’t feel as if I were about to spin off into the dark.

  “Good. I think it’ll have to be the stairs,” Mr. Busby said. “There’s nothing else we can do that will look like an accident. Can’t strangle her. That would leave marks. And there’s no way we could pawn off a knifing as purely accidental.”

  I took up the stance Serena had demonstrated this morning, my legs slightly apart. Mr. Busby said, “I’ll carry her to the top of the stairs and drop her down. If she’s still alive at the bottom, we’ll use the doorstop again. You make sure nobody comes in from the terrace.”

  Footsteps tapped away.

  My palms were slick on the shaft of the golf club, and my heart pounded. The latch clicked.

  As the door opened, I pulled the club back, hinged my wrists, and swung through. The club connected with Mr. Busby’s chin, and I let out a scream that set off the gong in my head again.

  Mr. Busby collapsed, and I shoved the door open all the way. I stepped over him, the club at the ready in case Mrs. Pearce came at me with the doorstop. But she stood frozen in the doorway to the terrace, silhouetted against the faint light from the paper lanterns.

  Jasper came into the entry hall, pushing her along in front of him. He reached out to steady her, but I noticed he didn’t release her shoulder.

  Jasper looked from me to Mr. Busby’s crumpled form to Mrs. Pearce. I pointed the club from Mrs. Pearce to Mr. Busby. “They were in it together.”

  Mrs. Pearce stepped back, an attempt to disengage from Jasper, but he gripped her upper arm and steered her to the wingback chair by the telephone. “Better have a seat, Mrs. Pearce,” Jasper said. “You look as if you’ve had a shock.” He pushed her down into the chair and kept a firm hand on her shoulder as he turned to me. “Are you all right?”

  “Never better.”

  “Rather nice to be proven right, I suppose,” Jasper said.

  “It almost makes the headache worthwhile. Almost.”

  Mr. Busby groaned and tried to roll onto his side. I put the club on his Adam’s apple. “Don’t move, Mr. Busby. I’m sure Inspector Longly will want to speak to you.”

  Mrs. Shaw appeared in the doorway. “Oh my,” she said as she surveyed the scene, then turned back to the terrace and called, “Rodney, dear, it’s just as I said. Inspector Longly won’t need the warrant for Miss Belgrave’s arrest. The clever girl has taken care of all of it for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Good morning, Bower,” I said as I entered the breakfast room the next morning. “Although, it’s shockingly late. I could almost say ‘good afternoon.’”

  “Indeed,” Bower said. “Shall I instruct cook to prepare your scrambled eggs?”

  “No, thank you. Mr. Rimington and I plan to depart momentarily. I’ll have a cup of coffee and wait for him on the terrace.” I’d already instructed Janet to pack my bag and have a footman bring it down. I’d said a formal goodbye to Lady Holt, who’d murmured all the correct words about being glad to have me visit, but I knew she was thrilled to see me go. I’d taken one look at her face this morning and had to squash a surge of disappointment. She wouldn’t sing my praises to other society matrons, so I had no hope of gaining any referrals from her.

  Bower picked up a salver. “Mr. Rimington was called away.” A cream-colored envelope with my name on it was centered on the tray. “He left this for you, to be given to you when you came downstairs.”

  I found it hard to believe Jasper had risen before me. It had been the early hours of the morning before Longly had allowed us to retire. When we’d finally answered all of Longly’s questions, Jasper asked if I’d give him a lift to London.

  “He’s left?” A curious sensation swept over me. Could it be . . . disappointment? No. Of course not. Jasper wasn’t obligated to remain here until I left. But if he wanted to scamper away at daybreak, I wasn’t going to waste a moment wondering where—or why he’d left so suddenly. The image in the newspaper of Jasper with the willowy Bebe Ravenna popped into my mind.

  “He received a telephone call early this morning and left shortly afterwards,” Bower said. “Shall I bring your coffee to the terrace?”

  And Jasper said I was the one who flitted off impulsively. “Yes, thank you.” I went out through the open doors, shaking off the irritated feeling.

  The tables were still set up from last evening, and I chose one in the shade as I ripped open the envelope. Jasper may have written the note in a hurry, but his penmanship was as precise as ever.

  * * *

  Olive,

  * * *

  Sorry to leave you in the lurch, old girl. Hopefully Inspector Longly stays true to his word and doesn’t have more questions for you—or me—seeing as I’ve been called away on urgent bu
siness. Jolly good show last night. Congratulations on getting your man—and woman. Chasing down clues with you was a delight . . . when you happened to remember you had a Watson, that is. I may be out of pocket for a while, but I’ll be in touch soon.

  * * *

  Your partner in crime,

  Jasper

  * * *

  As I read the last lines, Bower set down my coffee and melted away.

  The coffee was scalding hot and had a bitter edge. Urgent business, indeed. What urgent business did Jasper have? Either it was the blonde or his tailor needed him for a final fitting.

  Footsteps crunched across the gravel path in the garden at a quick pace. I shoved the note under the edge of the coffee cup’s saucer and strained to see through the gaps in the shrubbery. Anna was racing across the garden, and when she saw I’d looked up, she ripped off her beret and waved it. “It’s official,” she called. “I’m to be an author.”

  I stood as she trotted up the steps. “But you’re already an author.”

  She waved me back into my seat and collapsed into the chair near me. “But now it won’t be a secret.” She fanned herself with the beret. “Mr. Hightower”—she gulped some air—“he’s here, in the village. He arrived this morning and came straight to Dad’s surgery looking for me.”

  “Does he know about Mr. Busby?”

  “Inspector Longly contacted him last night. Mr. Hightower set out immediately to come ‘tidy things up,’ as he phrased it.”

  “And there’s quite a bit to clean up,” I said.

  “Yes, and I want to hear all about what happened last night.”

  Bower approached and offered Anna coffee.

  “Oh, no. I’m much too hot. Perhaps a glass of lemonade?”

  As Bower retreated, I asked, “Mr. Hightower offered you a contract?”

  “He did,” she said in the same way some women would speak about a man popping the question. She smiled widely and fell back into the chair, tossing her hat onto the table. “I still can’t believe it. I told Inspector Longly about the ghostwriting, and Inspector Longly told Mr. Hightower.”

  “Oh no. I know you wanted it kept secret.”

  She bounced in her chair. “But it’s a good thing. Mr. Hightower said he wants Murder on the Ninth Green squared away. He suggested my name go on the cover along with May’s and”— she leaned forward—“he asked if I’d continue the series under my own name. He’s got his solicitors working on it and says we can sign the paperwork in a few days.”

  “Brilliant! I’d wondered what would happen with the book series.”

  Bower returned with Anna’s lemonade, and she gulped some before she continued. “Mr. Hightower owns the series characters and can commission anyone to write the next books. I’ve agreed to write two more Lady Eileen books, then I’d like to try my hand at something else. He’s interested in seeing anything I write.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” I raised my coffee cup. “Congratulations.”

  She lifted her glass. “Thank you. It’s a better outcome than any I dreamed of. All that worry about the manuscripts and the draft pages. But that’s all sorted now, thank goodness.” She plopped her lemonade down on the table and shifted in her chair so she faced me directly. “Now tell me everything that’s happened. Is it true Mrs. Pearce tried to convince the inspector she didn’t have anything to do with the deaths?”

  “She did. Inspector Longly had barely gotten through the door before she turned on Mr. Busby, putting all the blame on him. Said he was deranged.”

  “But that’s not what happened?”

  “No, and Inspector Longly wasn’t fooled. Mrs. Pearce and Mr. Busby were in it together from the beginning. The inspector separated Mrs. Pearce and Mr. Busby when he questioned them. Longly said they blamed each other and gave him enough information that he was able to piece together what happened.”

  “And what was that?” Anna propped her elbow on the table and put her chin in her hand. “I want all the details—for research, you know.”

  I grinned. “Of course. Mayhew wasn’t the only person who liked to stroll after sunset. Mr. Busby would drive down from town most Fridays for a spot of golf, but he stayed in the pub in Sidlingham. He also liked to go on late evening rambles.”

  “As did Mrs. Pearce?”

  “That’s right. Lots of late-night walkers around here. Mr. Busby and Mrs. Pearce met on the deserted golf course. Mayhew overheard them discussing their first attempt to do away with Mr. Pearce.”

  Anna sat up straight. “First attempt? You don’t mean his fall down the stairs?”

  “Not a fall. A push.”

  “Was it Mrs. Pearce?”

  “She says it was Mr. Busby. And I gather from what Inspector Longly says that Mr. Busby says it was Mrs. Pearce.”

  “Goodness,” Anna said. “It’s difficult to picture it. Emily Pearce always seemed such a timid little thing.” Anna shook her head. “Amazing what they did. What will happen now?”

  “The investigation into Mayhew’s death will be reopened, for a start,” I said. “And then with what I overheard . . .” I shrugged. “I’m sure Inspector Longly is busy building a case against them. I know he’s got officers searching their homes and tracing their movements. I don’t doubt he’ll find enough evidence to go to trial.”

  Anna folded her arms across her chest as if she were cold. “I do find it hard to believe Mrs. Pearce and Mr. Busby knew each other. They certainly acted as if they’d never met before when Lady Holt introduced them at the dinner party.”

  “Inspector Longly said Mrs. Pearce told him they actually met earlier this year. Mr. Pearce was away on business, and Mrs. Pearce was staying in London alone. She attended an event Hightower Books hosted and met Mr. Busby. At some point after that, Mrs. Pearce and Mr. Busby decided to do away with Pearce and avoided being seen together publicly. It was Mayhew’s misfortune that she got in the middle of their plans.”

  “Terribly unfortunate. And how are you feeling today?” Anna ran a critical eye over me. “It sounds as if Dad should’ve been called to examine you. I understand you were unconscious.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Double vision? Nausea? You really should—”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m fine. Nothing but a bump.” I had no desire to spend any more time in Hadsworth.

  “I’d argue with you, but I can see it would be useless.”

  The clock inside the drawing room chimed, and Anna looked at her wristwatch. “Noon already? I must fly. I told Dad I’d drive him to a house call after lunch.” Anna drained her glass and set it down with a click. “And then I have pages to write.” She squinted at the flowerbeds on the far side of the garden. “I must figure out a way to get one more suspect on the yacht . . .”

  “Perhaps there’s a stowaway.”

  “Oh, I like that . . .” she murmured as she settled her beret on her head and pushed back her chair.

  I walked to the terrace steps with her. “Look me up next time you’re in London. I’m sure you’ll be up there quite often visiting Hightower Books.”

  “Yes, I suppose I will,” Anna said as if the thought hadn’t struck her until that moment. After we said goodbye, I picked up the note from Jasper and turned to go inside, but Bower came outside, escorting Mr. Hightower.

  “Mr. Hightower, good afternoon. I just spoke with Anna. In fact, she might still be on the grounds.” I turned and scanned the garden. “No, she’s already left. She’s thrilled with the new arrangement.”

  “We are as well. Bower informed me you’re leaving shortly. Do you have a few moments?”

  “Yes, of course.” I gestured for him to have a seat and returned to my chair. I asked Mr. Hightower if he’d like something to drink.

  “Thank you, but no.” Mr. Hightower settled in the chair. “When the inspector contacted me, I knew I had to come down immediately and speak to him as well as Miss Finch. Hightower Books needs to continue the series, and we’re delighted Mi
ss Finch will be able to write more Lady Eileen books.”

  “I understand. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  “Exactly. As was our arrangement.” He removed an envelope from an inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. “I believe this will cover your expenses. There’s a bonus as well. With the forthcoming books from Miss Finch, I assure you, the check will not bounce.”

  I tucked the envelope away in my pocket. “Thank you. I didn’t think it would.”

  Mr. Hightower’s expression turned somber. “I must apologize for the actions of Mr. Busby. I had no idea what Leland was involved in, and I hope you have completely recovered.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Bit of a headache at first, but that’s gone.”

  “Excellent. Glad to hear it.” He cleared his throat. “I do hope that you don’t hold any—ah—animosity toward Hightower Books.”

  “Of course not. Mr. Busby’s actions were his own.”

  Mr. Hightower leaned back slightly and let out a barely disguised sigh of what seemed to be relief. “I’m happy to see you came through the ordeal relatively unscathed. I assure you, I’d never have sent you here if I’d known about Leland’s horrible plans. To think he was the one who killed Mayhew—it’s astonishing. Hard to take it in, you know. It does explain why he kept asking if May’s delayed manuscript had arrived, though.” His voice dropped, and he spoke more to himself than to me as he said, “I should have picked up on that.”

  “Mr. Busby was looking for it?”

  “Oh yes.” Mr. Hightower’s voice returned to full volume. “Leland’s never shown much interest in May’s books.” He gazed out over the gardens. “He knew the publishing schedule, of course—it was no secret—so Leland was aware we needed the manuscript soon. However, Leland didn’t know Mr. Pearce handled all of Mayhew’s communication with Hightower Books. Leland didn’t realize that causing Mr. Pearce an injury would delay the arrival of the manuscript.”