by Tessa Arlen
A police sergeant came into the room and stood portentously in the doorway. “Miss Kingsley?” he asked, looking around the room for the butler to help him. “Inspector Hillary will see you now, please.”
“I think it would be better if he spoke with Lady Montfort first.” Hermione did not get up from her high-backed wing chair. She reminded Clementine of an old tortoise sticking her head out of her shell to see if winter was over.
“Beg pardon, ma’am, but Inspector Hillary asked for you, so would you mind stepping into the library?”
Hermione rose from her chair and crossed the room, and the others sat on and waited.
Clementine was called next.
* * *
Clementine felt as if a year had crawled slowly by before she could lay her tired body down in her bed at Montfort House. It had certainly taken an age before Detective Inspector Hillary had allowed them all to go. His thoroughness had known no bounds, and Clementine was still considering her interview as Lord Montfort tucked her up in the back of their motorcar.
Detective Inspector Hillary’s manners had been faultless, but she had felt clumsy and unprepared. As he took her through the events of the evening, Clementine noticed that his notes, which lay before him on the surface of the desk, were neatly organized in columns. She could see the information he had written down from his session with Hermione in the second column and couldn’t help but wonder if this method was a useful way of tracking where suspects were at the crucial time. She narrowed her eyes but still could not decipher his handwriting.
The questions began. Clementine strove to be as accurate as she could with her answers. Finally, the inspector’s quest for detailed minutiae was over. He put his pen down, and his sergeant drew a heavy line in pencil across his shorthand notebook. Lord Montfort’s interview, which had followed that of his wife, was far shorter; they were released from Chester Square with further reminders from the sergeant to contact Detective Inspector Hillary if they remembered anything more. Certainly they must expect a follow-up interview within a few days.
They were driven home to Montfort House through silent, empty streets slick with ice. A heavy frost glazed pavements and rooftops, glittering dully under the light of a full moon. The wind having cleared the sky of clouds had died away, leaving a black night bright with stars. The going was treacherous and they heard Herne swearing softly to himself as he carefully negotiated a turn in the road. Swathed in travel-rugs in the back of the motorcar, their steamy breath fogging its chill interior, they sat in silence. They had been under way only five minutes and already Clementine’s feet were numb and her face was stiff with cold. As she stared out of the window at the bare boughs and branches of trees crystalline in the streetlamps, she felt she had been transported to another world, a world of black and silver, a metallic world with deep, dark shadows and glittering hard-edged surfaces.
“We are nearly home and then we can warm you up a bit.” The grumpy man who had reluctantly spent an evening in the company of someone he didn’t approve of had disappeared. She turned away from the window and looked into her husband’s tired face and thought what a dear he was underneath his well-bred courtesy and careful reserve. She put her hand in his and leaned back against him. His arm came around her shoulders, pulling her close. She turned her head and buried her cold nose in the astrakhan collar of his coat.
“More than anything, I want to be in bed. I’m not sure I can sleep, but most of all it would be nice to have you close.”
“When ugly things happen in life, wretched, wasteful, and senseless things, I always find myself profoundly grateful for what I have,” he said, and she realized how comforting the sound of his voice was in the dark. “I’ll tell White to make sure we are not disturbed and we can sleep late.”
They drew up outside their house, and Clementine felt she was sleepwalking up the steps to the front door. When she finally gained the warm sanctuary of her bedroom, Pettigrew, who had been sitting by the fire, stood up and, tutting with disapproval at the hour and Clementine’s ice-cold hands and feet, came forward to help her out of her clothes. With deft, kind hands she put Clementine into her nightgown and dressing gown and sat her down by the fire to warm her feet.
And then with relief and joy, Clementine found herself being helped into her bed. The bliss of smooth sheets and soft blankets. She leaned gratefully back against familiar pillows and her feet found, and sandwiched themselves on either side of the hot water bottle. A cup of warmed, malted milk was carefully placed between her hands and as she sipped, she felt the tension begin to ease. Between half-closed lids she watched Pettigrew moving quietly around the room. And then her maid was gone and her husband was climbing in beside her. She put down her cup and switched off the light on the table next to her bed.
Ah, the blessed dark, she thought, as she closed her tired eyes and let her limbs become heavy.
Her husband pulled her close and buried his nose into the nape of her neck. After a while he said, “Will you call on Hermione tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes, I suppose I’ll go round and see how they are faring, poor things.”
“I thought Adelaide Gaskell looked quite ill.”
“She has not been too well just recently. Mr. Churchill decided to invite the young marine captain, so poor Miss Gaskell had to make up the numbers. Then Hermione decided she was a better accompanist for Lady Ryderwood.”
“Well, that was rather one-sided of her. I thought Maud Cunard was going to do the honors.” His tone made it clear that he thought Hermione selfish.
“Well, that would explain why Maud was in such a bate. She was a positive viper about Hermione’s poorly trained servants.” Clementine remembered the complaints about inadequate butlers.
“She’s always a positive viper. Probably Sir Thom has been wandering in the moonlight again. I’m surprised he wasn’t there, must have been his night off.” They giggled and Clementine felt her world right itself.
She was drifting off to sleep when he spoke again.
“How did your interview with Hillary go?” His voice was quite bland. Just a polite question then, she thought, as she replied, “I thought he was a bright sort. Not like our brush with the Metropolitan Police at Iyntwood.”
She remembered with unwelcome clarity an earlier summer when Lord Montfort’s nephew had been murdered at Iyntwood, and their house overrun with policemen, interviews, suspicion, and interminable fuss.
“Yes, I thought he was more than competent. Well educated, too, went to Stowe actually and Cambridge.” These were important elements to a gentleman’s existence, and they were ones that reassured her husband that they were in the right hands.
“Oh, good for him.” She was falling asleep now.
“So I was hoping you could leave it all to him.”
“Leave what to him?” She was wide awake.
“The investigation into Sir Reginald’s murder, my darling. Will you promise not to interfere and let the nice, bright boy work without benefit of your help?”
The trouble with marriage, thought Clementine, is that after decades of sharing life’s woes and successes, of forgiving each other’s frailties and coming to rely on each other’s understanding, we end up knowing too easily what the other is thinking. She experienced a moment of duplicitous guilt.
Her feet had warmed and her nose felt less like a peak of ice on her face. With these minor comforts in place, she had been pondering on the events of the evening. Prompted by Hillary’s earlier questions, her stunned mind was now finally obliging by beginning to piece together the evening. There were still some blank bits, but she knew if she allowed herself within the next days she would remember everything she had seen or heard tonight.
She slid her now-hot feet off the hot water bottle and tucked them into the cool sheets at the edge of the bed.
“You see, you are off in your own world.” There was a slightly censorious tone to the voice in the dark. “You haven’t even heard my question. I hope you are
not planning on involving yourself in this investigation, Clemmy, there’s no reason to.”
“I’m not off in my own world. I was thinking about Hermione and her musical evening for the Chimney Sweep Boys. I expect she’ll have to call it off.” A little ripple of guilt as a plan started to form itself.
“Oh I don’t think so. That would upset Nellie Melba and most of all her greatest friend, Gladys Ripon. Anyone who enjoys going to the opera or the ballet does not upset London’s most powerful patroness, the Marchioness of Ripon.” He was laughing now. “God forbid, we might be barred from either place. No one would dream of doing that without thinking through the consequences quite carefully. Hermione has an able butler, and Adelaide Gaskell will rally after a few days’ rest. Anyway she could always move the whole thing somewhere else. Claridge’s does a good job.”
“Jenkins is not up to organizing an event of that size and importance.” She remembered Maud Cunard’s scornful observations of the aging butler’s incompetence. “And by the time Adelaide recovers it will be too late. It’s less than a week away and it’s the greatest event of the year for the charity!”
She could tell he was losing interest; he gently slid her off his lap and rolled over onto his left side.
“I think I’ll offer Jackson’s help, she could organize the charity evening standing on her head. Anyway, she has nothing else to do at Iyntwood with both of us in town until this is over. She’ll have plenty of time to organize things for the hunt ball when we return to the country.” She was thinking out loud, a huge mistake. Lord Montfort was instantly alert and turned back to face her.
“Why drag the poor woman up to town in this weather? I think housekeepers prefer to stay on their own patch, and not gallivant around the frozen countryside in November.”
“Nonsense, Ralph, she’d love it. We are just around the corner from Harvey Nicks; perfect place for her to potter around and criticize the price of everything and say how much better Selfridges is for a bargain.”
“As long as that’s all she does.” She heard his exasperation, but it was resigned exasperation. “As long as you are both busy with the simple pleasures of the Christmas season and not off together scouting around for clues.”
Well for pity’s sake, thought Clementine, how could he make us both sound so vulgar? Like two prying and poking old ladies. She remembered how restrained, methodical, and sensitive they had both been not to transcend the bounds of propriety when her husband’s nephew, Teddy Mallory, had been so horribly murdered. How they had collected every scrap of information, every tiny detail, without asking direct questions while the entire household both above and below stairs had been thrown into confusion and chaos by the most bungling and intrusive of police inquiries. An investigation headed up by a man with an ax to grind against the aristocracy as he trampled hither and yon, without making a speck of progress, always ready to arrest the wrong man especially if he came from the upper class. It had taken skill, intelligence, and intuition to piece together those scrupulously gathered remnants of information. And then Mrs. Jackson, in one brilliant stroke, had found the last piece to their puzzle and created a whole and perfect picture of what had happened on the night Teddy Mallory had been so brutally killed. After which Clementine, observing strict gender protocol, had dutifully taken their information to Lord Montfort, so that through him Chief Constable Colonel Valentine had brought the culprit to bear in all official correctness. And Clementine and Mrs. Jackson had gone quietly about their everyday lives as if nothing had happened at all.
Her mind was superbly alert now. Funny how that happens; you feel quite sleepy, ready to say good night, and then you get annoyed about something, and there you are as bright as day.
“I think that’s less than fair, Ralph,” she said with genuine reproach. “We did nothing that could possibly be construed as unconventional; it was you and Colonel Valentine who made the arrest.”
“Yes, it was. And I would be utterly grateful if it was Detective Inspector Hillary who made the next one. This is a different situation entirely and I am entirely relieved that you see it that way too.”
Chapter Six
The next afternoon, Clementine returned home rather confused after her visit to Hermione Kingsley. Not surprisingly, the old lady had rallied; Miss Kingsley was of a generation that did not allow disaster to affect the standards of behavior. Personal distress was best kept tightly under wraps, concealed under a mask of locked-down composure.
Correct deportment aside, the elderly woman’s face was leached of all color, her skin almost transparent, Clementine observed as they sat in the drawing room to drink tea. There was a feeling of the absent about Hermione, as if she didn’t quite register where she was. Clementine glanced over at the butler, Jenkins, who appeared to have suffered the worse from the garish business of Sir Reginald’s being stabbed to death in his mistress’s house. If Hermione was temporarily absent, her poor old butler had never quite returned from his shock of last night.
Jenkins stood in the doorway to the drawing room, watching over the Clumsy Footman, who had blundered so badly the night before as he served coffee. The older man’s large, imposing head was held erect, but Clementine saw that his hands were trembling slightly as they hung by his sides, and she could not decide whether this was due to age or to anxiety. And there appeared to be a strange, rather vacant look in his eye, which struck her as a bit disturbing.
But the reason Clementine came away from Chester Square, puzzled and perplexed, was Hermione’s complete refusal to talk about the preceding evening. She did not acknowledge in any way that a murder had been committed in the dining room of her house and, what was even more worrying, did not refer to the evening at all. With increasing concern she realized that Hermione had taken completely to heart Churchill’s instructions that Sir Reginald’s death not be discussed among her household and guests. She had apparently dismissed the incident completely from her mind. Her party for Winston was something that had never happened. How extraordinary, Clementine thought. Sir Reginald had been a friend of Hermione for years, the mainstay of her charity, raising thousands of pounds over the decades and acting on her behalf in the House on every reform that affected the lives of the children and orphans of the impoverished. Their friendship had been so close over the years that if Hermione hadn’t been so much older than Sir Reginald, everyone would have fully expected them to marry. Yet, for the duration of their afternoon together, Hermione’s lips were compressed in a thin line on the subject of her friend’s death. She had kept the conversation exclusively on the topic of her charity evening, even though the man who had worked unstintingly for its cause had been killed in her house.
Clementine had been quite ready to follow the old lady’s lead; it was important to bide one’s time if you wanted information. And so the two of them had sipped tea, nibbled around the edges of their hot buttered toast, and kept their conversation focused on the evening that would take place next week, with or without the sterling efforts of Hermione’s paid companion, Adelaide Gaskell.
“How is Miss Gaskell?” Clementine had been quick to ask this question, since it did not trespass on the forbidden matter.
“Poor young girl, her head cold has settled in her chest. I’m quite sure she has bronchitis. Dr. Brewster came over this morning and has prescribed linctus for her. Now she must stay in bed and rest, he says, otherwise she might well contract congestion in the lungs.” The tired old eyes blinked twice but Clementine did not take this as regret for Hermione’s selfish behavior of the night before.
“How will you manage next week?” Clementine had finally ventured.
“Adelaide is a thorough young woman; she has kept records of all previous charity evenings. Jenkins will manage under her instruction.” She was firm on this point then, thought Clementine as her eyes swiveled over to the old man standing by the door, whose tremor, it seemed to her, was even more pronounced.
Now was the time that Clementine should have recommended
moving the charity recital to Claridge’s Hotel, calling in the talented skills of Rosa Lewis, or suggested postponing the event, but she did no such thing.
“If I might make a suggestion, Hermione.” She cleared her throat. “I would be happy to send for Mrs. Jackson. She is extraordinarily efficient, has arranged both our summer and hunt balls year after year. Each one a resounding success, as I am sure you will remember.”
The old lady leaned forward a little in her wing chair. “But can you spare her, Clementine? Won’t she be needed to organize Christmas?” Hermione made it sound as though Saint Nicholas relied entirely on Mrs. Jackson to ensure that his yuletide festivities were a single shared experience for every Christian soul worldwide.
“Yes, of course we can spare her. We will be here in town for the next week or so…” She didn’t say why, because they were not talking about murder investigations just yet.
“My dear Clementine, how generous of you; I would be so grateful. Mrs. Jackson is so impressively able. Would you telephone to her?” Like Clementine’s mother, Hermione still demonstrated the habits of an older generation, born in an age without newfangled contraptions. The telephone, an artifact with a dubious provenance, was a necessary evil Hermione had reluctantly installed last year, along with electric light in the servants’ hall. Even so, she never went near the instrument, which was kept in a far corner of the library behind a potted palm, dusty with disuse as there was an extension in the butler’s pantry. It was Jenkins who, like a medium in a séance, spoke to the telephone, her intermediary with the outside world.
Quite pleased to have accomplished her mission, and ready to get things moving, Clementine had rapidly finished her tea and taken herself off to Montfort House. She asked White to telephone to Iyntwood and instruct the butler, Hollyoak, so he might inform Mrs. Jackson to ready herself for a trip up to London.
“Mrs. Jackson will stay here at Montfort House and go over to Miss Kingsley in Chester Square every day to help with organizing her charity recital. I know we have a full house in the servants’ quarters, so I think it would be best if you put Mrs. Jackson in the old nursery. She will be comfortable there and it won’t inconvenience anyone.”