by Tessa Arlen
“You told no one else after this?” Mrs. Jackson asked, knowing that the answer would be no.
She got up and went to Miss Gaskell’s chair and took the young woman’s cold hand in hers.
“You are good and brave, and it doesn’t matter what Miss Kingsley…”
The door opened, and standing on the threshold was the patroness of one of England’s largest charities for the unwanted, luckless orphans of the poor.
“I am glad to see you are looking a good deal improved, Adelaide,” she said, completely ignoring Miss Gaskell’s red nose and swollen eyes. In fact she did not even look at the young woman; she was staring directly at Mrs. Jackson.
“We must not be selfish and trespass on Lady Montfort’s goodwill. Mrs. Jackson has done a thorough job and I think, since you are so much improved, Adelaide, that you can continue with the final preparations for the musical evening.”
“I would be most happy to continue, ma’am; her ladyship was clear in her instructions that I make myself useful until after the event.” Mrs. Jackson was determined to show Miss Gaskell that there was no need to fear Miss Kingsley, and at the same time she cursed Macleod, who no doubt had reported on her meeting with George.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson, but no. You have done a splendid job; please thank Lady Montfort for me. Now, I see it is almost seven o’clock. Macleod will take you straight back to Montfort House. Adelaide, when you have had a chance to wash your face, please come downstairs to the drawing room immediately.”
Miss Gaskell nodded and cast a weary look at Mrs. Jackson. Her face was composed but her eyes as they sought Mrs. Jackson’s were quite miserable as she nodded her acceptance to her elderly employer. You see? her resigned glance clearly said. She is trying to pretend none of this ever happened.
Chapter Twenty-five
“So are you telling me you were chucked out of the house, Jackson?” Clementine asked her housekeeper, who had walked through her bedroom door, looking triumphant.
“Yes, m’lady, it comes down to that I suppose.”
“Well come on in and tell me all about it. Something momentous has happened, I can tell!” Clementine had been feeling that she was wasting her time in London, that Mrs. Jackson in acting as her agent at Chester Square didn’t need her help, and as a result she was feeling frustrated and bored. Now here was her housekeeper with useful information that would hopefully help them push their inquiry toward a successful conclusion. She put aside the book she was reading and sat forward in her chair by the fire, her face expectant, eyes bright, her demeanor that of a young girl on her birthday when someone has put a particularly hoped-for gift before her.
Mrs. Jackson hesitated for a moment and Clementine asked, “Do you know who murdered Sir Reginald?” And Mrs. Jackson started to nod, and then she shook her head. “I am still trying to work it all out, m’lady,” she said.
“I suggest you just blurt it out, Jackson. Then we can see if between us we can’t piece it all together.”
And then she made herself sit quietly as Mrs. Jackson related what she had found out at Kingsley House, and her interesting conversation with Miss Gaskell. And as she told her tale Clementine’s jaw simply dropped and she leaned forward in her chair and for all the world looked as if she might leap right out of it.
“Good heavens above, Jackson. It simply can’t be possible. How absolutely unbelievable, how absolutely preposterous … and Matron was in on it too? Matron blackmailed him? Oh, my good heavens.” Clementine was sitting bolt upright, her wide eyes glued to Mrs. Jackson’s face.
“He was a cheat!” she cried in triumph. Appalling as Sir Reginald’s criminal activities were, here was information that explained the reason why he had been murdered. “The wretched man cheated his greatest friend, and betrayed the trust of everyone who supported Miss Kingsley’s charity. It just amazes me when I think of all his complacent, holier-than-thou prating, and his good works and determination to elevate the lives of the cast-down. He was nothing but a thief…”
“He made those boys perform to such high standards, m’lady, so that he could parade them in front of rich donors and increase the size of their monetary gifts! Money he then went and stole.” Mrs. Jackson joined her ladyship in outraged disgust.
“And it was little Miss Gaskell who found out about it and went to Miss Kingsley, who told her … who told her she was making trouble? Oh dear, oh dear, Jackson, poor Miss Kingsley’s world is falling apart around her ears: a nephew who is a dead loss, a partner who steals from her charity and is then murdered in her house. Does she think that Adelaide did it? Of course she does!”
Mrs. Jackson had handed her the torn sheet from Matron’s ledger and she read through the numbers. “Did Adelaide say how much he was stealing?”
“Yes, she said it was thousands and thousands—for the past ten years or more. And at that moment, m’lady, Miss Kingsley came into the room and told me that I was no longer needed.”
“Then she knew that you had found out.”
“Yes, m’lady, she knows, and that’s why she wants me out of the house. She is ignoring what Miss Gaskell told her about Sir Reginald, because she simply doesn’t want to believe it to be true and of course she doesn’t want his fiddling the books to come out. The shame would be too much for her.”
“And she is doing exactly the same thing with his murder. If she doesn’t talk about it or acknowledge it in any way, then it didn’t happen. Miraculously, the police will arrest a culprit, hopefully someone she doesn’t know, and all the awfulness and the possibility of scandal will simply evaporate, poor old thing.” Clementine felt nothing but sympathy for the elderly lady whose life’s work had been reduced to a travesty by a man she trusted. “So, Jackson, do you think Adelaide murdered Sir Reginald?” She watched her housekeeper’s face cloud over, a small frown appeared and her mouth came down at the corners.
“If she did, it was on the spur of the moment, a real crime of passion, as they call it. Passionate hatred for what he had done not only to the charity, but to the boys in his care, and of course for leading her to believe that he might marry her. She was sick, and burdened with what she had found out, doubly so because she wasn’t believed. So she came down the stairs to the hall on her errand for white spirit. The butler was belowstairs dealing with the Clumsy Footman—and she went into the dining room and confronted Sir Reginald with what she knew, and killed him. She opened up the catches on the window, hoping to divert suspicion to outside the house. Then she left the dining room…”
Clementine willingly took up the tale. “Where she met up with Mr. Greenberg, who offered to help her find what she was looking for. But I wonder why Mr. Greenberg went to so much trouble to conceal this from the police. I would have thought…” She fell silent for a moment, off on a track of her own.
Mrs. Jackson obligingly finished for her: “Then Mr. Greenberg went upstairs, and a little later she returned to the salon with her bottle of pure spirit. Errand accomplished.” Mrs. Jackson sighed, “But somehow it doesn’t feel right. Miss Gaskell is too mild, she wasn’t angry, she was broken, and not just by what Sir Reginald had done, but because Miss Kingsley didn’t appear to believe her.”
“Miss Kingsley perhaps thought the same thing as we just did, Jackson. I think she jumped to that conclusion the moment we found the man dead in the dining room. She bustled Adelaide away to her room and told her stay there and keep quiet. Miss Kingsley is one of those people who are extraordinarily loyal. I think it’s the greatest quality she offers as an employer and as a friend. For her it’s for life, once you gain her trust. If she wasn’t such a frail old lady I would almost say she was capable of having killed Sir Reginald herself; after all, it was her trust he betrayed so thoroughly and for goodness knows how many years.” Clementine got up from her chair, walked over to the window, and stared out into the street. “I think it’s an awful shame that you have been ordered home, Jackson, as there is still a lot you could achieve at Chester Square. I feel we are almos
t there.”
“Perhaps you might make some discoveries at the house, m’lady. You said that Miss Kingsley confided to you about Mr. Tricklebank; perhaps she is in need of someone to talk to now.”
Clementine nodded. “Yes, but I don’t think it is information we want from Miss Kingsley. It’s information we want about her household. And you are in a far better position to find out about this business with the Chester Square footman than I am.”
“Yes, the death of the first footman, Leonard Crutchley, and the disappearance of the Clumsy Footman, Eddy Porter: we still have not accounted for these elements.”
“What did Jenkins say about this Eddy Porter again?”
“Oh, that he was a superior sort of person, but not well trained as a footman.”
“Of course he must be an accomplice in this affair, but an accomplice to whom? If only we could find out more about the wretched man.” Clementine stood quite still and absentmindedly watched the lamplighter at work along the street. In the silence that followed, she guessed they were thinking the same thing.
“There is nothing for it, Jackson, we must tiptoe carefully the rest of the way. I’m going to have to get you back into that house. We must find out more about Eddy Porter. And I have to have a little talk with that nice Inspector Hillary, however bad it makes me look. Because if someone walked into the dining room and confronted Sir Reginald, and then stabbed him, wouldn’t their clothes be covered in his blood? Or are we back to looking at someone outside the house again?”
* * *
Clementine intended to talk to Miss Kingsley first, then to Hillary, but she was preempted by the arrival of the detective inspector the following morning as she was pondering how she would get Hermione to welcome Mrs. Jackson back to Chester Square.
Hillary appeared at ten o’clock, full of apologies for disturbing her morning but quite happy, it seemed, to do so. Clementine had decided that the best way of tackling this equable young man was to come straight to the point. But first she offered him a cup of Turkish coffee, because she knew he enjoyed such things, and then she sat quietly in her chair, watching him sip appreciatively, and waited for him to begin.
“How long have you known Miss Kingsley, Lady Montfort?”
“Since I returned, with my mother, to England from India for my first Season, many years ago now. Miss Kingsley was a friend of my mother; she gave a ball in my honor at Chester Square.”
“Yes, I thought you were old friends, and I think I rather need your help. You see, it is almost impossible for me to talk to Miss Kingsley. Every time I tell the butler I must speak with her on police business, he tells me she is indisposed…” He finished his coffee and put down the cup.
“A terrible shock to have your closest friend murdered in your dining room, Inspector, as I am sure you can imagine. Miss Kingsley is an elderly and frail woman.” This was not the way she wanted the conversation to go. She wanted him to talk about the murder itself. But she sat still and composed her face to listen sympathetically.
“Yes of course, and I completely understand, but you see, if this goes on much longer I’m going to have to insist, and that would be unpleasant.” Unpleasant, thought Clementine, unpleasant? Why on earth is Scotland Yard extending such niceties to its murder suspects? And the answer came back: since the ex–home secretary and First Lord of the Admiralty had decided that they must tread gently and not allow a scandal to break. That this murder investigation must be conducted with the least fuss lest the newspapers get a whiff of what was, after all, a sensational piece of news involving some of the country’s top families and, most important, the First Lord of the Admiralty. She thought of her husband’s dismay that the Talbot name would be once more shouted from the headlines and linked with murder.
“I am happy to talk to Miss Kingsley, Inspector, and explain your position to her. I am sure she will come round. In fact I can guarantee it.” So Hillary perceived she had influence with Hermione; what perfect timing and how very convenient. She poured another cup of coffee for him.
His relief was palpable as he happily sipped his coffee and offered up his heartfelt thanks. And it was now that Clementine decided to press home her advantage and call in the favor.
“I understand that Leonard Crutchley was found—that he was killed and then his body was thrown in the Thames.” She said this without explaining how she knew who Leonard Crutchley was or how she had found out about his death. She left that for Hillary to work out. If he was surprised that she knew who the dead footman was, he did not show it, but she noted with some satisfaction that he looked at her with new respect and became a little more alert.
“Yes. it was Leonard Crutchley, Miss Kingsley’s—”
“Footman,” she finished, because she really wanted to move this forward a little faster. “Leonard Crutchley was killed to make way for Eddy Porter to be hired in Miss Kingsley’s house, so with the disappearance of Eddy Porter we are looking at the possibility of some sort of subterfuge, am I right, Inspector?”
“It might very well look that way, Lady Montfort, but I couldn’t possibly comment, as I am sure you will understand.”
She beamed at this nice young man with his pleasant manners, and continued.
“But it certainly looks as though there are some outside elements that need to be accounted for, Inspector,” she said, to establish an understanding between them.
“I am sure there are, Lady Montfort.” He was quick to take her meaning.
“So Eddy Porter, who is not a footman at all, arrived at Miss Kingsley’s house with a specific task. Perhaps he was there to provide a distraction on the evening of the murder and to facilitate an entry to the house through the dining-room window, or to help make it look as if someone outside the house gained access to murder Sir Reginald. And I think there were quite a few distractions that evening, from what I can remember.”
“So it would seem.” The young man smiled at her.
“And it would seem to me that this was not a murder of opportunity but a murder that had been carefully planned in advance.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, m’lady, but once again I couldn’t possibly comment.” She noticed that Detective Inspector Hillary was no longer sitting back in his chair sipping Turkish coffee but had put his cup to one side and was looking at her with his full attention. Clementine obliged by swapping horses in midstream, a tactic she knew Hillary would recognize in the refined business of discreet interrogation.
“Of course you have my fullest cooperation, Inspector, and I will be happy to talk to Miss Kingsley. I have no doubt that when you call on her, she will be quite ready to talk to you. But of course you do remember, don’t you, that tomorrow night is the occasion of her charity event? Yes, I thought you had not forgotten. It would be far more advantageous for you to make your next visit to Chester Square the morning after her event. As a lady of advanced years Miss Kingsley has one goal in mind and that is to make this event a particularly lucrative one for her charity, and it is in such a good cause.”
She noticed a flicker of uneasiness in the policeman’s face and he hesitated for a moment.
“Yes, I completely understand, Lady Montfort, and if in the meantime I can be of any help whatsoever or you find you might need me for anything, please contact me or my sergeant.” Aha, thought Clementine, now it is my turn.
“There are two things I would like to ask you, Detective Inspector, if I may?” She saw a flash of apprehension. “You see, when I saw Sir Reginald in the dining room, with that knife handle sticking out of his chest, there was blood on his suit and in his lap as he was slumped forward, but there was no blood across the cloth. That was spilled port wine, which I mistook for blood. So if anyone in the house had stabbed him they should have been covered in blood, and surely there would have been more blood … well, you know … everywhere, and there wasn’t; why?”
He had listened to her without expression on his face, but surely he must have been quite appalled at the vulgarity
of her question. She refused to think about that part.
“You are most observant, Lady Montfort. Ordinarily if someone is stabbed in a vital organ, especially the heart, then there is considerable and immediate blood loss, and as you say the perpetrator would be covered in … blood. But in this case the knife was stuck into the heart and left there. If it had been pulled out it would have been quite…”
“Messy?”
“Yes. In this case, however, the knife blade acted like a plug, and the victim died not from severe blood loss but of a heart attack.”
Well for heaven’s sake, thought Clementine, how extraordinarily simple.
“And no doubt Sir Reginald’s murderer stabbed him from behind. So his body also shielded the murderer from getting any blood on his clothing.” She thanked God that her husband would never know she had made this observation.
She was rewarded with a brief nod as he assured her that this was no doubt correct.
“It would have to be someone immensely strong then?”
“Not necessarily, but it would have to be someone who knew where to strike and at which angle to hold the knife.”
“And nowadays you can look for fingerprints to help identify whoever it was who used that knife on Sir Reginald. Did the knife handle have any fingerprints on it?”
He continued to regard her without expression as he politely answered, “No, Lady Montfort, it did not. Whoever stabbed Sir Reginald was wearing gloves. Gloves that would have blood on them, and which could be discarded. We did not,” she noticed that he had relaxed, “find any bloodstained gloves in the house or garden.”
“Thank you, Inspector. I have wondered about this of course ever since I found that poor man.” She tried to retrieve a little of her lost dignity but she saw from his face that he was not fooled for one moment, because his face was grave as he said, “Whoever killed Sir Reginald is a dangerous person, Lady Montfort—they certainly possess cunning and audacity; I hope that you will not put yourself in any danger.”