—
I turned into the yard at the Hall at three o’clock, and the late hour seemed to magnify the sound of my tires crunching on the gravel. I tiptoed round to the back corner, breathing in a scent of wood smoke and breathing out a cloud of fog in the chill air, past the dark café, past the kitchen, and round to the back corner.
A heavy stone urn sat at the service door. Thorne had told me about the key underneath—it had been there forever and rarely used, he said. Carefully, I tipped the urn toward the wall, my arm just long enough for my hand to grope below until I located the key. It slipped in the lock and turned with little trouble. I replaced the key and crept in, making sure to lock up behind me. Down the stone stairs, past the laundry, up the inside stairs and I came out just near the kitchen, no one the wiser to my late-night/early-morning arrival.
The light over the sink gave me a warm welcome, and cocoa, saucepan, and a mug waited for me on the counter. I set down my bag, shed my coat, and had just opened the fridge for milk when Thorne walked in, silk dressing gown tied firmly around his thin frame and covering his paisley pajamas. He blinked at me, eyes shifting from my bag to the carton of milk in my hand.
“Oh no,” I whispered, “I woke you.”
“No, Ms. Lanchester,” he said, drawing his glasses from a pocket and putting them on. “You didn’t wake me. My sleep comes in short increments these days—I’ve been reading in bed.” He frowned. “Have you only just arrived?”
“Yes, walked in this minute,” I said. With Thorne’s acute hearing, who needed an alarm system? “You weren’t waiting, were you?”
“No, it’s only I thought…” He stared past me. “I must’ve dozed off and had a dream.”
“Well, I’m sorry to be so late and to bring you up from your rooms. You don’t think I woke Mrs. Bugg, do you?” Thorne’s quarters were belowstairs at the opposite corner of the Hall, but Mrs. Bugg’s were only down the corridor.
“In my many years of knowing Mrs. Bugg, I have found that she is nothing if not a sound sleeper.”
I cut my eyes at Thorne. His face gave nothing away, but, fresh from Michael’s bed, I could see the romance in any situation. Thorne and Mrs. Bugg had worked together at the Hall for donkey’s years—who’s to say it had never gone further than that? I wondered if I might be so bold as to pry. “I thought I’d make some cocoa,” I said. “Would you care to join me?”
We sat at the table over our mugs, but Thorne must’ve sensed an impending inquisition and steered the conversation toward his penchant for police thrillers set in Italy, giving me no opportunity to ask about intimate relationships, past or present. I might try to get it out of Mrs. Bugg instead. At last, a yawn overtook me.
“Right, well, we both best be off to bed,” I said, taking our mugs and washing up. “Good night.”
Thorne retreated down the hall to his room, and I walked to the entry, the lit sconces on either side of the door creating a pool of light and setting the crystal chandelier twinkling. I hesitated at the bottom of the staircase as a pricking like tiny needles crept up my arms. I listened, but heard nothing beyond the normal creaking noises of an old building. I’d been up and down these stairs in the near-dark many times, but tonight, the vast emptiness pressed in on me. I looked over my shoulder and back toward the kitchen, and saw the light in the far corridor go out, a signal that Thorne had made it to his own quarters. On either side of the staircase where I stood, darkness swallowed the corridors that led to the library, morning room, grand dining room. Only a reflection of light from some brass ornament in the distance pierced the blackness.
I rubbed my arms to make the pricking sensation go away. Hoggin Hall had never given me the creeps before, and so what made me tremble now? I walked up the stairs, holding tight to the handrail. At the landing, I shook some sense back into myself. Don’t be silly. It’s only a huge, old house with lots of dark corners. I wondered if there were any Fotheringill spirits Linus has neglected to tell me about—visitors might like to hear a few ghost stories from the docents on open days. I laughed as I turned and took the steps to the north wing at a clip.
At the top of the stairs, I caught the scent of smoke.
Chapter 12
I whipped my head left and right, sniffing and trying to locate the source—a fusty smoke, not the clean woodsy smell of a fireplace. The lamp at the end of the corridor near my room appeared hazy—I ran toward it but soon broke out of the smoke. I stopped and looked back. There now, against the light at the top of the stairs, I could see the smoke seeping out from under the first door, blooming as it reached fresher air. It was Freddy Peacock’s room.
“Freddy!” I called, banging on the door. “Freddy!” I tried the knob—locked—and banged again, but there was no reply. I ran down to the middle landing and screamed “Fire! Fire! Help!” over and over. From the south wing, I heard doors banging. I ran back, seized the fire extinguisher from the wall, and began beating the door with it—aiming the canister at the knob in hopes that an old lock could be broken easily. The smoke continued to slither and coil from under the door like a snake—it caught in my throat and choked me. At last, it reached the smoke alarm high on the wall—the piercing wail beating on my eardrums. I was getting nowhere with the door—I drew the extinguisher high over my head to try again and cried out when someone grabbed it from my hands.
“Cecil!”
“Move away, Julia,” he said. I stood against the far wall as he kicked at the door twice before the lock broke and the door swung open.
Linus came running up. “Julia,” he said, taking me by the shoulders, but I tore away and followed Cecil as he sprayed foam from the fire extinguisher.
I could barely see for the smoke, clouds of it like a thick London fog. Ahead of me, Cecil coughed. My eyes burned and watered. I covered my mouth with one arm, but it didn’t help—each breath choked me. I waved one arm in a vain attempt to clear the air. It seemed to be heavy, moving languidly—not the smoke of a hot fire. Where were the flames? Then I saw Cecil point the fire extinguisher to the smoldering center—the rug in front of the fireplace—and I saw Freddy Peacock lying facedown next to it.
The scene was one of disarray. The fire screen leaned against a chair as if it had been knocked away, half a sandwich and a broken plate nearby, and Freddy seemed to have fallen on a stack of papers.
“Freddy!” I screamed, and threw myself on him, but there was no response. I pushed at him and turned him over. He was still dressed, and although his jacket sleeve had been singed, I saw no other effects of the fire. I slapped him—his face appeared puffy, his lips with residue at the corners, as if he’d been sick. High on his cheek was a contusion—a long red mark with beads of blood marking his cheekbone. Linus had run past me to the window and forced it open—I felt a blast of cold air along with rain. He yanked a blanket off the bed, finished the smoking fire at last by suffocating it.
I began to drag Freddy away, but he was too heavy for me. Cecil took Freddy’s shoulders and Linus his feet, and they half dragged, half carried him out into the corridor, where Thorne stood breathless, hand against the wall.
“Fire brigade on its way,” he said.
I looked down at Freddy’s still form. Think, Julia—Vesta, a retired home health care nurse, had insisted I take a Red Cross class. I shook him and tilted his head back, looking and listening.
“I don’t think he’s breathing,” I said.
“Julia, come away,” Cecil said, hand on my shoulder.
“No,” I said, pulling away. “He’s got to breathe.” I put my hands together, palms down, placed them on Freddy’s chest, and pushed. Again and again, I pushed. I shut my mind to my surroundings, developed a rhythm, and kept it up until I thought my arms would fall off. Breathe, Freddy, breathe. The smoke had dissipated, but I could still taste it. My nose dripped and still I pushed, for I didn’t know how long. My peripheral vision caught movement—Cecil and Linus leaving—and when they returned, I looked up to see the fire brigade behind
them. One medic rushed forward and dropped to the floor at Freddy’s side—only then did I throw myself off and collapse against the wall.
Linus came over to me. Tears ran down my face, and I didn’t realize how much I shook until he put his arm around my shoulders and I could feel his stillness. “You must come away from here now, Julia,” he said to me quietly. “There’s nothing else you can do for him. We’ll take care of things.”
“I couldn’t make him breathe,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “I tried, but I couldn’t…” We pulled back as the professionals did their work. But after a few minutes, the paramedics stopped. I looked away as one of them took out and unfolded what looked like a large black plastic zipper bag and laid it next to Freddy.
I glanced round and realized what a motley crew we were. Cecil, arms crossed and watching the medics, wore a sweat suit and was barefoot. Linus had on a blue-and-white-striped pajama set. Mrs. Bugg had joined us—the pink lace edge of her nightgown hung below her flannel robe, and her thick brown hair fell in waves to her shoulders. She should wear her hair down more often, I thought, my mind seeking something normal to dwell on. Thorne still wore his silk dressing gown.
Commotion had ceased inside the bedroom, too. One of the firefighters came over to Linus, and they both stepped away. I couldn’t hear their exchange. Next Linus turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Bugg,” he said, “perhaps you could put the kettle on, and we’ll follow you to the kitchen. I’d say we could all do with a cup of tea.”
Like weary soldiers we trooped down the corridor past Freddy’s room. One of the fire brigade stood in the doorway while the three others along with the ambulance workers lingered nearby. A few minutes ago I had hoped to see a sign of life in Freddy’s face. I glanced down as we passed and saw nothing—only his eyes open to slits as if he could still watch the proceedings. I looked away.
—
Only a single bulb hanging over the sink lit the kitchen. Mrs. Bugg, Thorne, and I walked in—no one came behind me. The butler switched on the set of overhead lights, and we flinched at their brightness. He switched them off, instead putting on a lamp at the end of the counter. We each washed our hands—some ritual cleansing, I suppose—and began our tasks, relishing the familiar, orderly tasks. I opened a large tin of Nuala’s shortbread, my hands shaking as I placed each one on a plate while Mrs. Bugg attended to the tea. The teacups rattled as Thorne set them out—I cut my eyes at him and saw him pause, hands on the table. I moved to help, but he straightened himself and continued until he’d covered the table with waiting receptacles. Too many for the household, but the butler knew what he was doing, for in a moment we heard footsteps and in filed Cecil, followed by three of the fire brigade.
It was good to have something to do—it was orderly, it was sensible, it was life. I set out a pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl. Once we had our cups, I asked the firefighters questions about what happened, but none of them would answer. Instead, they complimented us on the shortbread and replied with questions about the village.
After I’d told them about the Christmas Market, we ran out of polite chitchat. Cecil, who had not joined in the conversation, put his cup down and said, “I’ll just go and see about Father,” but he met Linus, dressed now in day clothes, at the door.
“Gentlemen, your chief awaits you,” he said. They each thanked us and walked out. Linus paused a moment, the lines on his face like deep shadows in the lamplight. “The rest of us will need to stay up awhile longer—I hope you don’t mind. You’ve time, Cecil, to dress—you two as well.” He nodded to Mrs. Bugg and Thorne. “Julia and I will make more tea.”
We obeyed as automatons, the others filing out. As I put the kettle on, Linus sank into a chair. All the moisture had been sucked from my body. When I blinked, my lids stuck together, and I still tasted smoke in the back of my throat. I stood at the sink and drank a glass of water straight down. Linus stayed silent, and I searched for something to say while I waited for the kettle to boil.
When I turned, Linus had his head in his hands.
“Is it the fire brigade—do they have questions for us?” I asked.
“Not the fire brigade.” Linus glanced up at me through bloodshot eyes. “The police are here—Freddy’s death was no accident; it was murder.”
Chapter 13
Police?
The kitchen door opened, held by Thorne, who now wore his usual dark suit as if we always started our day at four-thirty in the morning. A woman and a man walked in—both dressed in navy trousers and jackets, the collar points of blouse and shirt slightly askew—the only indication they may have been dragged from their respective beds for this call.
The woman switched on the overhead light—we blinked and squinted like moles coming aboveground. She reached up and, with one small tug, straightened her collar. She was tall with short gray hair, parted on the right, the sides swept back in a severe way. Premature gray, surely—her skin was smooth and clear, and she couldn’t be more than fifty. Even through her jacket I could see muscles. Didn’t look as if there was an extra ounce of fat on her anywhere. No eye makeup to speak of—at least not at this time of day—but she wore the barest touch of pink lipstick on her thin lips.
Holding out her warrant card and badge, she said, “Detective Inspector Callow. This is Detective Sergeant Glossop,” she added, nodding to her companion.
DS Glossop looked about my age. His ginger hair had enough wave so that one curl fell onto his forehead, and his green eyes twinkled. He had one of those overall pleasant faces that looked as if he might break out in a smile at any moment. He nodded to us, followed by a scowl, as if to say he knew his pleasant face was a handicap and that really, he was just as serious as his boss.
Linus made the introductions, and then said, “The police would like to talk with us.”
No one moved, no one spoke, no one made eye contact. I couldn’t stand it.
“Why? What do you think happened?”
Callow’s cool eyes landed on me. “What do you think happened, Ms. Lanchester?”
“I…” My voice caught and I coughed. “An ember fell out on the rug. Freddy was overcome. Don’t you think?” But even as I said the words, I knew they didn’t sound right. If an ember had spilled out, why didn’t Freddy sweep it back in? He would’ve had plenty of time—it wasn’t a conflagration, just some smoke.
“Ms. Lanchester, do you live here at the Hall?” Callow asked.
“No,” I said in a hurry. “Yes, well—temporarily. I live in the village, but my cottage is undergoing some renovations. His Lordship was kind enough to allow me to move in until the work is finished.”
Mrs. Bugg came in next, wearing her pseudo-uniform of black dress and black flats, her hair restored to its untidy twist of a knot atop her head, but with eyes red. She held up in the doorway when she saw Callow and Glossop, but only for a moment. “Would everyone like a cup of tea?” she asked.
Glossop’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked at his DI. She nodded once.
We sat—I for one happy to do so, as my legs had started to wobble. Thorne held a chair out for Mrs. Bugg, who poured the tea and passed cups round. Cecil stared at the table, leaving his tea untouched. I set out more shortbread. DS Glossop nabbed the first and bit off half while he got out a small notebook and pencil.
“We’d like to ask you all a few questions about your movements since yesterday afternoon,” DI Callow said.
“Do police always come when someone dies in a fire?” I asked. Linus made to reach a hand out to me, but he sat across the table, too wide a distance to span.
The inspector’s answer was cool and measured. “Shall we begin with your movements, Ms. Lanchester?”
I took a calming breath. “I’ve been away since Sunday, and only returned a couple of hours ago.”
“Where were you?”
“I was visiting a friend in Haverhill,” I said, remembering that Michael had whispered “Stay” in my ear, and wishing with all my heart that I had. “Do you nee
d his name and contact information?” I had nothing to hide.
“We’ll let you know. Tell us what happened this evening.”
You tell me—that’s what I wanted to say, but instead I went step by step through every detail I could remember from pulling into the drive to making cocoa. Sergeant Glossop scribbled in his notebook.
Once I finished my meager tale, Inspector Callow went round the table. There had been no formal dinner at the Hall. Linus and Cecil had meant to be away at the Earl of Tarvin’s for the day and night, but the earl had come down with something and had canceled. Linus had eaten his evening meal from a tray in his own room, on the other side of the Hall from the north wing. He’d heard nothing.
Cecil had gone out with a friend, but he didn’t offer details. Thorne and Mrs. Bugg had eaten a quiet dinner in the kitchen.
“Is there anyone else here at the Hall we should speak with?”
We looked round the table as if trying to count our number.
“What about Addleton?” Cecil asked.
“Geoffrey Addleton,” Linus said, “our estate agent—he’s just moved into the old gamekeeper’s lodge in the wood beyond the field.”
“I offered dinner to Mr. Addleton, but he told me he was fine on his own,” Mrs. Bugg said.
Freddy also had been away. He’d made a big show about meeting someone, and Thorne thought he might have spent a good part of the evening in a pub.
“Did any of you see him return?” Callow asked.
An awkward silence fell over the table, and I, along with the inspector and sergeant, waited for a reply. At last, Cecil sat up ramrod straight in his chair. “Father and I were in the library when Freddy arrived, about midnight—wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” Linus replied, and smiled at the police. “I’m afraid Thorne is right about Freddy and the pub—he seemed a bit worse for the drink, and quite argumentative.”
Callow let her dispassionate eyes rest on each person round the table before she asked, “With whom did he argue? What about?”
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