Death at Thorburn Hall

by Julianna Deering

  Drew looked over to see MacArthur talking to a young blonde probably no more than half his age. She had her arm through his and was leaning close, a coy little smile on her red lips as he lit her cigarette.

  “Hmmm,” he said, “perhaps she’s the reason things grew less than blissful between him and Mrs. MacArthur. No, don’t look at them.”

  “Trick is to look just beyond and to one side and pretend you’re telling someone about what you’re seeing,” Nick said, evidently finding this a good excuse to pull Carrie just a bit closer to his side. “Then the observed party doesn’t realize he’s observed.”

  “We saw that girl before,” Madeline said, not looking toward her. “When we were in the clubhouse. One of the men, I thought he was probably a caddie, came over and said something to her. She answered him, and he said something else, something right in her ear, and then took her hand. She answered that, and they both went in opposite directions. It is the same one, isn’t it, Carrie?”

  “She didn’t look very happy about whatever he said,” Carrie added. “Mad enough to have her fist clenched. I don’t know why. He’s a very nice-looking man.”

  “She’s a very nice-looking girl,” Drew said, pretending to watch one of the golfers as he knocked a bit of dirt and grass out of his cleats.

  “There’s always one sure way of finding out if someone’s covering up,” Nick said. “We suddenly notice he’s over there and say we’ve been looking for him and ask him to introduce us to his friend. If he’s hiding something, it’ll probably be noticeable.”

  “I’m not sure that would get us what we want quite yet,” Drew said. He put his arm around Madeline’s waist, guiding her a bit more deeply into the crowd. “For now, I’d rather he not suspect we’ve seen them together. Might be nothing after all, but if it is, I don’t want him to get the wind up.”

  “I can see why the three of you enjoy this so much,” Carrie said, a gleam of intrigue in her eyes. “This part is actually fun. What do you suppose he’s up to?”

  Nick squeezed her hand. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “If it’s just that, you’d think she’d be more interested in the handsome young caddie than the old duffer, wouldn’t you?”

  “Depends on if she’s after looks or money,” Drew said, and seeing the crowd was walking on to follow the last foursome to the next tee, he waited for MacArthur and his companion to move on as well and then led everyone after him.

  Three

  Your post, sir.”

  The butler came into the library that afternoon once everyone had come back from the tournament and handed Drew a large envelope with Farthering Place as the return address.

  “If you would care to respond, the necessary supplies are in the desk here as well as up in your room. If you wish, you may leave your letters on the silver tray on the side table in the foyer to be posted.”

  “Thank you, Twining.”

  Drew waited until the butler closed the library door silently behind him, leaving him and Madeline alone. He used his pocketknife to slit one end of the envelope. Eight smaller envelopes fell into his lap. Madeline came from where she had been exploring the titles on the bookshelves and stood by his overstuffed chair as he sorted through them, still unopened.

  “Party invitation. Party invitation. Engagement announcement. Wedding invitation. Invitation to serve as groomsman—”

  “Wait.” She put a hand on his arm, stopping him before he could go on. “How do you know what those last three are?”

  “My dear girl,” he said, holding up the first of them. “That is the Marwood crest. You saw Miss Marwood and Wills Featherstone at the Benningtons’ last month. What else could it be? And if I’m right about that, then the wedding invitation will follow, though I’d say the Dowager Duchess has been uncommon quick about it. And who do we know in Kent apart from the Featherstones? And what would Wills be writing me about just now if it weren’t to have me take part in this very special event?”

  “Smarty,” she said. “What’s that one?”

  Drew squinted at the lazily scrawled characters in the address and then slit open the envelope. “What’s he writing me for?”

  “Who?” She tried to peek over his shoulder as he unfolded the letter, but he turned to block her view.

  “Mind your business, madam,” he said as he scanned the contents. “It’s very impolite to . . . good heavens. I’m to be a groomsman again.”

  “What?”

  She tried again to see, and he passed the letter to her. A moment later she started to giggle.

  “Bunny’s engaged to Daphne Pomphrey-Hughes? Not really.”

  “It would seem so. Heaven help us.”

  “I suppose Daphne has finally given up on catching you.”

  “You’re a wicked girl, and I shan’t dignify that remark with a reply.”

  “How many does that make now for Bunny?” she asked, still giggling.

  “This year or since I’ve known him?”

  “Just the past three months.”

  “Only one,” he admitted. “He’s slacked off considerably.”

  She shook her head. “At least Mrs. Pomphrey-Hughes will finally have her daughter married. I suppose it will be the grandest wedding of the year.”

  “If they both remember to turn up at the church.”

  Laughing, she handed the letter back to him. “I guess the rest are bills.”

  “Not if Denny’s done his job properly. Those can wait till our estate manager is back in residence.”

  “I’m sure Nick will be delighted to return to Farthering Place and deal with the bills while Carrie and I go shopping.”

  Drew chuckled and then frowned abruptly. There was one more party invitation in the group, but the last of the envelopes was from the firm of Whyland, Clifton and Benn, his solicitors in London. Madeline recognized it, too.

  “Were you expecting something from them?” she asked.

  “Not in particular.” He slid the blade of his pocketknife under the flap. “They’re supposed to be looking over a contract for mineral rights in some of our Canadian properties, but I’d have thought they’d contact Landis at the office if there were any difficulties about that.” He took out the heavy sheet of writing paper and unfolded it. “I don’t think there’s any—”

  He knew what it was the moment he began to read. He had received one like it in June of both 1933 and 1934. Once again he had to make a decision.

  Dear Mr. Farthering,

  As you have requested, we are contacting you to ascertain your wishes concerning our efforts to locate a Miss Marie Fabron, last known to be employed in a milliner’s shop on the Rue de la Paix in Paris, France, in 1908.

  It is with regret that we must once again report that, despite their continued efforts, our agents have not made any significant progress in their search. The leads that seemed so promising early on have proved entirely unfruitful, and no new information has come to light that might be of any use. Sadly the passage of so many years since her whereabouts were last known has made our task a challenging one, perhaps an unachievable one.

  Needless to say, the decision about whether or not you wish our efforts to continue rests entirely with you, but at this point in time we can offer little hope that we can bring this search to a successful conclusion.

  At your earliest convenience, please let us know whether we should proceed with the inquiry.

  Yours faithfully,

  Aubrey C. Whyland

  He handed it to Madeline and was silent as she read it. Three years. He had found out three years ago that his father’s wife, the woman he had always believed to be his mother, had claimed him only for his father’s sake. For the sake of their marriage.

  But Drew’s mother, the one who had given birth to him, was this Marie Fabron, French shopgirl, the partner in his father’s brief foray into dalliance. Somehow his father and his wife had managed to mend their marriage and brought home his child to
raise as their own. And Drew had, in the past three years, come to appreciate that even in their stumbling, they had done their best in a difficult situation. He had been given a life not only of privilege, but of love.

  Still, what had happened to the woman who had given him up? It had gnawed at him in the days when he had first found out about her. He had wanted to know, was desperate to know, so desperate that he had risked losing Madeline over it.

  Thank God, Madeline had stood by him, and he had learned in time to push the question of his natural mother to the back of his mind. For days and weeks at a time, he never thought of her, but then June would come round again, bringing with it another letter from Mr. Whyland. Another letter, another decision. Did he want them to continue searching?

  Nick had always known Drew’s secrets, and this one was no exception. As estate manager for Farthering Place, Nick knew just how much it cost to have one obscure little hatmaker out of all the obscure little hatmakers in Paris tracked down, but Drew had always been reluctant to ask. Was it worth it? And what was the grand total after three years? These investigators couldn’t make bricks without straw, and all the information Drew could give them went only up to the time of his birth twenty-seven years ago. The costs must be mounting up. Surely there were better things that might be done with so much money.

  Still, he knew so very little about her. Her name was Marie Fabron, and she had been about twenty years old when she and his father first met. She had made hats in a Paris shop. She may have had family in Marseilles. Her eyes were blue. There was no more than that. Even after three years of searching by those who claimed to be the very best at the business of finding obscure information, there was still no more than that.

  No, there was one thing more, one thing that made him want to find her more than ever. She had given him up. He had to know why. Was it to give him the privileged life his father could offer him and she could not? Or was it because his father had paid her to give him up? Paid her to keep quiet? Or was it because she wanted to be rid of him? To put even the memory of his existence so far away that it could not taint her future prospects?

  His father was dead, had been dead a dozen years before Drew knew about Marie Fabron. If only he could have asked—no, that wouldn’t have done. Not at all. His father had put his indiscretion behind him. By all accounts, he had asked forgiveness of God and of his wife and not strayed again. How could Drew have ever asked the man he had thought could do no wrong about his one-time mistress?

  His mother, the woman he had always thought of as mother, he hadn’t known all she had done to protect him, to shield him from those who would shame him because of his heritage, to preserve the boyish devotion he had had to his father. He hadn’t known even a part of it until it was too late and she, too, was gone. He couldn’t ask her to forgive him for not understanding either of them. He couldn’t ask her what she knew about Marie Fabron. Was all of this a dead end? He had to make a decision.

  “What will you do?” Madeline handed the letter back to him, her expression tender. “I thought you’d forgotten all about this.”

  “No.” He read the letter once more before putting it back into the envelope. “I hadn’t forgotten. I just . . . I didn’t want to trouble you with it, and I didn’t know what I ought to do about it.”

  She sat down on the padded arm of his chair, stroking the hair at the back of his neck. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on nothing but the familiar gentleness of her touch.

  “I suppose it’s a monumental waste,” he said after a while. “Not just the money but the time. The effort. The hope.”

  “It’s not a waste if it’s what you need.”

  He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him, holding her there. And then he let her go, smiling before he made a great fool of himself. Not that she would hold that against him. She hadn’t yet.

  “I’m not saying they aren’t trying, but surely they ought to have found out something after this long. Anything.”

  “Marie is a very common name, especially in France,” she reminded him. “And it’s been such a long time. She might have left Paris right after you were born. She might have left France. Perhaps she married and became Marie Dupont or Marie Dumont or Marie Dubois. Maybe she just moved away and started using an entirely different name. It’s difficult for a woman who has a child and not a husband.”

  “True. And she would have had some money then. I know my father gave her some at the time. She might have gone anywhere.” He lifted his eyes to hers, searching. “What do you think I ought to do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  She stroked the back of his neck again, playing her fingers through his hair. “Then don’t do anything.”

  “I have to give them some sort of answer, don’t I?”

  “Not right this minute. Why not enjoy the tournament and the riding and whatever else we get to do up here? I’m sure your lawyers are very well able to carry on as they are until you decide what to do.”

  He sighed. “Maybe I’m not meant to know. I’ve asked God to show me how to find her. I’ve begged Him to help me find out something. Anything. And there’s just nothing. Maybe I’d find out things I’d rather not have known and ought to quit before it’s too late. Perhaps this is His answer.”

  “That could be. Or maybe He has something else in mind. Some other way for you to find out what you want to know. A better way.” She kissed his forehead. “Or maybe it just isn’t time yet and His answer isn’t no, but ‘not now.’”

  He put his hands on both sides of her sweet face and brought her lips down to his. “Whatever would I do without you?”

  “Maybe you’d have ended up like Count Kuznetsov, a charming con man, living off his wits and silver tongue.”

  “Me? A con man? Madam, I protest.”

  She giggled. “All right, I suppose you’d always be a champion of goodness and decency, no matter what. But reasonably charming all the same.”

  “Reasonably,” he growled. Then he lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Do you think he’s charming?”

  “In his way,” she admitted. “He seems like the type who could talk himself out of anything he got himself into.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against him on that.”

  “Like you,” she added.

  Drew huffed. “I want to like the chap, I really do. If nothing else, he’s never dull. But I don’t trust him. I think I’ll write Mr. Whyland and see what he and his people can find out for me. Perhaps the count is merely taking advantage of Mr. Pike’s generosity and Mrs. Pike’s gullibility, or maybe there’s something deeper going on.” He gave her a wink. “Either way, it might be fun to find out.”

  Drew’s store of information about Count Kuznetsov was increased that evening after dinner. He wasn’t quite sure he’d seen anything at first, but he was certain the count had been given a silver demitasse spoon along with his Turkish coffee. It was not on the table now. Drew kept subtle watch as Kuznetsov attended to Mrs. Pike’s dropped napkin a few minutes later and realized that now she, too, had no spoon. Carrie, seated at the count’s left, was similarly situated, as was Mr. MacArthur on her other side. This Kuznetsov fellow was nimble-fingered if nothing else.

  When the coffee was finished and the others were wandering, talking, into the drawing room, Drew fell a little behind.

  “I say, Kuznetsov?”

  The so-called count started and set down the little silver tray he had picked up from the long side table in the corridor and then turned, looking rather bored. “Yes?”

  “It’s rather nice, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure everything the Rainsbys have is quality. I was merely admiring it.” Kuznetsov sniffed. “It was much grander, of course, but His Imperial Majesty had one much like it.”

  “And the spoons?” Drew asked with a solicitous smile.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The spoons. The demit
asse spoons we had with the coffee after dinner. Did the tsar have something of the sort, as well?”

  Kuznetsov drew himself up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The spoons.” Drew patted the man’s coat pocket and got a satisfying metallic jangle in response. “Did Tsar Nicholas have some? They are extremely attractive, I must admit.”

  The Russian’s eyes widened rather convincingly as he extracted a pair of miniature spoons from his pocket. “How terribly embarrassing. I cannot imagine how they could possibly have ended up there.”

  Drew merely held out his hand, watching as Kuznetsov laid the spoons in it.

  “I’m quite certain there were four,” he prompted when Kuznetsov seemed to be waiting for his response.

  With an hauteur that the tsar himself might have envied, the Russian fished in his pocket once more, brought out two more of the diminutive spoons, and placed them in Drew’s hand.

  Drew inclined his head. “Thank you very much.”

  “What will you do now?”

  Drew shrugged. “I think I’ll play a rubber or two of bridge before retiring for the night.”

  “I mean about the spoons. Surely there is no need to disturb Lady Rainsby over so foolish an error. It might have happened to anyone.”

  “Anyone who meant to walk off with the silver,” Drew said pleasantly. “Yes, I know.”

  Kuznetsov’s dark eyes flashed. “I will have you know, sir, that if we were in my country, I would have no choice but to call you out upon such a monstrous accusation.”

  “Another reason, I am sure, you are grateful not to be in your country.”

  The Russian pursed his lips and then seemed to suddenly wilt. “Ah, the grand and glorious days are gone. Noblemen are no longer allowed to defend their honor with their lives and must bear whatever insult is cast upon them.”

  Drew managed to look sympathetic. “It is a trial, no doubt. But better this sort than one that actually involves the criminal courts, eh?”

  Kuznetsov merely huffed.

  “At any rate,” Drew told him, “I will see these are returned to their proper place. In the meantime, you see that nothing else accidentally finds its way into your pockets. Agreed?”