Death at Thorburn Hall

by Julianna Deering

  Pleased to find they would be left on their own for a while, Drew and Nick and the girls settled up on the Hall’s flat roof where there was an assortment of chaises and comfortable chairs. The view was magnificent, the lush rose garden and the little ivy-covered folly at one side, the wood with the road that wound down into the village on the other, and at the back of the house, the sheer cliff, the rocks, and the wide expanse of the sea.

  Nick looked out toward the water, shading his eyes with one hand. “Last day of the Open and now we get the sun. I was listening to the wireless before lunch, and I heard this Alf Perry cove is making a run for the championship, record-breaking third round and all that. You know, Drew, your Mr. Cotton might not be everything advertised.”

  Drew huffed. “As our dear Chief Inspector Birdsong likes to tell us, it’s early days yet. I don’t know if they’ll have even begun the final round by now, and you saw Cotton on Wednesday. I doubt he has much to worry himself over.”

  “I don’t, uh . . .” Nick glanced guiltily at Carrie and Madeline. “I don’t suppose it would be quite the thing for one or two of us to toddle off to see the last round.”

  They both shot him poisonous glares, and he sank down in his chair.

  “No. No, of course it wouldn’t. I didn’t mean that I wanted to—”

  Drew leaned closer to him, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “You ought to just stop talking now, old man, discretion being the better part of valor and all that.”

  Nick winced and was silent.

  Madeline pointedly turned her back on him and smiled at Carrie. “You are still coming back to Hampshire with us for a nice long visit, aren’t you? I mean, if you’re sure you want to stay in the same country with certain brutes I won’t bother to name.”

  “I guess you’re all stuck with me.” Carrie gave Nick a mischievous glance. “Even the brute.”

  Before Nick could throw himself at her feet and pledge to lead a blameless life ever after, there was the sound of a motor car on the gravel drive. A few minutes later, MacArthur came up onto the roof, hat in hand, his clothing not quite mourning but certainly somber enough for a home bereaved.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. I didn’t want to disturb anyone, but I saw you all up here and thought I’d find out how Lady Louisa and little Joanie are doing.”

  Drew stood to shake the man’s hand. “We haven’t seen them today, I’m afraid. Quite understandable.”

  “Yes, of course,” MacArthur said, shaking Nick’s hand. “Terrible business, all of this, just terrible. I suppose I’ll just leave my card with Twining, and a note to let them know they can call upon me at any time.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Joan stood before the door that led out onto the roof. She was wearing an old jumper of an indeterminate gray color and a dark skirt, something she must have worn when she was still in school, something that made her look as if she were still in school. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and her bobbed dark hair was held back with a piece of grosgrain ribbon as faded as the jumper.

  “Joanie, darling,” MacArthur said, going to her. “How are you? I know what happened to your father must be quite a—”

  “I am not your darling,” she said, her eyes as cold as her voice. “And please don’t call me Joanie. I’ve asked you before.”

  He cleared his throat, twisting up the hat he held. “Terribly sorry. Terribly sorry. Just didn’t think.”

  She took two audible breaths and smiled faintly. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me and I apologize. It’s just that Dad always called me . . .” Her face twisted up as if she might burst into tears, but then it smoothed again into impassivity. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he told her. “Perfectly understandable, and it was rotten of me to be so thoughtless.”

  Madeline got up and went to Joan. “Why don’t you both sit down with us? It’s so nice and sunny right now, and there’s a delicious breeze off the water.”

  She sat the younger girl between her and Carrie, and MacArthur sat on the low wall that ran around the top of the house.

  “How are you feeling, Joan?” Madeline asked when no one else had anything to say. “Have you had anything for lunch?”

  “I don’t want anything.” Joan bit her lip and once more managed a smile. “Really, I’m all right. It’s just odd right now, and it’s worse because nobody knows what to say or do around me and I don’t know what to say or do. I guess I’m supposed to be hysterical or something, but I’m not. He’s dead. It doesn’t seem real yet. Maybe I’ll be hysterical later.” She seized Madeline’s wrist. “Do you think I’ll be hysterical later?”

  Madeline covered Joan’s hand with her own. “I don’t think so, but you might be. If you are, it’s all right. Everyone will understand.”

  “Strange as it sounds,” Drew said gently, “I believe the funeral will help. Makes everything more real, and you have your friends and loved ones close by to let you know you’re not mourning alone.”

  “Yes,” she said. There was a sudden softness in her expression. “That will help, I think.”

  MacArthur cleared his throat. “I won’t disturb your mother just now, but if you would, please tell her I’d be honored to escort her to the church tomorrow.”

  Her gentle expression vanished, and she was once again emotionless. “I don’t know what she’s going to want to do.”

  “Please just tell her. It would be very good of you.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  With that seen to, MacArthur made a hasty retreat, and with the sputter and roar of his motor car, he was gone.

  Drew looked expectantly at Joan, but she looked away from him out over the sea. “He seems to have upset you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  She only shrugged.

  “Funny how some people just rub us the wrong way.” Madeline also looked toward the water. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? But I guess you get tired of seeing it all the time.”

  Joan shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Every morning I get up and go out to the little balcony outside my bedroom and watch the sea. It’s never the same, and yet it never changes.”

  Madeline gave her a gentle smile. “I believe it’s warm enough to go swimming. I never would have expected that when we first came into Waverley Station. Or would the water still be cold?”

  “You don’t have to humor me,” Joan said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at him, but the man just gets on my nerves. Why can’t he leave my mother alone?”

  “They seem on friendly terms,” Drew said. “Has he been annoying her?”

  “No. Actually, she enjoys his company. Always has. I suppose it’s me he’s been annoying.”

  “What’s he done?” Nick asked

  “I just don’t like how he talks. He always knows everything about everything. Exactly who ought to be doing what and when. It’s all very annoying.”

  “He does have some very strong opinions,” Drew agreed. “What does your mother say about that?”

  “Oh, Mother doesn’t care. She and Mac have always been good friends. If you ask me—” she broke off, smiling a little—“she and my father, of course.”

  She didn’t say more, and the conversation moved on to the usual trivialities. But that evening after dinner, when they were all sitting on the roof, chatting and watching the night, she pulled Drew aside.

  “I just can’t make myself believe it.” She sat beside him on the low wall where MacArthur had sat before, puffing smoke like a train engine, her voice low and urgent. “Dad was an excellent rider. You can ask anyone. And I’m sure he must have told you about the London Olympics.”

  Drew nodded. “But that’s getting on thirty years ago. He wasn’t a young man anymore.”

  “I don’t care. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t stay in the saddle. Also, I can’t believe he wouldn’t have checked his tack before he rode. It was one thing he always drummed into my head when I was a girl. Never ride without m
aking sure your equipment is sound.”

  “That may be so. But either way, that girth broke loose and he was thrown, and that’s as much as there is to say. I’m sorry. With a saddle that old—”

  “Yes, it was old. He was forever having it mended. But that’s why it makes me wonder. Spender and Martin’s have been our saddlers since before I was born. I’m not prepared to swear to it, but they must have replaced those buckles six or seven times by now. I can’t imagine they didn’t secure them properly. But even if they hadn’t, I tell you my father would have checked. He would have noticed anything coming apart.”

  “What do you think happened, then?” Drew asked, thinking back to the private conversation he’d had with her father before his accident.

  “I don’t know. I’m just saying it wasn’t like him. Maybe there was something on his mind that day and he was too worried over it to do what he usually did. I know he’s been a bit preoccupied lately.”

  “There’s something not quite right,” Rainsby had said. But was that something enough to precipitate a murder? Not that Joan had suggested her father was murdered, just that he had been preoccupied enough to make him careless. But still . . .

  “Would it help at all if I were to make inquiries?” he asked.

  She frowned. “I already asked Mother about it. She said there were some business matters he was worried about, but nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, isn’t everyone worried about business matters these days? Losses and unemployment and unrest? It would be strange if he weren’t worried over something, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Drew said, “I suppose it would. But maybe I can ask a question or two here and there and set your mind at ease. Sometimes an accident is just an accident.”

  “I’d be very grateful.”

  “All right then.” He gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “Leave it to me. If there’s anything to be found out, I’ll find it. If not, at least we’ll know, eh?”

  “Right.” She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Right.”

  Then the maid brought up the coffee, and they went to join the others.

  Five

  Lord Rainsby’s funeral was well attended. Mourners as well as the idly curious filled Gullane’s parish church and the churchyard outside. The wind still whipped off the sea, tugging and pulling at hats and coats, but the sun was out, somehow making the whole affair seem like a scene from a play. Lady Rainsby clung to MacArthur’s arm throughout the service and at the graveside, yet she never spoke a word. Any emotion that might have shown on her face was hidden by her heavy veil.

  Her daughter’s veil was not so concealing, just a little black net that curved under at her jawline, adding a bit of softness to her otherwise severe attire. She was also silent, her expression void of any emotion save self-control.

  When they all returned to Thorburn Hall, both the Rainsby ladies retired to their private quarters. That left Mrs. Pike as their makeshift hostess, but she was out of her depth given the solemnity of the day, as if a Pekinese had been pressed into service to lead a funeral procession. Without letting anyone take notice, Madeline saw that lunch and then teatime went smoothly, and Drew never had more cause to appreciate her graceful ability to set people at ease even in the most difficult circumstances.

  They had just finished the raspberry cranachan when a grave and disapproving Twining took Drew discreetly to one side. “I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a person who wishes to speak to you.” He handed Drew a card.

  Mindful that he was in a house of mourning, Drew did not laugh, yet he couldn’t help grinning as he passed the card to Madeline. “Shall we have him in here?” Drew asked, undeterred by the butler’s look of alarm.

  “Who’s this, then?” Mr. Pike asked in his usual bass growl. “A friend of yours?”

  “Then he ought to come in,” Mrs. Pike said cheerily. “If he’s come to pay his respects, we certainly can’t leave him standing in the hallway.”

  “Madam,” Twining sputtered.

  “No, it’s all right,” she said. “If he’s a friend of Mr. Farthering, he ought to come in.”

  “Who is it?” Nick asked. “I didn’t think you knew anyone up here other than the Rainsbys.”

  “I told you,” Drew said. “We bumped into him at Muirfield. First round.”

  “Oh.” Nick chuckled. “You should certainly have him in.”

  Carrie pursed her lips. “You only want to devil him like you always do.”

  “Just who is this mystery man?” MacArthur asked.

  Drew took back the card he had given Madeline and held it up. “Chief Inspector Birdsong of the Hampshire Police.”

  Kuznetsov, who had been lounging artistically against the drawing room mantelpiece, stood up straight, and Mr. Pike glanced at his wife, puzzled.

  MacArthur frowned. “Is he here about the accident?”

  “I can’t imagine it’s anything like that,” Drew said. “He came for the Open. On holiday. Gullane is well out of his jurisdiction. Well, I’ll just have a quick word with him and won’t trouble him with a vat of introductions and all the other social niceties. If you’ll all pardon me, I won’t be but a moment.”

  He followed a very relieved Twining into the small morning room, where Birdsong stood waiting, his hat clutched in his fist.

  “Chief Inspector.” Drew shook the man’s hand. “It’s a surprise seeing you here. What can I do for you?”

  “I do apologize for having interrupted. I was on my way back to Winchester, but I thought I ought to stop by. I understand you’re a relation of Lord Rainsby. I heard what happened, and I’d like to offer my condolences.”

  “Very good of you,” Drew said with a slight inclination of his head. “His lordship and I were not well acquainted, but this has still come as quite a shock to all of us.”

  “I took the liberty of speaking to Inspector Ranald here in Gullane, just by way of professional interest, mind you. He seems satisfied the death was no more than an unfortunate accident.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Still,” Birdsong added, “knowing you tend to be of an inquisitive nature, you and young Dennison and Mrs. Farthering as well, if you’ll pardon me, I thought I’d better tell you something.”

  “Advice from an expert with your credentials is always welcome,” Drew said, his smile guileless.

  The chief inspector fixed him with a baleful eye. “I don’t know Ranald except by reputation, but I know his type. He won’t appreciate your trying to do his job for him, even when the death’s accidental.”

  Drew shrugged. “I haven’t done anything but tell him what I saw that day. There doesn’t seem to be anything sinister about it in the least.”

  “I know how it is, Detective Farthering. You puzzle out a few murders and you begin to see them everywhere, even where there isn’t one. You think about how someone might have made it look like an accident. You wonder why the police haven’t considered this or that or something else. I know. But unless you have more to go on than you do, I wouldn’t advise your trying to get round Ranald the way you do me. You’ve been a help a time or two, I won’t deny it.”

  “Very good of you, Chief Inspector,” Drew said.

  “That is when you weren’t blundering into some kind of trap.”

  Drew blinked at him.

  “But Ranald isn’t the sort who’ll stand for meddling, no matter who your friends are, so best steer clear. Just a bit of friendly advice.”

  “I appreciate it, but you needn’t worry. I told Lord Rainsby’s daughter I would look into things, just to make sure there’s nothing amiss. But I don’t know of anything that would indicate such a thing. I expect we won’t be long behind you on the road to Hampshire. Tomorrow or the next day, provided Lady Rainsby and her daughter seem to be doing well, we’ll be back at Farthering Place.”

  “Very good. Then I suppose, as you usually do, you may completely disregard what I’ve said.”

  Drew put a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Chie
f Inspector. Indeed you do.”

  “I’ve a feeling you’ll get over it sooner than later. Still, if you do happen to find anything untoward . . .” Birdsong took a card from his waistcoat pocket, identical to the one he’d sent in with Twining, scrawled a name across the back, and gave it to Drew.

  “Ellar Shaw,” Drew read aloud. “Should I know who this is?”

  “He was one of my lads back in Winchester four or five years ago. Good lad. He’s here in Gullane now. One of Ranald’s. I understand he was here at the Hall when the inquiry was being made.”

  Drew thought for a moment, then smiled as he remembered a man of perhaps thirty with a high forehead, large eyes that drooped at the corners, and a soft mouth. All he needed was a lace cravat and a powdered wig.

  “Soft-spoken chap? Looks a bit like William Pitt the Younger if you squint?”

  Birdsong’s heavy mustache twitched. “That’s the one. I had a chat with him when I was at the station a bit ago. In fact, we talked about you. Much as he wanted to, he said he didn’t dare ask you about that business in Yorkshire last year, not in front of Ranald at any rate. I told him most of it was probably made up anyway.”

  Drew chuckled.

  “Anyhow, I thought if you were to insist on poking about in this Rainsby business, you could do worse than have a chat with him. Just don’t let on to Ranald, eh?”

  “Not a word,” Drew promised.

  Birdsong glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I can’t afford to stand gossiping while my cab’s sitting idle outside. But as Thorburn Hall was on my way, I thought I’d stop by. Just to pay my respects.”

  “It was good of you. With all that’s happened, I didn’t quite catch the results of the final round.”