Death at Thorburn Hall

by Julianna Deering

  The girl wrung her hands. “I—well, I—oh, Miss Joan, what shall I say?”

  “Tell him the truth, Agnes,” Joan said tautly. “It’s too late for anything else now.”

  “She wasn’t there, sir,” Agnes gasped, tears springing to her eyes. “I went to get Miss Joan, and she unlocked the door, but no one was there. Then we both looked all over the house. And then I went back to her ladyship’s room, and there she was, sleeping like a baby. Oh, sir, I don’t know where she was or what it means. She’s been a kind mistress ever since I come to the Hall to work and all the girls say the same, and I wouldn’t want to bring her to harm. I just can’t think it of her, not anything bad like they’re saying now, but that’s what happened Saturday night.” She pulled up her crisp white apron and buried her wet face in it, sobbing until Madeline went to her and put a comforting arm around her shaking shoulders.

  “That’s all right,” Drew said. “Thank you, Agnes.”

  Agnes looked at Joan with anguished eyes. “I’m so sorry, Miss Joan. I didn’t know how else to answer.”

  Joan nodded and wiped her own eyes. “It’s all right, Agnes. That will be all.”

  “Yes, miss, thank you.” The maid curtsied and left the room, shutting the door behind herself.

  “All the staff are very devoted to Mother,” Joan said. “Poor Agnes. Now I’m thinking if she had said something earlier, if we both had said something, Jamie might not be dead.”

  “That’s possible,” Drew said, “but there’s something else we should take into consideration. It just might be that none of this has anything to do with Lady Louisa at all.”

  “But why would she have lied about the headache powders and about being in bed all night?”

  “I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I’m still wondering if this is something much darker than a domestic murder. Something your mother doesn’t know anything about.”

  Joan dabbed her eyes, brightening faintly. “What you mentioned before, could it possibly . . . ?”

  Drew gave her a comforting pat. “I can’t make you any promises just yet, and I might be turned the wrong way round.”

  Nick snickered, which made both Madeline and Carrie smile.

  Drew gave them a stern look. “Anyway, Joan, don’t despair. I know this has been awful for you, but hold tight until I’ve done a bit more nosing about. I can’t promise you, of course, but I don’t think your mother is responsible for any of this.”

  She clasped his hand as if it were her only lifeline. “Thank you, Drew. I hope you can somehow make sense of it. I don’t—” twin tears spilled from her closed eyes—“I don’t know why anyone would want to kill Jamie. And if it’s because he was in love with me, I don’t know if I could bear it.”

  Wadding the handkerchief in both hands, she buried her face in it and wept. Madeline wrapped both arms around her, and the other three quietly left the room.

  “What are you thinking?” Nick urged once Drew had shut the door behind them.

  “Nick,” Carrie breathed, tugging his arm.

  She had been quiet all this while, but every emotion, every fear, every worry, every trace of anger had been plain in her expression as she listened to Joan and then Agnes. She wanted no part of any of this, even if she wasn’t saying as much.

  “I don’t want to jump to concussions, as Mrs. D. always says,” Drew told them, “but I can’t help but think this all has to be part of what happened to Lord Rainsby and Mr. Barnaby.”

  “Exactly.” Nick laughed humorlessly. “Quiet little Gullane? Even during Open week, I doubt they’ve had three murders, much less three unrelated ones all at once.”

  “I agree,” Drew said. “But it’s how they’re related that we might be looking at the wrong way round.”

  Nick frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, even if she doesn’t want to say it right out, it’s obvious Joan is worried that her mother is back of all this. Killed her husband so she could have her lover. Killed her solicitor because he was blackmailing her over it. Killed the gigolo, or had her lover see to it, so he wouldn’t ruin her daughter. But what if that’s not the connection at all?”

  “You mean Mac and his fascist sympathies?” Nick shrugged. “I can’t say I quite see it. Even if he is selling information, that doesn’t mean Barnaby was in on it with him, does it?”

  “I don’t know,” Drew admitted. “Miss Grahame said Mr. Barnaby did have some rather admiring things to say about that fellow in Berlin when I spoke to her about his murder. Suppose all that about the will itself was rubbish? Yes, Rainsby was there and met with Barnaby when Barnaby claims he did, but we have only his word for it that Rainsby wanted to change his will. The secretary never heard Rainsby say anything about the will. What if the entire tale about its being changed was simply nonsense?”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Because, my dear shortsighted fellow, then he and MacArthur could do away with Rainsby without anyone looking any further than the widow for someone to blame.”

  “Then why kill Barnaby?”

  “Because he knew about Rainsby, of course,” Drew said. At least it was a possibility.

  “And Tyler?”

  “That one’s a bit more difficult to explain. There’s likely more to Barnaby’s death, as well. All I’m saying is what if this has nothing to do with Lady Louisa and everything to do with MacArthur selling secrets to the Germans? After all, we know Tyler met Lisa that day out at Muirfield, but later on he denied it. Why? What could possibly be the connection between them if not something of that sort? And if it were simply what it seemed at the time, Tyler was rather one to brag on his conquests than deny them, don’t you think?”

  Nick snorted. “That’s true enough. But then there’s the medal.”

  “I haven’t sorted out how it’s all connected quite yet, just that perhaps it’s something we ought to look into.”

  “If that’s the case,” Nick said, glancing at Carrie, “you don’t think we might be in over our heads, do you? Those Nazi coves won’t stick at anything.”

  “True,” Drew mused. “Very true. Look here, I know you two have been apart just ages, and looking into murder and mayhem isn’t exactly how you envisioned your time together now.” He looked at Carrie with such exaggerated concern that it coaxed a smile from her. “I don’t mean to make light of this,” he added, smiling himself. “So if you two would rather go back to Farthering Place until this is all seen to, I’d certainly understand. In fact, I’d feel better if Madeline went along with you. You’d need a chaperone, anyway.”

  “Madeline isn’t going anywhere just yet.”

  Drew turned to see his wife standing not three feet behind him, hands on hips and the light of battle in her eyes.

  “Oh, hullo, darling.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “How’s Joan bearing up?”

  “I got her to lie down upstairs for a while. Twining is bringing her some tea.”

  “Splendid. Now, as I was saying—”

  “As I was saying, I’m not leaving just yet. Not as long as you’re here. I don’t mind staying in Gullane if that helps, Carrie, but I’m not going back to Hampshire and leaving that girl with no one but the servants to look after her. Good heavens, her father’s been killed and the man she loved too, and her mother is the prime suspect. Somebody has to be here for her.”

  Carrie bit her lip. “I know.” She looked up at Nick. “You don’t want to go either, do you?”

  “Carrie, sweet—”

  “No, now, be honest, you don’t.”

  He took her hand. “This wasn’t at all what I expected when I finally got to see you again, but I don’t know how we can just pack up and leave the poor kid on her own.”

  “But the police—”

  “I know that’s what the police are for, but they don’t seem to be faring any better than we are at the moment in solving these crimes. I just . . .” He wilted at the look of hurt in her eyes. “Carrie.”

 
Drew glanced at Madeline and then turned to Nick. “Perhaps the two of you ought to go back to Farthering Place. Mrs. Devon would look after Carrie, I’m sure. In fact, I could wire her to have Rose Cottage ready by the time you get there. Carrie could stay there until Madeline and I get everything sorted out up here. How would that be?”

  “Would you like that, sweetheart?” Nick asked Carrie. “I daresay that’s much more the sort of holiday you had in mind.”

  Carrie bit her lip. “I suppose it isn’t right to just leave Miss Rainsby hanging. I oughtn’t to be so selfish when she’s got so much to trouble her just now.” She blinked, her blue eyes bright with tears. “I know how it is when someone you love is suddenly gone. I don’t know how I would have stood it if you all hadn’t been there with me. If you hadn’t found out what really happened. It doesn’t seem fair to expect her to go through it all alone.”

  Nick pulled her close and pressed a kiss into her hair. “You don’t have to—”

  “No, it’s all right. Really. I may not be as brave as the rest of you.” She managed a tiny smile. “Or maybe I should say as foolhardy. What if we just carried on as we were? You don’t mind coming back to The Swan, do you, Madeline?”

  “Not at all,” Madeline said. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “No. Not as long as your husband gets this figured out before too much longer.” Carrie looked at Nick over Madeline’s shoulder. “And makes sure to look after Nicky.”

  Drew smirked at the sudden color in Nick’s face. “Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure darling Nicky is safe and sound every moment of the day.”

  “I mean it.” Carrie took Nick’s hand. “You both have to look after each other.”

  “We will, sweetheart,” Nick said. “We’ve been doing it since we were in our cradles.”

  “Except for that time you hit me in the head with a metal train engine,” Drew said, rubbing his scalp.

  “We were barely two,” Nick protested.

  “Still, it was hardly neighborly.”

  “It’s a wonder either of you survived childhood,” Madeline said, tucking her arm into Drew’s. “Now, if we’re to get this case solved, then we’d better figure out what we’re going to do next. All of us.”

  Kuznetsov and the Pikes returned to the Hall late that afternoon, Mrs. Pike beaming at her protégé and the count looking convincingly martyr-like.

  “My months of hiding from the Bolsheviki were not so harrowing,” he moaned, arranging himself artistically on the divan in the library, “but I was younger then and able to bear so much more.” Mrs. Pike patted his arm, and he seized her hand, kissing it fervently. “You have saved me, madam, indeed you have. One of my delicate temperament was never made to be locked away.”

  “I suppose I have,” she said, looking extremely pleased with herself. “Did you hear, Alfred? Poor Misha would have died if I hadn’t come for him.”

  “He looks healthy enough,” Pike grumbled.

  “Death of the soul,” Kuznetsov said, covering his eyes with one aristocratic hand, “is far more bitter than death of the body. I am quite certain I shall never recover.”

  Twining announced tea, and the count was the first one in the dining room. Drew sat next to him as he made quick work of a mound of scones and cucumber sandwiches. And while Mrs. Pike told the others how she had braved all danger and escorted the count out of durance vile, Drew managed a quiet conversation of his own.

  “I’m curious,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Mr. Pike said coming here was your idea. Says you insisted on it, even at the expense of another invitation he claims would have been far more . . . entertaining for you. Why is that?”

  Kuznetsov’s mouth turned up at one corner. “A trifle, to tell the truth. Looking for something that once belonged to my sister.”

  Drew smirked. The man was the most outrageous liar. “Your sister? I hadn’t heard you mention her before.”

  “No? Well, one doesn’t like to be tedious about one’s family matters.”

  “I haven’t heard the Rainsbys mention her, either. Has she been to the Hall?”

  Kuznetsov gave a careless shrug. “I don’t believe so. I can’t imagine her ladyship ever met her.”

  “But she lost this item here at the Hall.”

  “Oh, no. But I happen to know it’s here all the same. It’s a very long story, and I won’t bore you with it just now.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, I’m sure,” Drew said. “And your sister’s name?”

  “Her name?” Kuznetsov blinked at him. “Mary Smith. Charming, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely. Not very creative, to be sure, but lovely.”

  Kuznetsov clicked his tongue reprovingly. “It is most ungracious of you, sir, I must tell you. I share with you the intimate secrets of my family, and you scoff. Most ungracious.”

  Before Drew could ask him anything more, Mrs. Pike demanded his attention.

  “Misha, how are you feeling now? That horrible prison food hasn’t upset your digestion, I hope.”

  “I can hardly swallow anything, madam,” he said mournfully. “As you see.” He gestured to the mound of delicacies on his plate, but it was there only because he had scarfed down his first plateful and then replenished it.

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Pike turned to her husband. “I told you, Alfred. I really cannot go tonight. I can’t leave Misha in such a state, especially when he’s only just returned to us. Now, you just ring up that nice Mr. Emerson and tell him we’ll see him another time.”

  Pike glared at Kuznetsov. “You know I can’t do that, Elspeth. It took me weeks to get that invitation, and I’ve wanted to make his acquaintance for three or four years now. I have a number of projects that need investors with his means, and if he’s interested, he’s likely to want to bring in his friends, too. I’m not going to miss this opportunity. Misha will be perfectly fine here at the Hall. Any of the servants will be happy to call in emergency medical aid if it’s required in our absence.”

  She turned her face away from him with a huff. “That’s a horrid thing to say. Besides, I understand the servants have this evening off.”

  Madeline patted her arm. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Drew and Nick will look after him until you get back.”

  Drew glanced at Nick, sure the startled look of dismay on his face was a mirror of his own. “We will?”

  “Will you?” Mrs. Pike’s pout turned into a smile. “Oh, I would feel ever so much better. I told Misha already that it would be good for him to have some young people to spend time with. He’s too much involved in his art. I tell you, it’s not good for him.”

  “It’s just what he needs,” Mr. Pike said, and he looked at his pocket watch. “You’d better come and dress now, Elspeth. It’s a long drive out to Emerson’s and we don’t want to be late. You’ll all excuse us, won’t you?” He hurried his wife out of the dining room, not waiting for a reply.

  For the next little while, Nick tried to convince Carrie to stay and have dinner with them at the Hall. It seemed for a while she was wavering, but when the Pikes came down to leave for their engagement, Carrie convinced them to drop her at The Swan on their way through the village. Madeline had no choice but to go along with her.

  “Then we’ll all go,” Drew suggested. “No reason we can’t have another of Mrs. Drummond’s fine suppers, is there?”

  “Oh, but you mustn’t,” Mrs. Pike protested, the veil on her pillbox hat quivering. “You boys must look after Misha. I’m counting on you.”

  Drew sighed. “Would it do if just one of us stayed on?”

  “Well . . .”

  “One nanny is enough, isn’t it, Elspeth?” her husband grumbled.

  “I suppose so,” she agreed reluctantly. “He may be so exhausted from his ordeal that you won’t hear a sound from him until morning. Poor, dear Misha, his body is too frail to contain so large a soul.” She put both hands over her heart with a wistful smile.

  Mr. Pike took out his watch once more. “The car
will be waiting. You girls come along if you’re going.”

  Nick looked anxiously at Drew, and Drew turned him toward the door. “Go along. I’ll look after poor, dear Misha.”

  “Stout fellow.” Nick swatted him on the back and then hurried out after the Pikes with Carrie on his arm.

  “I want to stay with you,” Madeline said, twining her arms around Drew’s neck.

  “Better go, darling. You don’t want Carrie to be at the inn alone once Nick has to come back to the Hall.”

  “I suppose not.” She looked dejectedly at the floor and then surprised him with a scorching kiss. Afterward she looked coyly up at him. “I’d better go before I make the Pikes late. Good night.” She gave him a pert little wave and then was gone.

  Drew stood there for a moment, breathless. Then he flung himself into an overstuffed armchair and picked up his discarded copy of War and Peace.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Two hours later, not having heard a peep from Kuznetsov or Joan upstairs, Drew found that he had read little more than forty pages of his book. There was too much yet that didn’t make sense, Tyler’s death least of all. The man had been to the pub late last night, Drew had heard that much.

  The moment Nick returned to the Hall, Drew was out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I can’t say I expected to see you so early, but I’m glad of it.”

  “Carrie was practically nodding off in her soup,” Nick said, “and Madeline and I convinced her to get some sleep. Where are you off to?”

  “I’ve been thinking about where Tyler was directly before he went out to the beach. It seems to me it would be most instructive to find out what anyone at The Brassie and Cleek had to say about his final visit there.”

  Nick shrugged good-naturedly. “I suppose another walk up to the village won’t do me any harm.”

  “Better not, old man,” Drew said with a glance toward the stairs. “Someone’s got to look after the artiste.”

  “Oh, not really. Really?”

  “We did agree to do it. Now be a good lad and stay here till I get back. I don’t like Joan being here alone as it is. Somebody ought to look after her, don’t you think?”