“You’re welcome. My objective here is straightforward. I want to determine exactly how and why Graves Chilton died and bring any wrongdoer to justice. Other kinds of business don’t interest me.” Withers turned to Cobb. “Horatio, I believe our friend is still sufficiently flexible to be removed. Would you mind helping me get him into the sleigh?”
“Okay,” Cobb said, and followed the coroner back into the butler’s office. “But I’d like to have a look through his pockets before we toss him in.”
Marc and Macaulay watched as Cobb and Withers, now dressed for the outdoors, went about the business of removing the body. (Cobb found nothing of value or interest on the butler’s person.)
As soon as the coroner’s sleigh had pulled away and they were at last alone, Macaulay said to Marc, “What are we going to do? If our French colleagues have to wait around here for days on end like prisoners under suspicion, they’ll be frantic. And if they have to expose themselves and our doings here in a public inquest, it will be a catastrophe. All our secret plans will be known everywhere, and LaFontaine and the others will be put at serious risk back home.”
“Especially if the news arrives there before they’ve had a chance to explain themselves.”
“They’ll have no choice but to deny that any agreement was reached here. They may even be forced to argue against positions they accepted here – in order to maintain any credibility among their compatriots in Quebec.”
“They could even decide to fly the coop,” Marc said, “though I don’t honestly believe LaFontaine would do so.”
“And everything was going so well. I don’t know how I can walk back into the dining-room and tell them what’s in store for them.”
“We don’t have to do that right away, Garnet. They’ll certainly be expecting to have to hang around here for at least a day or two while the investigation is being carried out. Leave telling them about the deadline and the possibility of an inquest until tonight, when Cobb and I will have interviewed everybody and perhaps developed some leads. I don’t want them in a state of panic or whatever before I’ve had a chance to interview them.”
“But you were supposed to meet with Robert and Louis this morning to draft a written accord.”
“I’ll be too busy, obviously, but when I interview Robert and Francis, I’ll see what they have to say about it. Don’t despair. With any luck, Cobb and I will find the culprit by nightfall, and we can take up our business where we left off,” Marc said with more optimism than he felt.
“Where do you intend to start?”
Marc nudged Macaulay towards the library. Inside and seated, he said, “I saw Cobb headed onto the grounds as soon as Angus pulled away. He’s going to walk the boundaries of the estate with Struthers to see whether anyone came onto the property last evening.”
Macaulay brightened. “Let’s hope it was somebody from outside, eh? I can’t for the life of me think of anyone in here who would deliberately kill a man.”
“We’ll soon know. The light snowfall will help us determine for certain whether anyone penetrated the periphery. Meantime, you can start things rolling by telling me everything you know about Graves Chilton.”
“All right. As I mentioned earlier, he was recommended to me by a long-time friend of my father’s in London, Sir Godfrey Milburn. I have two letters from him, one in response to my general request for help in procuring an experienced butler and a second one answering the questions about Chilton I had put to him in a follow-up.”
“Why did Chilton leave his former post to come to the colonies?”
“Sir Godfrey candidly informed me that Chilton, who had been addicted to alcohol as a young man but had been sober for years, began drinking again, and committed an indiscretion with one of the women in his employ.”
“Not usually a sacking offense – sadly,” Marc said.
“In this case the offense was so public it could not be hushed up, he told me, and he had no recourse but to let Chilton go.”
“Then, why recommend the fellow to you? He sounds like a potential drunk with an eye for the tender sex.”
“True, but Sir Godfrey assured me that his indiscretions with the maids heretofore had always been minor and discreet. Such affairs, as you know, are commonplace. Moreover, in Chilton’s case, the man showed remorse, climbed immediately back onto the water-wagon, and was deemed worthy of a second chance.”
“Well away from Sir Godfrey and London society.”
“In addition, as the baronet and his family frequently spent long periods of time on the Continent, Chilton was farmed out to a number of different houses whose masters were acquaintances of the Milburns. Sir Godfrey sent me half a dozen glowing letters of commendation from these satisfied gents over the years. Chilton, so long as he kept off the bottle, was a paragon of butlerhood.”
“I see why you’d be tempted to take him on.”
Macaulay got up. “I’ve got the letters over there in that desk drawer. I’ll let you have a look at them, if you like.”
“Yes, I’d like to read them.”
Macaulay took a key from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. He brought a handful of letters over to Marc. “Here are the reference letters, and here are Sir Godfrey’s – ”
“What’s wrong?”
Macaulay looked puzzled. “The one I distinctly remember leaving on top of this pile has been shuffled into the pack.”
“Which one?”
“The letter that Chilton sent me from New York the very day he disembarked. Apparently, he arrived there ill from the rough voyage.”
“What does the letter say?”
“Not a lot,” Macaulay said, holding the single sheet up to the light. “It says he planned to rest in New York for a week or so, and then set out for Kingston via the New York route. He gave me the date he expected to arrive and, as it turned out, he made it only a day beyond his prediction. Struthers saw him get off the Kingston to Toronto stage outside our gates late last Thursday afternoon.”
“So someone may have gotten into this drawer and looked over this letter?”
“Possibly. Though, like Bergeron, I may be mistaken about its being on top.”
Marc didn’t pursue the point, as it was clear that the good-hearted Macaulay did not want to believe one of his servants was illicitly and recklessly curious about the man who would rule their lives.
“I don’t see how this particular letter could have anything to do with the murder?” Macaulay said.
“Neither do I. However, I do want to scan those reference letters to see if I can form a picture of the fellow beyond his status as a paragon.”
“Well, somebody didn’t think he was perfect.”
They heard Cobb enter the front hall and kick the snow off his boots. He came straight into the library, dripping profusely, his cheeks as scarlet as his nose.
“Any sign of intruders?” Marc asked.
“No, Major. Not even a jackrabbit crossed the property-line last night.”
“Damn,” Marc said. It was now undeniable: someone in this house had hated or feared Graves Chilton enough to murder him in cold blood.
SEVEN
“So, how do you plan to proceed with the investigation?” Macaulay said when Cobb had removed his greatcoat, helmet and mitts, and sat himself down at the table.
“I’ll set up shop in here, if you don’t mind,” Marc said, “and call in our gentleman guests one by one, while Cobb will make himself comfortable in the northeast wing to interview the staff.”
Macaulay paled. “You’re not going to treat the Quebecers like suspects,” he gasped.
“No, no,” Marc reassured him. “I intend to treat them as important witnesses who will be assisting us in our search for the killer. I’ll simply ask them what they saw and heard last evening, and whether or not they can help us discover what happened to your wife’s laudanum.”
Macaulay looked much relieved. “I’ll inform Mrs. Blodgett and Priscilla that for today at least there will be no
formal meals served. I’ll have her prepare cold fare and lay it out in the dining-room to be sampled whenever we wish.”
“Good thinking,” Marc said. He glanced at Cobb, then said to Macaulay, “We’ll start our questioning with you, Garnet.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tell us about last night after your guests left this area to go to bed,” Marc began. Cobb dragged his notebook out of his pocket, fished about for his pencil-stub, and prepared to take notes (‘prepared’ being all he ever did, as he invariably relied on his memory and, when he got back to the police quarters, he would dictate his findings to the police clerk, Augustus French).
“Well, Marc, after you left to see about Beth – and I’m delighted to hear that everything is all right at home – Francis and Bérubé played billiards for a while, while I watched and tried to help them converse in two-and-a-half languages. As you’ll recall, Robert and LaFontaine were together in the parlour. They came out about nine-thirty or so and asked Chilton for a supply of paper and ink. Very mysteriously, I must say, they then slipped off to their quarters.”
“Where was Tremblay?”
“According to Chilton, who was in and out serving us drinks, he had called for a bath. I don’t know if he actually took one – you could check with Priscilla – as he left us right after the meal. At some point I presume he went to bed – in a sulk more than likely.”
“An’ all these French gents was helpin’ you with yer business adventures, I take it?” Cobb said with a sideways grin aimed at Marc.
“That’s right, constable. Anyway, by ten o’clock we were all ready to turn in. I waited like a proper host until everyone had left this part of the house. All went to their rooms, except Bergeron, who, you’ll recall, retired early to try and catch up on his lost sleep. He too may have taken a bath – I’d instructed Bragg to fire up the boiler and Priscilla to leave extra towels so that the guests could fend for themselves in there.”
“So, except for Chilton, all the servants would have been in their quarters by ten?” Marc said.
“Yes. With Phyllis in Kingston attending her mistress, only Bragg and Finch work on this floor.”
“And Chilton?”
“I watched him begin to tidy up the drinks glasses, bade him good night, and retired to my bedchamber. His routine at this point would be to snuff the candles, check the front and rear doors to see that they were locked and barred, and then either retreat to his own rooms or go to his office to work the accounts at his desk – where we found the poor bugger.”
“By ten-fifteen or so, then, this entire section of the house would have been deserted and in relative darkness?”
“It should have been, certainly, though I myself was in my room by then and Chilton was, as we now know, still up and about.”
“Yes. We can be sure that Chilton did at some point go to his office, light two candles in there, open up his ledger, and begin sipping whiskey from a silver flask.”
“That surprises me, Marc, because he gave absolutely no indication that he was secretly imbibing. You yourself observed his behaviour. And there was never the slightest taint of alcohol on his breath.”
“It was his flask, all right,” Cobb said. “I saw his initials – G.C. – on it.”
Marc raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement of Cobb’s keen observation. “Cobb and I will look for further evidence of his drinking when we search his rooms in a few minutes.”
“He must have taken those wine-goblets from the china-cabinet in the dining-room,” Macaulay said.
“Perhaps he was expecting company?” Marc suggested.
“Or if someone did come down the hall and decide to join him, he could have fetched a second glass in thirty seconds,” Macaulay pointed out. “Or fetched two glasses if he’d been drinking his whiskey straight out of the flask.”
“What was drunk from those goblets was sherry,” Marc said. “We need to trace the possible source of that bottle.”
“Do you keep Amount-i-ladle in yer wine cellar?” Cobb asked Macaulay.
“I noticed the label on the bottle when I first arrived here this morning and was checking the body for signs of life – I didn’t touch anything, just looked – and I can say for certain that the poisoned wine did not come from my cellar.”
Marc sighed. “That’s unfortunate. We had hoped that Chilton – who, along with you, would have had the only keys to the cellar – had obtained the Amontillado there himself, and that he either did himself in or his visitor distracted him long enough to pour laudanum into the sherry.”
“Maybe this visitor called fer another goblet, an’ when the obligin’ butler went off to fetch it, the bugger doctored the wine.”
“Very plausible,” Marc said. It was a possibility he himself had not considered. “Nevertheless, we now face the unhappy prospect of discovering who took the laudanum from the bathroom shelf and how the Amontillado got into Elmgrove and ended up in Chilton’s office.”
“If Chilton was a secret tippler,” Cobb said, “he could’ve brung the sherry here with him. Could’ve been a partin’ gift from his old master.”
“Right now, that’s the most likely explanation. But we’ll need to ask everyone concerned about it.”
“We gonna ram-sack the rooms lookin’ fer the missin’ medicine bottle an’ a jug of sherry like the one we found beside Chilton?”
Macaulay flinched. “We can’t do that, sir! My guests are gentlemen!”
“What we’ll do,” Marc said, “is ask the gentlemen themselves to look carefully in their own rooms to see if the empty vial has been illicitly stashed there. Surely a cold, calculating killer, which we have here, would not be so uncalculating as to hide such damning evidence in his own quarters.”
“Yes, yes, that’s the proper way to go about it,” Macaulay said gratefully.
“Thank you, Garnet,” Marc said, rising. “You’ve been very helpful and a pillar of strength in the midst of this sudden upheaval. Would you mind going into the nearby rooms and informing the others that I would like to begin interviewing them individually in about fifteen minutes. They’ll no doubt be anxious and inquisitive. Please tell them only the essential facts: that the butler is dead, probably murdered, and that for the time being all normal activities are suspended. As I meet with them – here, if that’s convenient – I’ll add such information as I deem advisable.”
“I’ll go right away. What are you going to do in the interim?”
“Have a close look at Graves Chilton’s rooms.”
***
Elmgrove’s butler had been given two rooms for his personal use. Marc and Cobb entered the small sitting-room first, furnished simply and illuminated by a narrow window overlooking the east lawn, now snow-covered. While Cobb turned over cushions and hunched down awkwardly to peer under the couch, Marc went to the secretary, rolled up the cover, and began poking about among the papers inside.
“What’ve ya got, Major?”
“Not much, but it may be significant. There’s a passenger’s receipt for a steamship ticket from Bristol to New York – in the name of Graves Chilton. Dated last month.”
“Looks like our victim did arrive here when he said he did.”
“It would seem so. And here’s a receipt from The Albany Hotel in New York City, where Chilton told Macaulay he’d been laid up for a week with the after-effects of mal de mer.”
“That don’t leave much time fer him to get overland to Kingston an’ be recruited fer any new-furious activities at Elmgrove, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t. The man’s troubles must have started and ended right here in this house.”
“Let’s try the other room. There’s no whiskey jugs or medicine bottles hidden in this one.”
They went into the bedroom. It was cold, dark and windowless. Cobb went back out, found a candle and lighting-kit, and returned. But an initial search of the place turned up no hard evidence. However, in the wardrobe beside the bed, Marc found a leather grip and pulled it
out.
Cobb opened it. “Empty,” he said. “But look here. The fella’s initials are set in brass near the handle. He must’ve carted his belongin’s two thousand miles in this thing.”
Marc was re-examining the frock coats and trousers in the wardrobe. “Every one of these has the label of a London tailor. Mr. Chilton seems to have done very well for himself, before his fall from grace.”
“Say, what’s that that fell outta one of them coat pockets?” Cobb said, pointing to a piece of paper at the foot of the wardrobe.
Marc picked it up. “It’s a letter of sorts. It must have been stuffed in the lining – I didn’t see it at first.”
“What’s it say?”
Marc read aloud:
Bellingham House
21st inst.
Gravsie:
I hope the kis we had in the ironing
cubbord last nigt ment as much to you as
it did to me. I must see you agen or my hart
wil brake
yore lover
Gertie
“Sounds like he hung onto one of them billy-douches from some silly maid of his,” Cobb opined.
Marc smiled, but found himself oddly touched by the letter and its sentiments. “One of his many conquests back home, I suppose. Macaulay was told that Chilton had a weakness for the weaker sex.”
“Well,” Cobb summed up their effort, “we got ourselves a bone-a-fido English butler, but no medicine bottle an’ no fancy booze.”
“Perhaps the poor devil carried that flask of whiskey around with him in order to face the temptation of the drink every day. Alcohol can be a devastating addiction.”
“I guess we gotta figure the poison was brought inta his office by the killer, an’ probably the sherry, too.”
“It’s not much, but with Garnet’s clear account of the late-evening events and whereabouts of the guests and staff, and from what we’ve deduced about the possible sequence of actions in the butler’s office, we now have a solid base from which to ask questions of our suspects.”
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