Death at the Dance: An addictive historical cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 2)

by Verity Bright

  ‘Polly? Wha—? Is that you?’

  ‘Oh, your ladyship. I am so sorry.’ The maid sucked on the edge of her apron, the cup of tea in her hand wobbling on its saucer.

  Eleanor flopped back on her pillow. ‘I… I was having such a nightmare. Someone was looming over me, not saying anything, just… watching.’ She peered at her maid. ‘Polly, have you been in here long?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Ages and ages, your ladyship. I’ve been trying to wake you for yonks, only I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘I see.’ Eleanor rubbed her eyes and tried to get her brain to engage. She was never at her best in the morning.

  Polly stopped sniffing and looked up hopefully. ‘You’re not cross with me waking you, your ladyship?’

  Eleanor tried hard not to sound grouchy. ‘Cross? No, not a bit! Eleanor’s grump had failed to disperse despite the brilliant sunshine already pouring in through the window. She needed coffee, not tea. And quickly. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to pass my bedjacket? Pop the cup on the cabinet first, that’s it. And then the little green silk thing, just there.’

  Polly carried Eleanor’s bedjacket to her as though it were a newborn kitten. Standing by the side of the bed she bit her lip and stared at the floor as a tear slid down her cheek.

  Eleanor softened her voice and held out a handkerchief. ‘Polly, whatever is the matter?’

  ‘’Tis nothing, your ladyship. I am so sorry.’ She grabbed the handkerchief and loudly blew her nose making Eleanor wince. ‘Oh, golly, Mrs Butters will have words with me again.’ At this she sank into loud sobs.

  Eleanor shoved her arms into her bedjacket and swung her legs out of bed.

  ‘One minute.’ She crossed to her dressing table and pulled over the chair, which she placed next to Polly. ‘Sit.’

  Polly’s lip trembled. ‘Sitting in front of the mistress is against the rules.’

  Eleanor gently pressed down on the girl’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Sit, and I promise we won’t tell your mistress.’ She looked into the young girl’s eyes. ‘Polly, what are you worried about?’

  At this, the maid let out a wail. ‘You’ll… you’ll ask me to leave your service.’

  Eleanor put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. ‘Dear Polly, I have no intention of asking you to leave. Why would you imagine such a thing?’

  ‘Because I’m a terrible maid, and everyone knows it. Mrs Butters doesn’t scold me harshly, nor Mrs Trotman, nor Mr Clifford, he just gives me that look that makes me want the floor to eat me up. But they’re all disappointed with me, I know it.’

  Eleanor tilted her head. ‘How long have you been at the Hall, Polly?’

  The girl thought for a moment. ‘Well, your ladyship, my mum and dad couldn’t afford to keep us all, not after my dad had the accident. So me and my sisters were sent into service.’ She furrowed her brow even harder. ‘My mum wanted us sisters to stay together but it was after the war and no one could find a big house that was looking for three maids. My mum managed to find places for my sisters but I was eleven and, no one wanted me. Then a friend of my dad who knew Mr Clifford said he’d see if he could help and… so I came here. This will be my fourth Christmas, your ladyship, when it comes round.’

  ‘So you’re fifteen now?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Eleanor thought for a moment. ‘So, coming to the Hall must have been your first appointment as a maid, I guess?’ At Polly’s nod, she continued, ‘Well… coming to the Hall is my first appointment at being a lady.’

  The maid’s jaw hung open. She looked over her shoulder and then whispered, ‘You mean… you’re being a lady for the… first time?’

  Eleanor nodded, trying not to grin.

  Her maid took an absent-minded swig of the tea, which Eleanor smiled at.

  ‘Polly, I fear we both find ourselves in a new situation without knowing exactly how it is supposed to work. And the staff are too busy trying to make sure the house keeps running as smooth as clockwork. We wouldn’t want a wheel to fall off, would we now?’

  Polly giggled at this. ‘Can you imagine a house on wheels? How amazing! Wow, I could light the stove and keep it lit and Mr Clifford could steer. The ladies could do the… the other bits, whatever they are. And you could stand on the balcony with a big colourful map and we could all go and see wonderful places, together,’ she ended on a whisper.

  Polly’s child-like wonder choked Eleanor. She swallowed hard. ‘Please, can you do two things for me? Actually, three things. But don’t worry, they are easy to remember.’

  ‘Anything, your ladyship. Anything at all.’

  ‘Firstly, you need to stop being anxious that I shall ask you to leave. And you must remember if Mr Clifford or the ladies seem impatient with you, it’s simply that they are trying to show you how to do better. Okay?’

  ‘I’ll think of them being caught up in keeping the wheels from falling off the house.’

  ‘Perfect. Number two, do your best to keep your lips buttoned and say nothing about this conversation to the others at the moment. I want to think more about how we can help each other.’

  Polly rolled her eyes to the back of her head. ‘No worrying and no saying about… wheels and buttons.’ She mimed closing a button on her lips.

  ‘Brilliant, well done.’ Eleanor patted the maid’s shoulders. ‘And thirdly, please can you bring me a cup of coffee? Strong? Now?’

  Clifford looked up from the battered copy of The Bat. ‘I rather fear, my lady, that the third act is perhaps the most significant part of your performance.’

  Eleanor flopped back onto the sofa and then shuffled sideways as Gladstone pushed his front feet into her ribs. ‘Well, that’s no help at all. That’s the part I’m struggling to remember most! I’ve got way too many lines.’

  Clifford took off his pince-nez spectacles and placed them carefully on the chair beside him. ‘In the words of the eminent Victor Hugo, my lady, “Intelligence is the wife, imagination is the mistress, memory is the servant.”’

  ‘Then I fear I have paid too much attention to my mistress of late and neglected my servant. He is clearly on strike. Honestly, I’m all done. Cornelia Van Gorder and Detective Anderson can go hang for a while. Although I must say it is a masterful twist that the good guy turns out to be the notorious villain. But in truth, Clifford, any time we’re not trying to save Lancelot feels like a terrible waste.’ She ran her hand along the bulldog’s round tummy, taking comfort from the warm softness.

  ‘That may be, my lady, but you need a distraction.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  They discussed the case throughout the morning, Eleanor devouring Mrs Trotman’s delicious cheese and chive twists for elevenses and moving onto lunch at one. Gladstone trotting after them as they moved to the dining room.

  ‘More rosemary potatoes please… and leave the gravy jug to hand. There’s an art to filling a Yorkshire pudding to just the right level, I find.’ Eleanor’s tongue crept out as she concentrated while pouring.

  Clifford arranged the roast parsnips in their salver by her plate. ‘Perhaps, my lady, we have found the perfect distraction for you after all?’

  Eleanor was concentrating too hard to notice the dig. ‘Yes, it’s a delicate operation. Too little gravy in the Yorkshire and there’s hardly enough to cover your first roast potato as you dunk. Too much and your plate is awash with a tidal wave.’

  Clifford bowed. ‘I had no idea it was such a precise science. My knowledge has been quite incomplete all these years.’

  She speared a crispy parsnip. ‘Scoff all you like, Clifford, but the British Empire was built on the Sunday roast. How fun it would be to serve Gladstone his dinner in a Yorkshire pudding – it would be like an edible dog bowl.’ She subtly passed the dog a corner.

  ‘Going back to the investigation, my lady, there is another peculiarity we have yet to resolve. Why did young Lord Fenwick-Langham apparently try to steal the jewels even though it seems he knew the pol
ice were there that night?’

  ‘Exactly, Clifford. Coco mentioned that very thing recently. Apparently Lancelot told the gang what he was up to and they roundly told him to call it off. Coco was as confused as we are about why he would even consider going through with it once he knew the police were at Langham Manor.’

  ‘Perhaps young Lord Fenwick-Langham changed his mind and believed he could outwit the police?’

  Eleanor snorted over the rim of her glass. ‘Clifford, Lancelot couldn’t outwit a tadpole in a jam jar.’

  ‘My thinking was running along those lines, only somewhat more respectfully. I imagine young Lord Fenwick-Langham might have seen it as a game.’

  ‘Probably. And now we have a whole bunch of people who know he intended to steal the jewels. The only good point is their loyalty to Lancelot in keeping silent so far.’

  ‘Although, my lady, isn’t it rather odd that the police did not find the jewels about his young lordship’s person at the time of arrest?’

  ‘Tell that to Inspector Seldon! He seems to think Lancelot had an accomplice, possibly me, who somehow ferreted them out of the room and into his plane.’ Eleanor sighed. ‘Let’s move on to Albie, shall we, before we both decide Lancelot is guilty! Millie said something about Albie.’ She frowned. ‘Drat it, not being able to write things down at the time is dashed awkward.’

  ‘Perhaps, your ladyship might like to try penning a few notes on your return to the Hall?’

  ‘Yes, you did suggest that before. Trouble is, I’ve never got back in a fit state to do anything except collapse into bed and wake up with my head throbbing. Let me think.’ Eleanor banged her forehead with her fist, making Gladstone look up from where he was sprawled by her feet. ‘It’s in there somewhere… oh yes, that was it! It seems peculiar that everyone is just accepting Albie was drunk the night he died and that caused the accident. From what I saw he drank less than the rest of them, even though one of them did say Albie had never got the hang of pacing himself.’

  Clifford nodded. ‘The cause of the accident was indeed attributed to an excess of alcohol. Though apparently the local police came to that verdict without a proper examination of the body, according to Miss Abigail.’

  ‘And the newspaper report reckoned it occurred at around one in the morning, didn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed, my lady. Perhaps with what you’ve learned, we should reconstruct what happened that fateful night.’

  ‘Good idea, Clifford.’ She marshalled her thoughts. ‘Johnny told me that he’d spent the day at his family pile. He then picked up Coco around nine, I think, and then met Lucas and Millie at some new club in Cowley, The Hole in the Wall, at ten. Millie said Albie was supposed to be coming along later in a car he’d borrowed, which he did sometimes, usually because he needed to get back to work in the morning. They often party till dawn and beyond, as you know.’

  Clifford raised his eyebrows. Gladstone dropped his head between his paws and let out a long sigh as if the very idea was too much effort to contemplate.

  Eleanor rushed on. ‘Anyway, Albie never turned up, so they went to some place called Madame Bella’s around midnight and stayed until three. They left there and went to Johnny’s pad until dawn. Johnny told me the next thing they know is that Albie’s gone and got drunk and ditched himself and the car in the canal.’

  Clifford returned from the serving table with a dish of buttered beans and honey glazed carrots. She nodded absent-mindedly for him to top up her plate. She added a generous dollop of horseradish sauce and then pushed the food round distractedly.

  ‘Poor Albie, I can’t think of any obvious reason anyone would want to bump him off. His poems weren’t that terrible.’ She gave an involuntary laugh, which was instantly halted by Clifford’s reproachful look.

  ‘How was it Mr Appleby became a permanent member of the group, my lady?’

  ‘Well, Coco introduced him to the others. She seemed genuinely unconcerned by his background and was actually quite sweet to him. However, she said something about Lancelot and Johnny forever circling poor Albie, like jackals waiting to pounce with a scathing comment. Johnny remarked to me that he found Albie hideously intense.’

  Clifford nodded as though he could imagine the spiteful ribbing.

  ‘And his Highness, Prince Singh?’

  ‘Lucas? He was less vicious than the others but I think that’s just him, or perhaps his background again.’

  ‘It is most likely that the gentleman is a Hindu, my lady. As such he would have been instilled with the beliefs of duty, virtue and morality from a very young age.’

  ‘Well, he’s not proving much of an embodiment of any of those when I’ve seen him. He’s partying as hard as the others and no mistake!’

  ‘My thoughts entirely, my lady. I fear whoever is responsible for these crimes is an actor of the most masterful skill.’

  ‘Shame we can’t collar him to play my part in the am-dram then!’

  All thought out, Eleanor sighed as she devoured some more mouthfuls of her lunch. Gladstone tilted his head, his eyes imploring her to drop some of the crispy roast potatoes his way, his jowls trembling with anticipation.

  ‘Clifford, I should really telephone Lord and Lady Langham with an update. Not that I’ve got anything much to report.’

  ‘I believe they will be comforted just to hear that you are still working on helping his young Lordship… although there might be something worth asking them.’

  ‘Go on, what have you worked out?’

  ‘Nothing more than a hunch at this juncture. Forgive my assumption, my lady, but from your descriptions of the group, it seems that Mr Seaton and his young lordship were the most rigorous in their teasing of Mr Appleby?’

  She nodded.

  On the telephone, Lord Langham’s voice roared through the earpiece. ‘What ho, Eleanor, old girl. You want me to go to covert ops and find out from Seaton Senior if his errant son was with them when he said he was the day that poor young fellow died?’

  ‘If you can. It might be nothing, of course. I’m going to probe the Childs sisters. Clifford has an idea for checking up on Prince Lucas.’

  ‘No trouble. Augusta finds the Seaton tribe a tad vulgar, being new money and all, but I will be the most discreet of bloodhounds, fret not.’

  Eleanor heard Lady Langham’s voice in the background. After a muffled exchange, she came on the line. ‘Eleanor, my dear. Harold says you suspect more foul play, this time over Mr Appleby’s demise. For the first time, I am actually relieved Lancelot is being detained. If you can prove the same person was responsible, the police will have to release him!’

  Promising to keep her abreast of progress, Eleanor ended the call and turned to Clifford.

  ‘Oh golly, Clifford. I might have given Lady Langham rather too much hope!’

  Twenty-Six

  Eleanor hadn’t slept well and being dragged out of bed early again hadn’t improved her mood.

  ‘Dash it, Sergeant Brice, it’s… whatever it is in the morning.’

  ‘As I’ve already explained, Lady Swift, I’ve been instructed to call you.’

  ‘Call me? By whom? And why?’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line as if someone was counting to ten. ‘Chief Inspector Seldon instructed me to call you. He has granted you a meeting with Lord Fenwick-Langham at ten o’clock.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘That’s what I said. Prisoners pending trial are not permitted visitors. But the Detective Chief Inspector…’

  Eleanor let out a yell. ‘Thank you, Sergeant Brice! I’ll be there at ten sharp.’ She went to replace the receiver, but picked it up again. ‘And make sure Lord Fenwick-Langham gets a decent breakfast!’

  Sergeant Brice made a point of recording the time on the station clock when signing Eleanor in. She waited for him to finish, her fingers drumming on the counter.

  He laid down his pen. ‘Lowe. Door.’

  Lowe jumped to attention, then hesitated. ‘But, Sarge, his lordsh
ip hasn’t had breakfast yet.’

  Brice’s face coloured. ‘What the blasted heck have you been doing all morning?’

  ‘It’s like this, Sarge, his Lordship asked specifically for breakfast not to arrive before ten. He’s not used to rising early, you see.’

  ‘Ten? This is a police station, not a blasted hotel, right?’

  The constable scampered away and returned with a tray bearing a hot cup of tea and a bowl of steaming porridge. ‘This way, your ladyship.’

  Brice called after them. ‘Ten minutes, Lowe. Not a minute more.’

  Eleanor winked at him and trotted after the constable. At the steel door leading to the cells, Lowe fumbled for the key while precariously balancing the tray.

  Eleanor peeked behind her, then whispered, ‘Let me take that.’

  Lowe reluctantly handed it over before shoving the heavy door open with a grunt. ‘The sarge is trying to stick to procedure on account of Detective Chief Inspector Seldon catching us out on a few things.’ He carefully locked the door behind them.

  Eleanor grinned. ‘I bet he did.’

  As they approached Lancelot’s cell, she held a finger to her lips.

  ‘Perhaps I should check first that the gentleman is suitably dressed for your ladyship?’ Lowe whispered.

  ‘Not a bit,’ she whispered back. ‘We normally chat when he’s dressed in just goggles or a pirate costume. Whatever he’s got on will be quite sufficient.’

  Lowe’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

  She banged the bars with the spoon and deepened her voice. ‘Wakey wakey, Goldilocks! Your porridge is hot and ready.’

  The bundle under the blanket twitched and a wool-socked foot poked out. ‘Too early, Lowe. I told you…’

  ‘Lancelot! Get up. It’s me, you fool.’ She rattled the spoon again. ‘We’ve only got…’ She glanced at the constable. ‘… fifteen minutes.’

  Lancelot shot upright. ‘Sherlock, I can’t believe you’re here! And you’ve brought me breakfast, now that’s service, I’d say. Although Constable Lowe here is a fine waitress.’