A door fitted into the paneling opened into an old-fashioned bathroom with a claw-foot tub. I washed my hands and face at the pedestal sink and used a linen towel folded atop a small round table next to it, then changed into my dress. I wrapped a plaid shawl around my shoulders—the Sutherland tartan, a gift from George—in anticipation of the chilly rooms for which English manor houses are infamous, and tucked a pair of reading glasses into my dress pocket.
Ready in no time, I turned in a circle, examining the contents of my room. In addition to the canopy bed and armoire, there were a single nightstand with a candlestick lamp, a small desk and chair, a marble fireplace with a coal basket inside, and, under the tall window, a built-in seat with an upholstered cushion. I crossed to the window, leaned on the cushion, and looked out at the view of the countryside’s rolling hills and the gathering clouds in the distance. Cows were grazing on what was left of the grass in one pasture. The spire of an ancient stone church poked into the wintry blue sky from a valley beyond. Below me was a garden; the high stone walls enclosing it matched the limestone blocks of the house. I tried to picture where the walled garden was located in relation to the house, but we hadn’t had time to get our bearings before Nigel had whisked us inside.
The garden had several gravel paths that ran along the back and sides, with concrete benches on which to rest and enjoy the views. The paths crisscrossed in the middle, leaving triangularly shaped beds in the center. Flowers withered from the cold waved on their brown stems, the only spots of green being a few holly bushes. Specimen trees and what I believed were bare rosebushes filled the beds at the far corners, but I couldn’t identify any of the other plants from this distance.
A fragment of color closer to the building caught my eye, and I pressed my forehead to the glass to see what it was. It was not a plant, but a patch of purple fabric. Perhaps the gardener had dropped a cloth on the ground when he was working. Would that have been Angus? I knelt on the window seat and unlatched the window. A cold breeze reminded me that it was winter, but holding on to the casement, I bent forward. The wind ruffled my hair, and the purple fabric below billowed, floating off to the side—and revealing a leg and a dark shoe. They weren’t moving.
“Oh, dear.”
I raced to George’s door and knocked urgently.
“Is Mrs. Powter here already?” George said, buttoning his vest and reaching for the jacket he’d left on the bed.
“No. Come look. Someone is hurt in the garden!” I opened George’s window and directed him to look down.
“That swath of purple cloth?”
“Yes, and it’s covering a leg and foot. I saw them when the wind blew the cloth aside. If she tried to call for help, no one would be able to hear her with all the windows closed. She must have injured herself in a fall and is unable to get up.”
“We’d better go downstairs and investigate.”
“Should we leave a note for Mrs. Powter?”
“No time. She’ll have to find us later on.”
We dashed down the hall to the door we’d seen Mrs. Powter open to find both the back staircase and the closed brass gate of the elevator.
“I’ll take the stairs,” George said. “Do you want to wait for the lift?”
“No, I’ll follow you. You go ahead.”
If I’d known I’d be running down the stairs, I would have chosen better shoes, but I managed to keep George in my sight as we descended several flights spiraling around the elevator shaft. We stopped on what we assumed was the ground floor.
“Which way?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“You take that hall. I’ll try this one,” he said. “If I don’t find the garden, I’ll look for someone to help. Call out if you find her.”
George took off, looking into rooms on either side of the corridor. I went in the opposite direction, following the stone floor, glad of the shawl in the frigid air. At the end of the hall was a heavy curtain. I pulled it to one side to discover an opening that led into a large greenhouse, its tall potted plants blotting out the dimming afternoon light. The leaves of a tropical plant just inside quaked when I stepped into the room, allowing some of the cool air to follow me. On the wall to my right was a heavy glass-paneled door that led to the enclosed garden.
I held back the curtain. “George! Down here,” I called. I opened the door, but it was very heavy. I looked around and noticed some wet dirt tracks on the floor. The plant was on a rolling stand. Clearly it had been moved before to hold the door open. I did the same thing and stepped into the walled garden. A woman was lying in a puddle just beyond the door. She wore only her purple dress and brown shoes; without a sweater or jacket, her attire was no match for the wintry day. I knelt next to her, pushing her blond hair aside to feel for a pulse on her neck. I couldn’t find one. I lifted her wrist to try again and was surprised to find red stains on her fingers. I wondered briefly if she was a fan of pistachio nuts. When I was a child, they were often dyed that color, leaving my fingers and lips cherry red.
But there was no dye on this lady’s lips, and from the gray color of her complexion, I guessed that she’d been dead for a while. How awful to die alone without the comfort of friends and family around you. I shivered and pulled my shawl closer as the icy air and brutal wind reminded me not to linger. I’d better go find George before there were two bodies in the garden.
I heard a bang and turned. The door had slammed shut behind me. I went to it, pulling and then pushing on the brass handle. It was locked. I peered through the glass to see if someone was inside. No one. “What do I do now?” I muttered, annoyed that I hadn’t checked to make certain that the wheels of the plant stand were positioned correctly to keep it from sliding away.
I rapped on the glass with my knuckles, but they made barely any sound. I took off my right shoe and used the heel to knock on the door again. “Hello!” I shouted. “I’m locked out here. Help! Someone help!” There was no answer, only the muffled sound of a dog barking somewhere.
I stepped back and looked up at the side of the building. All the windows were shut, which meant Mrs. Powter must have discovered us missing and closed the ones in our rooms, probably grumbling about inconsiderate guests.
A gust of wind caught my dress, just as it had the one of the poor woman dead on the ground. My skirt flew up, flattening against my chest. I shuddered as I pushed down the billowing material. I wondered if I should cover the victim with my shawl, but it would do her lifeless body little good and leave me without a shield against the elements.
I walked to the outer path by the stone wall, climbed on a concrete bench, and waved, hoping someone might notice me from one of the myriad windows that overlooked the garden. There were lights on in a few of the rooms. I could see people walking back and forth, but no one stopped to peer outside. In fact, someone drew a heavy drape across a window, undoubtedly making the interior warmer by blocking the drafts. It was bitterly cold on the periphery of the garden, and water from an earlier rain had seeped into my shoes. Even my arm-waving exertions did little to warm me up.
I climbed down and looked across to the glass door. Several yards to its left, wedged between a bush and an ornamental stone column, was another door, a wooden one, which I hadn’t noticed earlier. I hurried over. Stepping into a flower bed to get to what I hoped was an exit, I yanked on the handle. The door flew back to reveal a shallow closet, its shelves packed with flowerpots, garden tools, seed packets, boxes of Mole-Rid, bottles of insecticide, and bags of aluminum sulfate and lime. Even in the unlikely event I could have squeezed inside the closet, it wouldn’t have offered much protection.
Well, George will find me soon, I thought as I retreated to the glass door. He must be nearby. I continued knocking on the panels with my shoe, and at regular intervals shouting into the wind. Minutes went by with no George. The sky darkened and the temperature dropped. The trees and bushes took on eerie shapes in the gloom. Had he gotten lost? It was not outside the realm of possibility
, given the size of Castorbrook Castle. Could he have become disoriented and taken off in a direction away from where I waited? And if the staff was in the kitchen or readying the ballroom, they might not hear him call, just as they didn’t hear me as I pounded my shoe on the door. I pictured George wandering the hallways, unable to find anyone to help.
Stop it, Jessica. He knows to look for you.
My teeth chattering, I switched shoes, taking off my left one and pushing my frozen right foot into the damp leather pump, and resumed banging on the door. My arm was tired, my feet hurt, and the shawl wasn’t much protection against the currents of air swirling fiercely around the enclosed garden.
A bolt of lightning illuminated the charcoal sky, followed by a clap of thunder. I huddled against the door, but it provided scant shelter. I sank down, shoe in hand, and leaned against the glass, too tired to keep hitting the panes. I felt a drop of water on my head and pulled the shawl over my hair. I drew up my knees, making myself as small as possible.
Then the door opened behind me. I fell backward across the sill just as the rain began pelting down.
“Jessica, are you all right?” George said, lifting me up. “I’m so sorry. I never came upon anyone to ask for help. This place is huge. I got terribly turned around and had trouble finding my way back, until just now.”
“Th-thank g-goodness you’re here,” I said, my teeth chattering.
George closed the door to the garden and groped along the wall until he found a light switch, bringing the indoor jungle to life. Graceful plants and exotic flowers bloomed in the warm, moist air, making quite a contrast to the climate I’d just escaped.
He wrapped his arms around me. “You’re safe now. How do you feel?”
“I’m cold and miserable, George, but I’m a lot better off than that lady out there.”
Chapter Two
“Who was she?” I asked George in a low voice.
“Apparently she served as lady’s maid to our hostess.”
“Lady Norrance?”
He nodded. “Her name was Flavia Beckwith. She’d been with the family many years. Drink your tea.”
“Didn’t anyone miss her?” I whispered.
“With all the hustle and bustle of the staff getting ready for the ball, no one thought to look for her.”
I took a sip from the delicate china cup and replaced it in the saucer. I was wrapped in a heavy blanket in a wing chair in a corner of the drawing room near the tall Christmas tree, the branches of which held swags of gold ribbon, gold glass balls, and electric candles. George sat on an ottoman by my side. There were ten of us gathered for afternoon tea. George and I were the only ones who weren’t members of the family, but a few other guests were expected to arrive at any moment.
Our hosts, Lord and Lady Norrance, had fussed over me in my disheveled state, but they were understandably far more upset to learn of Mrs. Beckwith’s demise.
“What in blazes was she doing in the garden?” Lord Norrance asked, glaring at his wife.
Marielle, the Countess of Norrance, raised a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair into her chignon. “I asked her to find a sprig of holly that I could use for my hair for the ball.” She checked her image in the mirror over the fireplace. “I didn’t ask her to go into the garden.”
“Any sensible person knows it’s far too cold to walk outside at this time of year,” said a gravelly voice belonging to the Dowager Countess of Norrance, the earl’s widowed mother. Honora Grant was a slight woman in her seventies, but her delicate appearance belied her tough nature. Earlier, when she had leaned on Nigel’s arm as he escorted her into the room, she had pointed to a seat with her cane. “Put me over there where I can see everyone. Marielle, you know that’s my chair by the fire. Find another place, if you please.”
Lady Norrance obligingly vacated her seat so her mother-in-law could take it. Nigel placed a pillow he’d carried in on the chair, and Honora settled herself down. She cast a critical eye on the room’s other occupants. “I hope you’re not planning to cancel the ball because of this unfortunate incident.”
“Oh! We hadn’t thought . . .” The earl’s wife trailed off.
“You really should, you know,” said a young woman dressed in jodhpurs and boots. “We’ve had a death in the family.” She released the scarf around her neck and shook out her dark blond hair.
“Nonsense!” the earl said. “This event has been on the social calendar for many months.”
“Jemma, must you irritate your father?”
“Sorry, Mum.”
“We could hardly cancel now,” the earl said. “People are already arriving.” He waved an arm toward George and me.
“And very welcome you are,” said Rupert Grant, the earl’s younger son, nodding at us, causing a curl from his carefully gelled hair to flop onto his forehead. He was a boyish-looking fellow in his mid-twenties. “Besides, Flavia would not have wanted to discomfort the family in any way.” He leaned forward to pluck a pastry from a silver tray. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”
“You’re correct, of course, dear. Please take a plate and napkin. Mrs. Beckwith was dedicated to Castorbrook Castle and our family.”
“Wasn’t she the children’s governess once?” the dowager asked.
“Yes, Grandmother,” Rupert said, “but she needed another job when the three of us rudely decided to grow up.” He cocked his head at his sister, Jemma, the horsewoman, and their older brother, Kip, who sat across the room and idly paged through a magazine. “And Mother gave the old girl another position.”
“Ridiculous! She wasn’t even trained.” Honora thumped her cane on the floor. “Can’t imagine she could have been a proper lady’s maid without training. But then your mother probably doesn’t know the difference.”
Marielle flushed and looked to her husband for defense, but he was lost in thought as he stared into the fire.
Rupert popped up out of his seat, taking the tray of pastries with him. “Would you like to try one of these, Grandmother? They were made by our new French chef.”
“What was wrong with the English one?”
“Clover is still in the kitchen,” Marielle said. “We simply felt Chef Bergère would add an elegant touch to the cuisine, in particular for special occasions. He has been a wonderful change.” She turned to her husband. “James, would you like a cream tart?”
“Don’t encourage him to eat those sugary things. He’s too heavy as it is. You’ll give him a heart attack,” Honora said.
The earl patted his stomach. “I don’t think I’ve put on much, have I?”
“Nothing wrong with plain English cooking,” the old woman said, but she allowed her grandson to put a piece of pastry on her plate.
“I like Clover’s scones better than those,” Jemma said, flinging a booted leg over the arm of her chair. Even from my seat some distance away, I could detect the aroma of horse that clung to her clothing.
“Nigel, would you please see if anyone wants more tea?” Marielle took a seat on an upholstered settee. The low table in front of her held a silver tray with a silver teapot, sugar bowl, and creamer. “Jemma, sit up, dear. Kip, where is your wife?”
“Sitting in the window seat with Adela,” Rupert answered for his brother.
Two young ladies who’d been whispering together on the other side of the room looked up and waved. “Poppy’s showing me her new ball gown,” Adela called out. “You should see it, Rupe. I’m going to look like a poor relation. My gown is three years old.”
“Cost me a bloody fortune,” Kip said. “You’d think she was already a countess.”
“Put that mobile away this instant,” the earl said. “You know how I detest the use of electronics during teatime.”
“And at the table, and in the library, and in the garden,” Rupert said. “I daresay there are few places you tolerate them, Father. Perhaps we should send those two out to the cloakroom.”
The young women giggled. Poppy tucked the cell phone away in her pocke
t, but not before a final check of the screen.
“Rupert, I don’t need any smart talk from you,” said the earl. “If you ever have an estate to run, you won’t be so flippant about the responsibilities.”
“Unfortunately, I’m your younger son, as you well know. I have no prospects for inheriting an estate.”
“More reason for you to pursue gainful employment.”
“You could change your mind and give me a piece of this one.”
“I’ll not break up Castorbrook for you.”
“You’ve already . . .”
“Not another word. I’ve accommodated you enough. I trust you’ll use this opportunity wisely. I won’t be supporting you forever.”
“Kip will take care of me. Won’t you, Brother?”
“Leave me out of this.”
“If you need a job, Rupert, you could always take Mrs. Beckwith’s place,” Kip’s wife, Poppy, said, smirking.
Her companion in the window seat gave her a shove in the shoulder.
“I was just joshing, Adela. No need to get violent.”
“You’re always picking on Rupert, Poppy. Kip’s being the heir doesn’t make you Queen of the May.”
“No?” Poppy said archly. “I thought it did.”
While no one was paying him any attention, Kip slipped a small flask from his pocket and poured its contents into his teacup.
Honora, who had appeared to be dozing, lifted her head. “Those young people are completely without conversation.” She peered over her spectacles. “In my day—”
“Yes, yes, Mother.” The earl cut her off. “We know everything was superior in your day.”
“Well, I don’t know what I said that prompted you to speak so rudely to me, James.”
“I never intended disrespect, Mama. My mind is awash with a million problems. I’m upset over the loss of our staff member, the anticipated consequences, and how we will replace her on such short notice.”
“Your wife should be able to dress herself in an emergency, I would think.”
Death of a Blue Blood Page 2