“Believe he went into town.”
“What for?”
The young man shrugged. “Jus’ said he had to make arrangements. Didn’t say for what.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Not certain, m’lord.”
The earl heaved a sigh. “All right. Saddle up Todoro for me, will you, when you’re done with that?” He waved at the pitchfork.
“Yes, m’lord.”
The earl guided me to one of the stalls where a bay-colored horse with a white star between her eyes moved slowly, her belly clearly distended. “This is our prize mare, Lamia. Brought her all the way from Kentucky. Her sire was a derby winner.”
“Is she about to foal?” I asked, hoping there was nothing else wrong with her.
“Any day now. We expect great things from her.” He reached out to caress the mare’s neck, but she backed away, snorting. “Just like a woman,” he said, laughing. He moved down the stalls. “This one’s Aramis. He’s Kip’s if he ever gets his a—” He stopped, editing what he was about to say. “If he ever gets down here to exercise him. Our trainer will take him out, but it’s better for a horse to know who his master is.”
“Is Colin the trainer?”
“You know Colin?”
“No. I just heard you ask for him.”
“Of course. Yes, he’s our trainer. Fine young man. Been around horses all his life. Started as a groom, a stable lad, just like Ian, there.” He waved a hand in the stable boy’s direction. “I sent Colin to work with one of the most famous trainers in Britain, up near Balmoral Castle, the queen’s Scottish home. Man used to work for the royal family there. Wasn’t happy being sent away—Colin, that is. Thought he knew all there was to know about horses. But now I think he appreciates the opportunity. Gave him a profession. He can work anywhere in the world. In fact, I had an impressive offer for his services just yesterday from a peer in Cardiff.”
If Colin was the young man Ruby said Jemma came home to see every weekend, the earl’s daughter would not be happy with that piece of news. I wondered if the nobility still thought they could direct the lives of all the people who worked for them, sending them to another aristocratic house when their service was no longer needed or desired. Maybe the earl suspected that his daughter was infatuated with the trainer and wanted to quash it in the best way he knew, by getting Colin a better job far away.
“Yes, Colin is a first-rate trainer,” he said proudly. “Knows every one of these beasts, all their peculiarities and preferences. That’s what’s required in a good stable.”
I hesitated to voice what I was thinking—that if a good stable required a good trainer, why would he consider sending Colin away? Instead, I asked, “Which horse is your daughter’s favorite?”
“That would be Elektra, this one here,” he said, walking to a stall with a black mare inside. “Jemma babies her, puts up with her skittishness, but she’s too high-strung for me.”
“The horse, you mean.”
“What? Oh, yes. Very droll, you are. Jemma’s a bit high-strung herself, but an excellent horsewoman, the best rider of my children. Sits a horse like a man, a natural in the saddle. Wish my sons were. . . .” He trailed off. “Well, every man has his strong points. Speaking of strong points, has Rupert laid out his scheme to you?”
I felt my stomach fall. “No,” I said lightly. “We were introduced at tea yesterday, but I haven’t spoken with him since.”
“Well, he’d better get on his horse if he expects anything to come of your visit here, no pun intended.”
I was reluctant to pursue the topic any further, but thought the earl might find my lack of curiosity odd, so I said, “Griffin Semple told me that Rupert wants to be a film producer.”
“‘Wants to be’ is the operative term. So far he’s nothing more than a dilettante. Starts one thing, drops it, goes on to another.” His lips formed a tight line. Then he sighed. “I understand you have experience with filmmaking.”
“Only peripherally,” I said. “Some of my mystery books were optioned by Hollywood and a few were made into films, but my involvement was only as a script adviser. I know nothing about the production process itself, and much less about the financing, distribution, and marketing ends of the business.”
“It sounds as if you know more than you think. I don’t go to the cinema myself, so Rupert’s ambitions are foreign to me, but he insists his mates from university have all the expertise needed to make any project successful. He claims that with the right ‘property,’ as he calls it, sponsors will shower them with money.”
I turned away so the earl couldn’t see my smile. In my experience, Rupert was very naive if he expected investors to fund the moviemaking fantasies of rank amateurs. But far be it for me to discourage him—or his father. Stranger things have happened—especially in the entertainment industry.
“You think he’s a fool, don’t you?” Lord Norrance said, disgust in his voice.
“No. I wouldn’t say that. Having big dreams isn’t foolish. If it were, there would never be great things accomplished in the world. I would say, however, that Rupert is very optimistic, and he’ll need to work twice as hard as the next person and be dedicated and persistent if he wants to fulfill his dreams.”
“I have two do-nothing sons. I should disinherit them both and leave the whole lot to Jemma, but she’d never thank me for it. An estate like this is more than a full-time job; it’s a lifetime commitment.” He stopped, perhaps embarrassed that he’d revealed so much of his thinking to a virtual stranger. We were both thankful when we heard a cough behind us.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Lordship, but here’s Todoro ready for you.”
“Good. You don’t ride, do you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No, I don’t.” I could see relief plainly written on the earl’s face.
“Well, then you must excuse me.” He took the reins from Ian and invited me to walk outside. “They’ll be serving breakfast up at the house by now. Thank you for telling me about your film experience. When Rupert finally gets around to discussing his plans with you, I hope you’ll set him straight.”
“I’ll tell him exactly what I told you.”
The earl put his boot into Ian’s cupped hands and vaulted into the saddle. He took up the reins and pulled the horse’s head toward the meadow. “I suppose that will have to do.”
Chapter Seven
“There you are,” George said when I found him in the dining room sitting next to Elmore Jackcliff, the artist we’d met at afternoon tea the day before.
“I was down at the stable.” I took a seat across from the men. “Lord Norrance showed me around himself.”
“Ah, that’s what you were telling me when I was on my mobile,” George said. “Wasn’t certain.”
“Very fond of ’is ’orses, is Norrance,” Jackcliff said, his Cockney accent clearly marking him as a nonaristocrat. “’Opes to build up a racing string, as I understand it. Not that ’e tells me ’imself. I’m Lady Norrance’s pet, not his.”
“Have you known Lady Norrance a long time?” I asked.
“She was a student of mine in ’er younger days—Marielle Dillard, before she married up. Daughter of a baronet, Sir Martin Dillard. Rather lower on the nobility scale than she is now.” He examined his fingernails and made a show of polishing them on the sleeve of his woolen jacket. “Still above the rank of a commoner such as the likes of us.” He laughed. “She’s the earl’s second wife, you know.”
“We didn’t know,” I said.
“Very nice of ’er to keep me on, and to invite me to the party,” he said, taking a pad from his pocket and scribbling on the paper with a marker. “I’m painting ’er portrait in oils. Giving us a chance to renew our friendship. O’ course, His Lordship only agreed, I am informed, because I’m charging them peanuts. But I figure I got the best of the bargain.”
“How’s that?” George asked.
“She’s my intro to the aristocracy, don’t you se
e? All those nice toffs I get to chat up today and tonight. Might get one or two commissions out of it, maybe more. Who knows? Kip’s wife, Poppy, already wants her portrait painted. She’s going to be the next countess—and can’t wait. All this is worth my renting a tux for the occasion.”
“Well, then you both benefit, you and the countess,” I said.
“Elmore’s being modest,” George put in. “He’s got a gallery in Notting Hill, and probably has his own dress suit.” He eyed the painter. “I read about you in the Times. You’re not exactly a starving artist living in a garret.”
“Don’t let my secrets out now,” he said, elbowing George. “I was that once. And these posh types like to think they’ve discovered a new talent and are supporting the arts.”
As he spoke, his Cockney accent softened, and I realized that Elmore Jackcliff liked to create a portrait of himself in words. It made me wonder how much of what he said could be believed.
“Does the countess still paint?” I asked.
“She dabbles, but she’s more into gardening now. The castle has a beautiful conservatory. That’s her doing. Have you seen it yet? Lots of exotic plants and potted palms. Bit of a jungle, but très chic.”
“We were there yesterday,” I said, watching George’s face for a sign as to whether I should say why. Jackcliff and several other guests had entered the drawing room after the discussion about Mrs. Beckwith had ended. Since George and I had left the room when the police arrived, I didn’t know if the subject of her death had come up again over tea.
“You’re talking about the room off the enclosed garden?” George asked.
“Yes, stunning space, isn’t it? She came into the marriage with quite a bit of her own money, and that was her first great project.” He cocked his head, looking down at his pad. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see what he was writing. “There’s the ‘secret garden,’ too, as she likes to call the outside one. Brought old Angus along with her to the castle to set it up. He was her father’s gardener. He can’t stand the earl, but he’s totally devoted to her.”
“I believe he’s the one who carried up our luggage yesterday,” I said.
Elmore laughed again. “So, he’s filling in as footman, too, is he? The earl must be short of cash again.”
“Or simply short of staff,” I said, thinking Lady Norrance would not appreciate that the man whose patronage she provided would sneer at the family so casually.
“Did you happen to know Mrs. Beckwith, who was Lady Norrance’s maid?” I asked.
“The lovely Flavia? Always did like blondes. Yes. I heard about her unfortunate demise.”
“Did you know her well?”
“No one knew Flavia well, except perhaps the earl.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll have to ask Marielle for the details—Lady Norrance, that is. They were this close”—he held up two fingers—“at one point anyway.”
George pushed himself back from the table and slapped his thighs. “Well, I’m well fed and ready for a walk. What say, lass? Are you up for a stroll into the village? You’re welcome to join us, of course, Jackcliff.”
“No. No. You two run along. I like to be inside when it’s cold outside, a carryover from my garret days. Besides, I’m sure I can find someone—perhaps less well-read and not a chief inspector—to amuse with my tales.” He tore off the top sheet of paper on his pad and handed it to me across the table. It was a sketch of my face with a palm tree in the background.
“How nice,” I said. “Thank you.”
“A souvenir of your visit,” Jackcliff said. He clapped George on the shoulder and gave me a wide smile. “See you two tonight at the grand event.”
“Did you straighten everything out with Scotland Yard?” I asked George when we’d left the dining room.
“I did,” he said, looking at his watch, “but I have to ring up a colleague whose shift doesn’t start until one o’clock. I hope I don’t miss him. Will you remind me?” He shook his head. “I must be getting old. My memory is not what it was.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whose is these days? Age doesn’t have exclusive claim on poor memory. I’ve heard young people complain about forgetting names, promises, or appointments. At the risk of sounding like a fuddy-duddy, I think our lives are far too busy to keep track of everything we want to do—at least mine is, and clearly yours as well.”
“You could never be accused of being a fuddy-duddy, whatever that is.”
“I hope you’re right. But, in any case, between our two brains, I’m sure one of us will remember you need to make a call at one.” I took his arm and lowered my voice. “By the way, did you really want to walk into town, or were you just using that as an excuse to get away from our artist friend?”
George gave a bark of laughter. “He is quite full of himself, isn’t he?”
“Lady Norrance would be horrified if she overheard what he was saying about her and the earl. How can someone who considers himself to be so close to her be so indiscreet?”
“It’s a shame, but the countess should be careful of the friends she allows into her inner circle. People like Jackcliff, who stand to gain from the acquaintance, are more interested in raising their own reputations regardless of the cost to hers.”
“After this morning, I didn’t imagine I would feel sorry for the countess, but now I do.”
“What transpired this morning?”
I filled George in on my conversation with the earl, and his expectation that his wife would get over her maid’s death because he’d hired a replacement.
“That’s one cold gentleman,” George said, tsking.
“Cold and more than a little arrogant. While he was perfectly pleasant to me, I noticed that the only ones he wished ‘good morning’ were the dogs.”
Chapter Eight
Chipping Minster was a good two miles from Castorbrook Castle. George and I had dressed for the season, but after walking a mile, we were pulling off our scarves and opening our jackets, and by the time we reached the village, our bodies were warm, our cheeks rosy, and we’d worked up a hearty appetite. At least I had. The half croissant I’d eaten before I accompanied the earl to his stables was long gone, and my empty stomach demanded to be fed.
“Shall we stop at the Muddy Badger?” George asked. “Don’t know what kind of kitchen they have.”
“I’ll be happy as long as it serves food.”
The pub, which was part of the inn, was on the edge of town, and with its warm yellow Cotswold stone walls and thatched roof, it looked as if it had been built to pose for a picture postcard. On the stone walk outside the front door was a water bowl for visiting dogs; there was also a ring on a post to tether a horse. Inside, twinkling lights dangled from the beams on the low ceiling, causing George to duck his head.
Wooden benches took up two walls, round and square tables in front of them, most of them empty. Christmas wreaths hung in every window, the corners of which had been spray-painted with fake snow. We took seats as far away from the large fireplace as we could get. George piled our outerwear on the chair next to his.
“Specials are on the chalkboard,” the barmaid called out from behind the corner of the bar where she was drying mugs. “I’ll be right with you.”
“What would you like, Jessica? You never had a proper breakfast.”
“Right now, the ploughman’s pie is appealing.” I squinted at the sign. “But I’m so hungry, my eyes may be bigger than my stomach.” The menu promised two wedges of cheese, sliced apple, veggies, and a dish of chutney along with the meat pie.
“You go right ahead. I’ll help you with whatever you can’t finish.”
“It’s a deal.”
We placed our orders with the barmaid, George opting for a short lager and I for tea to accompany our meal. Our drinks arrived first.
“It’s good to get out in the fresh air.” I took in a deep breath, hummed it out, and warmed my hands on the mug of tea. “I miss getting regular exercise
when I travel.”
“You did yourself well this morning. And if we walk back to the castle, you’ll have clocked nearly six and a half kilometers today.”
I laughed. “That’s four miles, but it sounds more impressive in kilometers. Oh, I forgot to ask. Do you know when Detective Sergeant Mardling is coming back?”
“I spoke to Nigel this morning. He said he expects both officers back this afternoon and that the detective sergeant told him he might have to stay late.”
“I’ll bet Nigel wasn’t happy about that. Is he hoping that you’ll keep the detective sergeant busy so the staff can concentrate on the ball?”
“He didn’t come right out and ask, but I got the impression that he would be grateful if that were the case. He said he could free up one or two of the staff for questioning early on, should they be needed, but he was adamant that after four o’clock, no one would be available until the next day.”
“I think Detective Sergeant Mardling will understand, don’t you?”
“If not, I’ll give him bad marks for community relations.”
While we waited for our food, a young man in a plaid cap and tweed jacket walked in and took a stool at the bar.
“Mornin’, Colin Stanhope,” the barmaid said. “Not working today?”
“Good day, Doreen. I’d rather watch you work.”
“None of your sass, now, young man. What’ll you be having?”
“A pint and a plate of bangers and mash, please.”
“Unless I’m very much mistaken,” I whispered to George, cocking my head at the newcomer, “I think that young man may be the horse trainer up at the castle.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The earl was asking for Colin this morning, but he was told Colin had gone into the village.”
“Not exactly an unusual name over here,” George replied in a low voice. “Might be a different Colin.”
“What’re you doing in town today?” Doreen asked as she placed a glass under the tap to fill with beer. When her first pull yielded more foam than beer, she poured it out and started again. “Isn’t there a holiday ball up at the castle tonight with bigwigs arriving all day?”
Death of a Blue Blood Page 6