The earl was handsome in his tuxedo, pearl gray waistcoat, and white gloves. “Thank you for coming,” he said, shaking my hand and then George’s.
The countess was a picture of elegant simplicity in a column of white satin accented by a red sash that ran across her shoulders and tied behind her back. For jewelry, she wore only ruby earrings and a large domed ring with a fleur-de-lis pattern in diamonds that was fitted over her long white kid gloves. She took my hand in both of hers. “You must excuse that little scene at tea this afternoon,” she said with a pert smile. “How embarrassing to have you witness that.”
“It’s forgotten,” I said, thinking that the one who deserved an apology was poor Elsbeth, who’d been really shaken, first by her fall, and then by being the victim of the countess’s wrath. I didn’t say that, of course. Instead, I thanked Lady Norrance for inviting George and me to the ball and for having us as her houseguests.
“Not at all,” she replied, waving a hand in the air. She turned to George. “But you could do us a great favor.”
“At your service, my lady.”
“Try to keep that odious Mardling fellow under control, won’t you? It’s provoking that James even allowed him to be here,” she said, flashing a raised eyebrow at her husband. “I don’t want that man pushing his nose into our affairs and disturbing the guests.”
“I’ll do my very best,” George replied.
After greeting the other family members in the reception line, we stepped inside the great ballroom, together with some one hundred forty close friends and relations of Lord and Lady Norrance. The spacious room sparkled like a fairyland with crystal chandeliers and sconces. In the corners, tall Christmas trees, reaching nearly to the ceiling, were decorated in gold and white, with their delicate lace snowflakes and sparkling glass ornaments hanging from branches that were also host to flickering crystal birds.
Unlike the other public rooms, which were painted or papered in dark colors, the walls here were a pale robin’s egg blue with gold latticework panels set in the coffered ceiling. Ornate gold-framed mirrors, hung between the tall glass windows, reflected back the glittering lights and even more glittering guests. On the opposite wall, gold filigree screens—three panels of pointed arches—echoed the shapes of the windows. The screens were flanked by tall free-standing candelabra with more candles than I had ever seen in one place, apparently undamaged by their roll on the carpet after tea.
The space in front of the jazz band was already filled with couples dancing to the big-band classics. George and I slowly made our way through the room. All around us, guests chattered, greeting old friends, catching up with news, and gossiping about our hosts. Snippets of conversation reached our ears.
“I see Norrance is doing well,” I overheard a guest say to his companion. “This bit of décor must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“Word is the high-end hotel chains are queued up to woo him,” she replied. “They must be lining his pockets.”
“Did you see the sapphire ring Kip’s wife is wearing?” a young woman asked her escort. “Poppy is flaunting her jewelry like she’s already the countess. I’m sure Marielle doesn’t appreciate it. She hates to be outshone.”
“Wanna bet the dowager passed down one of her baubles just to annoy her daughter-in-law? My father says the elder Lady Norrance never liked the earl’s choice in wives.”
“I must say this champagne is not the highest quality,” a matronly woman told her escort. She took a full glass and placed her empty one on the tray held by a waiter whose back was to us.
“Probably saving the good stuff for themselves,” the gentleman muttered.
The waiter, who turned out to be Archer Estwich, pivoted and extended the tray of tall glasses. “Would you and the inspector like some champagne?”
George shook his head, smiling.
“I thought it was pretty good quality myself when I sampled it in the kitchen.” Archer winked at me.
“I’m all set for now,” I said, laughing, “but we’ll look for you a little later.”
George and I drifted among the partygoers, keeping an eye out for Mardling and anyone else we might know. On the dance floor were Ruby and Griffin, she in a gray silk organza gown with a plunging neckline and skirt slit up to her thigh. When Griffin twirled her around and dipped her back, I was almost afraid to look, but her dress stayed in place with no “wardrobe malfunction” to embarrass her.
As Ruby had predicted, some of the guests were in costume, several of them attired in classic black-and-white harlequin checkerboard, and wearing half masks. I spotted Jemma dancing with one of them, and wondered if Colin had been invited to the ball, and if not, if she’d sneaked him past her parents by having him come in a costume.
With all the elegantly attired guests, it was not difficult to spot Dudley Mardling in a navy suit with his six-foot-tall assistant. They were standing off to the side, in front of one of the gold filigree screens. Willoughby, to her credit, wore a floor-length black dress rather than her uniform, but it was hard not to notice that she felt distinctly out of place, adjusting her shoulder straps and pulling at her long white gloves.
“Good evening, Detective Sergeant, Constable,” George said when we approached them. “Is this duty part of the inquest?”
“Tough to get through all the staff interviews in one afternoon,” Mardling said. “The earl and the countess still haven’t accommodated our requests.”
“You can’t possibly think they’ll talk with you during the ball,” George said.
“No, of course not. We’re just observing the scene. Lord Norrance gave his permission. Don’t have a dress suit, but thought this would do better than a canvas coat and tweeds.” He gestured at his clothes.
“We didn’t want to stand out,” Willoughby said, wincing.
“You look lovely,” I told her.
She gave me a weak smile.
“Chief Inspector?” Mardling lowered his voice as he leaned toward George. “Sorry to get off on the wrong foot this afternoon.”
“No problem. You had the right of the situation.”
“We did as you suggested. Questioned the housekeeper.” He nodded at me. “She swore nothing had been amiss in the deceased’s quarters. Said no one other than you two had been on the premises since the lady’s death.”
George’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“She’s not trying to say we’re responsible, is she?” I said.
Mardling coughed to clear his throat. “You know you’ve never shown us any identification.”
“I beg your pardon,” George said.
Willoughby jumped in. “Mrs. Powter suggested that you two might not be who you say you are.” A blush rose in her cheeks. “She told us she overheard you plotting to steal the silver, artwork, and jewelry in the house.”
“Good heavens!” I said. “I remember saying to George that whoever ransacked the room must have been looking for something; a common thief wouldn’t bother with Mrs. Beckwith’s modest possessions with a houseful of valuables downstairs.” I held out my palms and looked around at the opulent surroundings. “At the risk of sounding flippant, that hardly qualifies as planning a burglary.”
“It explains what she heard, however,” Mardling said.
“I hope you looked us up and are reassured we are who we say we are,” George said to him.
“Not to concern yourself, Chief Inspector. Called the Yard to confirm and also saw your photograph on the Times of London website.”
“Did you check up on me, too?” I asked.
“I did,” Willoughby put in. “Even ordered one of your books, one with your picture on the back.”
I didn’t know if I should thank her. Perhaps Mardling had told her to buy the book to provide his superiors with proof of my identity.
Willoughby stole a glance at her superior officer before continuing. “I spoke with Mrs. Powter. She claims that she never saw anything in a muddle upstairs, and if it had been, then someone else mu
st have tidied it, because the last time she entered the room, it appeared as it is now.”
“I find that very difficult to believe,” I said, thinking that the housekeeper had a lot to account for.
“As do I,” George added.
Mardling shrugged. “She could be lying. But why?”
“If she ransacked the room herself,” I said, “it’s unlikely she’d step forward to admit it.”
“Why would she turn a room upside down and then clean it up?”
“Come now, Mardling,” George said, dropping the man’s title. “The occupant of the apartment is deceased. If the housekeeper knew or suspected that the dead woman had some money hidden somewhere, that could be motive enough.”
“Or if she’s not lying to defend herself,” I added, “perhaps she’s covering up to protect someone else.”
“Do you happen to have anyone in mind?”
“I don’t.”
George heaved a sigh. “Difficult as this may be to believe, Detective Sergeant, given all we’ve been through, Mrs. Fletcher and I only arrived here yesterday afternoon. We’re scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow. I’m afraid you’re going to have to work on this investigation yourselves.”
I squeezed George’s hand. I had suggested we let Flavia Beckwith rest in peace and allow Mardling to go his own way with the inquest, but I hadn’t been certain if George would take my advice.
Mardling coughed again. “Didn’t mean to impose. Just thought you might have an opinion on the matter.”
“I didn’t believe that Mrs. Beckwith’s death was suspicious to begin with,” George said, glancing at me, then back to Mardling, “that is until I saw her bedroom last evening. Her demise may still be ascribed to natural causes, but you won’t be able to confirm that until the coroner’s tests are concluded.”
“As you say, and that may not be for several weeks’ time,” Mardling said. “Since you and Mrs. Fletcher have told us what you observed, we’ve decided another interview with the housekeeper is in order. Is there anyone else in particular you recommend that we interview?”
“You know your business well enough, Detective Sergeant, Constable,” George said, nodding at each of them. “You don’t need us to advise you. We plan to spend the rest of the evening enjoying the festivities. Since you’re here, you may as well do the same. I will give you one suggestion, however.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t conduct any police business during the ball. It’s unlikely you could get anyone to focus on your questions, and it won’t endear you to your hosts.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Are you enjoying yourself?” George murmured in my ear some hours later.
“Very much,” I said, leaning into him, as we moved together to the music of “All the Things You Are.”
The band had switched from up-tempo classics like “Anything Goes” and “A Fine Romance” to a slow dance. I suspected they had changed their pace to try to discourage Kip Grant from leading the musicians. The earl’s heir, who, having had quite a bit more than one too many, had plucked a hair ornament resembling a chopstick from some poor lady’s chignon and proceeded to conduct the band, tapping out the beat on the microphone stand and singing off-key, although he surprised me by even knowing any of the lyrics in the first place.
Ruby had told me that the band was an abbreviated group that was usually part of a popular dance orchestra known for its attachment to the 1940s and 1950s songbooks, with a little Beatles thrown in for good measure. The bandleader had split its many musicians into quartets, quintets, and sextets to accommodate the increased demand for their services on New Year’s Eve. The earl and his countess had rated a sextet: piano, string bass, saxophone, trumpet, guitar, and drums. The trumpeter, a woman, doubled on vocals.
Before Kip’s impromptu session as a conductor, he had set his champagne glass on the side of the music rack of the Steinway grand piano, earning a scowl from the pianist, who then placed the glass on the floor next to several other glasses that people had unthinkingly left on his instrument.
“Are you sure you don’t know any Pink?” Kip had asked. “No? How about Destiny’s Child? Everybody knows ‘Say My Name.’ That’s a classic. No? Only my father would pick such a supernannu—no—superannunated band. Super-nunu-ated. Something like that. You like that word? It means old.”
“Easy for you to say,” the trumpeter, a woman no older than forty, had responded, eliciting laughs from her fellow musicians.
Just then, Kip’s wife, teetering on stiletto heels, had grabbed his arm to pull him away.
“Wait, Poppy. The band needs me.”
“I want to eat. You can come back later. They’re starting the dinner service.”
Kip crooned along to “All the Things You Are” as his wife dragged him off.
George mouthed the rest of the chorus. “‘Someday my happy arms will hold you,’” he sang softly, “‘And someday I’ll know that moment divine / When all the things you are, are mine.’”
“I didn’t know you could sing,” I said, smiling up into his face.
“I particularly like that lyric. It’s rather apt, I think.”
I don’t normally blush, but I could feel my cheeks flushing.
“I’m embarrassing you?” George said, nuzzling my temple.
“A little,” I said.
“Then let’s abandon the dance floor and follow our hosts’ eldest into dinner. Would you like that?”
“I’m actually quite hungry.”
“And I know how your mood changes when you crave something to eat.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” I said, but I stepped out of his embrace and we joined those leaving the ballroom on the way to the dining room on the floor above. Elmore Jackcliff, in a long black cape, was walking just behind us, arm in arm with one of the costumed guests. “We meet again.” He wagged his eyebrows up and down, reminding me of Groucho Marx.
Waiting by the door, the earl’s mother leaned on Rupert’s arm while his wife, Adela, carried the old lady’s pillow. We slowed our gait to allow them to walk ahead of us. Rupert gave me a tight smile and a nod as they started up the stairs to the main floor. Blocked from moving more quickly, I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.
“Are the hotel people here?” the dowager countess asked.
“I believe so,” Rupert replied.
“How much are they offering?”
“I heard one bidder plans to invest three hundred fifty million pounds, but I don’t know how much of that the earl gets to keep, and how much is plowed into renovations.”
“I hope they put in a spa,” Adela said. “I would love a spa.”
“You wouldn’t get to use it anyway,” her husband responded. “Kip said they told him he could keep a suite for himself. I’m assuming Mother and Father could stay if they want, but no one else was mentioned. So I guess that leaves the rest of us out.”
“Does that mean we’d have to move, Rupe?” Adela asked.
“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”
“But where would we go?” Adela’s voice came dangerously close to a whine.
“At least we’d get some money out of it,” Rupert said.
“Ridiculous!” Honora said. “Castorbrook has been in the family for generations. I won’t have James selling it out from under us.”
“I don’t believe you can stop him, Grandmother. Mother’s all for it. Lucky for you, the dower house isn’t included in the deal, so your home isn’t threatened.”
“It is if my son isn’t willing to use receipts from the castle to cover my expenses.”
“I thought you were financially secure, Grandmother.”
“My finances are not your concern, young man, but I will say I don’t intend to move from my home of eighty-three years. And I certainly object to Castorbrook becoming a full-time hotel. Accommodating the wedding trade is bad enough.”
“If there isn’t a hotel buyer, he may have to sell to someone else,�
�� Rupert said as they reached the landing. “The castle is not earning its keep. The earl put together this event to show us at our best, to give prospective buyers an idea of what’s possible with an infusion of cash.”
Honora halted in her slow walk to the dining room. She fixed her grandson with a stern look and poked her index finger into his chest. “No hotel,” she said in a low voice. “If you want to remain in my will, get some of your movie friends involved. You’re always nattering on about how smart they are. Prove it! We’ve got to stop your father from selling to a hotel.”
“Let me help you to your table, Grandmother.”
“You understand what I said?”
“I understand.”
“Well, well, well,” Jackcliff whispered, leaning between our shoulders after the three Grants had moved on. “Intrigue in the Earl of Norrance’s family.”
Chapter Fifteen
Chef Bergère was the star at dinner, directing the service from the side of the dining room and racing back to the kitchen between courses. The menu, according to an engraved card at each place setting, included Devon crab dim sum with mustard velouté, coquilles Saint Jacques, duck breast with cherry and mango chutney, truffled langoustines with celeriac purée and champagne risotto, and a salad of sweet potato, chestnuts, and baby leeks, all accompanied by wines matched to the courses.
George and I shared a table with Ruby and Griffin, who greeted us like old friends; the earl’s business adviser, Lionel Fitzwalter, and his wife, Birdie, a tiny woman who lived up to her name with her high voice and occasional head twitches; and Elmore Jackcliff and his costumed friend, an Italian lady whom he introduced as Zita Aldobruzzichelli. Her thick accent, augmented by several glasses of champagne, rendered it almost impossible to make out what she was saying, although she certainly was a cheerful dinner companion as she laughed at every comment Jackcliff made.
“Bergère’s sure to get another star if he continues to cook like this,” Griffin said, patting his lips with his napkin at the end of the meal.
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