Clover ran forward and pulled at the arm of one of the officers. “Leave my son be.”
“Madam, if you don’t let go of my sleeve, I’ll have to take you in for willfully obstructing a constable in the execution of his duties.”
Clover dropped her hand, but she refused to back away. “I demand to know what you are doing with my son.”
“We have reasonable grounds to bring him in.”
“Reasonable? What’s reasonable?” Archer tried to shrug off their grip, but the constables had his arms pinned behind his back as they pressed him against the wall.
“You already questioned him last night. Why do you need to take him to the station house for more questions?”
“We have our orders. Now will you come quietly?”
“I’ll come quietly if you let go of my arms.”
The officers took a step back but maintained their positions, flanking Clover’s son so he couldn’t make a break for it.
Archer shook his hands and rubbed his arms.
“Archer Rodney Estwich, you are—,” one of the officers began.
“Will you let me talk? I already admitted to the judge that I stole the poison to keep Melton from killing the badgers. I paid my fine and was dismissed. You can’t charge me again with the same crime.”
“We’re not charging you with the same crime.”
“Then what do you call this?” Archer shouted, throwing his hands up.
“Don’t add resisting arrest to the charges.”
“What charges?” Clover and Archer said at the same time.
The constable replied, “Archer Rodney Estwich, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder.”
“Murder? So someone killed Melton?” Archer shook his head. “Well, he certainly took enough innocent lives himself.”
The officer continued. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“I didn’t kill Farmer Melton. When did this happen? I was working here all day yesterday. Ask my mother. Ask Mrs. Powter.”
“We’re not arresting you for the murder of Farmer Melton. We’re arresting you for the murder of James William Edward Grant, seventh Earl of Norrance.”
“What? I was told the earl had a heart attack.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Clover shouted.
“Better contact your criminal solicitor, madam.”
“I don’t have a criminal solicitor.”
“He had someone representing him the last time we arrested him.”
Mrs. Powter turned her head and sniffed the air. “Something is burning.”
“My cinnamon rolls!”
Chapter Nineteen
George and I stood outside the entrance to Castorbrook Castle, waiting for our driver, Ralph. Inside, Marielle, the Countess of Norrance, and her family accepted the condolences of their departing guests.
They stood in the same reception line as they had for the ball, only this time, Kip and Poppy were at the head of the line, an acknowledgment of their new roles as the Earl and Countess of Norrance, followed by Kip’s mother, then his grandmother, brother, and sister-in-law. James William Edward Grant, eighth Earl of Norrance—Kip’s full name—was very pale and shaky. Those who hadn’t seen his inebriated behavior the previous evening must have thought the young earl’s trembling fingers were a result of his great grief over the death of his father. Those who’d seen him drinking understood that the new Lord Norrance was terribly hungover.
Poppy kept a sharp eye on her husband, nudging his side when he shut his eyes and swayed on his feet. I gathered that she was not about to let him miss this first responsibility in their newly elevated status.
“Ralph’s on his way,” George said to me. He shaded his eyes to peer down the driveway. “We can’t remain here without transportation. I’ve asked him to stay on a few days, and he’s agreed. I’ve arranged to put him up at the inn. We’ve worked out a fair compensation.”
“I thought Scotland Yard was sending someone to take over the case,” I said.
“It may be a while. The holiday schedules have the assignments all bollixed up, and no one else is available at the moment. You don’t mind terribly, do you, Jessica?”
“I don’t mind at all, George, but I’m not certain our recently bereaved hostess will be enthusiastic about having some of her guests linger.”
“Given the investigation into the nature of her husband’s death, I would think she may appreciate having the security of a Scotland Yard official on hand.”
“Since an arrest has already been made, she may wonder why it’s needed at all.”
George smiled. “Do I detect a note of skepticism on your part, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“You do, indeed, Chief Inspector Sutherland.”
I had told George about Archer’s arrest that morning. And while I couldn’t swear that Clover’s son was not the perpetrator—after all, he had both motive (his mother’s demotion) and opportunity (his service as a waiter during the ball), not to mention the suspected poison in his possession—his arrest struck me as too neat. That thinking wasn’t exactly scientific, I know, but my instincts, coupled with my past experience with murder cases, kept telling me that Archer was not a killer. I couldn’t cite familiarity with his character. We’d met briefly only once before the earl died—on our way from town back to the castle—not counting the few words that passed between us during the ball as he served champagne. I certainly had no proof of Archer’s innocence, and the police believed they had plenty to prove his guilt. But their evidence was circumstantial at best. And this may sound like foolish reasoning, but my intuition argued that a man who would defend badgers and who would go out of his way, at his own peril, to protect a hunted animal, was unlikely to be a killer. Of course, history is full of stories of violent killers who loved their mothers or who related to four-legged furry creatures far better than to their fellow human beings. But there it is: Illogical or not, I did not believe Archer had murdered the earl.
Nor did I believe that the countess had been the target. Not that I knew who had murdered her husband. But there were others whose motives might be called into question.
The earl had been arrogant with a prickly personality. For one, he had a strange relationship with Flavia Beckwith, who lived under his roof for all these years but from whom he withheld any friendly interaction. Whom else might he have insulted? Who else might have seen him as an enemy?
Possibly Elmore Jackcliff, his wife’s former teacher. Despite flowery expressions of sympathy, Jackcliff carried as much disdain for his patron as the earl did for him.
And what of Flavia’s nephew, Colin, whose close friendship with the earl’s daughter may have motivated Lord Norrance’s plans to banish him to Wales?
Other staff members besides Clover might be holding on to resentments as well: Nigel, the butler; Angus, the gardener; even the waspish Mrs. Powter. The earl’s penny-pinching dealings with his employees while he mounted an extravagant ball to impress investors could have aroused long-simmering anger against him. Yes, Archer was a bird in the hand, but there were more than a few other birds in the bush.
“There he is.” George put up his hand to wave at the London taxi making its way down the long drive and around the lake before drawing up in front of Castorbrook Castle.
“George, Jessica, happy New Year to you,” Ralph said. He came around to the other side of the cab and held the door for us.
“Happy New Year to you, too, Ralph. How was your celebration?” I climbed into the backseat and George followed.
“It was a pretty quiet party, compared to yours.” Ralph shut the door behind us and settled himself behind the wheel. “The wife and I watched the Thames fireworks on the telly at the cousin’s house. We toasted each other with a pint of lager and were off to bed an hour after midnight. I would’ve been happy to skip the fireworks, I was that tired, but the
cousin likes to show off his big-screen television. We had to ooh and ahh through it all. Kay said it was a small price to pay to enjoy their hospitality in the country.”
“Sounds like a nice cozy evening,” I said.
“Yours was a lot less quiet and a lot more exciting, it seems.” Ralph picked up a newspaper from the seat next to him and passed it back to George.
“It’s in the news already?” I said.
“Special edition,” George noted.
I leaned into him so we both could read the front-page story. Archer’s arrest wasn’t in it, of course; that was too recent. And while the reporter hinted that there may have been questions about the earl’s untimely death, there was nothing to suggest a murder had been committed. Most of the story covered the ball, photos of the society guests in their finery, including one of the host and hostess in the reception line, and the tragic loss at the end of what had been a spectacular evening. There were quotes from notables around the country praising the Earl of Norrance and his service in the House of Lords. I imagine the reporter must have had to awaken many of his sources to get appropriate reactions by his deadline.
“So we’re off to the constabulary?” Ralph asked.
“Yes, but we’re going to drop Jessica in town first.” George turned to me. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I would love to be a fly on the wall while you talk with the coroner, but I understand that I don’t have any official reason to be there.”
“It’s not like the States here, Jessica. Civilians aren’t invited into the precincts unless they’re being questioned about a crime.” George looked uncomfortable. “I just don’t want any questions about our relationship to surface in the press the way they did when you and I were in Bermuda.”
“It’s all right, George. You don’t have to explain.”
A while back, George had been part of a Scotland Yard investigative team assisting the Bermuda police looking into Jack the Ripper copycat murders. I had been vacationing in the British territory at the same time. When my host’s niece had been killed in a similar fashion, the island paparazzi had photographed George and me sitting close together and discussing the case. Unfortunately, the newspapers had made a big deal of our association, suggesting that George was spending time with his “girlfriend” instead of investigating the crimes, while the Bermuda government footed the bill for his services. It was a humiliating period for him, and it threatened to tarnish his reputation with his superiors back home in London, not to mention the local officials on the island, who were already disdainful of the visiting detectives.
“You can drop me off at Chipping Minster Antiques,” I told Ralph. “I’ll show you where it is when we get into town.”
I’d called ahead to the proprietor, Hazel Fortunato, to make sure her shop was open. New Year’s Day was a national holiday after all. When I’d left her shop the day before, I’d promised a return visit and the purchase of a souvenir. I didn’t think at the time that I would be back so soon, but I was looking forward to seeing her again.
“Perhaps I’ll discover something new about her friend Flavia Beckwith,” I’d told George when I first learned that his appointment didn’t include me. I’d put on a cheerful face, not wanting to admit that being left out of his meeting with Mardling and the coroner stung more than a little.
Ralph pulled his London taxi into a parking spot close to the curb in front of the antiques shop. He hopped out to open the door for me.
“I’ll ring you up when we’re about to leave,” George said.
“Take notes,” I said, teasing. “I’ll expect a full report later on.”
“Will do.” George smiled and gave me a mock salute.
I watched from the curb as Ralph’s taxi pulled away, rolled down the street, and turned at the next corner. Another car immediately slipped into the spot Ralph had vacated, and a dark-haired woman got out. She pulled two shopping bags from the trunk and bustled up the walkway.
Sighing, I turned toward the shop. The lady walking in front of me bumped her leg against one of the bags that she carried and had to catch herself before she tripped. The paper on the side began to tear, but I didn’t think she was aware of it.
“Ma’am” I called, “your bag is . . .” I was too late. The contents of her shopping bag spilled onto the path leading to the door. Silver forks, spoons, and knives clattered onto the stone, along with several books and an iron doorstop. No wonder the bag had split. A silver cup without a handle rolled into the brown grass and came to rest at the edge of a patch of snow.
“Good heavens,” I said, rushing forward. “Let me help you.” I leaned over to pick up the cup.
“I knew these old carrier bags wouldn’t hold,” she said, disgusted. She set down the other one, catching it before it fell over. “Stupid me.”
“Don’t blame yourself. That could happen to anyone.” I knelt down and picked up one of the books.
“You’re very kind. Look, would you mind terribly waiting here while I get a box from the shop? I’ll only be a minute.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I said, standing.
She ran the rest of the way to the door and disappeared inside. I looked down at the book in my hand. It was an old edition of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I flipped open the cover and was startled to see a bookplate reading THIS BOOK BELONGS TO with “Flavia Beckwith” added in looping script.
The door to the shop opened, and the woman came down the step, holding a cardboard carton. Hazel followed with a second empty box.
“Hello there, Jessica,” Hazel called, waving. “Your timing was good. This is my friend Emmie.”
“Nice to meet you, Jessica. Thank you so much for minding my goods.” Emmie set down the carton and began throwing her scattered items in it. “I’d have hated to leave this silver sitting on the path for anyone to pick up.”
I looked up the street and chuckled. “There don’t seem to be any people around who would’ve walked off with it.”
Emmie’s gaze followed mine, and she shook her head. “You can see how observant I am these days.”
“That’s all right, Emmie. Jessica didn’t mind guarding your things, did you, Jessica?”
“Not at all,” I replied. I put the silver cup and the book into the box, took the other box from Hazel, and placed Emmie’s second shopping bag inside. “Just to make sure this one doesn’t tear, too,” I said.
“Brilliant!” Emmie said. “I never would’ve thought of that.”
“I’ve got this one,” I said, lifting the box with the bag. “Can you handle the other?”
“No problem,” Emmie said. “You’re a lifesaver. Come on, Hazel. I can use a cup of your tea now.”
“I already turned on the kettle.”
Hazel’s sleigh bell jingled as the three of us crowded into her store. She used the toe of her shoe to push aside a doll’s carriage and pulled out two of the chairs from the side of the mahogany table decorated with the holiday displays. “Just set the boxes down here. We can put the stuff away later, after we have our tea.” She shivered. “Brrr. This weather is not good for old bones.”
“Tell me about it,” Emmie said. She followed Hazel down the hall, shrugging off her coat as she went.
I trailed after them.
“I really appreciate your opening for me today,” Emmie told Hazel. She dumped her coat over a pile of dish cloths and sank into a chair.
“Was the shop supposed to be closed?” I asked, taking a seat next to her.
Hazel took down three cups and saucers, and placed them on the counter. “When I knew Emmie was coming in,” she said to me, “I figured I’d stay open for you, too.”
Emmie leaned forward and gripped Hazel’s hand. “You’re such a good friend.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Now, don’t fuss over me. Let me fuss over you. You’re the one suffering.”
“But you miss her, too.”
I looked from Hazel to Emmie and back.
“Th
is is Flavia’s sister, Emmie Stanhope,” Hazel said. “I didn’t formally introduce you.”
“Did you know my sister?” Emmie asked.
“Not really,” I replied.
“Emmie, this is Jessica Fletcher, who’s visiting from America and came for the Norrance ball last night. We met yesterday.” She poured hot water into a teapot. “Jessica, there’s a box of biscuits on that shelf behind you. Would you please put them on this plate?” She held out a rose-patterned saucer.
Standing, I took down the cookies, arranged them on the plate she’d given me, and placed the dish on the small table.
“Jessica Fletcher,” Emmie whispered. “Why do I know your name?”
“I’m a mystery writer,” I said. “Perhaps you’ve heard about my books?”
“That’s not it,” Emmie said, looking at me curiously.
“Well, that’s interesting, Jessica. You didn’t tell me that yesterday.” Hazel placed the three cups and saucers on the table. “Here’s our tea.” She pulled up a third chair for herself. “Now,” she said, wiggling her hips from side to side to get comfortable. “Tell me what you’ve brought in, Emmie.”
Emmie tore her gaze away from me and looked at her friend. “Oh, Hazel. I know it’s crazy to want to get these things out of the house so quickly. I just feel like I’m surrounded by Flavia’s belongings and I’m choking on them.”
“You don’t have to explain. Death creates its own strange needs. If you feel better, clearing out Flavia’s things, I’m happy to help you dispose of them. It’s not every friend can do that for you.”
Emmie looked back to me. “My sister . . .”
“Yes. I know. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She leaned against the back of the chair. The air whooshed out of her as if she were a balloon with a slow leak. “It’s funny. When we were children, I always looked after her. She was a sickly girl.”
“I didn’t know that,” Hazel put in.
“Oh, yes. She was always catching something. She hated to go outside. Every day she wore three jumpers, even while I was threatening to throw open the windows because it was that hot in our room.”
Death of a Blue Blood Page 15