Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  “The police believe either the earl’s champagne or caviar may have been tainted,” George added. “And investigators found rat poison in Estwich’s room where he and his mum live in town.”

  “Hardly seems sufficient evidence to make an arrest,” said Fitzwalter.

  “There’s some talk of his having resented the earl’s treatment of his mother, who is the cook at the castle,” I offered, “but I doubt his anger rose to the level of committing murder. There’s also a very large difference between the ingredients of most rat poisons and that which killed the earl. Rat poisons usually contain anticoagulants. We believe the earl died of cyanide poisoning.”

  “I’m impressed with your knowledge of poisons, Jessica.”

  “Jessica writes crime novels under the name J. B. Fletcher,” George explained. “She’s a devoted student of murder and the means employed to commit murder.”

  “Quite a team,” Fitzwalter said, “a Scotland Yard chief inspector and the writer of crime novels. But you’re obviously here to discuss some aspect of my relationship with the Earl of Norrance.”

  George nodded. “Because you were the earl’s business affairs manager, Lionel, you must know what financial pressures the earl labored under—and the circumstances and/or persons that put him under that pressure.”

  “We know that the earl was exploring the possibility of selling Castorbrook Castle to a hotel chain,” I added. “You and Griffin talked about it over dinner. Had a decision been made?”

  “You both know quite a bit, considering you’re newcomers to the earl’s family and life. I’ll cut to the chase. As the earl’s business affairs manager, I, of course, am intimately familiar with every aspect of his financial life. Yes, he was under considerable financial pressure and had been for quite a while.”

  “Trying to keep up the castle?” I asked.

  Fitzwalter laughed. “Yes, of course. Castorbrook is a bottomless money pit, always something in need of repair or renovation. Renting it out for photo shoots or weddings brings in some money but hardly enough to cover all the expenses. And there was his irrational love affair with horse racing. Cost him a bloody fortune, and it was money that he didn’t have.”

  “You mean the racehorses that he was planning to breed?” I asked.

  “Those, too. A filly he bought in Kentucky cost him sixty-two thousand pounds. But, no, I’m talking about wagering on horse races. Of course, there were always those infernal second-mortgage companies willing to lend him money to cover his bets at exorbitant interest rates.”

  This was a side of the earl that neither George nor I was aware of.

  “‘Second mortgage companies’?” I said.

  “A polite name for loan sharks,” George explained.

  “Are you suggesting that the Earl of Norrance owed money to loan sharks?” I asked. “Organized crime?” I had difficulty keeping the shock out of my voice.

  “Criminal, yes,” Fitzwalter said, “but not quite as pervasive as your Mafia in the States. What do you call them, Inspector?”

  “British firms,” George said, “is the general name for organized crime groups. The White British are so called to differentiate between them and the organized crime groups that involve immigrants from the Middle East, Asia, and Africa. They specialize in white-collar crime, including loan-sharking. They operate quite effectively and under the radar around the racetracks in Epson, Brighton, Lewes, and elsewhere.”

  “Was he behind in his payments to these groups?” I asked.

  “Quite a bit, I fear,” his business affairs manager said.

  Neither George nor I commented, but I knew we were thinking the same thing—that the Earl of Norrance could have been killed by someone from one of these so-called “second mortgage” groups who’d attended the New Year’s Eve ball. This added a whole new dimension to the investigation.

  “What about the townspeople?” George asked. “Did the earl owe anyone in town a sufficient amount of money to justify taking revenge on him?”

  “He owed a number of companies in the area, mostly tradesmen, the fishmonger, the wine purveyor, but those were relatively small bills. I could cover most of those when some funds came in. There would be the occasional delay, however. I did my best for them, but I know some of those merchants were not pleased.”

  “The earl must have had a will,” I said. “Were you responsible for that, too?”

  “His solicitor in the City is the one who handled Norrance’s will. Kip, as elder legitimate son, inherits the title automatically, but the disposition of the estate is at the earl’s discretion. I believe the largest portion will be left in the hands of Lady Norrance to direct, since a good deal of it came with her in marriage. Norrance gambled with his own money, but rarely touched hers. So that at least is something. Parts of the estate have already been distributed, of course. The dower house that Honora occupies is hers in full. The stables and stock will likely go to Jemma. I don’t recall what, if anything, he planned to leave Rupert. He was quite adamant that the lad find a profession. Of course, if the sale to a hotel chain goes through, Rupert stands to gain a portion of the proceeds. His mother would see to that.”

  “Do you know if he would have provided any bequests for staff?”

  “I should be surprised if he didn’t.”

  “What about the lady’s maid who recently died?” I asked.

  “She was in an interesting situation. Flavia Beckwith earned considerably more than other staff members and received large bonuses. I asked the earl about it on a few occasions, but he was never specific, would only say her length of service merited the greater amount. I didn’t pursue it. After all, it was his money. Have I answered all your questions?”

  “One more if you don’t mind,” George said.

  “Ask away, Chief Inspector. If there’s anything I can tell you that will help bring the earl’s killer to justice, I’ll feel good, very good indeed, about having provided it.”

  “The competition between hotel groups to gain the rights to Castorbrook Castle. I take it that you’ve been smack in the middle of those negotiations.”

  “I have, indeed.”

  “There’s a great deal at stake for the winner,” George said. “Would having the earl out of the way make it easier for one of the chains to prevail, perhaps because that chain had gone behind the earl’s back and was dealing with a family member, someone more amenable to its offer?”

  “I’ll have to give that some thought, George. As far as I know, only the earl was involved with those negotiations. Can’t imagine which one of his children would know enough to venture an opinion, much less involve themselves in other details. I can’t come up with an answer off the top of my head, but I’ll mull over the matter.”

  I doubted that any of the earl’s children were sophisticated enough to try to undermine the negotiations their father was undertaking. But two other family members possibly were. Honora had already expressed her staunch opposition to relying on a hotel buyout to rescue the Grant family finances. And there was also the new countess to consider. Poppy was an unknown quantity. Clearly, she was more detached than her husband, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law. Was she also more conniving?

  As we said our good-byes, I tossed out one further question. “Lionel, you’re obviously someone who knows the earl’s family quite well. Apart from the usual sort of conflicts present in every family, was there any rancor between the earl and any member of the family over money?”

  “If you mean did any family member disagree with the proposal to sell the castle to a hotel chain?” His laugh was meant to convey that I’d asked a silly question. “There was plenty of discord about that, Jessica, plenty, indeed. Please feel free to stop by anytime. And I’ll ring you up, George, if I have any brilliant insights in the next few days.”

  “The earl appears to have been in far deeper debt than we presumed,” George said as we walked back to the Muddy Badger to collect Ralph and return to the castle.

  “And Arc
her’s arrest notwithstanding, there could be a very long list of suspects if Detective Sergeant Mardling takes the time to look a little harder.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Would you be interested to know that there was quite a bit of talk at the bar about the earl’s murder?” Ralph asked us when we were in his taxi on our way back to Castorbrook.

  “We are very interested,” I said. “What was said? Did they know about the arrest of Archer Estwich?”

  Ralph twisted around in his seat to look at us. “They know and they’re not happy about it.”

  “Please keep your eyes on the road,” I said. “We can hear you fine.”

  Ralph faced forward but tilted his head so his voice would carry to the backseat. “Estwich seems to be a popular fellow, especially with the ladies.”

  “Do they believe he committed the crime?” George asked.

  “The barmaid, Doreen, said that Archer, despite his rough exterior, was as gentle as a lamb and would never have harmed the earl unless he saw him abusing a small animal. Since there weren’t any small animals at the ball, she said, the bobbies must have gotten the wrong man.”

  “From the little I know of Archer, I would have to agree,” I said.

  George leaned forward. “Did they mention anything about the earl himself?” he asked.

  “Well, there was one bloke who raised his mug, saying if Estwich offed the earl, he did the neighborhood a favor.”

  “Oh, dear, why would he say that?” I asked.

  “Apparently the earl was late in paying his debts, causing some financial hardship on local establishments that supplied the castle with goods.”

  “We’re aware of that,” George said.

  “But did you know he also took advantage of people who couldn’t defend themselves?”

  “That last part’s news,” George said.

  “Haven’t lost my police interview skills, have I, Chief Inspector?” Ralph said.

  “We’re impressed,” George replied. “How did Norrance take advantage?”

  “There’s a small group of immigrant workers who have moved to the edge of town. Lord Norrance hired them to work in his gardens last summer, but he neglected to pay them. There’s some suspicion that His Lordship knew they were illegals who couldn’t report their victimization to the constabulary without jeopardizing their residency.”

  “Sounds like he doesn’t have a particularly praiseworthy reputation, doesn’t it?” George said to me.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I knew he was arrogant and extravagant, but I didn’t suspect he was dishonest as well.”

  “If you want to know a man’s true character,” Ralph said, “see how he treats those he considers his inferiors.”

  “Did you learn that in your police training?” I asked.

  “Nope! I read that in one of the Harry Potter books.”

  Ralph passed by a satellite truck outside the gates to the estate. “Uh-oh. Fleet Street is already here,” he said, referring to the nickname for London’s national press. In years past, many of the nation’s newspapers had offices at that London location, and the street name came to represent the industry.

  “I would have been surprised if the press hadn’t picked up the story,” I said.

  “Fortunately, the murder of a peer is not an everyday occurrence,” George said. “I’m glad to see the constabulary has some law enforcement on duty here to keep the reporters and the curious out.” He nodded toward two police cars positioned on either side of the gates.

  George rolled down his window and held up his Scotland Yard ID so the officers could see it.

  They waved us through.

  Ralph drove up to the front entrance, where two more police cars were stationed along with several other vehicles, one of which bore a sign: CHIPPING MINSTER VETERINARY CENTRE.

  “Who might that be for?” Ralph asked.

  “The Grants have dogs and horses,” I said. “I hope everything is okay.”

  “I’ll call you later to arrange for tomorrow,” George told Ralph as we exited the cab.

  Nigel was in the front hall when we entered the castle. “We saw the vet’s car outside,” I told him. “Is everything all right?”

  “Dr. Ford has just arrived. The trainer called him in. Lady Jemma accompanied him down to the stable. I was told that the late earl’s prize mare is about to foal.”

  “Lamia?” I said.

  “I believe that’s correct.”

  “You know the horse’s name?” George asked.

  “The earl talked about her when I visited the stable. Lamia’s sire was a Kentucky Derby winner. He said he was expecting her to do great things for his racing stock.” I looked at Nigel. “Do you think they’d object if I went down to watch the birth?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’m sure they will tell you if they want you to leave.”

  “George, what do you think? Would you like to come with me to the stables?”

  “Would you mind terribly if I said no?” George asked, wincing. “Childbirth or equine birth . . . It’s not that it’s not of interest. It’s just that, well, there are some processes I’d prefer not to observe up close.”

  “But you won’t mind if I go?” I asked.

  “Not at all. I’ve got calls to make. We can meet up later, and you can give me all the details.”

  “Highly edited, of course.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  I found my way to the mudroom that Lord Norrance and I had used. I selected a warm-looking barn jacket large enough to cover the jacket I was already wearing, stepped out of my shoes, slid my feet into a pair of Wellington boots, shouldered my bag, and walked outside. The dogs, running loose around the flower beds in the rear garden, barked a greeting and trotted over to sniff me. I gave them each a head rub before slipping sideways through the garden gate to keep them from following me. The afternoon sun was low as I strode through the orchard and then down the hill toward the stone barns.

  I wondered why the veterinarian had left his car up at the castle when the stable was so far away. I could see a gravel area to the side of the first building. A pickup truck, its bed piled high with hay, was parked there, along with a horse trailer.

  There was a light on in the barn that I’d visited with Lord Norrance. I entered, but no one was around other than the resident horses, which, after a curious glance as I walked down the aisle, ignored my presence. Lamia’s stall was empty, however. I hope nothing has gone wrong.

  I turned around. The light was dim in the second building across the brick courtyard, but through a glass partition on the door, I could make out three people leaning against the wooden boards and peering into a stall. I walked softly into the second barn and waved. Jemma looked up. She moved away from the stall and met me at the door.

  “Is it all right if I watch the foaling?” I asked.

  “You have to be very quiet. The mare is struggling a bit. We don’t want to upset her further.”

  Colin and another man, who I assumed was Dr. Ford, glanced up at me when I accompanied Jemma to the stall. Dr. Ford was wearing blue scrubs.

  “This is Mrs. Fletcher,” she whispered to the men. “She’s a guest up at the castle.” I thought Colin might have recognized me from the Muddy Badger, but he didn’t say anything.

  The mare was standing in a stall, knee-deep in straw, shifting her weight from one side to the other and blowing noisily. Her coat was dark with sweat.

  “You checked her udder?” Dr. Ford asked.

  “Before I called you,” Colin replied. “There was a drop of milk there.”

  “Has her water broken?”

  “Don’t believe so.”

  “What else have you done?”

  “Cleaned out this stall, put in fresh straw. Washed down her udder.”

  “Did you wash her belly as well?”

  “No, sir. Are you thinking she may require a cesarean?”

  “Let’s hope not,” Dr. Ford said.


  I was surprised to hear that a horse might need a C-section to birth a foal. “Does that happen often?” I asked quietly.

  “Often enough,” Dr. Ford replied. “I’d prefer to have her in the dispensary for any procedure, but we’ve done them in a barn before.”

  “Will that put her in danger?” Jemma asked.

  “More of a problem for the foal than the mare,” he replied. “But let’s think positively. If we’re careful, they’ll both come out all right.”

  “She’s already been laboring for fifteen minutes,” Colin said, looking at his watch. “We should have seen the foal by now.”

  “Does it happen that fast?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Dr. Ford replied. “Fifteen, seventeen minutes, up to a half hour. That’s average. It’s not like a human labor.”

  Dr. Ford walked to the end of the stall and leaned over to see the back end of the horse. Colin had bound up Lamia’s tail in a white bandage. “There’s your problem,” he said. “It’s a red bag delivery. Are your hands clean?”

  “Yes, sir,” Colin replied.

  “Then come with me.” He snapped on a pair of surgical gloves.

  All three entered the stall. Lamia backed into a corner, her eyes wide. Jemma took her bridle and crooned softly to her, leading her forward while Dr. Ford and Colin worked on the opposite end. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but there was a whoosh that sounded as if someone had emptied a bucket of water into the straw.

  “She’s trying to lie down now, Dr. Ford,” Jemma said. “Is that okay?”

  “Yes, let her go down. Don’t try to keep her standing. The placenta has separated. She needs to get the foal out quickly.”

  With an audible grunt, Lamia sank to her knees in the straw and leaned to the side, stretching out her legs. While Jemma squatted next to the mare’s head, Dr. Ford and Colin began to pull the foal out. I saw the small hooves first, followed by a dark brown nose, and, in no time, the foal slipped out, shivering and blinking in the faint light. Jemma stood and stepped out of the way, and Lamia raised her head, put her nose to her foal, and nuzzled the new arrival.