Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  “Go put your feet up,” George said. “I could use an early-to-bed myself. We’ll start tomorrow fresh as daisies.”

  I bid them good night, and George accompanied Mardling and Willoughby down the center staircase. I heard George say, “Nice bit of business there, Mardling, threatening to take a knife to the painting.”

  The detective sergeant chuckled. “We have a few tricks up our sleeves.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Back in my room, I put off changing into my nightclothes and instead sat at the desk, reviewing the pages of the coroner’s report on Flavia Beckwith. I made a mental list of what I wanted to discuss with George the next day when we could go over it together. But in the meantime, my mind kept rerunning the scene that had just transpired.

  Jackcliff had remained in his studio, and I considered going back to continue the conversation with the talented but pompous artist. However, he’d become so angered at what he considered the unwarranted intrusion by George and the others that I thought better of it. At least I knew the source of the red stains on Flavia Beckwith’s fingers, although I certainly didn’t buy his version of the events.

  Just how exactly had she tripped? Was it possible that someone—either Jackcliff or the countess—had pushed her into the canvas, or at least gave her a shove so she couldn’t stop herself from falling? I doubted that Jackcliff couldn’t remember the content of a discussion between Mrs. Beckwith and the countess if it ended in what he considered, if not an emergency, at least a matter of concern as to whether the painting had been damaged. Why was he reluctant to talk about it? What secret was he keeping?

  My speculation was that someone had pushed Mrs. Beckwith in a moment of pique. But if that were true, what had prompted such an action? Was the countess even in the studio at that time, as Jackcliff contended? If she wasn’t—if he was alone with Flavia—had he made advances that she found offensive and said so, which then generated a physical response from him? I hadn’t heard anything about Flavia Beckwith that would indicate that she was a flirtatious woman. Yet Jackcliff had given me the impression he was making a pass at me, and I certainly hadn’t given him any sign that such behavior would be welcome. A piece was missing from the picture, and not knowing what it was frustrated me.

  All this speculation chased away my fatigue. I decided to make a fast trip up to the fourth floor to look in Mrs. Beckwith’s apartment again to see if I could find what she might have been wearing when she fell against the painting, and whether there were still any traces of the paint on the clothing she’d worn that day. It’s not really important, I told myself as I walked down the hall to the enclosed stairwell. You really don’t have to examine her clothing to prove that she fell against the painting. The paint on her fingers is proof enough, I thought as I climbed the steps. Why are you going there? This is just to satisfy your perpetual curiosity. If Mrs. Powter finds you, there will be another confrontation. George will wonder where you’ve gone off to.

  Even as I tried to talk myself out of going to Flavia’s residence, my feet kept moving of their own accord, or perhaps at the demand of my subconscious.

  While chiding myself for being so inquisitive, I also had another question in mind. The notation on the coroner’s report that Flavia had a scar on her left wrist had been nagging at me. Such a scar could, of course, have resulted from an accident—or it might be the permanent reminder of a suicide attempt. If the latter was true, why would she have taken such a drastic step? She’d been a member of the household staff at Castorbrook Castle for many years. In fact, according to Lionel Fitzwalter, she’d been paid considerably more than other staff members, and at times received what appeared to be healthy bonuses despite the earl’s fragile financial situation. Did the earl know of a suicide attempt? Was he more sympathetic to her feelings than he allowed others to see? Did anyone else in the household have knowledge of an attempt Flavia had made to take her own life? I would have to bring it up with Flavia’s sister, Emmie, so making sure we got together soon was high on my list of next steps. Emmie must know the answers. Would she be willing to talk about them, assuming I found a tactful way to raise such a delicate subject?

  I approached Flavia’s apartment with trepidation, mindful of how angry Mrs. Powter had been when George and I first visited the rooms. She had toned down her consternation and her criticism of us once she knew that George was a ranking inspector at Scotland Yard. I assumed that she’d learned by now that I’m a mystery author, not a second-story burglar as she had suggested to Mardling and Willoughby. If she tried to stop me, I would be ready. I rationalized that when two suspicious deaths occur within days of each other in the same place, the rules of the house could be bent, if not broken, in the interest of justice. I’ve always been good at coming up with rationalizations.

  The door to the apartment was unlocked, but it was dark inside. I put on the light in the anteroom and looked around. Nothing had changed as far as I could see. There was no fire in the grate, and the room was cold and damp. A fitting atmosphere for a dead woman, I thought. I walked to the bedroom door. It occurred to me that Mrs. Beckwith’s belongings might have been removed by now. But who would do that? As far as I knew, she was alone in the world except for her sister and her nephew, Colin. Emmie had been trying to rid herself of a few of Flavia’s possessions when I’d last seen her, but I didn’t think she was emotionally ready to tackle her sister’s living quarters just yet.

  The room was as I’d last seen it. I flicked on the lamp, opened the armoire, and scanned the clothing it contained. The garments were neatly aligned on the rod, and I was careful not to disturb the symmetry as I pulled out each hanger and examined what hung on it. It was the fourth dress that contained some flecks of the same red paint that had been on Flavia’s fingers when I discovered her body in the walled garden. Not that knowing this accomplished anything. Mardling had also said it didn’t shed any light on her death. Still, it did satisfy my natural curiosity. At least, it confirmed that more than just her hand had made contact with the partially finished portrait of the countess.

  As I replaced the dress, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. Someone else was there, and I knew who it was. I turned to see Mrs. Powter, the staunch, redheaded housekeeper, standing in the doorway.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No,” I said. “I was interested to know whether any clothing belonging to Mrs. Beckwith contained red paint from the portrait of the countess that Mr. Jackcliff is working on.”

  “And? Did you find such a piece of clothing?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact I did.”

  “I trust now that the question has been answered, you will promise to leave these rooms and not return again.”

  “I can’t promise you that,” I said. “In fact, I may return again and again. The next time I come here, I may be accompanied by Emmie Stanhope. Mrs. Beckwith’s sister will want to remove Flavia’s possessions and take them home with her, don’t you think? You’d have no objection, of course.”

  “So long as she has permission from Her Ladyship. We cannot have anyone walking through the door and removing items from the castle without her knowledge.”

  “Is that what you told the officers that George and I were doing?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I don’t think I want to pardon you. When Chief Inspector Sutherland and I first visited up here,” I said, “after I’d discovered Mrs. Beckwith’s body, it was obvious that someone had been searching for something. This room was turned upside down, drawers emptied, linens scattered, nightstand toppled.”

  “Which shouldn’t have been a concern of yours,” she said. “The members of the household are entitled to their privacy.”

  “You might want to take a second to think about that, Mrs. Powter. The sudden, unexplained death of someone who’d been on the staff for so many years would pique anyone’s interest. It certai
nly did for the police required to conduct an inquest under such circumstances. That can hardly be news to you. Yet, when we brought the officers up here, this room had been straightened to within an inch of its life. There wasn’t a pillow out of place. Did you trash it and then clean up your own mess? Or did you clean up someone else’s mess?”

  “That’s not your business,” she said, but I sensed her bravado wavering.

  “Either way, what you did was not only underhanded; it was illegal. That’s tampering with evidence—a criminal act. You could be brought up on charges.”

  “It’s not tampering with evidence when there’s been no crime,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Only a writer of sordid murder mysteries would come up with such a scenario.”

  “Have you appointed yourself constable and coroner?” I asked mildly. She was trying to insult me, to provoke me to respond with the same anger that she was barely concealing. But I’d always found that if I kept a cool demeanor, it was more likely to put my opponents off balance, and perhaps prompt them to reveal more than they intended. Mrs. Powter was a formidable adversary, but I was through with letting her push me around. “It sounds as if you’ve already decided the results of the inquest,” I said. “You, Ginger Powter, have determined that no crime took place; therefore you can do as you please. I wonder if Detective Sergeant Mardling would agree.”

  “I’ve already been interviewed by Mardling and his assistant, and I told them to investigate you,” she retorted.

  “Which they did, and now they can turn their attention back to the housekeeper who lied to them. Expect another call, Mrs. Powter. You have a lot to account for.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Oh, yes? Then it wasn’t you who ransacked this room? But who would you clean up after? Was it the earl? Somehow I can’t envision him rummaging through the belongings of a staff member. The countess?”

  “Sh—”

  I cocked my head. “She? The countess?”

  “What Her Ladyship does within her own home is her business and no one else’s.”

  “So you say it was the countess who came to the room looking for something following Mrs. Beckwith’s death?”

  “I’m not saying anything to you. Are you quite finished here?” she asked.

  “Did she?” I pressed. “Did the countess visit this room and rummage through it? Why would she do that? What was she looking for?”

  “I think that there is nothing to be gained by further conversation. You’ll find your way back to your own room, I trust.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Powter.”

  But as she turned to leave, I added, “I hope you understand that I’m well aware of how important you are to this household. Contrary to what you may think, I’m not your enemy. Two people who lived in Castorbrook Castle have died, and I’m sure that you don’t want to see any more deaths in this house. I’m hopeful that you want to see justice prevail.”

  She’d stopped to hear my final comment. Then, without another word, and with her head held high, she left the room.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The next morning, I found George browsing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the castle’s library.

  “I listened at your door last night,” he said, “but assumed you were catching some much-needed rest, so I didn’t knock.”

  “I took a detour,” I said, “and made another visit to Flavia Beckwith’s room.”

  “Oh? Find anything of interest while you were there?”

  “Only that the same red oil paint that stained her fingers was also on one of her dresses. Of course, my nighttime examination of Flavia’s clothing was interrupted by the ever-vigilant Mrs. Powter. She must haunt that floor.”

  George laughed. “Still as abrasive as ever?”

  “Yes. She lectured me again about not intruding on the Grant family’s privacy. I’m afraid I pushed back a bit this time.”

  “Good for you, Jessica.” George looked at his watch. “Let’s go in for breakfast. I have the case meeting this morning at the superintendent’s office. I’ve already told Ralph to pick me up here at the castle at nine. What are your plans for the day?”

  “I was hoping that we could go over that gift you gave me yesterday.” I patted my shoulder bag into which I’d tucked away the coroner’s report.

  “When I get back, perhaps?”

  “All right. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to catch a ride into town with you. I’m hoping to find time with Flavia Beckwith’s sister, Emmie.”

  “The reason?”

  “I haven’t formulated one yet,” I said. “I’ll give it more thought on the way.”

  After a sizable English breakfast set out by Nigel, we climbed into the back of Ralph’s London taxi and headed for town.

  “Hope you don’t mind a question,” Ralph said.

  “Fire away,” said George.

  “I was wondering how much longer you’ll need me here. Not that I’m complaining. You’ve been more than generous, and I love staying in that Muddy Badger inn—made lots of friends there. But the little woman back in London is missing me and—”

  “Hopefully, it won’t be much longer,” I said, looking to George for confirmation, who nodded. “With any luck the three of us will soon be heading back to London.”

  “You sound confident,” George said to me.

  “Better than lacking confidence,” I said as we neared Chipping Minster.

  “So, you’re going to look up Mrs. Beckwith’s sister. Emmie, is it?”

  “Yes. There’s something missing in what we know about Flavia Beckwith. Her sister might have the answers, provided she’ll share them with me.”

  “Go to it, Jessica,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

  After dropping George off for his case meeting, Ralph drove me to Chipping Minster Antiques, where Hazel Fortunato was out front, sweeping her sidewalk. I asked Ralph to wait as I got out and approached her.

  “Good morning, Hazel,” I said.

  “Jessica, what a surprise to see you so soon again. Are you here to pick out your souvenir?”

  “Hope you don’t mind if I come back another time. I just stopped by to ask you a question.”

  “Just as well. I’m getting in a shipment today. You might find something of interest in it once I’ve had a chance to put the items on display. Anything new about the murder up at the castle?”

  The word “murder” had a jarring effect. “Unfortunately, no,” I said.

  “Then what was your question?”

  “I was hoping to call on Emmie Stanhope today.”

  “Shouldn’t be difficult,” Hazel said while pushing a small mound of debris into her dustpan. “She’s around.” She leaned on her broom. “Colin stopped by to show me pictures he took on his mobile of the new foal up at the castle.”

  “I was there when he was born.”

  “So he said.”

  “What a wonderful event to witness.” I sighed at the memory. “To see a beautiful new life brought into the world, so full of promise and possibilities. Well, it was just—”

  Hazel’s eyes glistened with tears.

  “What’s the matter, Hazel? What have I said to upset you?”

  She waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, I’m such a sentimental watering pot. They’re naming the colt Good Fortune. Colin suggested it. Told me it was in honor of Mr. Fortunato, who gave them—him and Jemma—their first lessons about horses.”

  “That’s so thoughtful.”

  “He’s such a fine fellow, that Colin. Wish I had an eligible granddaughter for him. Would love to have him as a member of my family.”

  “Emmie must be proud of him, too.”

  “That she is.”

  “Where does Emmie live?” I asked.

  Hazel pointed. “Take that second right and go up the hill a hundred yards or so. Can’t miss it. She lives in a gray stone cottage with a green door. You can recognize it by the ivy vines growing up the chimney. A five-mi
nute walk at worst.”

  “Do you think she’s home?” I asked.

  “I know she’s home, Jessica. Colin was on his way to have breakfast with his mam.”

  I called back to Ralph, “I won’t be needing you for a while. I’ll call you on your cell.”

  He gave me a hearty wave. “I’ll be at the inn.”

  “Hazel, before I talk to Emmie, do you mind if I ask you a question about Flavia?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll have the answer,” she said.

  “Did Flavia ever have any children?”

  Hazel’s eyes widened. “Why would you ask that?” she said.

  “I just wondered.”

  “Well, then, my answer is that if she did, she kept it a well-guarded secret from me.”

  “Thanks. I’m off, then. Second right, you said?”

  “Yes, second right. And please say hello for me.”

  Hazel had been right. In five minutes I stood in front of a row of gray stone cottages, each with ivy vines covering the chimneys, and in some cases, the entire front of the house. Luckily, Emmie’s home was the only one with a green door, plus a small sign outside that read STANHOPE. I knocked and she came to the door. She was dressed in a multicolored housecoat and slippers, the front of her hair up in old-fashioned curlers.

  “Good morning, Jessica,” she said. “What a nice surprise, but I’m afraid I’m not fit for visitors.” She waved at her housecoat.

  “I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this without having called first.”

  “That’s all right. I guess.” She pulled two rollers out of her hair, put them in a pocket, and ran her fingers through her bangs. “Hazel just rang me up to say that you were on your way. Come through to the kitchen.” She led me into a sunny room with remnants of a morning meal still on the table. “I’ve just finished having breakfast with Colin. He’s been up all night with the new foal. He said you were there to see it.”