Rules of Murder

by Julianna Deering

  Drew didn’t know.

  He breathed out a sigh, glad that burden was not his. He had only to account for his own soul.

  And what of his own soul? Could it stand before a holy God and not be found wanting? It was an old-fashioned notion, to be sure. One that he had been taught he was too sophisticated and erudite to believe. And yet, even as many of the professors scoffed at the idea, there was still that inescapable infusion of belief all through Oxford. Dominus illuminatio mea ran the school motto. The Lord is my light.

  There was a God of some sort, surely. Someone had made the world and all that inhabited it. But how did one reach Him? And what did He really want?

  The vicar spoke on, intoning the familiar funeral words, “‘In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life . . .’”

  He glanced at Madeline as she stood next to her uncle, clinging to Mason’s arm in gentle comfort. She nodded now and again, eyes closed, a look of sweet peace on her angelic face. She had that sure and certain hope and found no fear in death. What would Constance have thought had she known death would come for her as she slept?

  Madeline walked with her uncle back to where the cars were parked. He opened the door for her, but she urged him inside first.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Drew was still standing beside the grave, his hands behind his back, his face devoid of emotion. He didn’t look at her when she came up to him. He kept his eyes on the freshly turned earth.

  “I don’t suppose I ever understood her. I’m sure she never understood me.”

  She pressed his hand. It felt oddly cold there on that warm morning, but it responded to her consolation, returning the squeeze.

  “She was scandalized by my being friends with Nick. Even when I was very young.” He surprised her with a smile. “I remember once, I must have been seven or eight then, she was complaining to my father about him. She said there had to be at least one little boy of a better class for me to play with. My father laughed and said perhaps Henry or George or John would ask me round to play. ‘They’re a bit older than the boy,’ he said, ‘but very well connected. I think even you’d be pleased.’ She was eager to meet the family until he told her their surname was Windsor.”

  Madeline smiled too, just a gentle little smile that wasn’t inappropriate for the circumstances. “Perhaps King George’s sons would have been too much of a step down for you.”

  “I would have striven to be gracious to them nonetheless,” he said, tucking her arm under his.

  “Grace is a lovely thing.”

  Again he surprised her. There was something in his face that responded to that word just now. Grace.

  He was quick to look away. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  When she was sure he wasn’t going to say anything more, she squeezed his hand again. “Uncle Mason is waiting for us.”

  The day after the funeral, following an early breakfast, Drew and Nick sped up to Chelsea to take a look at Lincoln’s flat. Just as quickly, they were on their way back to Farthering Place.

  “Well, that was seventy-five miles wasted.” Drew shoved the car into gear and pulled out onto the main road headed west. “That Mrs. Wilsdon, she can’t be a proper landlady.”

  “Not in the least,” Nick agreed. “She wouldn’t be charmed, wheedled, bribed, or bullied.”

  “I don’t know if you can claim that ‘I say, Mrs. Wilsdon, if you don’t let us see Mr. Lincoln’s flat, we’ll be rather vexed’ is actually bullying.”

  “Well, be fair. She was under orders from the police. You did promise not to spoil any evidence.”

  Drew scowled. “I wasn’t going to spoil any of their wretched evidence.”

  They drove in near silence until they took the turn south toward Farthering Place.

  “How are we supposed to solve this thing if they won’t let us investigate?” Drew asked and not for the first time.

  “Perhaps Birdsong will give you permission to have a look if you’d ask.”

  Drew considered this for a moment. “He’d likely tell me to mind my own job and let him mind his. Who could blame him?”

  “Surely he wouldn’t blame a chap for wanting to know who’s behind a couple of murders in his own home.”

  “He might not, I suppose.”

  Drew wrenched the car to the side of the road, throwing Nick against the door.

  “I say, steady on.”

  “Well, you said we should go talk to Birdsong.”

  “I did?”

  Drew turned sharply into the road and then backed up, narrowly avoiding putting the rear wheels into the ditch. With another sharp turn he had the car facing back the way they had just come, north toward Winchester. Before long, they were pulling up in front of the police station and were soon admitted into the office of the chief inspector.

  “Well, if it isn’t Detective Farthering.”

  “Good afternoon, Inspector. I trust you are doing well this fine afternoon.”

  “I’ve been in this job long enough to know when someone wants something.”

  Drew held his hat over his heart. “I see the inspector is as wise as he is kind.”

  Birdsong gave him a sour look. “And what is it now?”

  Drew smiled. “Chief Inspector, we come to you, hat in hand . . .” He elbowed Nick, who scooped off his own hat. “We come to you, hat in hand, and—”

  “No, you may not have a look at Lincoln’s flat. And, yes, Mrs. Wilsdon rang up to say you’d been asking.”

  “There it is,” Nick grumbled.

  “But you said we could help,” Drew protested.

  Birdsong looked stern. “I said you could bring me any clever ideas you might have.”

  “How are we supposed to have any clever ideas if we can’t see the clues?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “But, Inspector, it’s just not—”

  “Mr. Farthering, if you please, I simply do not have the time to deal with amateurs in the middle of a murder investigation. I appreciate your willingness to be of help, but I’m sure you can understand my position here.”

  “So you won’t let us have a look?”

  “No.”

  “Not just a tiny peek?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Can you at least tell us what you’ve found?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s hardly cricket, Inspector. Not even the most infinitesimal hint?”

  “I’m telling you. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing.”

  “The flat was empty?”

  “No, but there was nothing there to tell us anything. His things were still there, presumably as he had left them, but there wasn’t anything unusual in the least. It all looked as if he had just gone away for the weekend, as indeed he had.”

  “Then why is everything guarded like the crown jewels? We weren’t going to make off with Lincoln’s cravats or anything.”

  “My men are having trouble getting any clear fingerprints. What with his room at Farthering Place being wiped clean, we want to have something to clearly identify the body.”

  “You’re not saying everything was wiped clean at his flat as well, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that. But thanks to an overly conscientious charwoman, there’s not a clear print in the place. My men are still checking it over, but we hardly need any uninvited guests to muddle things even more.”

  “I see. Well, then there’s no need of us interfering there.”

  “I’m glad you can see it my way, Mr. Farthering.”

  “Has anything else turned up?”

  “We haven’t solved it yet, if that’s what you’re asking, but it’s early days still.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said. But surely you’ve uncovered some juicy tidbit of which we are as yet unaware.”

  “We did have Lincoln’s bank account checked. It seems he’s deposited several rather large sums of money in the past few weeks and then, two days before he was k
illed, took it all out in cash.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I doubt he was killed for that, though. It’s not as if he had it on him that night. I’d be interested to know your theory, Detective Farthering.”

  Drew glanced at Nick.

  “I can’t say I have one altogether, sir. I can’t help wondering if it all had something to do with Lincoln’s blackmailing schemes. It’s hard to believe Mrs. Parker would be the only one he had his hooks into.”

  “Perhaps not. But that doesn’t explain her murder, if in fact she was murdered.”

  “No, that is a bit of a sticking point, isn’t it?”

  “And then of course there’s the question of her involvement with Lincoln.”

  “My stepfather explained that, didn’t he?”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Drew didn’t answer for a moment.

  “Well?”

  “Of course I do. He’s just not the sort to murder anyone. Especially not the wife he was mad about.”

  “And if that wife betrayed him?”

  Drew looked at him coolly. “By all accounts, the rumored betrayal was more than two years ago. Shouldn’t he have killed her then?”

  “Not necessarily. Still waters, as they say. There’s been more than one case put across my desk where a man or woman has waited, decades at times, to have the perfect revenge.”

  “If that’s the case, his revenge wasn’t all that perfect. Killing them both the same night?” Drew shook his head. “Not really all that subtle, I’d say.”

  “It can be very effective to hide in plain sight, sir.”

  “It would seem, then, that you don’t have any other suspects.”

  “There is still the possibility that Mrs. Parker made away with Mr. Lincoln.”

  “And then? I thought suicide was ruled out.”

  Birdsong pursed his lips. “Possibly.”

  “And don’t forget me and the family honor.”

  “Oh, we’re not likely to forget, Mr. Farthering. The picture will no doubt become clearer as time passes. Leave it to us.”

  “‘Leave it to us.’” Drew stalked across the library floor at Farthering Place. “Leave it to them, Nick, and they’ll have Mason hanged in a month.”

  “Or you.”

  “Yes, well, there is that distinct possibility. Dash it all, there should be more clues. There should be just acres of suspects and something like a hollowed-out table leg or uneaten biscuit that’s the key to the whole thing. And there should be a mysterious Russian or a man with a false beard.”

  Nick sighed. “Not even a sinister Chinaman to suspect, more’s the pity.”

  “I thought your Father Knox specifically forbade the appearance of Chinamen in any capacity.”

  “True,” Nick admitted. “And one can hardly blame him. It’s been such an overused device in mystery novels in the past, making the exotic stranger the villain, no doubt he felt he must speak up.”

  With a discreet knock, Dennison came into the room. “Mr. Rushford’s man has requested to see you, sir.”

  “Really? Well, send him in.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Dennison vanished and reappeared with Rushford’s servant close at his heels, but it was decidedly not Rushford’s man Bristol. The stranger bowed.

  “I have honor to serve Mr. Rushford in requesting worthy Mr. Farthering’s presence at his home.”

  “We have our Chinaman,” Nick said under his breath. The man’s small stature and Oriental features were a match for his accent. He was a young man as well, certainly not much older than Nick or Drew himself.

  “There are other Oriental nations besides China,” Drew said softly.

  Whatever his nationality, his inscrutable humility certainly gave him a sinister aspect. Or was it merely his entrance at that point in the conversation that made him seem so?

  Drew stood. “You’re Mr. Rushford’s man? What happened to Bristol?”

  “Mr. Bristol sought other opportunities, sir, before I came to Mr. Rushford’s employ.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  The man bowed once more. “I am Shi Min. If you have your leisure, Mr. Rushford would very much enjoy to discuss some private matters with you.”

  Drew glanced at Nick and then back at Min. “Private matters? What private matters?”

  “I regret, sir, my master did not take me into his confidence.”

  Drew smiled. This was intriguing. “All right then. Lead the way.”

  “I’d better come along,” Nick said, eyeing the chauffeur narrowly, but the man’s mask of inscrutability did not change. He never took his eyes off Drew.

  “Unworthy servant would take much honor if revered Mr. Farthering would make entrance into humble vehicle of my master. Your footman will not be required.”

  “Footman,” Nick growled.

  With another bow, Min made his way to the door.

  “I’ll be with you straightaway,” Drew told him, and then he turned to Nick. “Perhaps old Rushford’s remembered something from the party or before. Or something about Lincoln. Heaven knows what other schemes he had going besides the blackmail.”

  “All right,” Nick said. “As I am, ahem, not required at Rushford’s, I suppose I’ll poke about a bit here and see what I can turn up.”

  “Good man,” Drew said, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “Just remember, we’re not to spoil any evidence. Now mind.”

  “Let me make note of it,” Nick said, taking out his list of commandments and the stub of a pencil to scribble on the back of the list. “No . . . ev . . . i . . . dence . . . is . . . to be . . . spoilt. Got it.”

  “Lovely.” Drew shook his head. “I’m certain your good deeds will not go unpunished. Oh, and look after our Miss Parker while I’m gone, see she doesn’t get bored. And tell Mrs. Devon I’ll ring up if I won’t be back in time for tea.”

  Nine

  It was only a short drive to Rushford’s home in Winchester. Drew would have liked to see what information he could casually extract during the trip, but his seat in the back of Rushford’s limousine was partitioned from the driver’s seat by a pane of glass, and carrying on a conversation via the speaking tube beside him would have been awkward at best. Now he had no opportunity to do anything but follow Min from the drive and into the house.

  Min showed Drew into a large, sunny room that looked as if everything in it had been there for the better part of five decades. The wallpaper above the dark wainscoting was a faded print of curled acanthus leaves, a perfect complement to the rest of the Victorian décor. Rushford was sitting at a little secretary desk, reviewing a ledger book.

  “Come in, young man. Do come in.” He closed the book and rose to shake Drew’s hand. “Good of you to come. I hated to trouble you to come up, but I thought we might best be able to talk freely here.”

  “It’s no trouble, sir. How may I be of service?”

  “Oh, and please have a seat. Would you care for anything? Tea? A spot of brandy?”

  “A bit early in the day, isn’t it?” Drew said, smiling as he settled into a fussily upholstered Morris chair. “Tea would be lovely, though.”

  “Tea, Min,” Rushford ordered, “and have Cook send in some of those little cakes, as well.”

  Min bowed and disappeared into the hallway.

  “I was surprised to hear that Bristol had left you,” Drew said as his host pulled up a chair, “but this Min fellow seems to have stepped right in for him.”

  “Min’s a wonder. I get a driver, gardener, and houseboy all on one salary.” Rushford smiled. “There are a great many of his sort in Canada, don’t you know.”

  Drew had a sudden recollection of Mason’s conversation with Chief Inspector Birdsong. “Were you there when the Chinese girl was killed at the Edmonton office?”

  Obviously a little puzzled by the sudden turn in the conversation, Rushford nodded his head. “That was horrible, just horrible. But it was, oh, some fifteen or twenty years ago. How
did you hear of it?”

  “The chief inspector was asking my stepfather about it. He wanted to know, other than poor McCutcheon two weeks ago, if there had been any deaths associated with Farlinford. Apart from an accident now and again, he said the only one he knew of was this girl.”

  “Funny you should mention it,” Rushford began, lowering his voice, “but Min’s father—”

  “Your tea, sir.”

  Min stood no more than a foot behind them, holding a silver tray laden with cakes and biscuits and a steaming teapot. Drew didn’t dare guess what he may have overheard. There was certainly no clue in the man’s face.

  “That was certainly quick,” Drew said. A little unnerving too, truth be told.

  Min bowed and set the tray on a side table. “I have good fortune to meet the maid in the corridor. She had been sent by the cook, knowing Mr. Rushford had a guest.”

  “Thank you, Min,” Rushford said somewhat too heartily. “I’ll pour out.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Min bowed once more and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  “That was a bit awkward,” Rushford admitted as he filled Drew’s cup. “Lemon?”

  “Honey, if you please,” Drew said. “I take it Min’s father was involved in the murder in some way?”

  “Yes, poor devil. He worked at the plant, porter or night watchman or some such. The girl was his niece.”

  “Mason says he killed her for his family honor. Because she was a white man’s mistress.”

  “True, although he never admitted to the killing. Rather passionately denied it, in point of fact. Of course, he barely spoke to be understood as it was. Precious little to tell what he was saying half the time.”

  Drew took a slow sip of his tea. “And the girl’s lover?”

  “He was one of our junior engineers. Seems he hanged himself at his home three weeks after the trial. Ugly affair all the way around.”

  “How did Min come to be in your service?”

  Rushford smiled indulgently. “Funny thing, that. He was only a little chap when all that business with his father was going on. I didn’t hear anything more of him for years. I’d quite forgotten the whole incident, to be quite honest, and then he appeared at my door asking for a position.”