Rules of Murder

by Julianna Deering

  There was a clatter from the dressing room and then Dennison appeared, coatless and rubber-gloved to the elbow. “Sir?”

  “Have you finished in there? Minerva’s getting a bit restless.”

  The kittens were still crying piteously, and Minerva was pacing back and forth beside Drew, meowing and trying to get at them.

  “Just done, sir,” Dennison said. “Your cupboard has been sanitized and lined with oilcloth, a generous portion of lamb’s wool, and a down comforter. The nestlings should be quite at their ease.”

  “Excellent.”

  Drew stood, cradling the towel full of kittens in both hands, and followed the butler back into the dressing room. Minerva ran a few steps ahead of him, only to come back and try to insinuate herself between his feet.

  “Steady on, girl,” he said. “We’ll soon have the family reunited.”

  He was as good as his word, and a moment later Minerva was settled in the newly refurbished cupboard, with her kittens greedily making up for the delay in their noon repast.

  “You did a fine job, Mr. Dennison,” Madeline said, but the butler merely sniffed.

  “I fear, miss, that all was not good news.”

  “No?”

  “The cheviot trousers were quite past redemption.”

  The next morning, Dennison arranged for Carrie’s and Muriel’s things to be packed into the trunk of the little roadster that had brought them to Farthering Place.

  “I wish you were coming,” Carrie said for the hundredth time as she and Madeline stood in the front drive and hugged in farewell. “You know Muriel and I need someone to referee for us.”

  Madeline tried not to think too much about what she would be missing by staying behind. “The two of you will have a wonderful trip. Just take lots of pictures, send me a ton of letters, and no whirlwind romances.”

  Carrie laughed. “You should talk.”

  Madeline giggled and then followed Carrie’s glance up to the top of Farthering’s front steps to see that Drew and Nick were there. Nick was looking particularly glum.

  “I’ll try to behave,” Carrie promised her, and Madeline could have sworn her friend’s voice was just the tiniest bit louder now, “but if I end up eloping with a lord or something, it’ll be because you didn’t come along and keep me sane.” She glanced at Nick again and then scampered up the steps. “It’s been awful nice meeting you both.”

  “A delight, Miss Holland,” Drew said. “I hope you’ll forgive us for robbing you of a very charming traveling companion.”

  Madeline smiled. Drew was such a dear.

  “But you must also ask pardon,” he added with a bow to Carrie, “for robbing us of a very charming houseguest.”

  “How you do go on, Mr. Farthering,” Muriel said as she hurried out the front door. “You English boys sure do know how to talk to a lady.”

  She held out one hand, gloved in a leopard print, and Drew bowed dutifully over it.

  “Miss Brower, it’s been a revelation.”

  Muriel smirked and flounced down the stairs, swaying her hips. Drew gazed heavenward.

  Carrie laughed and shook her head, then turned to Nick, her eyes soft and warm. “I’ve had such a good time. I mean, besides all the trouble, you know.”

  “It’s been grand,” he said, clasping the hand she offered him. “You must come back one day, when things are a bit less out of order.”

  “I hope I can.”

  He hesitated for a moment, but he didn’t release her hand. “Please don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Marry a lord, I mean. Don’t do that.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Drew told her. “You’ll end up with half a dozen offspring just like our friend Bunny.”

  She laughed. “Bunny?”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Clive St. John Pontisbright Marsden-Brathwaite. Bunny when at home. He has the brain of a peahen, but lots and lots of money.”

  “He’s a good chap for all that,” Drew said. “Stout fellow, give you his shirt in an instant, but rather likely to forget your name or where he’s left your car.”

  “Don’t do that,” Nick repeated, a sudden earnestness in his eyes.

  Carrie smiled, promising nothing, but she squeezed his hand before letting it go. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

  Watching them, Madeline smiled to herself. She’ll be back.

  “See you soon,” Muriel said, pressing her cheek to Madeline’s. Then, with a quick glance at Drew, she winked. “Keep your eyes open, Madeline, honey. That one’s a real smoothie.” She got behind the wheel and started the car. “Come on, Carrie, or we’ll be driving all night.”

  “I’d better go,” Carrie told Nick.

  He escorted her down to the car, opened the door, and helped her inside. “Do be careful.”

  “I’ll try my best,” she said, and without warning, the car lurched into motion.

  “Toodles,” Muriel called, and then with the grinding of gears the little roadster clattered away.

  Madeline stood there with Nick, watching until the sight and sound of it were no more, and then Drew came down the steps and linked arms with them both.

  “‘How now, my hearts!’” he quoted. “‘Did you never see the picture of “we three”?’”

  Nick laughed, but Madeline was only puzzled.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Merely a bit of Shakespeare,” Drew said. “A little quip from Twelfth Night.”

  “Oh, now I remember,” she said. “But I never did understand that line.”

  “They say it’s likely based on a public-house sign picturing two fools with the inscription ‘We Three.’”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m sure I’ll hate myself for asking, but if there are only two fools in the picture, where’s the third?”

  “Well, darling, someone had to be looking up reading the sign.”

  Madeline smiled.

  “And I’m sorry to say it, Miss Parker,” Nick added, “but you’ve been standing here looking up at two fools for at least five minutes now. Shall we go in to lunch?”

  This time she laughed.

  They spent the meal puzzling over recent events, and afterward, while Madeline chatted with her uncle about his last visit to America and the adventures they’d had, Drew pulled Nick aside.

  “Keep your voice down,” Drew said.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Shh. Nothing. I thought you’d like to motor up to Winchester with me.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ve been thinking, added to everything else, it’s a bit of a coincidence that we had another death just two weeks ago.”

  “McCutcheon.” Nick glanced over at Madeline. “I thought the police hadn’t found anything all that suspicious there. Just an accident.”

  “I don’t know. I’d feel better, though, if we had a look round his flat and his office.”

  “You know his address?”

  Drew tapped his breast pocket. He’d charmed the information from the breathless Miss Stokes in personnel via telephone just that morning.

  Nick grinned. “What about our Miss Parker? She’ll want to come.”

  “I told you about that. It’s too distracting.”

  “She won’t like it, knowing she’s been left once more to fend for herself.” Nick glanced toward her again. “She’s coming. What are you going to tell her?”

  “Just keep quiet. I’ll think of something.”

  “We’re going to look at the horses,” Madeline announced as she strolled up to them, Mason in tow. “We may go riding. We went all the time when he used to come visit me at school. I think it will brighten up both of us.”

  Drew smiled. “That sounds good. I’ll get my hat.”

  “No. I mean . . .” Madeline bit her lip. “I’d love for you to come. Always. But I thought this time just Uncle Mason and I . . .” She put her hand on his arm, appealing, consoling.

  Drew let his smile fade. “Well, of course, d
arling, if you don’t want me along . . .”

  Nick grinned and then quickly began studying a loose thread on the sleeve of his coat.

  Mason patted Madeline’s hand. “Perhaps you young people ought to—”

  “No,” she insisted. “I’ve hardly had you to myself since I’ve been here. You understand, don’t you, Drew?”

  Drew felt a pang of guilt at the pleading look in her eyes. His expression warmed, and he stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You go, darling. Have a lovely time, both of you.” He nodded at Mason. “Do you a world of good, sir.”

  Mason looked at Madeline with a fond smile. “Yes, I believe it will. Shall we go, my dear?”

  Madeline gave Drew a swift, grateful peck on the cheek, and then she and her uncle went out across the garden.

  “You hound,” Nick breathed once they had gone. “The poor girl thinks she’s broken your heart. Or at least bruised your ego.”

  Drew hurried with Nick into the corridor, toward the garage and away from the stables. “I doubt she’ll give it another thought.”

  But, dash it all, the girl could make him feel like the most abysmal scoundrel with just one trusting look. Little wonder he’d made no headway in the case. Still, it was a pity this was such a serious matter. It would be profoundly satisfying to spend his days doing real investigations instead of just trying to solve made-up cases one step ahead of the detectives in the novels he read. So much more engaging than the usual empty whirl of high society.

  “Come on,” he told Nick. “I want to see what we can turn up at McCutcheon’s.”

  Ten

  Arthur McCutcheon had been hired on at Farlinford Processing fresh out of college based on his exceptional promise as a chemical engineer. But despite his perpetual assurances that he was on the verge of a great breakthrough, his three years with the company had proved unfruitful. Then in one careless moment, he was gone.

  Drew had found out that much from talking to Mason and Rushford. He shared the information with Nick on the brief drive to Winchester and the nondescript block of flats where McCutcheon had lived.

  The door, appropriately marked MANAGER, was opened by a stubby little boy of perhaps ten. Bespectacled and fussily dressed, he looked annoyed at being disturbed when more than half of his Marmite sandwich was yet to be eaten.

  “Yes?”

  “Hullo,” Drew said with a cheerful smile. “Might we speak with the building manager?”

  “I am the manager,” the boy told him. If it were possible for anyone to look down his nose at someone of a greater height than himself, Drew was certain this boy would have done as much. He’d make a fine civil servant one day.

  “Are you?” Drew asked, not altogether concealing his surprise. “That must be an interesting job.”

  “Not very. Is there something you wanted?”

  “I’d like to see number twenty-seven,” Drew replied, still smiling. “Mr. McCutcheon’s flat.”

  “And I’d like a motorized bicycle,” the boy said disdainfully, “but I’m not likely to get that, either.”

  Nick grinned. “Well, aren’t you a cheeky little—”

  Drew cleared his throat. “Might we have a word with your father?”

  “Certainly,” the boy replied, and then he smirked. “He’s at his office in London.”

  “Your mother, then,” Drew said, a little less patiently.

  The boy jerked his head toward the street. “She’s across the road, listening to More Scenes of Domestic Bliss on the wireless with Mrs. Dunlap, and you won’t half catch it if you go to see her before it’s over.”

  “Oh, that twaddle,” Nick muttered.

  “Look here,” Drew told the juvenile manager, “this is a serious matter, and it’s quite important that I have a look round up there.”

  “I’m not to let just anyone into any of the flats unless it’s the police or someone of that sort. Are you with the police?” the boy demanded.

  “No, not as such,” Drew admitted, and then he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But you give me five minutes up there, and I’ll give you a shilling.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “A pound?” Drew offered.

  “A pound!” Nick protested. “Half the population of Britain doesn’t make that for a day’s work.”

  “A motorized bicycle,” the boy countered.

  “What?”

  The boy crossed his arms over his stocky chest, endangering his fine shirt with the sandwich he held. “A motorized bicycle. Get me one, and I’ll let you in.”

  Nick glared. “Well, I like that.”

  “Now, Nick, old man, let’s hear him out.” Drew smiled sweetly at the boy. “So, if I get you a motorized bicycle, you’ll let me up in Mr. McCutcheon’s flat, no questions asked?”

  The little scoundrel nodded his head. “All right.”

  “I would be very happy to give a deserving and helpful lad a nice new motorized bicycle,” Drew said, still smiling. “But you’re a nasty, greedy little toad, so you shan’t have one. Come on, Nick. We’ll pop round to this Mrs. Dunlap’s and see if the lady of the house mightn’t be more reasonable.”

  With a tip of his black Homburg hat, Drew turned and, with Nick in tow, made his way back into the street. The boy shot out after them.

  “Wait! Wait! I’ll let you in! I’ll do it for a pound!”

  “I fear that offer has been withdrawn,” Drew said sunnily as he tapped on the front door of the house opposite.

  “A shilling then,” the boy pleaded, unwittingly squeezing his sandwich into a pulpy mess. “Don’t! Her program is on!”

  The little girl who opened the door merely stared at the two strangers. Drew could hear a man and woman talking from the radio inside.

  “Good afternoon,” he said with a slight bow. “Might I inquire whether this is Mrs. Dunlap’s residence?”

  The girl nodded solemnly.

  “And is there another lady with her right now? Listening to the wireless?”

  Again the girl nodded. Then she looked at the boy and very quietly asked, “What’s he done now?”

  “He’s been good enough to send me over to talk to his mother,” Drew said, and he handed the girl his card. “If you would be so kind, please take that in and ask her if she would come have a word with me.”

  “Her program’s not over,” the girl said, still solemn.

  “Susan!” a woman’s voice scolded from inside the house. “What did I tell you about talking to salesmen?”

  “I’m not selling anything,” Drew called back. “I’ve just come to speak to the lady who looks after the building across the street.”

  The little girl scurried inside with the card, and a moment later a dowdy-looking woman wearing bright red lipstick came to the door.

  Drew removed his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Newton,” the woman said, eyeing him with suspicion. “Is there something you wanted?”

  “I do beg your pardon for disturbing you. My name is Drew Farthering. You were letting rooms to a Mr. McCutcheon who worked for my family’s company, Farlinford Processing.”

  “That’s right. So you’re that Mr. Farthering. Well.”

  “I’d like see the flat for a moment, if that’s possible. I was hoping to gather some information about a project McCutcheon was working on for us.”

  “Is that all? The police came round when he passed over and then locked everything up tight until yesterday. I couldn’t even go tidy much less show the place to be let again.” She turned to her son. “Clarence, show the gentlemen number twenty-seven.”

  “We’d like to ask a few questions as well, if we might,” Nick added, and the woman glanced back into the house. The couple on the radio were arguing viciously now to the accompaniment of melodramatic music.

  “Well . . .” she began.

  “Or,” Drew offered, “dear Clarence could let us into the flat and then we could come back later and talk to you.” He looked at his w
atch. It was eight minutes to the hour. More Scenes of Domestic Bliss would be over soon. “Say in about ten minutes?”

  “That would be lovely,” the woman told Drew, obviously relieved. “Go on, Clarence,” she scolded. “You could have just taken them up to Mr. McCutcheon’s without disturbing my program, couldn’t you?”

  She hurried back inside, the little girl shut the door, and an unwilling Clarence trudged across the street once more. Drew and Nick followed him back to his own flat to fetch the key to McCutcheon’s rooms, and then the three of them went up to the first floor.

  Number 27 was an unassuming little flat at the back of the building, overlooking a burgeoning vegetable garden and the unrelieved brick of the block behind it. Pajama bottoms were strewn across the rumpled bed, and an unwashed plate and teacup had been left in the sink, signs of nothing more sinister than a hurried departure for a usual day’s work. There were a number of books on chemistry, physics, and mathematics, along with a dog-eared collection of fantasy and horror novels. Other than a reproduction of a hideous surrealist painting, there were no pictures on the walls, only a little framed photograph on a side table. It was signed To Mackie always.

  “Looks as if he left someone behind, after all,” Drew said.

  “I’m sure she has a jolly nice personality,” Nick observed, studying the face of the bespectacled young woman with impossibly bushy hair and a crooked smile.

  Drew responded with an impatient frown. “I say, Clarence, has anyone been in here since the police came?”

  The boy sneered at him. “Of course not. Do you think we let just anyone poke about our flats?”

  “Well, that’s all right then.” Drew smiled and pocketed the key. “We’ll let you know if we need anything more.”

  “But—”

  “You go back to your sandwich, there’s a good lad, and we’ll make sure to give the key to your mother once we’ve finished up here.”

  “And we’ll make sure to tell her what a great help you’ve been,” Nick added, and he hustled the boy into the corridor and shut the door after him.

  “All right,” Drew said. “See if there’s anything in that bureau.”