by Joyce Cato
‘I said it needed to be sponged, Inspector. As you know, velvet takes a long time to dry,’ Meecham responded, trying not to underline the inspector’s ignorance too much. It didn’t do to alienate the police.
Bishop sighed deeply, obviously feeling out of place in this world of lords and ladies, smoking jackets and butlers. Jenny almost felt sorry for him.
‘I see. But either one of you could have left the room any time without the other seeing?’
‘We talked all the time,’ Gayle said quietly. ‘If one of us had failed to answer, well, we would only have to take a few steps to reach the next room. Father left just before three-thirty to take back the tea tray. I continued with the bath, until it was obvious that the guests were staying longer than predicted. I then left, and met my father in the hall a short while later. He told me about Miss Simmons.’
‘I see,’ Bishop said flatly. So father and daughter were alibiing each other. It was not totally unexpected, but it left him no further forward. It could all have been as they said. Maybe.
Bishop turned reluctantly to the cook. ‘And you, Miss Starling? Where were you?’
‘I was here the whole time, Inspector, as I said before. First, preparing the tea tray, then, afterwards, the evening meal. Which reminds me….’ She got up to check that Elsie had peeled the potatoes.
‘And you never left the kitchen once?’ Bishop asked sharply. He could almost wish that she had done it. That would remove a thorn from many a policeman’s side.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Jenny said shortly, accurately reading his thoughts. Damned cheek!
Bishop turned to the ferocious-looking kitchen maid with conspicuous courage. ‘And you are Miss Bingham?’ Bishop pulled her name from the depths of his rather good memory.
‘I was here too,’ Elsie said quickly, her voice gruff and challenging. ‘All afternoon.’
Hearing this blatant lie, Jenny paused in the act of filling the vast saucepans with water. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes colliding with that of the inspector. Jenny sighed. ‘That’s not quite true, Elsie,’ she pointed out, as casually as she could manage. ‘I did ask you to go down to the cellar for some flour and swedes. Remember?’
Elsie scowled, but nodded. ‘Oh. Ah, so you did,’ she owned. She didn’t look particularly put out or particularly defensive. She sounded as if she’d just forgotten the incident.
‘What time was this?’ Bishop asked quickly, and the two women exchanged a long, measured look.
‘About quarter past three, I think,’ Jenny admitted reluctantly.
‘How long did it take you, Elsie?’ Bishop asked, and saw the old girl’s head swing back sharply in his direction. Her eyes were as hard as a hawk’s.
‘A few minutes, I expect,’ Elsie said. ‘The cellars are right dark, and them steps are dead steep. I took me time. I’ll show you if you like.’
Bishop nodded to Myers. The instructions were unspoken, but plain to everyone in the room. See where the cellar is in relation to the conservatory. Time your movements. See if the old girl could have done the killing, retrieved the foodstuffs and come back all within a few minutes.
Jenny watched them go, her eyes troubled. She glanced back to Bishop, and with the potatoes ready to go, returned to her seat. Things were moving too fast. She needed to slow them down and to start thinking.
‘Would it have taken long, do you think, Inspector?’ she asked the first of many questions that would need to be answered. ‘The actual killing, I mean?’
Bishop shook his head. ‘No. It was a single blow. She wasn’t expecting it. She didn’t struggle. It could have taken less than a minute.’ Now that he had accepted the inevitability of Miss Starling’s involvement, he was finding it surprisingly easy to talk to her. Like several police officers before him, he was beginning to suspect a sharp intelligence at work under that rather startling exterior. She might look like a surprisingly lovely, statuesque cook, Bishop thought, but she’d got a mind like a steel trap.
Jenny nodded. ‘I see,’ she said heavily. Poor Ava. She couldn’t have known much about it. There was at least that blessing.
Just then, the door was flung open and Roberta bounded into the room. She looked like a wild thing, her hair flying and her eyes red from weeping. She headed straight for Jenny, homing in for comfort.
‘It isn’t true, is it?’ Roberta gasped, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and sniffling loudly. All traces of the cocky teenager were gone, and she was, temporarily at least, still little more than a child, suddenly confronted with one of the harsher facts of life. Unfair, sudden, and ugly death.
‘I’m afraid it is, Lady Roberta,’ Jenny said gently.
‘I don’t believe it. It can’t be true. I didn’t like her!’ Roberta wailed, making perfect sense to the cook, but startling Bishop into sitting forward and taking a sudden, intense notice.
‘I know,’ Jenny said soothingly. ‘When someone dies that you don’t much like, it seems worse somehow. You feel guilty that you didn’t like them better. You wished you’d made friends.’
‘That’s it exactly. Oh Miss Starling, you do understand,’ Roberta said, relieved. ‘I really couldn’t believe it when Gramps told me,’ she carried on, sniffing even more loudly.
Jenny reached into her voluminous apron and extracted a hankie. Roberta used it robustly. ‘It’s absolutely awful,’ she said at last. ‘Something has to be done. They can’t get away with it. Whoever did it, they have to pay, Miss Starling,’ she said, with all the vehemence of the young.
Jenny nodded. ‘Whoever did it will be caught,’ she said grimly. ‘I promise.’
‘So do I,’ said Bishop, his deep voice making Roberta jump. She looked around, blushed, and quickly stood nervously to one side, putting her hands behind her back.
‘Oh. Hello. You must be a policeman,’ she said, with touching aplomb.
Bishop smiled warmly. Not even he was immune to girlish charm, it seemed. ‘Indeed I am. And I’m glad to hear you say what you just did. I just know you’ll be a great help in finding Miss Simmons’ killer.’
Roberta beamed, and Bishop beamed back.
He has a daughter of his own around about her age, Jenny realized in a sudden flash of intuition. Well, well.
‘I will, if I can,’ Roberta added, with an anxious frown. ‘But what can I do?’ she added eagerly.
‘Well, for a start, you could tell me where you were between three o’clock and half past this afternoon. That would be a great help.’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Roberta said, a little disappointed by the banality of the question. Now that the shock was wearing off, the resilience of the young was taking its place. Now she was excited. Keen for the adventure to begin.
And Jenny felt a sudden stab of fear.
She was so young. Too eager. Which meant she was vulnerable. What if she actually found something out? With her insatiable curiosity, it could lead to all sorts of trouble.
‘I was in the music room playing the piano with Malc.’
‘Malc? Oh, Mr Powell-Brooks.’
‘That’s right. We got there about, oh, ten to three, and we were still playing when Gramps came to tell us why Simm hadn’t shown up.’
Bishop followed this breathless explanation with ease.
‘So she was supposed to take you for piano?’ he clarified.
‘Hmm. But Malc can play just as well as she can,’ Roberta said with a cheeky grin. And she much preferred him to teach her too, she added silently.
‘And you never left the music-room? You or Malc, er, Mr Powell-Brooks?’
Roberta shook her head.
Bishop nodded. ‘I see. Tell me about Miss Simmons,’ he began, but was interrupted by the return of Elsie and Myers. The sergeant gave his superior a meaningful look, but neither spoke. Jenny vowed to find the food cellar the first chance she got, but she already knew, with a sinking heart, that it would turn out to be not far from the conservatory.
‘Can anyone tell me anything ab
out the dagger used to kill Miss Simmons?’ Bishop asked, looking around without much hope.
Obviously there was no point in trying to keep the identity of the murder weapon a secret – not when so many had seen it covered with blood. ‘Had it ever gone missing before? Did anyone see anybody else taking unusual notice of it?’
Jenny, in the act of raising a cup of tea to her lips, suddenly stopped. Instantly Bishop’s eyes fixed on hers.
The cook was remembering her call to the butler’s pantry, and she glanced guiltily at Meecham. At the same moment, Meecham remembered what he had been doing, only an hour before Ava Simmons was killed.
He looked at the inspector, going deathly pale.
‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said weakly, and Jenny felt like kicking him sharply under cover of the table. Didn’t he realize how guilty he sounded? Gayle obviously did. She gave her father a stricken look, and Jenny felt her mouth go suddenly dry.
She thinks he may have done it, Jenny realized, in a sudden flash of intuitive understanding. But why?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bishop tried to keep a rising sense of excitement firmly in check as he stared at the butler impassively.
‘I hadn’t realized that anyone had accused you of the murder, Mr Meecham,’ he said mildly. And Jenny, sensing instinctively that Inspector Bishop was at his most dangerous when appearing to be at his most reasonable, found herself stepping in where angels would, at the very least, have thought twice about treading.
‘I think, Inspector, that Mr Meecham is worried that because he was the last person to handle the dagger, it might make him the prime suspect,’ Jenny explained, her cool and reasonable tones dripping into the tense air like soothing ointment. ‘Which is, of course, ridiculous,’ she added softly, just for good measure.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Meecham cast beseeching eyes in her direction. Bishop, on the other hand, turned gimlet eyes her way. ‘Oh yes, Miss Starling? And just how do you happen to know this?’ he demanded.
‘Because I saw him cleaning it, of course,’ Jenny said simply, taking the wind out of his sails with no effort at all.
‘Oh?’ Bishop turned back to the quivering Meecham.
‘Well, yes,’ Meecham said. ‘Of course I was the last to handle it. Nobody else would have any business even touching it.’
‘You are the one who cleans it?’ Bishop asked gently, one bushy eyebrow disappearing into his hairline.
Meecham gulped. ‘Yes, Inspector. You see, I knew that the colonel was visiting today, and whenever the colonel visits, he always wants to see the dagger. That’s why the family always entertain them in a room that leads past the dagger, so that the colonel doesn’t have to actually ask to be shown it. They’re very consid—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Bishop interrupted, feeling the excitement beginning to abate. Drat that cook. Giving the butler confidence just when he needed to be kept off-balance. He cast Jenny a fulminating gaze, which was totally wasted on her. She merely glanced placidly back at him, her lovely blue eyes making him uncomfortably aware of her sex appeal.
‘But what has that to do with you being the last to handle the dagger, Meecham?’ Myers, seeing that his superior was distracted, quickly leapt in, keeping up the pressure.
Meecham turned bewildered eyes in the dapper sergeant’s direction.
‘Well, I had to clean it, of course,’ Meecham said, puzzlement plain in his voice. ‘Whenever the colonel comes, I always clean the Munjib dagger,’ he explained, as if talking to a particularly backward infant. ‘I am the butler,’ he informed them imperiously, his tones beginning to ring with indignation. ‘It’s my job to ensure that everything runs smoothly when they’re entertaining. Why, if the colonel saw the dagger in anything but a spotless condition, his lordship would be mortified. He’d be—’
‘Enough!’ Bishop roared, holding up a huge hand and winning instant silence. For a moment he closed his eyes, then he took a deep breath, his massive shoulders heaving up and down. Then he opened his eyes once more. He turned to Meecham, his voice so sweet and reasonable that Jenny had to turn away to hide her smile.
‘I understand, Meecham, that you cleaned the dagger. That you always clean the dagger when the colonel comes. That you take it as your life’s work to keep the blasted dagger spotless,’ his voice was beginning to rise again. Realizing it, he smiled and lowered his tone once more. Ever-so-sweetly, so that it made the cavities in your teeth positively ache, he added quietly, ‘Can you tell me when?’
‘When?’ Meecham echoed, overawed by the display.
‘Yes,’ Bishop gritted through teeth that would surely be worn to a nub if he carried on grinding them in the way that he was doing. ‘When. At what time was the dagger taken down from its usual place, and when did you put it back?’
‘Er, it would have been about half past two when I finished and put it back. I’d been at it for at least an hour. It’s hard to get between the gems without….’ Meecham quickly trailed off when the inspector’s eyes closed and the shoulders heaved once more.
‘Thank you. I see.’ Bishop rose and beckoned to his sergeant, then left. He wasn’t particularly sure where he was going. He only knew that he wanted to get out of that kitchen before he found himself tearing out great chunks of his hair – which he could ill afford to lose.
‘Not very helpful that, sir,’ Myers said diplomatically.
‘No. Let’s see what the gardeners have to say. I want to take a look at that conservatory from the outside.’
That sounded reasonable enough, Bishop thought. And he needed some fresh air. It was going to be a long, long day.
Myers’s lips twitched, but he made no comment. Myers was nobody’s fool.
Jenny was relieved to see that Meecham was finally regaining his equilibrium. At 7.30 on the dot, Jenny loaded the tray with steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes, diced swede and carrots, and watched Meecham go away with it, straight-backed and dignified. As Elsie saw to the others, Jenny wondered exactly why she had come to Meecham’s rescue so swiftly.
Oh, she liked him, right enough. And felt sorry for him. And yet, for all she knew, Meecham might have killed Ava Simmons. Or Meecham and Gayle together. That sounded rather more likely. Meecham was not exactly made of iron, whereas Gayle….
But was that fair to Gayle?
She hated how murder brought out every suspicious inch of her normally sweet nature. She sighed, and checked the rhubarb for acidity. It tingled against her inner cheeks perfectly. At least something was going right today. As she turned, she glanced around the despondent diners at the table, realizing that someone besides poor Ava was missing.
Of course, Janice! It was her afternoon off.
They were a quiet bunch that evening. Malcolm Powell-Brooks found himself wishing that Roberta were present. She could be a little pain, sometimes, and her crush on him a bit embarrassing, but he’d have welcomed her chatter and youth with open arms. His nerves were like violin strings. Elsie, opposite him, seemed to be pushing her food around her plate in a manner that was guaranteed to irk Jenny no end. Gayle ate almost defiantly, the cook thought, with some worry. This girl feels guilty about something, Jenny was sure of that. But what possible motive could Gayle have for killing Ava? What motive could any of them have for that matter?
‘Pass the salt please,’ Malcolm said, to no one in particular, just to break the silence. Elsie obliged. Meecham returned. Jenny watched him sit down and stare at his food. He didn’t even bother to so much as pick up his fork.
‘Oh really, this is ridiculous,’ Jenny snapped, making everyone jump. ‘We might just as well get it all over with, and talk about it,’ she carried on briskly, only to jump out of her own skin when a soft voice suddenly asked from a gloomy corner of the kitchen, ‘Talk about what?’
The whole table turned around, white-faced and roundeyed. But the female voice belonged not to the vengeful, accusing ghost of Ava Simmons, but to a rather puzzled-looking Janice. She had just entered through t
he side-door leading from the garden, and was walking forward with a determinedly jaunty step.
‘Didn’t get to have any dinner after all,’ she chirped. ‘Danny was supposed to take me to the fish and chip shop, but….’ Her cheerful chatter trailed off as everyone continued to stare at her blankly. ‘What’s up? Don’t say you’ve eaten it all,’ she laughed, but her laughter was hollow, and her eyes flitted about restlessly.
Jenny quickly ladled out the last morsels of the staff pie onto a plate and piled it high with vegetables. ‘Sit down, Janice,’ she said softly, and waited until she’d done so.
‘What’s up for Pete’s sake,’ the chambermaid wailed, giving another hollow laugh. ‘It’s like a morgue in here.’
Her choice of words couldn’t have been worse. Beside her, Elsie snorted. “Tis. Just like it, my girl. Someone’s killed her.’
Janice paled. ‘Killed who?’ she squeaked, then, for the first time, noticed the empty seat. ‘You mean Ava?’ she whispered, looking straight at Jenny for confirmation.
‘Eat your dinner,’ Jenny said flatly.
‘But … what happened?’
‘Someone stabbed her,’ Elsie said bluntly. ‘With that fancy Indian dagger of his nibs’s. In the conservatory, they say. Anyway, she’s dead, and that’s that.’
And with that, Elsie took a determined bite of steak.
‘We’re sorry, Janice, to have it blurted out like that,’ Gayle said, giving Elsie a reproving look. ‘It’s a bit of a shock, I know.’
Jenny barely heard Gayle’s soothing words to Janice, who had started to weep quietly over her plate. She was still staring at Elsie. That the kitchen maid had been brutally blunt was not in question: it was the fact that she had been so brutal that held Jenny’s attention.
It had always been her opinion that people who came out with callous statements in times of tragedy did so not necessarily because of a lack of feeling, but more often than not in a vain attempt to cover up deeper feelings. Without any evidence save her own instinct, she was sure that Elsie, placidly mashing gravy into her potatoes, was in the grip of some strong emotion.