by Shéa MacLeod
“When I got downstairs, I noticed the light on in the study. I thought maybe Mr. deVane was working late. I was about to turn back when I heard something.”
“Heard what?” Aunt Butty asked sharply, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Sounded...like a gurgle?” Maddie frowned.
Maybe the sound of a dying man? “Then what?” I asked.
“Then there was a thud like something fell. And I worried...Mr. deVane is a bit old, ain’t he? Maybe he had a fall.”
“Old?” Aunt Butty muttered. “I never—”
I hushed her, eager to hear what Maddie had to say next. “So, you decided to help?”
“Yes, m’lady. I pushed the door open all the way. I didn’t see Mr. deVane, but I did see that man. He was lying there...and the blood...I think I screamed.”
“You did. Rather loudly,” Aunt Butty said dryly.
“Sorry, Lady Butty. It did take me for a turn, it did,” Maddie said contritely.
For once I didn’t bother to correct her form of address. “Did you touch anything?”
“Not a thing, m’lady. I remembered as you once said a crime scene ain’t to be touched. And, o’ course, that Hercoolees person won’t let nobody touch his bodies.”
I was fairly certain “that Hercoolees person” was a reference to Agatha Christie’s fictional detective, Hercule Poirot. She’d definitely been filching from my library again.
“You did very well, Maddie,” I assured her. A thought occurred. “How much time passed between when you saw the body and when you screamed?”
“Oh, right away, m’lady. I was ever so shocked.”
I nodded. So, she must have found the body literally moments after the man was killed. “Did you see anyone else in the room? Anyone at all?”
She shook her head. “No, m’lady.”
“Curtains moving?”
“No, m’lady. They was open.”
And I hadn’t noticed any open windows. No way for a killer to escape other than out the door. “No one walked past you in the hall?”
She shook her head vigorously. “I would have seen them.”
Damnation. This wasn’t looking good for Maddie.
“Alright, Maddie, the police will be here soon, and they’ll want to question you.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, m’lady? I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Because you’re the one that found the body. Only tell them what you told me, nothing more. Do you understand?”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“Good. Now go to the kitchen and have the cook make up tea for everyone, including the police. I think it’s going to be a rather long night.”
She nodded again and scampered from the room. I took her spot in the armchair and liberated the bottle of hooch from Aunt Butty’s grasp. I took a long swig and let out a gusty sigh.
“You know something,” Aunt Butty said in a rather accusing tone, I thought.
“Not much. But I know who the dead man is.”
Her eyes widened. “Who?”
I passed her back the bottle. “I went to the church fete this afternoon and saw a man sneaking about. He looked...I don’t know. Out of place. Not to mention he was wearing a bowler hat just like the man who was sneaking around the grounds the other night. So I followed him into the church and saw him in conversation with Binky.”
“Binky? In a church?”
“I know. It was odd. They were behaving strangely, like they didn’t want anyone to see them talking. I think they were up to something.”
“Something nefarious?” she asked with undue excitement.
“Perhaps. I don’t know, but when I asked Binky about it, he lied to me. Told me he hadn’t talked to anyone.”
“And what does all that have to do with the body currently residing in Harry’s study?”
I leaned back. “Because the body in Harry’s study is the man I saw with Binky.”
UNFORTUNATELY, I DIDN’T have a chance to confront Binky about the dead man. The minute Willis arrived, he demanded to know who found the body. Naturally, everyone pointed to poor Maddie.
I tried to intervene, but it didn’t do a bit of good. After barely listening to her statement, Willis put Maddie under arrest for murder, cuffed her, and sent her off to the police station with Constable Smith.
I did manage to grab a few seconds with her as she was frog-marched to the vehicle. “Remember what I said, Maddie. Don’t tell anyone anything. Just ask for a solicitor.”
“Can’t afford no solicitor.”
“But I can. And I will get you the best. I promise. We’re going to sort this out.”
And then she was gone, the police car racing down the drive and out of sight, spitting gravel in its wake.
“Well, did she listen?” Aunt Butty asked.
“I hope so. I swear, I’ve never wanted to punch anyone so badly as I want to punch Willis right now.”
Aunt Butty gave me a smile reminiscent of a shark. “Don’t worry, dear. With a man like that, there are punishments far worse than physical violence.”
She had a point. “You mean abject humiliation.”
“Indeed.”
I lifted a brow. “What did you have in mind?”
“Can you imagine his reaction should the papers reveal it was a pair of women who solved this crime and freed an innocent maid from prison?”
“Oh, Aunt Butty, you are devious.”
“Occasionally,” she said with equanimity. “Now let’s get dressed, go find that codswallop of a cousin of yours, and get some answers out of him.”
That was easier said than done. We scoured the house, but Binky was nowhere to be found. We expanded our search to the grounds, and finally discovered him hiding out in the folly.
The folly of Wit’s End had no doubt been built sometime in the Victorian era. It was tucked back in the woods near a small pond and had the oddest distinction of being a perfectly normal round tower, but with a pineapple on top.
“I’m afraid whoever built this folly had eaten too many mushrooms,” Aunt Butty murmured as we approached.
“Mushrooms?” I asked.
“Never mind, dear,” she said demurely, adjusting her floppy straw hat. It was beribboned and festooned with numerous plumes, making her look like a startled bird.
I always wondered about some of Aunt Butty’s escapades. But I shrugged it off. I had other things to focus on.
We trudged up the path and pushed through the door into the folly. There was a single, round room with small slits for windows and a bare, stone floor. Around the room were curved benches and on one of those benches sat Binky, looking terribly forlorn.
“What ho, Binky?” I said chummily.
“Oh, lord, it’s you,” he groaned.
“You could sound more enthusiastic,” I said, plopping on the seat next to him and hoping I wouldn’t get smudges all over my lavender dress.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “I really couldn’t.”
“Binky, we need to have a talk.” Aunt Butty’s tone brooked no argument. She spoke to him exactly as a schoolmistress might speak to a naughty child. Binky responded accordingly, sinking low and tucking his head in like a turtle.
“Wasn’t me,” he said.
“So, you do know about the murder,” I said.
He shrugged. “What of it?”
“The dead man in the study is the same man I saw you speaking to at the fete.”
“I wasn’t speaking to anyone at the fete,” he lied, badly.
“Rubbish,” Aunt Butty barked. “You were seen. No sense lying about it. Only fools lie about such things. Now who is that man and why is he dead in Harry’s study?”
He pressed his lips together. Stubborn man.
“An innocent girl has just been hauled off to jail. If you don’t speak up, I shall ensure that you never get another invite anywhere of interest.” Aunt Butty glared fiercely at Binky who wilted beneath her gaze.
“Fine, fine. I did speak to
that man at the fete, but it was nothing. Just...one of those things. He asked for the time and whatnot. It was nothing.”
“You’re lying!” I accused.
“Prove it!” He jumped up and stormed out.
“Well,” said Aunt Butty, taking his seat. “That went well.”
“I was wrong. I want to punch him far more than I want to punch Willis. How am I ever going to get Maddie out of jail if Binky won’t tell us the truth?”
“We’ll think of something, dear. We always do.” Aunt Butty patted my knee.
It was true. We always did. But would we think of it before poor Maddie was convicted and hanged for murder?
Chapter 11
The police station stood near the middle of town, a grim, brick building with a plain facade and an air of gloom. I took the wide steps up and let myself in through the front door. The uniformed officer behind the counter glanced up and gave me a cursory look.
“May I help you, madam?” He said the last word the same way a person might say “tart.” And I’m not speaking of the pudding version.
“Lady Rample,” I corrected him haughtily. “I would like to see Maddie Crewe.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Rample, but nobody can speak to prisoners ‘cept their solicitors.”
“Very well. Has her solicitor been to see her yet?” Aunt Butty had called a friend of hers in London before our foray to the folly. He had assured her that someone would be sent post haste.
“Yes, madam.”
I gritted my teeth. “I would like to speak to Detective Inspector Willis.”
“He’s out, madam.” The officer looked down his misshapen nose. It looked like it had been broken in a bar fight. Or perhaps he’d irked his wife one time too many. “Might I take a message?”
“No. Thank you.”
I turned around and marched out, practically quivering with annoyance. It’s not that I minded people mangling my title. It was his attitude. And the fact he wouldn’t allow me to see my maid. Poor Maddie must be terrified. But at least the solicitor had been to see her, so that was something. Still, I couldn’t rest easy until I’d seen her with my own eyes. What to do?
I knew of only one person who the police might actually listen to. He’d helped me before. Perhaps he would again.
I climbed into my car, revved the engine, and pointed the bonnet in the direction of Fair Woods.
FAIR WOODS HAD BEEN in the Varant family since the Norman invasion of England. One of Varant’s ancestors had done something noble and been awarded with the land. No doubt the first Varant had built a lovely castle, but what now stood there was a massive Georgian structure, deceptively simple, but brimming with history and wealth.
It was in a marginally better state than Varant’s London home, which was a study in shabby gentility. It wasn’t that Varant didn’t have the money to update things, but rather that he chose to pour his money into his land and businesses. Which made a great deal more sense than dumping a fortune into new carpeting if you ask me.
His butler, Kenworth, greeted me with all the aplomb due my station. I held back a smirk and let him get on about his business. Carrying my card on a silver salver was so last century.
Within minutes Varant had joined me in the parlor and was bending over my hand in a suave and gentlemanly manner. He was handsomely dressed in a simple but elegant gray morning suit that set of his physique nicely. I couldn’t help but compare him to Hale.
Both men were equally handsome and well-built. But where Hale was himself without pretense, Varant had a smooth veneer of sophistication that was difficult to penetrate. When it came to women’s rights, I’d no idea where Hale stood, but knew that Varant had supported me in my recent endeavors. But would he continue to do so? And did he truly support the equality of women? Or was it just Varant being...polite? Trying to impress me? I’d a feeling there was much about the man I didn’t know. May never know.
As for which man was the more proper of the two? Well, that went without saying. Society would always choose Varant. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to. Although I did find him decidedly attractive. Not that any of it mattered anyway. As I’d told Hale, I’d no intention of marrying again. And I didn’t need to, thanks to dear Felix.
“My lady. What a surprise. Welcome.”
“Lord Varant,” I said with a smile. “Thank you for seeing me. I know it’s rather cheeky popping in like this.”
“Peter, please. I am always available for you, Ophelia.” The way he said my name sent shivers to intimate places and made me think of very naughty things indeed. Perhaps I wasn’t as unaffected by him as I’d like to think.
I cleared my throat. “I could use your help, Peter.” It felt strange. I was so used to thinking of him by his title. “I’m in a bit of a sticky wicket, as they say.”
“Oh, do tell.” He sat down in an armchair across from me and neatly crossed one leg over the other. Before I could so much as open my mouth, Kenworth reappeared with tea and biscuits which he left next to me.
While I poured, I told Varant of the break-in—something he already knew, having received a call from Harry—and the dead man in the study—which he did not. “They’ve arrested my maid. Ridiculous nonsense.”
Varant took a sip of tea. “Why ever would they arrest a maid?”
“She’s the one who found the body. I think Willis is cooking up some nonsense about a lover scorned or something. Maddie has no lovers. Certainly not out in the wilderness of Devon.”
He gazed at me thoughtfully, expression revealing nothing. “I’m not certain what you want me to do about it.”
I bit into a biscuit, hoping I didn’t get crumbs down my front. “The police won’t let me see her. Maddie. I want you to get me in, so I can talk to her. Make sure she’s alright.”
“I can probably arrange that.” He eyed me carefully. “But there’s more to this, isn’t there? There’s got to be a reason Willis suspects Maddie other than that she found the body.”
I cleared my throat. “There would be if he knew about it.”
Varant lifted an eyebrow. I noticed he ignored the cookies. Probably why he was so fit.
I sighed. “Maddie was born in Germany.”
“And you think with the break in...”
I nodded. “He might think she’s a spy, or some ridiculous nonsense. She’s not, of course. She’s Jewish.”
His other brow went up. “Indeed?”
“Her parents left Germany when she was but a babe. She grew up here. She’s nearly as English as you or I.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that, but she would certainly have no cause to spy for Germany.”
“So, there is a German spy running amok,” I said eagerly. “But why here? Why in Devon?”
He didn’t respond, but instead took another sip of tea while looking enigmatic. “I’ll have a chat with Willis.”
“Thank you.” I wanted to prod him more about this spy thing and Neville Chamberlain and his visit to Harry deVane, but the minute I opened my mouth to ask, he interrupted. Unusual for Varant who was a perfect gentleman at all times.
“Thank you for coming, Ophelia, but I must be off. Got to keep this place running.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’ll have Kenworth give you a ring when I’ve arranged things with the police.”
“Thank you, Varant. Peter. I truly appreciate it.” There was nothing I could do but allow him to help me to my feet and show me to the door. But as I walked down the gravel drive toward my car, I was more confused than ever. I had a feeling Varant was hiding something. Something to do with spies.
Chapter 12
The road from Varant’s manor to Wit’s End passed by the village pub. Just as I approached, a car coming from the opposite direction screeched to a stop outside the pub and Binky climbed out. He was alone and looking a bit frazzled as he entered the pub. I’d no doubt he’d be there awhile, drinking the afternoon away. Which meant this would be the perfect time to search his room.
I accelerated, spe
eding the rest of the way. By the time I arrived at the manor, I was shaking with nerves, which was silly. Fortunately, I met no one and was able to slip up the back stairs usually reserved for the staff and into Binky’s room.
The maids hadn’t been in yet and the place was an utter disaster. The bedclothes were in a wad, clothes strewn willy nilly, and the vanity overflowed with jars of pomades and whatnot, some of them tipped on their sides as if he’d been in a hurry.
I’d no idea what I was looking for. Could be anything: a piece of paper with a secret code, a blueprint, a letter. Maybe even a bloody knife. Only that was silly. The knife had been left in the victim’s back.
I shook my head at my own wild imagination and began to systematically search the room as best I could. I even got down on my knees to peer under the bed. I rummaged through the rubbish in the waste bin and poked at the empty fireplace. There was a stack of books by the bed which was odd. Binky didn’t strike me as much of a reader. But they were all quite innocent and bore nothing of interest.
I finally had to give up. Frustration jabbed at me like a sharp needle. This was getting me nowhere and I was feeling rather overheated and in dire need of a drink. Perhaps there had been something incriminating in Binky’s room at one point, but it was certainly gone now.
Rather out of sorts, I stomped down to the drawing room where I was sure to find a beverage of some nature.
I wheedled Mrs. Bates into providing a bowl of ice. Then well-armed, I raided Harry’s drinks cupboard for the necessary booze. A few minutes later, I was ensconced in an armchair with a good view of the sweeping lawn, an Aviation in one hand and a book in the other. Not that I could focus on the book. My mind was in far too much of a whirl. But it would be a good excuse to avoid unwanted entanglements of the conversational variety.
Fortunately, the first to put in an appearance was Chaz. “Darling, that looks simply marvelous. How does one make it?”
“Oh, it’s terribly easy. Gin, maraschino liquor, lemon juice, and creme de violette.”
Chaz followed my instructions, shook it all with ice, and poured it into a delicate martini glass. “Sheer perfection!”