by Emily Queen
“Where you go, I go, remember?”
The rest piled into Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge’s town car and headed down the lane while Rosemary changed her clothes for a second time. When she met Vera at the bottom of the stairs, she was slightly winded and eager to get on with the events of the evening.
Rose exited the front door, avoiding a strip of darkness created by the shadow of Woolridge House that splayed across the driveway, and shivered in the cold night air. She rejected the idea of going back inside for a coat and climbed into the backseat of her car with Vera at her heels. “Wadsworth, get us to Barton Manor as fast as you can,” she said, raising her voice so he could hear her through the closed partition.
He didn’t answer, but pressed the gas and made his way down the lane. Rose wrung her fingers as she thought about what was ahead of her and was so distracted she didn’t notice when the car took a right-hand turn rather than continue up the hill where Barton Manor loomed.
“Rose, why are we headed in this direction?” Vera asked, puzzled.
“Wadsworth, you’re going the wrong way.” She pushed the window that separated the front seat from the back and gasped when she realized it wasn’t her butler at the wheel, but Arthur Abbot. He had a gun in his hand, and he glared at her in the rear-view mirror.
“Neither of you will make it to Barton Manor tonight. Because tonight, you’re going to die.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rose froze, wishing she could open the door and jump out, but unwilling to leave Vera in the hands of a madman and knowing she probably wouldn’t be fast enough to dodge a bullet, anyway. What she wished even harder was that she’d been able to alert Max to her plan. Now, with her own life in jeopardy, she regretted having acted with such haste. That she’d been right about Arthur Abbot provided little comfort.
He spun into the lane leading to the chapel and gunned the engine before coming to a stop at the entrance of the cemetery that butted up against the southernmost edge of Barton Manor’s grounds. Before Rose or Vera could do anything other than lock panicked eyes, he had yanked open the rear door and ordered them out of the vehicle.
“Move. Now.” His voice was far calmer than his demeanor, his shaking hands speaking volumes about his mental state.
“Mr. Abbot, Arthur, please. You don’t have to do this.” Struggling to keep her breathing under control, Rosemary had little hope of help arriving in time, if ever, to save them. It was one thing to take self-defense training, quite another to be thrust into the position of needing to use it. Half the lessons had gone out of her head and the other half she couldn’t use because Abbot had a gun.
Arthur met Rose’s plea with a sneer. “Don’t I? You keep poking your nose into everything. I thought framing your brother would keep you busy. Women are supposed to do what they’re told and not try to think for themselves. Not smart enough, though. I sprung your little trap.”
“Why…” Vera took offense but bit off the scathing retort before making matters worse. “How did you figure it out?”
That’s right, Vera, keep him talking, Rose thought to herself, taking the moment of reprieve when Abbot shifted his gaze towards her friend to search for anything—a weapon, or even a large rock—that might get them out of this predicament.
Mrs. Woolridge had been right; Mr. Abbot wanted to talk. He wanted his story told, and since he meant to kill them anyway, it didn’t matter what he let slip.
“I knew you would be trouble as soon as I realized you were chummy with that Inspector Whittington. Did some checking up on you, didn’t I?”
If only something would distract his attention, Rosemary thought she might be able to save Vera. Her own life mattered little compared to that of the precious one in danger now because of her.
Meanwhile, Abbot’s diatribe continued. “You’d be surprised by what I found. I know your husband used to be a private dick, and I know you set that party at the Blackburn estate as a trap. I overheard that idiot brother of yours when you thought my attention was on Edgar. It wasn’t.” The more he worked himself up, the shakier became the hand holding the gun.
Nothing in her training had prepared Rosemary for dealing with a man like Arthur. Hard-nosed attackers, yes. Nervous men with pistols and nothing to lose, no.
Breathe and wait for an opening. That’s what Andrew would do.
“I didn’t miss Herbert’s little slip-up either. He knew about the second set of books. He could have told the police about it, and I’d have been up on charges within a fortnight. But instead, I killed him. And then I followed you. All the way to London.” Caught up in his tale, Abbot’s eyes turned misty and the grip on the gun loosened slightly.
Rose noticed. She prodded him. “When we were tailing Grace?”
“Yes. You were so concerned with not being spotted by Miss Barton you didn’t notice you were being followed. Almost solved my little problem on the way back, but you were too quick for me. Another second, and I’d have hit you with the car. Slipped up there, right enough. Women playing at being detectives, I ask you.”
“What about you?” Vera might be acting tough, but her fingers trembled. “You think you’re so smart, but you will not get away with this. Before you kill us, don't you want to know how we saw the problem with your alibi for Mr. Cuthburt’s murder?”
That was brilliant Rosemary thought, stall until we figure a way out of this.
Abbot continued as if he hadn't heard Vera's question. “I waited for you, you know, and when you got home, I saw that maid bring you an umbrella—you must pay her rather well with your dead husband’s money—and so I recognized her when she showed up later with a note supposedly written by Mr. Barton. You managed to get his signature just right, I’ll give you that.”
“But why?” Rosemary still didn’t know the answer to that question, and if she couldn’t figure out a way to disarm the man, she’d go to her grave never understanding. The thought bothered her almost as much as dying did. “Why did you kill Mr. Cuthburt? You were friends and business associates.”
“Business associates, yes. Friends, never. That man was responsible for killing my wife. He was a war profiteer, you know, would have done anything to make a buck. It’s not all about commodities and the black market. Cuthburt preferred to make his money in the back alleys of London. He owned a theater there, under an alias of course, selling spirits at a ridiculous markup for those who could still afford to imbibe.”
Rosemary hoped Abbot would get caught up in the story and forget about the gun. While she listened, she watched closely.
“That was on the face of it,” Abbot said. “In the back, he provided a place for his real customers—the brunos and the button men who managed the organized crime syndicates of London. Isabella worked there as a cocktail waitress. We didn’t have a lot of money. We were only starting out, but I begged her to give it up. She refused, saying she wanted more for us, a better life. One night after her shift, she disappeared. They found her body, bloodied and bruised, in an alley a few blocks from the theater. Of course, Cuthburt never accepted responsibility, and I’ve spent these last years making a name for myself, getting close to Cuthburt so that when the time came, I could ruin him.”
“Ruin him? You’ve done more than ruin him, Arthur. The man is dead, and so is another young man who had his whole life ahead of him. Surely your wife was avenged after the first death.”
“I didn’t intend to kill Cuthburt!” Abbot boomed, becoming more agitated and less careful with the weapon he held in his hand. “I wanted him broke, behind bars, with his reputation in the privy. I wanted him to suffer. Instead, he went quickly, unlike my poor Isabella.”
Keenly agitated, Abbot appeared ready to cry but shook his head to clear the notion, and continued to rant. “I didn’t mean to kill him. But he—he practically goaded me into it. I watched him sneak up to Edgar’s study, so I followed him. He was rooting around in the desk, and when I confronted him he said he had finally figured out what I’d been up to.”
“Why, framing him for something that might actually stick this time. Oh, Cuthburt had vowed to clean up his act. He’d only agreed to work for Edgar if he promised to legitimize Barton & Co. once and for all. So, I had to help him along. Let’s just say, if the police had found my copy of the books, Ernest would have been ruined. If Herbert Lock had just minded his own business, he’d still be alive.”
Rosemary shivered, sensing Arthur Abbot’s patience was nearing its conclusion and wished she had gone back inside for her coat after all.
“Now, which one of you would like to go first?” Abbot said, waving the gun between Rose and Vera as though playing a game of Eeny meeny miny mo. “I choose…you.” He pointed the gun at Vera. “So your friend can watch you die knowing she could have spared you if she’d simply minded her own business.”
In a final effort to stall, Vera said, “Don’t you want to know how we solved the mystery?”
“How?”
“Your mistake was in attempting to frame Frederick. You told the police you were near the foyer when you were supposed to be with your physician instead.”
“Max Whittington will put it together,” Rosemary said. “You can kill us, but he will solve the case and come after you.” Her faith in the inspector was unfailing.
“Not if I take care of him first. Who else knows? Your father? The butler? Well, he won’t be talking.”
“What have you done to Wadsworth?”
“Little tap on the head. He’s probably not dead. Yet.”
Red rage roared up inside Rose like a thundercloud, and she felt adrenaline pulse through her veins as she shoved Vera unceremoniously to the side, ducked, spun, and aimed the pointed end of her heel at Abbot’s weapon hand. A shot rang out, and for a long moment, Rose felt her heart breaking into a million pieces.
Then, almost in slow motion, Abbot’s eyes widened in shock as blood seeped from the wound in his chest, spreading to turn his shirt from bright white to scarlet red. He stumbled back and then fell to the ground and stilled.
“Rose!” She heard Max’s voice from the other side of the car and squinted in the blinding glow of the headlights. Relief flooded her heart as she scrambled to gather Vera into her arms. Max circled to where Abbot lay and checked his pulse to make sure he was truly dead.
“Did you have to ruin my new frock?” Vera complained. “There’s a run in my stocking.”
There was blood on her knee as well, but the injury was minor.
His voice ragged with emotion, Max returned to where Rose cradled Vera. Whatever else he might have wanted to say, all he could manage was, “Rosemary. I … are you hurt?”
“A bruise or two. Nothing worse.”
“How did you know where to find us?” Rose asked. “Did your housekeeper tell you I called?”
“No, but I’d only just walked into the station when the third of a series of irate phone calls from a woman named Mrs. Shropshire came through. She claimed you were supposed to get in touch with her, and that she had been unable to get through to Woolridge House. I went to your house, and your maid said were at Barton Manor, but when I saw a light near the church, my instincts brought me here.”
Rosemary helped Vera to stand and limp to the car. “Are we free to go? It’s Wadsworth, you see. I need to get home and see if Mr. Abbot has killed him.”
“Go. I’ll see to things here and come along to take down your statement as soon as I can. We will talk about your utter lack of concern for your own safety at a later date.”
Threat or promise, Rosemary could not tell and decided it didn’t matter. What she did know was that if she ever needed him, Max would be there. The thought provided comfort and also provoked a feeling Rose wasn’t capable of dealing with quite yet. Eventually, she would have to, but for now, she allowed herself to be escorted back to Woolridge House and her warm, safe bed.
Chapter Thirty
Yet another large breakfast was taking place at Woolridge House, this time with the additions of both Vera, who had, as promised, refused to leave Rosemary’s sight, and Mrs. Blackburn, who had stayed in one of the guest rooms.
Wadsworth had survived his encounter with Mr. Abbot, and despite the bandage he wore, insisted he was fit for duty. One look at his pale face and Mrs. Woolridge had banished him to the kitchen, ordering Anna to fetch him a plate.
When her solicitous attitude toward someone who was, even vicariously, under her employ drew incredulous stares from her family, Evelyn huffed and stuck her nose in the air.
In fact, she held that very posture when Rosemary’s steps could be heard on the stairs. Concerned looks passed between those assembled, but nobody said a word when she walked into the dining room wearing a dress the color of summer grass. Instead, they all stared while she marched over to the buffet table and began to load up a plate.
Frederick jumped up and beat Vera and Stella to Rose’s side. “Let me get that for you,” he said gently.
“Frederick Gerald Woolridge, I’m perfectly capable of filling my own plate.” She slapped his hand away with a grin. “And I do not want your filthy fingers anywhere near my bacon.”
“Everyone,” Frederick said wryly, “I believe she’s just fine.” He went back to the table but kept his eye trained on his sister. He had, of course, known what she was made of, but he had not spent the previous night reveling in his freedom, but worrying about what the encounter with Arthur Abbot might have done to Rosemary. “We know the whole story, and there’s really no need to talk any more about it.”
“Wait!” Rose exclaimed. “We still don’t know who wrote that threatening letter to Mr. Barton.”
“Oh, yes, we do.” Evelyn Woolridge preened. “You just missed it, dear. Turns out, it was Mrs. Barton all along. She wanted to scare him into acting the faithful husband. Apparently, it isn’t just Mr. Barton she watches like a hawk, because she figured out that Grace found the letter and burnt it before you ever arrived at the manor. Also, both Mr. and Mrs. Barton have decided that perhaps a nice, boring chemist would be the perfect match for Grace after all. They’ve agreed to let her accept her young man’s proposal providing he makes a good impression at dinner next week.”
“I guess we’ve tied up all the loose ends,” Rose said, relief evident in her tone. “Except one. Come on, Nelly dear. I promised you a ride on the horses, and a ride you’re going to get.”
Rosemary tiptoed into the downstairs office of Lillywhite Investigations late that night after the staff had gone to bed and the house was quiet. She closed the door softly behind her and walked across the soft carpet to stare at Andrew’s desk chair. She sat down on it and pulled her robe closer around her.
She glanced at the empty space above the door where the loud ticking clock used to hang and decided she didn’t much care for the silence it left behind after all.
Pushing the harrowing events she’d recently experienced out of her mind, Rose tried to bring herself back to the place she’d been before Grace Barton had shown up on her doorstep. Finding it more difficult to imagine the space as an art studio than she had in that moment that day, she pulled open the top drawer to search for something to draw with.
I know I left a pad and paper in here somewhere. Rose thought to herself. When the drawer got stuck halfway open, she reached her hand inside and realized there was something stuck inside. Jiggling the drawer and the object, she wrenched it free and found herself staring at a rectangular box that looked like it might have been intended as a gift.
She wasn’t sure she could bear the thought of opening something that Andrew had bought her before he died, but she couldn’t stop her hand from lifting the lid and pulling back the tissue wrapping.
When she saw what was in the box, Rosemary let out a laugh that would have summoned Wadsworth in seconds had he been awake and listening. It was a replica of the sign that sat on Andrew’s desk, the one that said “Andrew Lillywhite, Private Investigator”, except it was Rosemary’s name carved
into the wood.
There was no card, and Rosemary found that she didn’t care. She needn’t have been explained the significance of the gift, because it was clear by the very nature of it what her husband’s intention had been.
No, she thought, I’m not ready to close down Lillywhite Investigations. Not just yet.
***************
If you enjoyed this book, you will want to pick up your copy of book 2 in this series: The Murder Next Door.
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Other Books by Emily Queen
Books in the Mrs. Lillywhite Investigates series:
Book 1: The Case at Barton Manor
Book 2: The Murder Next Door