by George Mann
“And how have you found Lord Carruthers?”
“An excellent man in many regards. He treated his staff well, and I was made very welcome in his household.”
“And the rest of the staff. Did they accept you readily?”
MacKinnon shrugged. “They did. It was obviously a difficult time for many of them. They had lost the former Lord Carruthers only six months before my arrival, and they were still recovering from the loss of the previous butler, who had been with the family for many years. But they accepted me readily enough.”
Bainbridge cleared his throat. “So when did you last see your former master alive?”
Newbury watched the butler’s reaction. He remained steadfastly unemotional. “Last night. Just before ten o’clock. He rang the bell for tea.”
Newbury leaned forward. “And did you deliver that tea?”
“No, sir.” The butler paused. “After hearing the bell I called on the master in the drawing room to enquire as to his needs. Then I repaired to the kitchen to organise the tea. However, I met Mrs Richards in the passageway outside of the kitchen, and since she was already heading in the direction of the drawing room, she offered to deliver the tray on my behalf.”
“So can you explain why Lord Carruthers may have been showing signs of vexation when she knocked on his door just a few minutes later with that very same tray?”
“I cannot.”
Newbury drew a deep breath. “You can stop pretending now, Harry. I understand that none of this has been easy.”
The butler’s eyes opened wide in shock, and he glanced at the door, as if making ready to run. The bobby stiffened and stepped into the opening, blocking his escape route. Bainbridge stood, nearly knocking his chair over as he did. He glared at the butler.
“Harry? Harry Carruthers?”
Newbury nodded. “That’s right, isn’t it, Mr MacKinnon? That’s your real name, although no one would know it. The Scottish accent is an excellent disguise.”
The man glowered at Newbury across the table. “It’s no disguise. I spent my childhood rotting in an orphanage in the north, abandoned by my father after my mother’s death. He couldn’t bear to give up his precious Alastair, of course—my dear brother was his pride and joy—but he blamed me for my mother’s death and cast me out, telling the world I had died alongside my mother. I was just an infant. I didn’t discover this until years later, of course, and by then I’d already been to hell and back. But a few months ago, when my father died, I finally discovered the truth. I was visited by one of the women who had taken me in at the orphanage. She said that she couldn’t live with the secret any longer.”
“So you decided to get close to the family. The death of the previous butler was the perfect opportunity, I imagine?”
“I was already working as a servant at the Collins house, although my position was that of an underling. But I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I moved to the nearby village and took a cheap room at the inn. I courted one of the maids who worked at the house, and soon enough she put a word in for me with Mr Brownlow. He was quick to take me on when I listed my credentials. By that time they were much in need of another pair of hands.”
“And of course, the Scottish accent and the years of harsh living ensured that no one would recognise you. Not least your brother, who had no reason to even suspect a resemblance. For years he’d been labouring under the impression you were dead.”
“And I might as well have been, for all the difference it made when I confronted him after dinner last night. He refused to believe me. He claimed that I was dredging up his family’s past in the hope of extorting his father’s fortune from him. He told me to get out of his house and to never come back.”
Newbury nodded. “So you decided to enact your revenge. You went directly to the kitchen, found the bottle of strychnine you had secured there for just this occasion, and prepared a deadly brew for your sibling. The clever part is how you tricked poor Mrs Richards into delivering the poisoned cup on your behalf, so that you were never anywhere near the room whilst your brother was struggling for his life. Did you plan to come forward later to claim the inheritance?”
“Perhaps. I would have asked for what was rightfully mine.”
Bainbridge banged his fist on the table. “You’re a despicable wretch.” He turned to the bobby, who had been standing patiently by the door, awaiting instructions. “Get him out of here. Throw him in a cell. He can spend Christmas where he belongs.”
He slumped back into his chair beside Newbury, and the two of them watched as the young man was led away, his hands cuffed firmly behind his back.
“How the devil did you work it out, Newbury?” said Bainbridge, bemused. He tugged on his moustache, pondering the flames that still danced in the grate.
Newbury laughed. “It was the clockwork owl that gave it away.”
Bainbridge turned to look at his friend, his brow furrowed. “How so?”
“It was trying to tell us all along. Those sounds it was making—tee, tee—I think it was telling us how the murder was effected. We assumed all along that there were no actual witnesses to the murder. But we were wrong. That automaton saw everything. And that’s why it was making that infernal racket. It wasn’t just programmed to make those sounds. It was repeating the same word over and over to put us on the right trail—tea, tea.”
“My God! Are you sure?”
“I’ll wager if we were to go back to the drawing room now and shift that chair we’d find all the pieces of that shattered teacup hidden under there, collected by the owl during the night. That was the first thing I noticed when I walked into the room this morning. There was a saucer on the table, but no matching cup. Carruthers must have dropped it when he’d fallen, and the owl had saved the pieces as evidence, just like the nest it had built from scraps of paper beneath Carruthers’s desk. The Scotsman hadn’t counted on that. He was nowhere near the room when the cup was smashed, so he had no reason to look for the debris when the valet found Carruthers the next morning. He probably didn’t even consider it. But the missing cup was enough to put me on his trail.”
Bainbridge shook his head. “Remarkable. But what about the note? It seemed to be pointing to Brownlow.”
Newbury grinned. “No, Charles, although you were on the right track. If the note had been intended to implicate Brownlow, why wouldn’t he have destroyed it or removed it when he broke the door down and found Carruthers this morning, before calling the police?”
“What was it then?”
“B, R, O—he was spelling the word BROTHER. He must have realised that MacKinnon had been telling him the truth, and was trying to leave us a note. One more letter and we might have got it sooner.”
Bainbridge shrugged. “Well, it wouldn’t have helped poor old Carruthers. We were already too late for him.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “We should make haste. It’ll soon be Christmas. I’ll take you home in my carriage.”
Newbury eyed his old friend. “Do you have plans for Christmas dinner, Charles? Mrs Bradshaw makes a passable plum pudding, and I’ve no doubt the goose is big enough for the three of us.”
Bainbridge smiled. “Well, now you come to mention it...”
“Come on then, old man. Let’s retire to Chelsea for a brandy. We can put this whole affair out of mind and attempt to enjoy what’s left of the season’s festivities. Douglas MacKinnon—or rather Harry Carruthers—can wait until Boxing Day.”
Bainbridge nodded, getting to his feet. “Thank you, Newbury. If you hadn’t put your finger on it so quickly I’d be spending my Christmas here, interviewing the staff.”
“Think nothing of it, old man. Think nothing of it. But I do ask one thing of you.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep an eye on what happens to that marvellous bird. If you find it needs a home...”
“It’s yours, Newbury.” He clapped a hand on Newbury’s shoulder, laughing out loud. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas
, Charles.”
The two men collected their coats from the stand in the hallway and set out into the fog-laden night, in search of brandy, cigars and Mrs Bradshaw’s excellent plum pudding.
WHAT LIES BENEATH
Dear Alice
Soon! Soon we will be together again. It seems like centuries have passed since I was last able to drink in your sweet scent, to caress your pale cheek, to gaze upon your pretty face. I miss watching you dance in the gardens in that delicate floral gown; miss seeing your tousled hair tumble loosely over your shoulder; miss your beaming smile. How much it pains me to be apart from you! Yet we must take care not to arouse suspicion. Our secret must remain safe. We share it, a burden, together. I will come to you soon, and we can be together again, if only for the shortest of times.
How I long for the day when we do not have to consider the thoughts of others. I live for it. My heart thumps in my chest even now as I think of that day, so loud that I wonder Felicity cannot hear it in the next room!
Poor Felicity. How little she knows. Often I sit here, at my desk, and wonder whether it would be kinder to tell her the truth. It amazes me that she does not yet know. Under her own roof! She glides through her days in blissful ignorance, unaware of the love that has blossomed between her husband and another. She is no sort of wife to me, but I pity her still. I console myself with the knowledge that she will know soon enough. When the time is right, she will know.
Now, my dearest Alice, I must go. An old friend is coming to visit us. Sir Charles Bainbridge, a policeman from Scotland Yard. Think what he would say if he knew! But do not fear, my love. Soon I will hold you again. Soon,
Isambard
Dear Alice
I fear our liaison must be once more delayed. Much to my surprise, Sir Charles has arrived with another visitor in tow—Sir Maurice Newbury—an anthropologist from the British Museum.
The man is neither wanted, nor welcome. I know you shall think harshly of me for such words, Alice, but I admit I find Sir Maurice unpalatable. He has a certain manner about him; overbearing, direct; arrogant, even. Still, it gives me a feeling of secret glee to know that neither he nor Sir Charles are aware of our secret. Nor shall they be, for I shall take great care not to let it slip, even though I feel a burning desire to shout it from the highest rooftops.
Sir Maurice is unwell. I do not know the cause of his illness, but he starts and shivers and has dark rings beneath his eyes. He barely ate at dinner last night, but guzzled brandy readily enough, until he was clearly inebriated. Sir Charles then saw him off to his room. I wonder if he drinks to forget?
Felicity, of course, fawns over him like a pet. It’s disgusting to watch. She fetches him brandy and walks around the gardens with him as if he is the most interesting man alive. Little does she pay me, her husband, such attention! (Still, my dear, I have you. That means more to me than you could possibly imagine. I do not want or need her attention any longer.)
Sir Charles says that Sir Maurice is in need of a rest, that he has imposed his friend upon me in an effort to get him away from the city for a few days. Clearly there is more to the matter than that, but it remains unspoken. Of course, I have smiled graciously and welcomed them both with open arms, as any worthy gentleman should. In truth, however, I cannot wait for them to leave so that I may pay you a visit. I live in torment, awaiting the time when I can see you next.
Now I must away to dinner.
Be patient, my love,
Isambard
Dear Alice
Questions, questions! Incessant questions! Newbury knows nothing but questions.
Today, my dear, I took the men shooting on the grounds. The pickings were lean, and we returned with only a handful of mangy rabbits. Needless to say, Newbury was near useless. It was all I could do to still my hand from aiming my shotgun at the odious academic. He proved relentless with his conversation, worming his way into our lives, probing for clues; digging, digging, digging. A constant torrent of questions, right up until we broke to change for dinner.
I think he may suspect something. Does he know of our secret? Does he imagine our trysts? I tried to test him with clever questions—eking out a little information and gauging his response—but he is clever, that one, and did not give himself away. I thought I saw a little smile on his lips, however—a secret, knowing smile—and I’ll be watching him. Watching his every movement, listening to his every word. I have a measure of the man, dear Alice, and he shall not be allowed to discover our secret. I promise you. He will die before he knows the truth.
I shall leave this note for you tonight, my love, but shall not risk discovery by lingering for too long in the hope of seeing you. Surely they must leave soon! I need so much to hold you in my arms.
Isambard
Dear Alice
Today I almost let it slip! Tonight at dinner, Sir Charles and I we were talking of his late wife, and I said your name when I meant to speak of Felicity. Thankfully no one appeared to notice, save for a sly look from Newbury. More and more I wonder if he has somehow discovered the truth about us, and worse, that he secretly wants you for himself. You would never leave me, would you, my dearest Alice? Not for him. Not for that secretive, conniving academic. No, I know you too well for that. Of course you would not. You made me a promise, and you are mine forever more. Such is my promise to you.
Nevertheless, it gave me something of a thrill to speak of you in public, to let your sweet name form on my lips. I wish I could talk of you to Sir Charles. We were at school together, the two of us, and I long to confide in him. I am sure he would understand. But I dare not. I cannot risk it. What if he brought it up with Newbury? What if he were unable to keep it to himself, to share in the secret, just as you and I do? Then they would be free to spirit you away from me, and I would lose you forever. I could not bear that.
I must get rid of them, and soon. Sir Charles seems insistent on overstaying his welcome. Two days already! The longer they remain, the longer it will be before we can be together.
Your love,
Isambard
Dear Alice
Newbury is incorrigible! Today I found him skulking around the entrance hall, examining things, looking for answers, for hidden clues. He’ll never work it out, the damn fool. He claimed to be simply admiring the portraits, but I know his words for the lies they are. He is looking for evidence. He plans to expose us.
If he and Sir Charles do not leave after breakfast tomorrow I will have to take action. Newbury is already ill. I will introduce a poison to his meal. I have some hidden in the potting shed. A slow, deadly poison that will offer up all the symptoms of a heart complaint. He will be dead by late afternoon, and no one will suspect a thing. I know you will think me clever and brave for taking such decisive measures.
Tomorrow night, we will be together!
Isambard
Dear Alice
He knows! I can see it in his eyes! That damnable Newbury. He knows our secret!
He is a sly one, I’ll give him that. He did not join us for lunch. After all of my efforts! I had taken great care to create an opportunity to be alone with his food. I dosed his soup with the poison, and took my place at the table just in time for Sir Charles and Felicity to arrive together (after doing Heaven knows what, alone, in the gardens!).
Newbury, however, sent his apologies, claiming he was feeling unwell and would retire to his room for the remainder of the afternoon. Throughout the meal I could do nothing but imagine him creeping around upstairs while I was trapped in the dining room with the others. He was searching for you, Alice, rummaging around where he’s not wanted, trying to expose our secret. To take you for himself
Well, tonight I draw a line. I’m coming for you, dearest. Tonight I shall make my move. I can wait no longer. We shall flee this place, together. I shall make the preparations. Be ready, my love!
Isambard
Dear Alice,
I can barely bring myself to write a wo
rd. All is lost. Newbury and Sir Charles are conspiring in the drawing room. I overheard them talking this afternoon. Newbury has seeded insidious thoughts in Sir Charles’s mind. He uses words such as ‘erratic behaviour’ and ‘unhinged’. He makes out that I have lost my mind!
I have no doubt, now, my dear. They’re coming for me. I have such little time left. We shall not get away.
Hold on, my love. Our secret is exposed. I’m coming now to bid you farewell before they tear you from my arms. Newbury will not have you! I will die before I give you up.
Know this, my sweetest Alice: I have always loved you!
Isambard
Miss Veronica Hobbes placed the sheaf of letters on the low table beside the chaise longue. Her shoulder was still strapped from the bullet wound she had received two weeks earlier, during her encounter with the rogue agent, Dr Aubrey Knox. She winced as she moved, turning to regard the man standing over by the window. She was wearing a serious expression on her pretty face. “These letters are clearly the work of a madman, Sir Charles. What the devil is going on?”
Sir Charles Bainbridge offered her a heartfelt shrug. His bushy grey moustache twitched as he spoke. “The world is going to pieces is what, Miss Hobbes. Dr Isambard Ward was a good man. I spent many of my formative years in his company. It’s a damnable affair. I can hardly believe it myself.”
Veronica felt lost. “Believe what? What exactly occurred? And what of Sir Maurice?” she added, with trepidation.
Bainbridge crossed to where Veronica was resting on the chaise longue. He glanced at the pile of letters. “It was meant to be a relaxing break. I believed I was taking Newbury to a place of sanctuary, a place where he could cast off his dependence on that wicked poppy.” He sighed heavily. “Little did I imagine that an attempt would be made on his life, nor that I was planting him directly in the middle of another mystery.”
“So, what? Dr Ward had lost his mind, and fixated on Sir Maurice, believing him to be a villain? But who is Alice? And what did Newbury want with her?”