Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

by Robert Colton

  Phyllis spoke before I could reply. “Well, we are all curious to hear what the dear child has composed this past week. Lucy can’t type several copies of it before they depart Monday morning. Assemble the maids and the gardener, whoever else is needed, after dinner tomorrow, and they can act it out for us to watch. They’ll just need a little time in the afternoon to learn their bits.”

  I was no longer sure if Phyllis was out to help me or ruin me. I just smiled and nodded.

  “I would enjoy it; wouldn’t everyone else?” Phyllis concluded as all others stared at her in disbelief.

  Nicholas rubbed his face with his hands and made a grunting noise that seemed to favor the performance. His older brother shrugged and looked to his wife, who stared into her half-empty glass. Back to Ruth, the question was answered, “How nice; we will have a little theatrics, then.”

  We scattered in different directions of the house while Henderson carried the dog upstairs.

  Chapter Seven

  After a quick breakfast, Lucy and I worked feverishly on selecting just the right excerpts from my manuscript to be reworked into a script. There was not time to act out the entire plot. Instead, we would witness the attempted murder and the deduction made by Miss X.

  Lucy typed out individual sheets of dialogue for our cast. There was no time to correct typos. I penciled in notes that might help direct the characters’ actions.

  Once a solitary luncheon was served to us, we made ready to gather the cast. It was Phyllis who offered to direct the staff into the library so that we could assign their roles.

  Henderson was, of course, cast as the butler. The chauffeur was selected to portray the estranged husband; his indifference was perfect to the character. The gardener was given the part of Uncle, and seemed thrilled to play the leading role. Two pouting maids were assigned the parts of the culprit and the red herring. The cook and her assistant would stand about and act as the invited quests. Nate was selected to portray the family cat; as felines rarely do what they are told, the dog’s performance was masterful.

  The rehearsal ended when Henderson started to become agitated, and I realized it was getting well on to four o’clock. I dismissed the staff so that they might rush to the kitchen and prepare for tea.

  Phyllis had been very quiet as I instructed my actors on their movements. Once Lucy and I were the only ones remaining with her, the woman lounged awkwardly in a high-backed leather chair.

  “Bring me a cigarette,” she said to whichever of us might comply.

  Lucy rushed to follow the command, and then asked, “What did you think?”

  “I can think of no actress on the silver screen who might need to worry herself, but that man who plays a tramp might give pause if he realized just anyone can act like a bumbling fool,” Phyllis remarked. She sounded rather weary. After a long drag from her cigarette, a glimmer of life came back to her. “All things considered, it was positively entertaining.”

  I felt rather apprehensive and said, “This might be a mistake.”

  Lucy misunderstood my concern and said, “Oh no, it will come off.”

  Extending her good hand, as tendrils of smoke rose from the burning object past her fingertips, Phyllis pointed at the candelabra. “For the performance this evening, switch that with a candlestick. I believe the candelabra would actually do someone in.”

  I was too nervous to join the others for tea, if in fact they even bothered to make their way into the gay drawing room where the little feast would be laid out.

  I told Lucy that I needed to take a little rest. She thought this was a good idea and left me alone to contemplate. The span of two hours passed all too quickly as I reconsidered becoming a famous painter.

  Satin after seven, as Randolph had said. I combed my auburn hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ears. Donning my most modest pieces of jewelry, I slipped into a dark blue gown. The elegant thing looked like something Joan would wear, and I considered changing.

  There was a rap at my door, and I knew what I wore would be of little concern for the four people waiting to see my little story acted out.

  Phyllis greeted me outside of my room. Her dark purple velvet gown was a contrast to her typical grey or black ensembles. She took a long, appraising look at me and said, “Lovely.”

  Smiling, I reached to close my door and then halted, “I forgot to spritz myself with perfume.”

  Phyllis stopped me. “Don’t worry with it. I detest perfume.” She bade me to interlock elbows with her, the good one, and we glided down the stairs, ever so gracefully.

  It seemed that she had determined to give me strength through this event that she’d put me up to.

  Dinner was filled with tedious small talk, the kind of stuff a reader would skim through, stopping only at a name or a well-turned phrase.

  While Ruth and Nicholas’s wineglasses were often refilled, Randolph shot his wife several stern glances that seemed to slow down her intake.

  The staff was clumsy and preoccupied. Were they saying their lines over and over in their heads, or cursing me for making my intrepid journey to Pearce Manor?

  Sentences trailed off, polite guffaws were brief, small helpings of tasteless food were moved from one side of a dish to another, until dessert was served in near silence.

  Several times, I thought about giving a great laugh, and then announcing, On second thought, I don’t think my muse is a writer after all. Let’s forget about acting out my attempt, and just play bridge after dinner. When I return to London, I think I’ll have Mr. Jack ring up a dance instructor to give me lessons. However, every time I gazed about the table, Phyllis met my eye and smiled rather proudly at me. I bit my tongue.

  We could stall no longer. Phyllis suggested that Lucy and I make our way into the library and prepare for the little show.

  Henderson quietly directed a footman to take over for him and followed us. We found the driver pacing in the dimly lit the room. Out of uniform, he looked quite the dandy.

  Quickly changed into their best frocks, the two maids slipped inside the elegant chamber. With white knuckles, they grasped their typed-out lines.

  By habit, one of the little women went to turn on a lamp, and Lucy called out, “No, we just want the chandeliers on so that we can turn them off in an instant.”

  “The moon is casting a glow; close the curtains as well,” I suggested.

  Phyllis snapped the fingers of her good hand and told the chauffeur to place a comfortable chair by the light switch; she would play stagehand. The man’s eyes turned to daggers. He did as she requested with flaring nostrils.

  “Oh, you’ll need these,” Lucy said, and gave me a small box of matches.

  I felt a bit flushed, and when the door leading to the hall opened, I feared I might swoon.

  The two brothers and their wives joined us, fresh cocktails in their hands. They looked about and saw that the two couches had been moved; no longer facing each other, they were side by side, looking onto the long wall with the closed curtains. This was where the action would take place.

  My unhappy performers clustered together, all looking down as if a spot on the carpet had mesmerized them. Nate left the side of the chair where the script had called for the fictional feline to lounge, and collapsed at Ruth’s feet.

  As the two couples each settled into their own couch, I stepped before them and said, “I hope you have the lowest of expectations; this is only from the first draft.”

  At the beginning of the week, I had thought they all looked so young for their ages. Their cattiness towards one another had seemed almost a lark. Looking at them as they stared me down with cold eyes, the four appeared quite different.

  Randolph, the eldest, looked dumpy in his black tie attire. Specks of silver gave character to his lifeless, oiled hair.

  Nicholas, who had seemed at one time lanky, reminded me of a man on stilts. There was little of him to fill out the legs of his black slacks or the shoulders of his jacket.

  Joan, alm
ost old enough to be my mother, looked foolish in her red satin gown that revealed too much of her. The jewelry hanging on the woman was garish, and it crossed my mind that perhaps it was the sort of costume stuff that courtesans wore, always on the hunt for a more generous man.

  Ruth, hawk-like, as I have said, appeared very nervous. Strain showed clearly on her angular face. I don’t know why, but I felt sorry for her.

  I darted a few long steps from where I had stood; not joining my begrudged actors yet, for my character entered later in the scene, I hovered next to where Phyllis sat by the light switch. She gave me a thrilled smile that reminded me of a child watching animals doing something at a zoo that they ought not be doing in public.

  Unaware of the tension in the room, Lucy took center stage, and cheerfully said, “Miss X and the Case of Cupid’s Misdeed. Uncle, as we will call him, has gathered about his kith and kin so that he might make an announcement.” She dropped her pitch and sounded like quite the sinister character. “But as a storm approaches, a diabolical scheme is hatched.”

  One of the sour maids began. “My darling,” she said stiffly to the gardener, “are you sure tonight is the right time to make the announcement?”

  The gardener rather fancied himself the dashing lead. He put an arm across the maid’s shoulder and swept the woman to his chest, and, looking down at her startled face, he said, “There could be no better evening.”

  Nearly everyone in the library leapt as Lucy slapped two baking sheets together in imitation of thunder.

  “What about the storm?” said the maid in a hollow voice.

  “What of it?” the gardener asked dramatically.

  “It has delayed your niece and that friend of hers.” She sounded as if someone were standing on her foot.

  “No matter. In fact, I shall tell everyone now.”

  The other servants had been pretending to speak amongst themselves. Ahead of cue, their mumbling fell silent.

  My star called out very boldly, “Quiet, everyone. I must have your attention.” They were all perfectly silent when he repeated, “Please, I say, I must have your attention.”

  Looking toward the couches, I noticed Nicholas watching intently, while his brother was stifling a yawn.

  The gardener went on with his dialogue, “I have an announcement to make—” He stopped speaking abruptly and looked to Lucy, who slapped the baking sheets together again.

  As planned, Phyllis reached over and turned the chandeliers above us off. I think I heard Ruth give a little gasp; she might have even inadvertently kicked Nate, as the normally silent dog gave a hushed yelp. Coincidentally, in my manuscript, the fictional cat screeches because his tail is stepped on by the culprit.

  I quickly walked over to the table at the middle of the performance. The sound of a thud told me that the gardener had dropped to the floor as called for by my script. I hoped not to trip on him or the candlestick left on the floor.

  I felt about the table, anticipating that the candelabra and a set of matches was waiting for me. My character would make a dramatic entrance by striking a match, lighting the candles one by one, thus introducing me before the victim is seen knocked down and just clinging to life.

  I felt a cigarette box, then an ashtray, but I couldn’t find the candelabra. The silence went on, and I became frantic about my missing prop. At last, I said, “I must break character. This is most embarrassing; I can’t seem to find the candles. Phyllis, do be a dear and switch the lights back on.”

  There was no reply. After a second, Ruth called out, “Phyllis!”

  I could hear the movement of bodies rising from the couch. Then there were footfalls behind me. The lights overhead came back on. Henderson stood at the switch, looking down on a crumpled form.

  It seemed odd to me that the gardener was still prone on the floor, and far from the center of our performance. Then, my eyes focused on the extremely dark black hair, and the dark purple velvet material.

  The prop that I had been searching for was on the floor next to Phyllis’s lifeless body. Candles, some broken, surrounded the woman. I looked at the candelabra and thought to myself, Et tu, Brute?

  Chapter Eight

  A frantic call was placed to Ampthill; where this was located, I could not say. What felt like a long span of time passed before several police officers, or as I thought they were called there, constables, arrived.

  A few uniformed men walked the grounds, while several fellows in dark suits and hats questioned the doctor, who had arrived before them.

  One man in particular seemed to be in charge. As Lucy would point out once her wits had returned, he would fit nicely into the story of my manuscript. Tall and pleasant on the eye, he had wavy dark hair cut in the current fashion. His eyes were green, and his skin showed some color that indicated athletic pursuits.

  Standing in the hall next to the library, this man asked Nicholas, “Does the dog bark at strangers?”

  Nicholas's head swung toward Nate, and he replied, “No. I don't think he knows how to bark.”

  “Come again?” asked the handsome fellow.

  Nicholas gave an apologetic shrug and replied, “The dog is from Kabul. I don't think they bark there.”

  “I should think they'd bark there more than anywhere else,” said Randolph.

  Joan hissed, “This isn’t the time.”

  “What an exotic place to find a dog,” remarked the policeman.

  Nicholas reached down to pat Nate’s head. “An unasked for gift. An acquaintance gave the idiot dog to my wife. Silly woman thought it might make for another companion after Phyllis died.”

  “Nicholas, what an ugly thing to say,” snapped Ruth.

  “I beg your pardon?” the policeman said with flaring nostrils.

  Nicholas looked to Ruth. “Well, it is true. We can say it now that she is dead.” And then, to the inspector, “Phyllis had a tumor; she was dying. The breeder gave my wife the dog as a distraction.”

  “Phyllis was dying, you say? Then why murder her?” asked the policeman, making a note in his little book.

  “Exactly!” said each couple, in unplanned unison.

  Slowly, the policeman turned to face me and asked them, “Was there anyone present at the time of the crime who was unaware of Miss Masterson's terminal condition?”

  They glared at me, and Ruth said, “I don't know how well informed our guests from London are.”

  Quickly, I admitted, “We had not a clue.” The truth was, we hadn’t read them right. It seemed obvious after the fact, her lack of appetite, her constant fatigue, and the way Ruth catered to her.

  “You are the two guests spending the week?” asked the policeman. Nicholas had already given him the overview of the events leading up to Phyllis’s death.

  “Yes,” I replied, not caring for the way he looked me up and down.

  The policeman looked to poor Lucy and said, “You are Mrs. Stayton?”

  She shook her head and pointed to me as she replied, “No. I’m Lucy Wallace.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at me again, and, as if he did not believe it, he asked, “You’re Mrs. Stayton?”

  I nodded and watched him remove a small envelope from the pocket of his jacket. He reached out his hand, giving me the object. “Would you open the envelope?”

  It had already been very carefully unsealed. I took a small piece of stationary from the matching envelope, which had my name on it.

  “Please read what it says—aloud,” said the policeman.

  I could not but help hear Phyllis’s voice as I read, “My dear child, I have wronged you. For this, I am sorry. Phyllis.” I glanced up and said, “There is a postscript, a quote from the novel Great Expectations.”

  “Please read it,” the policeman said.

  “So, throughout life, our worst weaknesses and meannesses are usually committed for the sake of the people whom we most despise.”

  As I looked up from the note, I saw Ruth dab away a tear from the corner of her e
ye.

  “What does that mean to you?” asked the policeman. His voice was uncomfortably commanding.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Had she wronged you in any way?” the policeman asked.

  “Not at all; in fact, she had been rather kind to me,” I replied.

  Joan let out an ugly laugh. “Phyllis was kind to you? She thought you were a little fool; didn’t you see the way she looked down her nose at you?”

  I had been polite, I had been cheery, and I’d had enough. “No, Joan, I didn’t notice Phyllis making any imitation of you.”

  Randolph snickered, Nicholas put his hand to his mouth, and Ruth’s head dipped as she tried to catch sight of Joan’s reaction.

  Before the situation might become nasty, the policeman said, “It is very late, and you are all tired. I suggest you all get a good night’s sleep, and I will meet you all in the morning.”

  I stepped forward. “I would like for you to question Miss Wallace and myself tonight. I intend on calling home and having the car sent for me as soon as possible.” I was done with these people. I would not sleep under the same roof as a murderer.

  The policeman took back the letter in my hand. He would not meet my eye as he responded, “I think not, Mrs. Stayton. After all, you are currently my chief suspect.”

  There was no pretense made indicating that we were still welcome guests. Coming downstairs, we found Henderson waiting for us. Apologetically, he said, “If you are hungry, a small buffet is available in the kitchen. I have set places for you on the terrace.”

  I thanked him graciously, and we followed him. The servants ate well enough, and we shared in their morning meal.

  Lucy had tried to make some small talk, and I tried to respond, but the effort proved too much for each of us. We ate our cold scrambled eggs and toast in near silence.

  “Come along,” I told my dear friend as I heard a motorcar approaching from the drive.