“No,” Nicholas snapped.
“I noticed your limp and thought perhaps…”
Nicholas gave a little grunt. “Oh, just an automobile accident.” He then lowered his pitch, “Now, listen to me, none of us had reason to kill Phyllis; for Christ's sake, she was terminally ill.”
“And you are convinced that Mrs. Xavier struck Phyllis at the back of the head with the candelabra.”
“Who else?” Nicholas responded.
“What about this Lucy person?”
“Ms. Wallace? She hasn't the wherewithal to commit murder. Nice enough girl; I don't understand why she has gotten herself mixed up with that American.”
“Do you care for a cigarette?”
Nicholas replied, “Too early; if I start now then I won’t stop until the end of the evening.”
“Smart,” said the inspector. He paused, and then said, “You haven’t seen a box of matches that I mislaid last night, have you?”
“I don’t recall.”
The inspector replied, “Fancy little box, had the name of Hotel Cote d’ Azur on it.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Nicholas said, curiously.
The shuffle of chairs began, and the inspector told Nicholas that those were all the questions he had for him at the time.
The other policeman, this one junior to him, stepped into the room, and they whispered as if my presence was known. The other man walked away briskly, and then the inspector welcomed Joan into the dining room.
“Morning, Mrs. Stayton…”
“Oh, do come to the point. I didn’t much care for old Phyllis, but Mother Nature had already set to do her in, so why would I?”
“Why would anyone?” the inspector asked whimsically.
“Give me a cigarette, and I’ll tell you.”
There was a moment of silence, the strike of a match, and then Joan said, “That’s better.” There was a little pause, just enough time to take a long drag. “Tell me, what do you know about those rifles the Canadians were armed with during the war?”
The inspector made no response. I imagined that he shrugged at Joan’s question.
“Maybe this will ring a bell. In wet areas, they jammed. The Canucks hated them so much that they’d pitch them on the ground and use their revolvers.”
“Go on.”
“You know that Phyllis was employed by Nicky during the war. I’m sure he’s already pointed the finger at my Randolph, but he was just a guilty.”
“I haven’t a clue as to what you are saying.”
Joan let out her ugly imitation of laughter. “Randolph made a deal to resell the rifles…Nicholas didn’t tell you any of this?”
“I’m afraid not. Your husband and his younger brother were business partners, you say?”
Joan sounded completely different to me when she replied, “I don’t think I should say any more.”
“That isn’t an option, Mrs. Stayton.”
“Randolph was a junior partner; he was already down on his luck when the idea was cooked up. He had little to offer.”
The inspector asked, “So it was he who had to do the dirty work. He managed to collect the malfunctioning rifles and transport them?”
“I don’t know the details—I never asked. All that I do know is that he wasn’t smart about it. He sent a letter that said too much. The other business partner, in London, dictated a stern reply.”
“And Phyllis took this dictation?”
Joan’s response was delayed. I could imagine her puffing from her cigarette before she spoke. “Yes. Phyllis realized what was going on.” Joan gave a grunt. “The poor dear thought Nicky to be above such a thing. He and his partner cut Randolph out, thinking him too half-witted to trust.”
“It sounds as if your husband might have reason to kill Miss Masterson after all.”
Joan bit back, “Why? She would have been dead by the end of summer.”
“Then why tell me all of this?”
“Better to hear it from me than the servants…” her voice trailed off.
“Then who might have killed Miss Masterson?”
Quickly, Joan said, “The American.”
“Why?”
“Her mother-in-law put her up to it,” she said, in a very thrilled tone.
“Why would she do that?” asked the inspector.
“You didn’t ask me who the third partner in the munitions business was, Inspector.”
“I am remiss. Who was this person?”
Joan replied triumphantly, “My husband’s cousin.”
“Mrs. Xavier’s father-in-law?”
“The very same.” She barked her laugh again and said, “He was forced to buy out Nicky, Randolph too, but there was little reward. The stress of it all was too much for him. He died one morning, they say in his bathrobe, arguing with the cook.”
I wanted to burst through the door and accuse the woman of lying, but she wasn’t so much lying as pontificating. These were her version of the facts.
I was startled when the door behind me jolted, but did not open. The next instant, a little slip of paper was pushed under the door. I heard Lucy’s voice telling the cook, “No, I just dropped my pad. Thank you.”
I skimmed her note, quickly. The old butler was fired after he made an unsavory comment about Phyllis, something about she wouldn’t have taken a misstep if she wasn’t always sneaking through the house.
Henderson, who had come with Randolph and Joan as a footman, took the position. He had done well to befriend Phyllis.
Most scandalous, though, was this bit of gossip: it was generally suspected that, before the accident, some sort of relationship existed between the chauffeur and Phyllis. His feelings for her waned after it became clear she would not recover. This information was a compilation of the maids’ knowledge.
I thought to myself, Why else would Phyllis suggest a spurned lover? She had been one.
The sound of Joan’s ugly, barking laughter caught my ear, and I moved back to the other side of the butler’s pantry.
“Miss Wallace? My husband told me he recognized her from Xavier's funeral. She looked a vagabond at the time. Now look at her, decked out in H and K’s spring wardrobe. I suspect she knows what that American did to Xavier and is blackmailing her.”
The inspector said with a muffled voice, “You’ve been most helpful.” It sounded as if he’d placed a cigarette between his lips while he spoke.
“It is a pity that people don’t hang in public anymore. I’d like to see that girl dangling from a noose.”
The inspector ignored Joan’s mean-spirited comment and asked, “I left a box of matches here last night; you didn’t happen to find it?”
“Unless it was floating in a bottle of gin, I wouldn’t have been looking for it.”
The chairs were shoved about, and then Joan’s heels struck the floor relentlessly as she made her dramatic exit.
I heard the inspector sit back down. He began to tap his fingers on the table. Was he thinking what I was: how did I not know that my husband’s father and the man’s cousins had been petty war profiteers?
I was sure that Mother Stayton had no idea, or she wouldn’t have let me travel to Pearce Manor. Xavier hadn’t known. When I asked him where his family money came from, he’d been rather stumped by the question. He listed a slew of investments and shrugged, not all that concerned as to how the coffers were filled.
There was a sound at the door, and it seemed that Lucy had promptly returned with more information. Then Henderson appeared; the man smiled at me and handed me a plate of lunch.
Blushing, I took the dish. He gracefully stepped back and closed the pantry door, not making a sound.
I nibbled away at a cold piece of chicken while the inspector gathered his thoughts. I was just licking my greasy fingers when the voice of the junior officer startled me. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the room.
“Yes, that’s what the vicar’s wife said.”
“How odd. Fetch me the old
er brother.”
I listened to the inspector pace until Randolph entered the room. “Garish, isn’t it?”
“How’s that?”
Randolph scooted a chair from the table. “This room, absolutely garish.”
“I thought it was rather fancy.”
Randolph gave a harrumph and said, “That’s what Nicky was hoping people would think.”
“Are you implying something, Mr. Stayton?”
“What do you think happened to the tapestries, the oil paintings, the crystal chandeliers that used to be in these rooms?”
“I hadn’t concerned myself with the décor,” replied the inspector.
“Nicky sold it all—this French look, it is cheap stuff, nothing of value. No, he had a broker in London, all hush-hush, sell off the good stuff.”
“And why did your brother do that?”
Randolph grunted, sounding like his younger brother. “You’re the detective, you tell me?”
“Your brother’s financial affairs are not what I am investigating. The murder of Miss Masterson is my concern.”
“And you make to pin it on me, because I’m the failure. Well, look around, Inspector Fowler, Nicky isn’t so well off either.”
“Are you telling me that Nicholas murdered Miss Masterson for financial gain?”
“No, of course not. I’m just telling you, we all have our secrets.”
“Such as Canadian rifles.”
“I knew he’d point a finger at me…”
“Your wife was the one pointing fingers, Mr. Stayton, not your brother.”
I heard the creak of a chair, as if someone had shifted their weight. “Ah, good old Joan. Did she tell you how she left me? Moved in with her mother and stepfather.”
“While you were in the war?”
Randolph grunted. “It was convenient for her. When it was all over, and I hadn’t anywhere to turn, she didn’t ask her mother to take me in. Do you know why?”
The inspector made no reply that I could hear.
“She said, ʻGo live with your brother, I have better prospects.ʼ And she did, the little monster was trying to seduce her stepfather. Sickening, isn’t it?”
No reply this time either.
“Her attempt failed, and she was packed up and put out on the street like the filth she was. Still, the little flat I had wasn’t good enough for us. She told me she’d come back to me if I debased myself, crawled to my brother and got us set up here.”
“And you complied.”
Sounding very sorry for himself, Randolph responded, “Of course I did. I would do anything for her.”
“Would you murder for her?”
Randolph gave a little laugh. “She hasn’t asked me to, yet.”
“Your wife went through many moods, after a bad patch, you and she returned from holiday. She was warm and gracious, for a time, then Phyllis had her accident.”
“Yes, we had a row; I was mad enough that I threatened to divorce her. I lost my temper and struck her. That had never happened before. I thought she’d hit me back. She didn’t; something inside her changed. She started acting the way she used to, for a time.”
“You came back, and then Phyllis had her accident?”
“Just a few weeks later, yes. Of course, we were away when she took her fall, the poor dear. Talk about changed. She was never the same,” Randolph said compassionately.
“Tell me how?”
“I don’t know, she’d been sweet, always smiling. She adored Ruth and treated Nicky like he was some sort of hero.”
The inspector asked, “After the accident, she treated them differently?”
“She and Ruth, no, the same, but now on equal footing, no longer the secretary but as a dear friend. Phyllis treated Nicky as if he wasn’t so grand in her eyes anymore. She seemed jaded.”
“Why do think that is?”
“I can’t say; she was in pain, but she was hopeful to make a full recovery. It was an emotional time. My insight is also hindsight. At the time, I wouldn’t have thought what I think now.”
The inspector asked, “And what do you think now?”
Randolph lowered his voice. “I am not so sure her fall down the stairs was an accident.”
“An attempt to harm her?”
Sounding more like himself, he grunted and said, “Harm her? Have you looked at those stairs? More like an attempt to murder her.”
“Do you have a culprit in mind?”
“No,” Randolph replied with little conviction.
“Mr. Stayton, your wife was on her best behavior for a time; when did that change?”
Randolph seemed to think about the question for some time before he answered, “A month or so later, about the time of Nicky’s accident.”
“His motorcar accident?”
“That’s what he calls it. He was in town, and a drunk ran over his foot when he was leaving the pub. The fool drove off and left him there in the road.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“No. I was away at a reunion, or I would have been with him.”
“Where was his wife?” asked the inspector.
“She’d taken Phyllis to see a specialist in London,” replied Randolph.
The inspector did not ask my question, Where was Joan? Instead, he said, “What about Mrs. Xavier, do you think she has anything to do with this?”
“Oh no, a daffy creature, but sweet enough. Have you put your eyes on that Miss Lucy? Beautiful girl.”
The inspector ignored his comment. “Care for a cigarette?”
“Not a bad idea.”
There was a pause, and the inspector asked, “You haven’t come across a box of matches I left last night, have you? It’s from the Hotel Cote d’ Azur?”
“Oh, yes, Monty. No, I can’t say that I have,” Randolph replied.
“Thank you; you have been quite helpful,” said the inspector. I rather disagreed. Randolph had spouted out all sorts of random information, but nothing seemed clearer to me.
Chapter Ten
The cook and the chauffeur were both interviewed by the inspector, but neither had much information that was new to me. The chauffeur had indeed been in a secret but short-lived love affair with Phyllis, but according to him, she had ended the relationship, not him.
Both servants spoke freely in regards to Randolph and Joan, but were reserved when asked questions about Nicholas and Ruth.
After speaking to these two, the other policeman joined the inspector. I could not hear what the junior man said, only the inspector’s response. “Yes, that is rather strange. Send in the butler.”
A few minutes later, I heard Henderson’s voice, “Good day, sir.”
“Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you, Inspector Fowler.”
“At the time of Miss Masterson’s death, where were you?”
“I was quite nearby. As you know, we were acting out Mrs. Xavier’s manuscript.”
“Have you any opinion on who might have struck the victim?”
There was a long pause before Henderson replied, “I’m afraid I am of no help to you.”
“How long have you been with the Stayton family?”
“A number of years, sir. I started with Mr. Randolph and Mrs. Joan; I was their butler. They let go of their staff shortly before the war. I was fortunate enough to be hired on by Mrs. Joan’s stepfather. He took me on as a footman. It was a reduction, but I was happy for the job. As I’m sure you have already found out, there was some ugliness, and Mrs. Joan moved out of the house. I tendered my resignation, and shortly, I came here in the same capacity.”
“How long have you been the butler here?” asked the inspector.
“Let’s see. The previous butler was terminated…”
“For something he said about Miss Masterson.”
“Indeed,” Henderson responded.
“Was his comment true?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Henderson replied in a way that said his predecessor had mi
sspoken, but had not lied.
“You are very much the eyes and ears of the house. Is there anything that you would like to share with me?”
“Only that there is much tension in the house. Miss Masterson’s health was a great concern. What you are seeing of the Stayton family is not typical. They are a quiet and kind family, sensible people.”
“Indeed,” the inspector replied, and then asked, “Do you have a light?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Thanks. I left my box of matches here last night. I can’t remember where.”
“Yes, Mr. Nicholas mentioned that to me. I looked for them, but I haven’t found them.”
After a moment, the inspector replied, “Yes, thank you. That will be all.”
Carefully, Henderson pushed back his chair and then came the soft, dignified sound of his footfalls.
The maids would be brought in next, and I wondered what gossip they might know. However, before they were called in, the door to the butler’s pantry opened, and the inspector asked me, “Well, have you figured out who killed Phyllis?”
I shrugged and said, “Apparently, I must have committed the crime.”
The handsome man stood back and gestured for me to take a seat at the table. I could tell that he was amused rather than irritated by my eavesdropping.
He sat down after I did, and his eyes lingered on me for a moment before inquiring, “Were you privy to the dealings of your father-in-law and his cousins?”
“No, Mother Stayton mentioned that Randolph had narrowly avoided some scandal after the war. That’s the most that was ever said in that regard. I knew they disliked her; now I know why.”
“Right. And your husband never discussed this with you either?”
“Never. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d talk about,” I responded.
“There seems to be some mystery shadowing your husband’s death, as I’m sure you overheard. Would you please explain the circumstances that have been kept from his family?”
I felt my soft, warm face turn into a cold ceramic mask, and I replied, “My husband was an explorer. A very brave, adventurous type, you know the sort. He went off to Ecuador, and sailing down the Amazon River, he was captured by headhunters. Need I tell you more?” I closed my eyes and put my hand to my chin before uttering, “To this day, even just the sight of a man with a small head sends me into hysterics.”
Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Page 9