The inspector began to laugh until my icy stare silenced him. Hesitantly, the inspector asked, “You are joking, are you not, Mrs. Stayton?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking me about Phyllis’s death rather than my poor Xavier’s horrible demise?”
Not sure if he should be ashamed of himself, or furious with me, he asked, “This play you wrote, who had read it? Who knew when the lights were to be turned off?”
“Phyllis, Henderson, the maids, the cook, the gardener, and the chauffeur,” I told him curtly.
“Did they memorize their lines?” he asked.
“No, well, almost, but they still had typed notes.”
“They had typed sheets of paper?” he asked quizzically.
“Yes,” I responded.
“Then where are they?”
I thought about the question and had no answer. “I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly. Before he could say anything, there was a knock on the door. “Yes?” he called.
Henderson opened the door and said quite formally, “A car has arrived for Mrs. Xavier and Miss Lucy.”
I responded quickly, “Thank you, Henderson; will you see to it that our things are brought down?”
His eyes went to the inspector, who gave him a quick nod. He then replied, “Of course, Mrs. Xavier.”
Once the door was closed, the inspector said rather sternly, “I haven’t dismissed you.”
“Then you shouldn’t have nodded your consent to Henderson,” I retorted.
“Why the rush to leave?”
Had I been the type to bark out a bit of fake laughter, his question would have been ripe for that sort of response. “I’m not welcome here, and there is a murder afoot. You can reach me and Lucy in London, but I’ve told you all I know.”
“You haven’t told me everything you know. I find it strange that a young woman tells lies about her husband’s death…no, not just strange, but suspicious.”
“My husband’s death has no bearing on this case…”
“A woman keeping the details of one untimely death a secret was one of only two people who didn’t know that Miss Masterson was dying at the time she was killed. My superiors would question my sanity after they read such a report, such a report that stated I let her leave the county.”
“Extortion is it? I tell you my tragedy and you let me leave?” I asked, my tone laced with venom.
He only nodded and then lit another cigarette.
“I told you that my husband was an explorer…”
“So you told me, the vicar’s wife, and that nice couple on the train.”
I was impressed that his minion had found out about those two occurrences. “Indeed. However, he only made his way so far as Saint Louis, Missouri. We met, fell in love, and he brought me to his home, to his family. Everything was perfect. Our marriage was a success. We were very much in love, but he had kept a secret from me.”
The inspector flicked his ash into a little dish that I had thought was silver, but, on closer inspection, I saw that it was tin.
“Less than a year after we were married, I discovered his secret. Xavier found me reading in our room, and he told me he was going to take a bath. How he luxuriated in his baths, or so I thought. I gave him a kiss and told him I might take a nap.
“More than an hour passed, and I woke. The sound of running water from the bathroom concerned me. I knocked at the door, and there was no reply.
“The butler broke down the door, Mother Stayton and I standing behind him. Xavier was in his dressing robe, crumpled on the floor, blood drying at his forehead.”
The inspector made as if he was going to fish out a cigarette for me from his pocket. I stopped, gathered myself, and went on.
“Mother Stayton went into hysterics, calling out her pet name for Xavier, my towheaded boy, but you see, he wasn’t.”
The inspector’s eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled. “He wasn’t?”
“No, I saw a little glass bowl and a comb in the sink, and there was an unfamiliar paste that had splattered on the vanity and the sink as well; it smelled so strongly that my eyes burned.”
“I don’t understand,” admitted the inspector.
“After Xavier’s toddler years, his pale blonde hair started to darken. Mother Stayton began washing his hair herself, with what she called a special shampoo, and then, when he was too old for that, she made him part of the secret. He was a brunette.”
The inspector blew out a puff of smoke and looked at me as if I were a raving lunatic.
I explained, “There had been a chill in the air, so Xavier didn’t open the window when he went into the bathroom to secretly bleach his roots. He was overcome by the ghastly vapors of the concoction; he passed out and struck his head on the marble bath.”
The inspector started to smile, then frowned. “Another lie…”
“No, Inspector, the ugly, sad truth.” I said this in a way that convinced him. “It had mattered so much to his mother, his pale, angelic hair, and then it mattered to him, because he prized his mother’s pride.”
“I am sorry,” said the inspector, slowly, hesitantly.
“As am I. It was not a death befitting him. Xavier should have seen the world, as he wanted to, and if he fell off Mount Vesuvius, or was eaten by an alligator, or sailed into a waterfall, at least he would have made it to that exotic place and died the death of an adventurer.”
I felt the first tear welling up in my eye.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said the inspector, apparently not immune to the tears of a young widow.
“Are you charging me with the murder of Phyllis Masterson, or am I free to go?” My voice cracked as I asked the question.
“If you leave, I may not solve this case,” he told me.
I stood and said, “You’re a better detective than that. Good day, Inspector Fowler.”
Once outside of the dining room, I rubbed the tears from my face. Lucy and Henderson were waiting for me by the door. My friend handed me my purse. As I reached inside the bag for a handkerchief, Henderson kindly pulled his from a pocket of his jacket and gave it to me.
“Thank you, Henderson,” I managed to say, and whisked past him, never so happy to see Mother Stayton’s dark blue sedan waiting outside.
Our driver opened the door, and I found Mother Stayton waiting inside the car. Lucy gracefully followed me, and the door was closed.
My mother-in-law took one look at me and started to reach for the flask she kept in her purse.
“No, no, I’m fine,” I assured her. This was, of course, a lie.
“You look very upset. I take it you liked that Miss Masterson very much,” she remarked, not having the faintest idea of what had made me cry.
The car lurched forward as I nodded; it was easier to agree.
Mother Stayton could plainly see that I was a world away, so she began asking Lucy about the murder. I watched Pearce Manor from the rear window, growing smaller and smaller as we sped down the drive. Rounding onto the road, the row of tall trees obscured my view, but not my uncertainties.
The two continued to speak, but it was just noise to me, like ducks quacking in a pond.
I had to stop myself from thinking about Xavier, lifeless on the cold tile floor; that ghastly paste dried about his cowlick.
My thoughts could only be shifted to Phyllis, and her crumpled form. I spoke out loud, not in full possession of my wits, “Lucy, what happened to the sheets of typed paper that the servants held with their lines?”
Her pretty face froze, and she thought about my question. “I don’t know?”
Mother Stayton asked, “This play, it was your novel?”
I didn’t respond quickly enough, so Lucy said, “Yes.”
“How far into the play did you get?”
Lucy answered, “Not far at all; the actual murder happened before the fictional attempted murder…”
Lucy’s words caught my attention. “Yes, the attempted murder was to be acted ou
t for them to see, for them to ponder.”
My dear friend then said, “They’ll never know the story. Well, unless they buy your book.”
That was the point of killing Phyllis. The plot had been her idea, and the performance had been her idea. She and my story had been silenced. Whatever reaction would have taken place to my story would have caused repercussions; this was why Phyllis had written me the letter. Perhaps we would have been expelled from the house, and she would have handed me the note in the chaos of our things being collected.
I was startled by my epiphany. I reached into my handbag and found my little silver snuff box. With shaking hands, I took a clove and placed it on my tongue. As I replaced my sentimental item, my fingers touched something rough.
“I knew this trip was a mistake; they dislike us so,” said Mother Stayton.
“Why is that?” asked ever-curious Lucy.
“A failed business venture during the war. I hate to mention it.” However, she had our ear and loved to share a bit of gossip, so she continued, “My husband was convinced by his cousins to put out some money and buy into a munitions company before the start of The Great War. He partnered with them, and it turned out they were cheats.
“Nicholas was smart; he folded when he found out that his brother had taken on an unsavory silent partner of his own to redistribute some faulty weapons.
“Once Mr. Stayton put the pieces together, he paid back the cousinsʼ money and simply folded the business; he was ashamed of what they’d done. It was a great financial loss to us.
“Strangely, shortly before his death, he received an extortion letter. I had forgotten all about it,” Mother Stayton concluded, a little surprised by the omission from her memory.
“Extortion!” I exclaimed, as Lucy clapped her hands in shock.
“I forgot all about it, yes. The letter had threatened to expose the misdeeds that had been committed. My husband wouldn’t be bullied. Rather than paying the price demanded, he left his own letter in the assigned place; he explained that he had nothing to hide.”
Lucy remarked, “How brave.”
Mother Stayton smiled. “He figured the threat came from Randolph’s henchman; the man would have to expose himself to prove his claim.”
Lucy asked, “What happened?”
“Nothing. Well, my poor dear husband died six weeks later.” Mother Stayton gave a little pout.
“So there were four people who knew about these misdeeds,” Lucy began.
“No, five knew—Phyllis.” I reached into my purse and plucked the matchbox that I had found.
Mother Stayton, who did not understand the significance, remarked, “The Hotel Cote d’ Azur; you two had such a lovely time in Monte Carlo. Now there is the setting for a thrilling book.”
I tapped at the glass separating us from the driver and called out, “Turn back!”
Chapter Eleven
“Henderson, call the entire household to the library. Please tell them that Inspector Fowler wishes to speak to them,” I said as I passed through the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Xavier,” he answered with a bow, before colliding with Lucy. “My pardon, Miss Wallace.”
She cocked her head to one side and smiled kindly. “My fault.”
As he turned to close the door, I imagined he was surprised to see Mother Stayton sitting in the back of the sedan, taking a swig of whiskey from her flask.
Lucy and I sped toward the dining room, and the inspector and his minion stepped out of the chamber; the handsome man couldn't help but smile.
“You've had a change of heart?”
“No, I've solved the case.” Hearing Joan's irritated voice from the top of the stairs, I took the inspector by the elbow and pushed him back out of sight.
Hurriedly, I explained my reckoning. The man wasn't convinced; still, he ordered his junior officer to take the back stairs and check out my hypothesis, Lucy on his tail.
Once alone, he said, “What you are asking of me is damned unorthodox. This isn't one of the books you write.”
“Actually, I've never written a book. I'm still working on the first draft of my manuscript—and I realize now, there are many plot holes.”
Though not as dashing as my Xavier, the inspector did have a handsome smile. He gazed at me for a moment, a moment that was a little too long. I realized that I was this man’s type of girl. Pretty enough in my own right, but I was not a Hollywood starlet out of his reach. His attraction to me was a weakness. He’d hurt me, too; he’d seen me cry, and this gave me the leverage I needed. Against his better judgment, he’d already made up his mind. “What if you are wrong?”
“I’m not.” I said this like the leading lady who had started off shy and unsure, but had weathered both a struggle with a greater force, and a struggle with herself.
From the dining room, we listened to them all file into the library, the scene of the crime. We waited a moment and then joined them. The inspector entered the elegant chamber first, and for a moment, I went unseen.
Nicholas’s voice thundered, “What’s this about?”
Then Joan spoke after laying eyes on me. “I thought she was gone; the guilty person run off.”
Lucy appeared from the other door beside the fireplace and gave me a nod before slipping away again.
The inspector shook his head. “I don’t believe she’s the guilty person, Mrs. Joan.”
Joan crossed the room and poured herself a drink from the bar cart. Everyone else sat down; Nate reclined at Ruth’s feet.
Nicholas grunted and said, “Come to the point; if one of us killed Phyllis, then drag her away.”
Both Ruth and Joan exclaimed, “Her!”
Randolph giggled and said, “My money is on the dog.”
The servants, all standing at attention, watched the farce nervously.
“I shall come to the point, Mr. Stayton. Tell me, how long have you been paying a blackmailer?” asked the inspector.
“How dare you ask such a thing?” Nicholas replied.
“You sold off a great deal of valuables recently.” The inspector pointed toward the other rooms. “You masked this by redecorating, but you came out the better.”
“What of it?” Nicholas retorted.
“Why did you need the funds?”
“I have a son at Eton, and I’m paying my nephew’s way as well. Times are hard; I am sure you know that, Inspector.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I’m busiest during hard times.”
Nicholas let out a sigh of exasperation. “I wasn’t being blackmailed. My wife and I have also spent a great deal of money on Miss Masterson’s various doctors.”
The inspector nodded slowly. “Yes, she had done you favor, and you were in her debt.”
“I don’t care for the inference.”
“I’m sure.” The inspector paused, then, dropping his pitch, he said, “She knew quite a lot about your business, all the shady dealings with those Canadian rifles.”
“I’ve explained that—”
“What the devil is he talking about?” Ruth’s shrill voice startled Nate.
“Had she fallen down the stairs, and died, that secret would have been safely kept—” the inspector began to say.
Nicholas leapt to his feet, sending the dog scampering across the room. “Damn you! Damn you, I had nothing to do with her fall. It was an accident!”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Stayton. It was the first attempt on her life, a failed attempt on her life as parodied in Mrs. Xavier’s manuscript.”
Ruth stood. She clasped her husband’s arm and bit back at the inspector, “My Nicholas had nothing to do with her fall!”
The inspector shook his head. “No, ma’am, that's not true. He pushed her down the stairs. She lived, and he made a bargain with the devil—”
Randolph finally came to his younger brother’s defense. “Balderdash! You have been reading too many of those tiresome whodunits yourself. Why would my brother kill a woman who was dying?”
“She had
a change of heart. A deathbed confession was to come. Phyllis could no longer be trusted to take her knowledge to the grave,” the inspector railed.
Nicholas dropped to the couch. “No,” he said dumbly.
The inspector replied, “Yes, a judge will see through all your protests, and you’ll hang for this…”
Ruth clutched at her blouse and groaned. “My husband didn’t push Phyllis. She wasn’t blackmailing him!”
The inspector shook his head, but said nothing.
Ruth stifled a sob. “He wasn’t anywhere near Phyllis or the stairs; we’d had a fight, a violent fight, and he was locked in our room.”
“What was the fight over, Ruth?” the inspector baited the woman.
“I was mad at Nicky!” she said, her face red.
“Why!” the inspector demanded.
She looked to her husband and said, “He smelled of a woman’s perfume, and he refused to explain himself.”
All eyes were on Ruth, and she fell silent and trembled.
The inspector asked Nicholas, “You were locked in your room, while your wife was in a rage and Miss Masterson was injured?”
Nicholas reeled toward the woman and bellowed, “You didn’t!”
“I smelled the scent on her, and I lost my temper. It was an accident…an accident…” Ruth broke down, sobbing.
Nicholas stood like a statue, dumbfounded. He was unable to reach out to his wife, despite her need.
Randolph and Joan remained silent, cautiously watching the drama, as did the domestics.
It had been obvious to me that Nicholas hadn’t known that Phyllis’s fall wasn’t an accident or he never would have made the tasteless little joke about them both being cripples.
Ruth began to babble. “Phyllis pleaded with me to believe her. She’d never do anything to harm me, she told me over and over. But I was sure I had smelled perfume on Nicky—I was sure.” Ruth choked on her saliva. After catching her breath, she said, “Even after I had hurt her, she promised she hadn’t betrayed me.” Ruth reached out to her husband. “She kept my secret.”
At last, Nicholas took his wife’s hand and pulled her to his side; he then lifted his other hand and pointed to Joan. “She kept her secret as well.”
Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Page 10