British Manor Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy was feeling rather sorry for herself as she left the long gallery and made her way along a dimly lighted corridor she hoped led back to the wing reserved for family and guests; she really didn’t know what to do with herself. It was no wonder those Edwardians got up to so much mischief, she decided, concluding that there really wasn’t much to do in these grand country houses, after all. She would have liked to take a walk in the garden, but a glance out a leaded casement window revealed a steady drizzle had begun to fall. Perhaps she could snag a book from the library and have a little chat with Willoughby, she thought, taking a turn down another long corridor she suspected might lead to the library.

  She hadn’t gone far when a door opened and out popped Harrison, carrying a rather heavy tray holding the extensive collection of crockery that had contained Lady Wickham’s substantial breakfast. As she drew closer, she realized the lady’s maid was crying and tears were running down her withered old cheeks.

  “Let me take that,” said Lucy, reaching for the tray. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment,” she urged, indicating one of the chairs that lined he corridor. “I’m sure I have a tissue in my pocket.”

  “No need,” said Harrison with a heroic sniff. She was hanging on to the tray for dear life.

  “You’ve had a terrible loss,” said Lucy, her voice gentle. “There’s no shame in grieving.”

  “I must get on,” insisted Harrison.

  “But Cyril was your son. Even if you weren’t very close, that’s how it is with sons.” Lucy continued, thinking of her own Toby. “They make their own lives, of course, but we mothers still love them and they love us. Isn’t that right?”

  “I wouldn’t know, madam,” said Harrison, formal as ever. “And now if you don’t mind, m’lady is waiting for a fresh pot of tea.”

  “Of course,” said Lucy, stepping aside and letting the maid pass. She watched as the elderly servant made her way down the long hall, bearing the massive mahogany tray. Her back was ramrod straight. Strange, Lucy thought.

  Realizing that Harrison was going to the kitchen, she decided to follow her. Unlike herself, Harrison knew her way around the manor.

  “I hope you don’t mind my following you,” Lucy said, eager to explain her behavior. “It’s just I’m always getting lost.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Harrison, marching along.

  It was quite a hike to the kitchen, and rather awkward, too, since Harrison did not indulge in small talk. Lucy respected her silence, finally concluding that it wasn’t all that unreasonable. Harrison was obviously grieving, even if she didn’t want to admit it. But Lucy suspected that silence and keeping her thoughts to herself was a form of self-defense for a servant like Harrison. When you were at another’s beck and call, without even a home of your own, your only truly private space was your mind. It was no wonder Harrison didn’t want to share her personal thoughts in idle chatter.

  The kitchen was empty when they arrived, and Harrison got busy loading her ladyship’s used breakfast crockery into the dishwasher. Then she set about making a fresh pot of tea, which Lucy hadn’t realized was quite such a complicated process involving her ladyship’s special loose tea leaves and much rinsing of the china pot with hot water until it was deemed to be the correct temperature. When she’d gone, Lucy fixed herself a mug of tea, using one of the tea bags everybody else used.

  Cradling the warm mug in her hands, she settled herself in a huge, rather tattered wing chair arranged with its back to the room, and gazed out the French doors, admiring the sodden lilacs that hung heavily on their stems amid the shiny wet leaves. She was thinking that when she finished her tea she would borrow a pair of Wellies and brave the weather to continue her exploration of the garden, which she expected would be equally beautiful in the refreshing rain.

  She was just finishing the last of her tea when Desi and Flora came in and was about to make her presence known when Flora spoke. “Desi, something weird’s going on.”

  Intrigued, Lucy decided to indulge in a bit of eavesdropping.

  “Besides a dead body in a secret chamber?” asked Desi. Flora chuckled. “This isn’t quite on that scale, but it’s been bothering me.”

  “Go on,” said Desi.

  “Well, it’s that little statue of Saint Roch and his dog, I just love the way the dog’s ear is bent,” she began.

  “The ceramic one in the library? Is that the one you mean?”

  “Yes. That’s where it’s always been, but it’s not there now.”

  “It’s probably been sent for a repair,” said Desi. “Check with Winifred. She’d know.”

  “I did and she said it wasn’t sent out or moved.”

  “Well, then ask Willoughby. The library is his domain, after all. He’d know.”

  “I don’t like to ask. It might make him uncomfortable.” She paused. “He might think I’m accusing him of breaking it and hiding it or perhaps even stealing it or—”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I sort of think he might do something like that. I don’t quite trust him.”

  “Why ever not?” asked Desi.

  Lucy leaned forward, the better to hear Flora’s answer. Unfortunately, that movement dislodged a needlework pillow, which fell to the floor with a thump.

  Realizing she’d been discovered, she got to her feet and yawned. “Goodness,” she declared, “I must have dozed off.”

  “It’s the weather,” said Desi. “Gray days like this make me quite sleepy. Nothing to do but curl up with a good book that I can pretend to read while I doze.”

  “Good idea,” said Lucy, eager to make her escape, “but I think I’ll get some fresh air.” She excused herself and left hurriedly.

  * * *

  As she had planned, Lucy spent the morning in the garden, tramping along the paths in a pair of borrowed Wellies. As she’d expected, the rainfall had refreshed all the plants and the lawn was a vibrant emerald green. The leaves on the shrubs glistened with damp, and the various hues of the flowers had deepened. She especially admired the little pools of pink and magenta fallen petals beneath some flowering trees. She even climbed the hill to the folly to admire the view.

  When she’d finally had enough, she returned to the great room where Poppy was arranging sandwiches on a large platter, which she set on the big scrubbed pine table with a thump. She sat down, a glum expression on her face. Perry and Sue were already sitting at the table, Desi and Flora were adding various condiments, and Gerald was helping himself to a bowl of soup from the pot on the stove.

  “It’s mulligatawny soup,” said Poppy with a huge sigh.

  “That will please Aunt no end,” said Perry.

  “When is the old girl leaving?” asked Gerald, seating himself beside his wife.

  “No time soon, I’m afraid,” said Poppy. “She announced this morning that her boiler has given up the ghost and has to be replaced. She says she’s making arrangements to have it fixed but, according to her, it’s practically impossible to find knowledgeable workmen these days.”

  “Workmen who’ll work for ten shillings a week, you mean,” said Gerald. “And who know how to fix an old coal burner that was the latest technology in 1910.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Perry, pausing to take a bite of pickle. “Her place at Hazelton is practically falling down, and I suspect she’s short of cash to keep it up.”

  “Nonsense,” said Poppy. “The old bird is just cheap.”

  “Penny wise and pound foolish,” said Desi, sitting down with a steaming bowl of soup. “If she fixed the place up, she could rent it and make a fortune.”

  “Rent Fairleigh? She’d never consider it,” exclaimed Poppy.

  “Just as well,” said Flora. “If she rented it, we’d be stuck with her permanently—and horrible Harrison, too.”

  “Well,” said Poppy with another big sigh, “it looks like they’re going to be here for the foreseeable future, so we’ll just have to make the best of it.” />
  “You mean the worst of it,” said Perry with a mischievous grin.

  After lunch, Lucy and Sue agreed that it would be best if they cleared out for the afternoon and gave their hosts, amiable as they’d been, some time to themselves.

  “Poor Poppy’s been a rock,” said Sue as they headed down the drive in the borrowed Ford, “but she’s got an awful lot to deal with. There’s the murder and the police investigation, Aunt Millicent who looks like she’s going to be a permanent guest, which means she’s also got to deal with Harrison, and on top of all that, there’s the hat show.”

  “Don’t forget the painting of the General and the dry rot,” added Lucy.

  “And people think it’s easy being a lady with a big manor,” said Sue. “So where shall we go? Any ideas?”

  “I wouldn’t mind checking out some antique shops,” said Lucy. “I saw one mentioned in a magazine that’s supposed to be around here. It’s called The Jugged Hare.”

  “Do you know where it is?” asked Sue.

  “I do. It’s on Tinker’s Lane—”

  “Easy to remember,” said Sue with a laugh.

  “In a town called Riverdale, which is also easy for me to remember because my grandparents lived in that section of the Bronx.”

  “Well, it seems fated to be,” said Sue. “Put it in the GPS.”

  Riverdale, it turned out, was actually some distance from the manor, but they had the entire afternoon to fill and enjoyed the drive along winding country roads, past green fields dotted with sheep, quaint thatched farmhouses, and through picturesque little towns.

  Reaching Hazelton, Lucy had a sudden brain wave. “I think Lady Wickham’s place is in Hazelton. What’s it called? Fairmore?”

  “Fairleigh,” said Sue, pulling off to the side of the road and reaching for a map. She opened it and the two put their heads together, tracing their route. “Here it is,” declared Sue with a stab of her finger. “And you’re right. Fairleigh is just a bit farther along this road.”

  “Shall we check it out?” suggested Lucy.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Sue. “I must say, I’m burning with curiosity. From what she says, it’s a fine example of Georgian architecture.”

  When they arrived at the gates to Fairleigh, they found them closed and locked, and any view of the house was blocked by an imposing stone wall. Driving on, however, they found the imposing stone wall soon became the ordinary wire fencing that enclosed most of the farms in the area. That fence was broken a bit farther on by a utilitarian gate that opened onto a dirt road.

  “Shall we?” asked Sue with a nod at the gate.

  “Not if it’s locked,” said Lucy. “If it’s open, well, that’s as good as an invitation, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Sue, pulling the Ford onto the verge and braking.

  As it happened, the gate was unlocked and the two walked along the dirt road that ran between two large, empty pastures.

  “No livestock,” said Lucy. “Maybe she sells the hay.”

  Sue kicked at one of the many weeds growing in the dirt roadway. “I don’t think this is used much.”

  “It doesn’t seem like an active farm,” said Lucy. “At the manor, tractors and trucks are always coming and going.”

  “How far should we go?” asked Sue as they began climbing a slight rise.

  “Let’s just check out that little woods,” said Lucy.

  As she guessed, a thin strip of woodland marked the edge of the lawn that surrounded the ancient house, and they could clearly see Lady Wickham’s home. It was much smaller than Moreton, but still very large, and did have the classic Georgian proportions that her ladyship was so fond of.

  “Rather spooky, isn’t it?” said Sue.

  The dreary weather didn’t help, but it was obvious, even from a distance, that the house had seen better days. A large urn, one of a pair that sat on either side of the front door, had fallen from its base and was lying on its side. Brown, dying vines covered the walls, and clumps of grass sprouted in the drive. The place seemed deserted, and no watchman or groundskeeper approached to question their presence.

  “No wonder Aunt Millicent is in no hurry to leave Moreton Manor,” said Lucy.

  “It looks to me as if her ladyship has come on hard times,” said Sue as they made their way back to the car.

  * * *

  The Jugged Hare, it turned out, was practically just around the corner in a charming thatched cottage and the two friends enjoyed browsing amongst the bread tins, plate racks, Windsor chairs, and Toby jugs that were displayed for sale. Sue was contemplating buying a Nottingham lace panel when Lucy spotted a charming porcelain figurine of a ragged man accompanied by a little dog with an adorably bent ear that exactly matched the description Flora had given of the missing statuette.

  “That’s a very fine piece,” the shopkeeper told her, noting her interest. “That’s Saint Roch. He was driven away by folks because he was a leper. The little dog brought him bread, keeping him alive until he was miraculously healed.”

  “That’s quite a story,” said Lucy. “Do you have any idea how old it is?”

  “That I can’t say,” admitted the shopkeeper. A balding man with a very red face, he was dressed in a faded brown cardigan sweater. “It’s not from one of the English potteries, y’see. My guess is that it’s French. But,” he added, lowering his voice, “it’s got excellent provenance. It comes from a fine lady, it does, and that’s no lie.”

  “Really?” Lucy suspected she knew who the fine lady was and leaned a bit closer. “Can you tell me who?”

  “Now that I can’t. Sworn to secrecy. She’s a bit short of the ready and is selling off a few bits and pieces.” He paused. “If you’re interested, I could do a bit better on the price.”

  Lucy turned the piece over and saw the price written on the little sticker was one hundred pounds. “That is a bit rich for my blood,” she admitted, “but I do like the piece very much.”

  The shopkeeper took the statuette from her and checked the price, then went off to consult his records. “Eighty pounds?” he inquired when he returned from the back room.

  “Sold,” said Lucy.

  Sue watched with amazement as her notoriously thrifty friend forked over four twenty pound notes.

  Encouraged by the reduction in price, Sue attempted to bargain for the lace panel. “It’s machine made,” she said, offering half of the ticketed price of fifty pounds.

  “Of course it is,” retorted the shopkeeper, indignantly pulling himself up to his full five feet four inches. “That’s what Nottingham lace is, and it’s very popular these days. I sell a lot of it.”

  “Forty pounds?” offered Sue.

  “Sold,” said the shopkeeper.

  When they were back in the car, Sue spoke up. “I didn’t think china figurines were your thing, and certainly not at that price. It’s pounds, not dollars, you know.”

  “I know,” said Lucy, “but I have a hunch about this little guy.”

  “What sort of hunch?” asked Sue, unfolding the map.

  “I think it might be a missing piece from the manor,” said Lucy. “I heard Flora saying that a St. Roch figurine had mysteriously disappeared.”

  “And putting two and two together . . .” prompted Sue.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that an impoverished old lady found a way to supplement her meager income by stealing, would it? Maybe it isn’t even her ladyship. Maybe it’s Harrison.”

  “I think you’re reaching,” said Sue. “Harrison seems to be a pillar of respectability.”

  “It’s true that she seems incorruptible, but I think it may simply be a façade. And you’ve got to admit, she’d do anything Lady Wickham asked her to do. She’s insanely devoted to the old woman.”

  “I think it’s more likely that Cyril is the thief,” said Sue. “According to Sarah Goodenough, he was hardly a model citizen. Maybe he was at the manor to steal valuables and was discovered and that’s why he got himself killed.�
��

  “By a member of the family?” asked Lucy, incredulous.

  “They’re the ones most likely to know about the secret chamber, what with all those games of Sardines,” said Sue, barely able to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, you’re teasing me!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “Only to make a point,” said Sue in a serious voice. “I think you may be getting too involved. Remember, we’re guests and we have no business poking into the private affairs of Perry and his family. No family is perfect.”

  “Most families don’t have dead bodies in their closets,” said Lucy.

  “Everyone has a skeleton or two, though,” said Sue. “And they don’t appreciate having their dirty laundry aired publicly, pardon my mixed metaphor.”

  Lucy smiled, imagining a couple dancing skeletons stuffing dirty clothes in a washing machine. “Well,” she said, stroking the little figurine she was holding in her lap. “It will be interesting to see if this really is the missing statuette.” And even more interesting, she thought to herself, would be seeing how the various members of the family reacted to her discovery.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun was coming out when they returned to the manor. The day’s visitors were drifting along the path to the parking lot where their cars and busses awaited them. Aware that she and Sue attracted some curious glances as they drove through the gateway marked PRIVATE, Lucy couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. She had never flown first class, she’d never had front-row seats at the theater, and she didn’t have a platinum credit card so it was a rare treat to find herself on the VIP side of the rope.

  Looking down at the package in her lap that contained the figurine the shopkeeper had wrapped with great care, she wondered what it was like to be one of the privileged few, like Perry and Poppy and the rest of their family. They came and went from grand houses that were filled with priceless treasures. Did they really take it all for granted? Or did they pause now and then in front of the Renoir painting or the Hepplewhite chair and thank the fates for their extraordinary good fortune?

  When she and Sue entered the great room, it was clear that Poppy was not enjoying her exalted position. “We’re going to have to go begging to English Heritage,” she was saying to Gerald, waving a piece of paper. “There’s no way we can afford a million and a half pounds. No way at all.”