by Leslie Meier
“Planning something similar back home?” asked Sue, raising an eyebrow.
“Not on quite the same scale,” admitted Lucy with a shrug, “but I think I could borrow a few ideas.”
When she got outside, however, she didn’t head in the direction of the fabulous serpentine perennial border that was the envy of gardeners throughout the world, but instead followed the shady path through the woods to a cluster of cottages that housed various manor employees, including Willoughby. The cottages were joined in a row like townhouses, with walled gardens to the rear and a road in front where a few modest cars were parked. Lucy wasn’t sure exactly which cottage was Willoughby’s, but when she walked around back she peeked through an open gate and spotted a woman hanging wash on a clothesline.
Taking a closer look, she recognized Sally, the maid who took care of their rooms at the manor. “Hi!” she called. “It’s a great day for drying.”
“It is indeed,” said Sally, whose hair was blowing in the breeze. “I have a machine, but I like to dry my clothes on the line. They smell so nice when I bring them in.”
“Me, too,” said Lucy. “I like nothing better than to see my pretty sheets flapping in the breeze on a sunny day.”
“It’s the simple pleasures that are the best,” said Sally. “Sometimes I feel sorry for them that’s up at the manor. It’s all very grand, but they don’t get to enjoy the little things.” She pointed to a flowerpot that contained a lush geranium. “When you’ve got millions of plants, all flowering at once, you don’t really see them, do you? I’ve had this geranium for years and I bring it in every winter and put it out every summer. This plant and me are old friends.”
“I have some like that, too,” said Lucy. “I have my mother’s spider plant. It must be more than twenty years old, since she’s been gone for some time.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Sally.
“Thank you,” said Lucy. “You know, I’m actually looking for Mr. Willoughby. He’s wanted up at the manor, but I’m not sure which cottage is his.”
“Mr. Willoughby hurried out some time ago. It looked like he was setting out on a hike. He had a backpack and a stick.” She paused. “He gave me a big wave.”
“Interesting,” said Lucy. “Is this his day off?”
“Not usually. He has the weekends. A lot of folks who work at the manor are needed on the weekends because that’s the busiest time with the most visitors, but he doesn’t have anything to do with them, and I think they like to show the library sometimes, too. They have special behind the scenes tours on the weekends. That’s what they call them, and they charge an extra ten pounds.” She grinned. “That Poppy doesn’t miss much. She’s quite the businesswoman.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Lucy. “Well, I guess I’ll be off. It’s been nice talking to you.”
“Same here,” said Sally, lifting her empty laundry basket and carrying it inside.
Lucy walked along, wondering if Willoughby was going for a hike or a quick exit and wishing she could get a peek inside his cottage. She still wasn’t sure which was his. She had noticed a few window curtains twitching as she passed, which she took to mean she was under observation.
The trip wasn’t wasted, she decided, as she intended to tell Hennessy what Sally had told her about Willoughby’s departure. The historian had always topped her list of suspects in the murder because he seemed the most likely person to know about the secret room, apart from the family. She was mindful of Bill’s discovery that Doug Fitzpatrick was not the person he pretended to be, and remembered a couple incidents when Willoughby seemed to have let his mask, or rather his accent, slip. She doubted an educated librarian would ask for a cuppa tea, and she was pretty sure she’d heard a bit of a Cockney twang once or twice. Not that she was any expert on British accents, she admitted, thinking that perhaps she was being overly hasty in suspecting Willoughby.
There was also the fact of Flora’s overdose, which rather changed the equation. She remembered Flora and Desi saying how they had enjoyed exploring the manor when they were kids, and it seemed likely that they might have discovered the secret room. She didn’t think Flora could have succeeded in killing Cyril and hiding his body by herself, but she and Desi were close and he might have helped his sister. Or he might have discovered that Cyril was her supplier and decided to eliminate him.
These were the thoughts that occupied her mind as she walked along the path, intending to make good her avowed intention of studying the perennial border, when she heard angry male voices. Most probably a couple gardeners voicing some sort of disagreement, she thought, pausing to listen and recognizing Robert’s deep bass voice.
Giving in to curiosity she crept closer, confident that a tall hedge would conceal her, and peered through a gap in the greenery to see who the vicar was arguing with. She wasn’t all that surprised when she saw that it was Willoughby, and that her suspicions about him were correct.
“I know you, and you’re no more Maurice Willoughby than I’m Saint Peter. You’re Bert Winston, right? You were one of Cyril’s boys back in Hoxton, weren’t you? And you did time for it, too, as I recall. You were delivering a warning to a Pakistani kid, Khalid somebody, wasn’t it? You beat him to a bloody pulp.”
“Don’t be daft,” snapped Willoughby. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t go to Southampton or Reading or any university. You took some jailhouse courses and watched a few movies and you’ve been putting on a big act. I suppose you had plenty of time to practice a posh accent—” Robert’s accusation ended rather suddenly with a series of thuds and grunts.
When Lucy rounded the hedge, she saw the two men engaged in a fistfight. She ducked back behind the hedge and reached for her cell phone, but the only number she could remember was Sue’s. She began punching it in with trembling fingers but must have done something wrong because the darn thing didn’t work.
The thuds and grunts had escalated and included groans. She knew she had to get help fast, before Willoughby killed Robert . . . or Robert killed Willoughby. Lucy had rarely seen men fight, except in movies and TV, and she found it terrifying. Somehow she had to stop it. The phone was hopeless so she decided the only thing to do was to intervene. She plucked up all her courage and ran around the hedge, yelling, “Stop it, stop it!” at the very moment Willoughby delivered a roundhouse punch that knocked out Robert.
She instinctively ran toward Robert, intending to help him, but Willoughby blocked her and she realized her danger. She turned to run and dashed for a gap in the hedge but soon discovered she had taken the wrong direction and was in the maze. She could hear him panting behind her as she ran, trying desperately to remember if it was three lefts and then all rights or the other way around. Finding herself completely confused, she ran blindly, taking each turn as it came and miraculously found the exit. She was almost there when she took a terrific blow to her back and fell flat on her face. Willoughby’s enormous weight landed on her back. She tried to free herself, but his hands were around her neck. Struggling to breathe, she scratched at the hands in vain.
Suddenly, a dark shadow seemed to float through the air, only to land with a thud, and she was able to breathe again.
Scrambling to her feet, she saw Desi deliver a serious punch to Willoughby’s jaw and he crumpled to the ground.
“What was that?” gasped Lucy, her hands at her neck.
“A grand jeté,” said Desi. “I needed to cover a lot of ground, fast.” He shrugged. “Nothing to it, really. I do that ballet jump all the time.”
Willoughby regained consciousness just as several uniformed police officers arrived and took him into custody. Lucy, along with Robert and Desi, followed the group back to the manor where several official vehicles were parked. Inspector Hennessy informed Willoughby of the charges against him, namely theft and murder, and he was bundled into one of the vehicles and taken away. They were watching the car disappear down the drive when Harrison was brought out of the house
in the custody of Sgt. Matthews and a uniformed police woman, followed by Poppy and Gerald, who both looked quite solemn. Hennessy had his charges ready—conspiracy to commit theft and interference with police.
“What’s this all about?” demanded Desi.
“It seems that Harrison and Willoughby were in cahoots, stealing bits and pieces from the manor,” said Poppy. “One of the dealers who’d been buying the pieces identified them.”
“What about Aunt Millicent?” asked Desi. “Flora rather suspected she was part of the ring, perhaps even the head of it.”
“If so, we do not have a case against Lady Wickham,” said the inspector, getting into his car and giving the driver a nod.
“Interesting morning,” said Gerald, adding a humph before marching off.
“Where’s he going?” asked Lucy.
“To the barns,” said Desi with a smile. “Whenever things get tough, Dad goes to check on the livestock.”
Poppy wasn’t about to seek solace with the livestock, however, and turned to Robert. “You knew Cyril was engaged in selling drugs and never thought to warn us?” she demanded. “How could you do that in good conscience? And you a vicar, too?”
“I saw him only briefly. He told me his mother worked here and convinced me he’d changed his ways.” Robert gave a rueful smile. “Being a man of faith, I took him at his word.”
“Well, it would have saved us a lot of grief and sadness,” said Poppy.
“I know, and I regret it,” said Robert. “I have to confess I am more ashamed of my failure to recognize your librarian, Willoughby. I knew him before as Bert Winston . . . when he was in the same gang as Cyril and Eric, but I didn’t make the connection. I think I was dazzled by the grand setting and never tumbled to the fact that he wasn’t who he pretended to be.”
“When did you figure it out?” asked Lucy.
“It was when I came here. I ran into him in the hallway, and something he said when he greeted me got me thinking.”
“What was it?” asked Poppy.
“He called me ‘Rev’ and it took me right back to Hoxton. That’s what they called me there.” He paused. “Nobody here has ever called me that.”
“It certainly wouldn’t occur to me,” said Poppy. “But why did he kill Cyril? They were old pals, no?”
“They were, and that was a big problem for Willoughby. He’d created a new persona and would have been terrified that Cyril would expose him, revealing his true identity. In fact, knowing Cyril as I do, I imagine he threatened to do exactly that. He might have demanded a cut of the antiques operation or even tried to blackmail him, which would have pushed Willoughby into a corner. He may have felt that killing Cyril was his only option.”
“I feel a bit sorry for Willoughby,” said Desi. “He worked so hard trying to be upper class, when we’re trying not to be.”
“What do you mean trying?” asked Poppy. “I’m a worker bee these days and, as you can imagine, I have quite a lot to do.”
“C’mon, Mum,” said Desi, wrapping an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “Call it a day. I’ll take you into town and give you lunch at the Ritz. What do you say?”
“I’d be delighted, that’s what I say,” she replied, giving him a fond pat on the cheek.
“What about you?” Robert asked Lucy as they watched mother and son walk off together. “Are you all right?”
“I am. What about you? I think you better get some ice on that jaw of yours.”
“I will. Good thing Sarah’s out today. She’d be furious with me.”
“Where is she?” asked Lucy.
“Shopping for a dress to wear to the gala opening,” said Robert, before striding off in the direction of the vicarage.
* * *
Dressed in a gold silk sheath that left one shoulder bare, Sarah did her husband proud at the opening, but it was Lady Wickham who drew the most admiring glances. She was dressed in a black chiffon evening gown topped with a white fur stole and numerous pieces of diamond jewelry, including a magnificent necklace and an enormous tiara.
“It’s the Mucklemore Jewel,” said Perry in a waspish tone. “She refused to lend it to me for the show and now I know why.”
But even Lady Wickham’s glory dimmed when Dishy Geoff, dressed once again as a footman, rapped his stick on the floor and announced, “The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.”
The crowd parted as the Red Sea did for Moses, and everyone, including Lucy and Sue, bowed or curtsied. Even if protocol didn’t require bows from Americans, they had discussed the matter in advance and decided that they should adopt the custom of the country they were visiting and had practiced curtseying in front of the mirror in Lucy’s room.
Lady Wickham took it upon herself to welcome the royal couple, neatly cutting off Poppy and Gerald, as well as Perry, who were the proper hosts. She rushed forward, coming to an abrupt halt in front of Kate and Wills, plucked up the sides of her voluminous skirt and attempted a deep curtsey that went wrong, and tumbled down onto her knees.
The prince reached down politely and gave her a hand, helping her rise to her feet. “The hat show is called Heads Up! not bottoms up!”
Everyone laughed, even her ladyship.
Epilogue
“The captain has informed me,” began the flight attendant’s announcement, “that we are preparing for landing. At this time we ask you to turn off all electronic devices. Please return your seats to the upright position, replace the tray tables against the seat backs, and fasten your seatbelts.”
“Already,” said Sue with a smile, checking her cell phone for texts before turning it off. “The flight home always seems so much quicker.”
“In this direction the clock is our friend,” said Lucy. “It’s only a little bit past six and we left at four, right?”
“Crazy,” said Sue, peering out the window as they flew over Boston Harbor.
Lucy leaned back in her seat, mentally reviewing the purchases she’d made in the shops at Heathrow: a bottle of single malt scotch for Bill, Cath Kidston tote bags for her friends Pam and Rachel, Burberry cologne for Elizabeth and Zoe, and a Paddington bear for Patrick. It was that last thought of Patrick, far away in Alaska, that prompted a deep sigh.
“Didn’t you have a good time in jolly old?” asked Sue, a note of concern in her voice as she gave Lucy’s hand a squeeze.
Lucy was suddenly overcome with gratitude and affection for her best friend. “Oh, Sue, I can’t thank you enough. This trip was wonderful. I feel so much better. It was just what I needed.”
“I’m really glad you came,” said Sue. “It was good to have a friend, considering everything that happened. I wouldn’t have liked to be there on my own, what with the murder and everything.”
“It was quite an adventure,” said Lucy as the plane began to descend. “But now it’s back to reality.”
“It’s good to be home, right?” prompted Sue.
“Oh, yeah, but I’m kind of nervous about it, too. I don’t want to sink back into depression, you know?”
“I’m sure you won’t,” said Sue when the wheels of the jet hit the tarmac with a thud.
“I wish I could be as confident as you,” admitted Lucy as the plane taxied to the gate.
It seemed to take a long time for the plane to empty, and there was some sort of problem with the baggage carousel that delayed the arrival of their bags, but Sue used the time to check her messages. She didn’t seem to notice that the friendly beagle making the rounds of the baggage area with a Customs officer was taking an awful lot of interest in her bags. That meant a nervous delay at Customs as her case was x-rayed and her stash of Cadbury chocolate bars was discovered.
“The ones in the UK are better tasting. Everyone says so,” she told the officer. “Would you like one?”
“Now that would be against regulations,” he said with a smile as he handed her the suitcase with the chocolate bars inside. “Have a nice day.”
“That was close,” muttered Sue as they
headed for the big double doors that opened to the ARRIVALS area. “I was afraid that they’d confiscate my Cadburys or maybe even arrest me for smuggling.”
“I don’t think you should have tried to bribe him,” said Lucy as the doors slid open and revealed a crowd of people—lovers and families and friends waiting to greet their dear ones.
“Makes you wish someone was here for us,” said Lucy, who knew they had a long drive ahead back to Tinker’s Cove.
“Hold on,” said Sue, “I think I see—”
“Patrick!” screamed Lucy, spotting her grandson waiting for her along with his father Toby and grandfather Bill. People stood aside as she ran to embrace Patrick, who had grown so much and was quite the handsome five-year-old.
“I c-can’t b-believe it!” she stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“We spent the day in Boston,” explained Bill. “We went to the Aquarium and the Children’s Museum, all the time following the plane’s progress on the British Air website, and then Sue texted us about customs and gave us the green light so we skedaddled over here. I gotta tell you the traffic was brutal.”
“No,” she said, turning to Toby. “Why aren’t you in Alaska?”
“The agency sent me to take a course at the university. It’s eight weeks so I brought the family. The house is rented so we’ll have to stay with you. In fact, Molly’s there now. That’s okay, right?”
Bill scratched his beard. “It’s going to be awfully crowded. . . .”
Sue looked doubtful. “There’ll be so much laundry, and think of the meals and the grocery bills. . . .”
Lucy, who was holding Patrick’s hand, stared at them in disbelief. Then seeing their suppressed smiles, she realized they were teasing. “Oh, you guys!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “It’s going to be wonderful. A full house! I can’t wait to get home. Let’s go!”
With the fireplace crackling, the tree twinkling, and the carols humming, few things in life are as picture perfect as Christmas in Maine—until murder dampens the holiday spirit. It must be something in the eggnog . . .