by HANNA, H. Y.
As if echoing her thoughts, there came the sound of a gasp from the direction of the street. Caitlyn turned and caught sight of a small face pressed against the shop window, peering into the store. It was a little girl of about six years old, with a snub nose and short brown pigtails. She was staring at the Widow Mags through the glass, her mouth open in a wide O and her eyes terrified.
Caitlyn started towards the open shop door, a reassuring smile on her face, but before she had taken a few steps, the face was gone. The little girl had run away.
“What was that?” asked the Widow Mags.
Caitlyn threw a last look at the empty window pane. “Nothing.” She turned back to the Widow Mags and gave her a hopeful smile. “So… are there any more fudge flavours you’d like me to taste?”
***
Caitlyn climbed into bed and groaned slightly, rubbing her stomach. She hated to admit it but she had probably eaten way too much fudge. She shuddered to think how many calories she had consumed this afternoon. She could practically feel her thighs growing thicker as she lay in bed.
The absurdity of that image made her giggle and she turned over, snuggling deeper into the pillow. She wouldn’t eat any chocolates tomorrow, she promised herself. Absolutely not. Not even one mouthful. Her eyelids drooped and she felt herself drifting into sleep…
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Caitlyn sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding. Somebody was banging on the front door downstairs, she realised. She jumped out of bed, still barefoot and in her sleep T-shirt, and hurried into the shop below. The Widow Mags was already opening the front door to a grey-haired man in a sombre suit, accompanied by a uniformed constable.
“Inspector Walsh!” Caitlyn said in surprise, recognising the CID detective.
“I hope you have a good reason for barging in here like this, at this hour of the night,” growled the Widow Mags.
“We do, ma’am,” said the inspector, his face grim. “There’s been a murder at Huntingdon Manor.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Caitlyn gasped. “A murder? Who’s been killed? Pomona—is she okay? What about James—I mean, Lord Fitzroy?”
“They are both fine,” the inspector assured her. “The victim is Mrs Brixton, the housekeeper.”
“The housekeeper?” said the Widow Mags. “Who would want to murder her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, ma’am,” said the inspector. He looked speculatively at Caitlyn. “I’d like to ask you a few questions please, Miss Le Fey.”
“Uh… sure,” said Caitlyn, surprised at his tone.
“I understand that you were at Huntingdon Manor this afternoon?”
Caitlyn nodded. “I walked over to see my cousin, Pomona, who went to stay there after she was discharged from the hospital.”
“And did you see Mrs Brixton?”
“Yes, I got drenched in the downpour on the way there. Mrs Brixton got me some towels and a temporary dress to wear while she dried my clothes.”
“And how long did you stay at the Manor?”
Caitlyn shrugged. “Probably around an hour and a half? Maybe two hours? I remember arriving around five-thirty and I’m not sure when I left. I think it might have been around seven-thirty.”
“What were you doing during the time you were at the Manor?”
Caitlyn looked at him curiously, wondering how this was relevant to the murder. “Well, after I dried off and changed, I went to find my cousin. She was in the conservatory… and then James—Lord Fitzroy—came to join us. I mean, me. My cousin had gone up to her room. We… um… chatted for a bit. Then I left soon after.”
“Did you see anyone else during your time at the Manor?”
“I saw some of the staff… and a group of tourists. Oh, and Winifred Harris from the village. She arrived to speak to Lord Fitzroy just before I left.”
“What about?”
Caitlyn squirmed, conscious of the Widow Mags listening. “Um… just about arrangements for the Garden Party.”
“And which members of the staff did you see, aside from Mrs Brixton?”
“Well, there was one of the gardeners—Matt O’Brien—and Old Palmer, the Head Gardener. And there was a maid who showed Mrs Harris in… Two maids, actually,” said Caitlyn, remembering the conversation she had overheard outside Mrs Brixton’s sitting room.
“Yes?” said Inspector Walsh sharply, his eyes suddenly alert.
Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a snitch but she couldn’t really refuse to answer the inspector either. “When I went to give Mrs Brixton my wet clothes, I overheard her having an argument with Amelia, one of the maids, in her sitting room.”
“Did you hear what the argument was about?”
“Er… it sounded like Mrs Brixton had caught Amelia stealing something and she was… she was asking for money to keep quiet about it.”
Inspector Walsh raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me that Mrs Brixton was trying to blackmail the maid?”
Caitlyn shifted even more uncomfortably. “Yes. That’s what it sounded like.”
“And what did the maid try to steal?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear. Mrs Brixton did mention silver but I don’t know if that was what Amelia tried to take.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Why would Mrs Brixton mention silver—”
“She was saying that as an example. Amelia started saying that she wasn’t really stealing for herself and Mrs Brixton said: ‘all thieves say that when they try to make off with the silver’—or something like that.”
“I see.” Inspector Walsh was silent for a moment, then asked, “And did you see Mrs Brixton again after that?”
“N-no… I went back to the old servants’ quarters to get my clothes before I left, but I didn’t see her. I found my clothes already dry so I just changed and let myself out.”
“And what did you do after leaving the Manor?”
“I came back here,” said Caitlyn, looking at him with some surprise.
“What time did you get back?”
“Um… I don’t know… it takes about twenty minutes to walk the shortcut over the hill… I guess it must have been around eight o’clock?”
“It was just gone eight,” the Widow Mags spoke up. “I know because I was baking and I had the timer set for the next batch to go in the oven.”
“And I assume you would be willing to stand up and swear that in a court of law?” asked the inspector.
The Widow Mags’s eyebrows drew together. “Of course I would. But why would I need to do that? You’re not suggesting that you suspect Caitlyn of murdering Mrs Brixton?”
The inspector’s face was impassive. “The forensic pathologist has done a preliminary examination and—together with the times the victim was last seen by other witnesses and the discovery of her body—it appears that Mrs Brixton was killed sometime between a quarter past seven and eight o’clock.” He looked at Caitlyn. “One of the garden boys reports that he saw you leaving via the back door of the Manor in a hurried manner.”
Caitlyn frowned. “Well, of course I was hurrying! I was worried it might rain again. I wanted to get back here quickly. Also, it was getting late and the light was fading.”
“The sun doesn’t set until nine-thirty at this time of the year.”
“Yes, but it had been raining all day and the skies were grey already, so it was getting pretty dark.”
“Nevertheless, you cannot deny that you were at the scene of the crime during the time the murder took place.”
“Well, I—” Caitlyn broke off and stared at the inspector. She felt an uneasy chill at his accusatory tone. “This is crazy! Are you really saying you think I murdered Mrs Brixton?”
“You do not seem to have an alibi for the time of the murder. Lord Fitzroy says he said goodbye to you at around seven-twenty, when you went to fetch your clothes from Mrs Brixton. The Widow Mags here can vouch for you being back at the chocolate shop by
eight o’clock. But that still leaves over thirty minutes unaccounted for.” He leaned forwards. “And for your information, one can do the walk over the hill, from Huntingdon Manor to this cottage, in about fifteen minutes, if you jog. I checked. So in theory, you could have murdered Mrs Brixton then set off from the Manor and been back here by eight. You had ample time to do it and no one saw you during that time.”
“No, wait…” Caitlyn brightened. “Someone did see me. I met Angela Skinner up by the stone circle and said hello to her. That must have been just around seven-forty-five… She can testify that I was at the top of the hill by then.”
The inspector said nothing but Caitlyn thought that his expression softened slightly.
“Well, that would certainly change things. I shall speak to Miss Skinner at the first opportunity to confirm your alibi,” he said. “In the meantime, I’d like to ask you to accompany me back to the Manor and take a look at the crime scene, see if there is anything you notice. You were one of the last people to see Mrs Brixton alive.”
Caitlyn swallowed. “Yes, sure. Just give me a minute to get dressed and put some shoes on.”
Twenty minutes later, she found herself being escorted into the housekeeper’s sitting room. She braced herself slightly as she entered, even though she knew that the body would have already been removed.
Inspector Walsh gestured around the room. “Please take a look around, Miss Le Fey, and tell me if it looks any different to when you were here earlier this afternoon.”
Caitlyn scanned the room. “No… Everything looks pretty much the same, I think… Oh, there was a big jug on the mantelpiece over there. One of those vintage water jugs, in blue and white china. It’s gone.”
“Yes,” said Inspector Walsh. “It was used as the murder weapon.”
“Oh.” Caitlyn drew back slightly at the implication. “You mean… that was used to kill—?”
The inspector nodded. “The murderer smashed it against the back of Mrs Brixton’s head. She was probably killed instantly.”
“The back of her head?” Caitlyn mused. “That means Mrs Brixton must have turned her back on the murderer… which means that she probably trusted him or her.”
“Very good,” said the inspector with reluctant admiration. “You’re a smart girl. Yes, there are no signs of forced entry either so we believe that Mrs Brixton knew and trusted her killer. She was taken by surprise.”
“Can’t you check the water jug for fingerprints—?”
“The SOCO team have been working on the crime scene and they will certainly be checking for prints. However, since the jug smashed into several small pieces, it might be hard to lift a clear print. In particular, the handle is missing and that is probably where the murderer gripped the jug. He or she must have taken it with them.” He gestured around the room again. “Anything else?”
Caitlyn looked around once more, then her gaze sharpened. “There.” She pointed. “There was a bunch of keys on the desk.”
“A bunch of keys?”
“Yes, you know, one of those big, old-fashioned rings, with lots of keys on it. Mrs Brixton always carried it around. She was holding it when I first saw her this afternoon and later, when I came here to give her my wet clothes, I noticed them on the desk. But perhaps they were found on her?”
The inspector shook his head. “No, there were no keys found on her person.”
“So that means the murderer took them, doesn’t it?” asked Caitlyn excitedly.
Inspector Walsh made a non-committal noise. “I will need to check with Lord Fitzroy and see what the keys were for—I assume there is a duplicate set.” He put a hand under Caitlyn’s elbow. “Thank you for that, Miss Le Fey. You have been very helpful. Now, if you’ll come with me, we will rejoin Lord Fitzroy and your cousin in the library.”
They walked silently back through the house until they reached the library. As soon as Caitlyn stepped in, she found herself enveloped in a hug.
“Caitlyn!” Pomona squeezed her tight. “Omigod, I thought they’d thrown you in jail! Don’t say anything to the police! I’m gonna get on the phone to Mom’s attorney back in Hollywood—he’s, like, the best in the business; they don’t call him ‘Rottweiler Randy’ for nothing! I’ll get some of my paparazzi contacts on it too. Hah, see if the police dare harass you once the media are involved! I’ve been trying to share it on social media but the internet here is beyond crappy! James says there’s, like, a black spot over Tillyhenge or something, but, like, seriously? Anyway, don’t worry, once I get on Facebook, I’ll share it everywhere so that everyone knows about your wrongful arrest—”
Pomona paused to draw breath at last and Caitlyn quickly cut in, “I’m fine, Pomie. Calm down. The police have just been asking me some questions, that’s all.”
Inspector Walsh cleared his throat. “There is no question of arresting Miss Le Fey… yet.”
Pomona glared at him. “Well, it’s a joke that you’d even have her as a suspect! I mean, why would she wanna kill Mrs Brixton? She hardly even knew her!”
“Miss Le Fey is one of the last people to see the victim alive and she was also seen in the vicinity at the time of the murder. We are simply doing our job. We have to check everyone’s alibi—that’s just the way it is.” Inspector Walsh turned to Caitlyn. “Once we speak to Angela Skinner and verify your whereabouts with her, I imagine your alibi will have some substance. In the meantime, however, I would advise you to remain in the area and to let the police know if you are thinking of leaving Tillyhenge.” His voice was pleasant but there was a warning in his tone.
Caitlyn nodded, then watched numbly as the inspector turned to James and began asking him about the ring of keys. By the time the police finally left, she was struggling to stay on her feet as a wave of tiredness hit her. The adrenalin and excitement from the unexpected news of the murder had faded, leaving her drained and exhausted.
“It’s very late,” said James, looking at her in concern. “I’d be happy to drop you back at the chocolate shop but would you like to stay here for the night?”
“Yeah, stay!” urged Pomona.
“Thanks,” said Caitlyn gratefully, trying to hide a yawn behind her hand. “That sounds great.”
A few minutes later, after bidding James and Pomona goodnight, she was shown to one of the guest bedrooms: an elegant suite decorated in muted shades of cream and gold, with an enormous oak bed overflowing with cushions and pillows, and an en-suite bathroom with a vintage clawfoot bath. After the events of the last few hours, it all felt slightly surreal—as if she had suddenly checked into a luxury country hotel for the night.
Caitlyn cleaned her teeth, then climbed wearily into the huge bed. It was far more luxurious than the bed she had climbed into at the chocolate shop a couple of hours ago, and yet—with her mind still buzzing—it was a long time before she finally drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
When she opened her eyes the next morning, Caitlyn had to struggle for a moment to remember where she was. She turned her head on the soft feather pillow and felt the satiny sheets beneath her fingers as she looked around in confusion. Sunlight was streaming in through the gaps in the curtains at the huge Jacobean-style bay windows, highlighting the cream and gold décor of the room and reflecting off the edge of the three-panelled mirror on the antique dressing table.
Caitlyn sat up and sighed dreamily as she looked around. It was one of the most beautiful rooms she had ever woken up in. The sumptuous fabrics and period furniture were combined with a classic elegance that somehow felt luxurious but not ostentatious. She thought of the en-suite bathroom and jumped out of bed eagerly. She was looking forward to a hot shower—something that would make a nice change from the lukewarm dribble that came out of the rusty showerhead at the chocolate shop.
Caitlyn smiled in anticipation as she padded barefoot into the en-suite. Maybe she’d even have a long bubble bath in that gorgeous clawfoot tub…
She stepped into the bathroom and nearly crash
ed into a sleeping old man, hanging upside down from the ceiling.
“GAH!” she cried, jumping out of her skin.
The old man opened one eye and squinted at her. “Eh? Who’s that?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Viktor! What are you doing here?” demanded Caitlyn, trying to calm her racing heart. “You scared me half to death!”
The old man uncrossed his arms and stretched them above his head, almost touching the floor, as he yawned widely. Then he shuffled his feet—which seemed to be magically attached to the ceiling—and made an awkward attempt at a somersault. He wasn’t quite successful, instead landing in a tangle of bony legs and arms on the floor.
“Ahem.” He picked himself up, his normally pale face slightly pink, and dusted his clothes off. As usual, he was wearing a black suit with a white ruffled shirt that looked like it had come straight out of an early nineteenth-century costume drama, and his few strands of grey hair had been meticulously combed across his balding head.
“Bloody uncomfortable, these ceilings,” he muttered. “Not enough cobwebs to keep out the draughts…”
“Viktor, have you been in my bathroom all night?”
He gave Caitlyn an indignant look. “Of course. How else am I to protect you? I cannot have you staying in a strange house without me guarding your honour.”
“Viktor…!” Caitlyn suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.
The old man scowled and wagged his finger at her. “I know what you are thinking, young lady. But don’t underestimate your Uncle Viktor! I may be six hundred and thirty-four years old but I am still fighting fit! You haven’t known fear until you have felt a vampire’s teeth on your throat—Yaaah!”
He lunged at her, opening his eyes wide and pulling back his lips to bare his teeth. Caitlyn stared at the two gaps where his fangs should have been.
“Um… Viktor… where are your fangs?”
“Eh?” He faltered. Whirling, he hurried to the mirror above the vanity counter and peered into his sunken mouth. He gasped, “My fangs! They must have dropped out again! That cursed dentist! Utter moron! A pox of garlic on him!”