Mydworth Mysteries--Murder wore a Mask

by Matthew Costello

  “I know just the place. If you’d just wait a moment. Seems my wife is about to win… or lose. Don’t want to miss that either way.”

  *

  Kat had to do an awkward lunge at Celine’s service, which well into the match, remained strong, precise.

  But though some of Kat’s returns had become a bit wobbly, her powerful backhand now sent the ball flying over the highest part of the net.

  She saw Celine, now the one scrambling to the side, diving and just returning the drive.

  The ball landed on the line right at Kat’s feet.

  Back in the Bronx, a vociferous debate would have ensued.

  But here?

  “Out,” the referee said. And Celine – though clearly disagreeing with the call – nodded politely and returned to her position.

  Kat could feel Celine’s distraction as the French woman tossed the ball in the air to serve again.

  One needed to manage emotions in a tennis game, and this time, Kat’s return flew into a corner, just “in”, with Celine unable to get near it.

  “Game, set and match,” said the umpire quickly.

  Celine stopped. Game over.

  Her face, not happy.

  Apparently not such a good loser, Kat thought. Must remember that.

  The little groups sitting at nearby tables, and others standing by the sidelines of the court, clapped.

  Kat hurried to the net.

  “Great game,” she said, extending a hand.

  Celine had walked over slowly. Face still set.

  Then, begrudgingly, “Well played, Lady Mortimer.”

  “You as well! How about we get changed and grab one of those lovely flutes everyone seems to have?”

  At that, a tight smile.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  They both turned and walked off their respective sides of the court.

  But not before Kat saw Harry, the publisher and his writer, walking away.

  He must have seen me win, she thought.

  Normally, Harry would be there, cheering the loudest, running over, giving her one of his great, exuberant hugs.

  But instead he was heading somewhere with those two; Forsyth finally in their firing line.

  And that was fine because, trailing Celine, now heading back to the little dressing room, Kat had plans as well.

  12. The Truth About Mr Carmody

  Harry opened the door to Lavinia’s greenhouse, the always remarkable collection of scents and aromas hitting him immediately.

  Amazon lilies, Chinese hibiscus, African violets – and the venerable English rose.

  A nervous-looking Forsyth, accompanied by the raptor-like Quiller followed behind.

  And over at the other end – with plants awaiting potting, pots and trowels at the ready – Mr Grayer, Lavinia’s long-time gardener. He turned, looking.

  “Sir Harry,” Grayer said, surprised perhaps to have sudden guests while he was in the middle of re-potting.

  “Mr Grayer, I wonder if you could, um, leave us for a moment? Little chat we need to have.”

  Grayer immediately put down a pot, and with a nod and smile said, “Certainly. Plants outside need some tending to anyway, after last night’s ‘festivities’.”

  Harry grinned back. “I’m sure.”

  And as soon as the gardener left, he turned to Forsyth.

  “Okay. Mr Forsyth, I doubt anyone will stumble upon us here. And as you’re okay with Mr Quiller here listening, shall we talk?”

  And at that, Forsyth not only nodded – but gulped.

  *

  Fresh out of the primitive dressing room shower, the water ice-cold, tired old towels piled beside each locker, Kat felt that Celine was doing her best to say absolutely nothing.

  Feeling chagrined at the loss?

  Or – something else entirely?

  Kat wanted to know about Palmer. But she felt she needed to get a conversation going here, something to unfreeze the atmosphere.

  She started chatting as they dressed, both of them opting for slacks and crisp tailored shirts, Celine’s a robin’s egg blue, Kat’s a pale green.

  “I love your blouse,” Kat said, then felt straight away that this initial attempt at making chit-chat sounded terribly odd.

  Not surprisingly, in reply she got a perfunctory, “Thanks.”

  Okay, Kat thought. Time for a more direct route.

  She slipped on her shoes, stylish two-tone brown and beige pumps. And noticing such things, as one does, she saw Celine put on her jet-black pumps as well.

  “Celine, this morning. When we talked…” That at least got the woman’s attention as she turned and looked, but said nothing. “I had the distinct feeling that there was something more you wanted to say?”

  Flatly: “No, I didn’t.”

  Kat smiled at that and stood up. She took a small step closer to Celine. This tall woman was quite obviously – from the robust match they just played – as much muscle and strength as grace and beauty.

  “You see, I found it odd your husband did not remember meeting Mr Palmer. When he was indisposed on the ship.”

  Celine looked away at that, perhaps considering if she might simply walk away. Out of the dressing room, and out of range of Kat’s suddenly probing questions.

  Kat certainly hoped not. This set-up – the two of them, alone – had been hard-won.

  “My husband,” Celine finally said, “is often indisposed. Especially these days. Has trouble remembering lots of things.”

  Kat nodded at that.

  But she wasn’t buying it at all.

  In his cups or not, someone like Sawyer, an actor, would be attentive to people, remembering meeting them, sizing them up.

  And Palmer, brash and so full of himself, would not be so easy to forget.

  “I see. But there is something else I was curious about.”

  “Curious? You know what that did to the cat.”

  Ouch, thought Kat. Celine’s eyes were focused on her, perhaps sensing that there was some dangerous probing being done here, and now pushing back.

  Undeterred, Kat pressed on.

  “One question that, well, since talking to Fleet Street’s finest this morning, I really need to ask you.”

  And as if they were back on the clay courts, Celine waited…

  *

  “Mr Forsyth, you know, of course, that my Aunt Lavinia came to see me and my wife about the Carmody matter. About your concerns.”

  Harry looked from Forsyth to Quiller; one a roly-poly man, with florid face; the other, looking like he hadn’t been fed for weeks, ready to swoop down on any morsel of food – or information.

  “Yes. I didn’t tell her everything. Quite frankly, she didn’t want to know.”

  “Right. Something about how after Carmody’s unfortunate, well, whatever it was, you felt you might be next?”

  A nod.

  “Next. That would imply murder. Intent.”

  Another nod.

  Small curves at the side of Quiller’s mouth suggested he was enjoying this line of questioning.

  Harry shot him a quick look, as if to say, I might have a few questions for you too, Mr Quiller.

  “Yes,” Forsyth said. “I suppose, if you are to help me, you’d best know the truth.”

  “That’s usually how it works.”

  “You see, Mr Carmody and I had an ‘arrangement’.”

  “Arrangement?”

  Forsyth looked at Quiller. Harry guessed that whenever one was spilling the beans, one always checked with associates and accomplices before said beans got spilled.

  “A deal. Carmody had agreed to reveal everything he knew about his boss, Mr Palmer. The works. Every scandal. Every secret, dirty deal that Palmer did to enrich himself at the public’s expense. Every nasty liaison. All of it.”

  “For money?”

  Forsyth’s head bobbed again as Harry turned to Quiller. “And you, Mr Quiller were due to write the article, this series of exposés?”

  F
inally, the silent partner spoke.

  “Why, yes I was. Just waiting for the documents to be given to me. The information, you see. Evidence.”

  “What kind of evidence? Affairs you mean?”

  “Not just affairs,” said Quiller. And then, actually licking his lips: “There’s a child. Or as Mr Forsyth’s headline writers prefer to call it ‘a secret love child’.”

  “Outside his marriage? But that would destroy him.”

  “Exactly.”

  Harry had spent a good amount of time around writers.

  Some were great fun to be with, living by their wits, always knowing the best watering holes, and with an appetite for life that belied their profession of sitting down and hammering out words.

  Others, though, had the behaviour and demeanour of monks awaiting the next auto-da-fé.

  Quiller clearly belonged to the latter crowd.

  “You mentioned documents, Mr Forsyth. Did you get them?”

  “No. You see, the first batch, to accompany my initial substantial payments to him, was to be handed over this very weekend.”

  Harry thought back to his rifling through Carmody’s briefcase, finding absolutely nothing of interest.

  Did Carmody neglect to bring them? Had something gone wrong with his “deal” with Forsyth?

  Did he perhaps mean to call the whole thing off?

  Well, that wouldn’t have been good for Forsyth’s newspapers. And the same, Harry suddenly thought, for Mr Quiller.

  Harry took a breath.

  He had one last question.

  “Forsyth – let me be as clear with you as I can. If you are right, and Mr Carmody was murdered…” Forsyth nodded in agreement, looking the part of someone in danger. “Do you know who that killer might be?”

  Forsyth took a deep breath, puffy chest swelling even further.

  And to that question, he most definitely did have an answer.

  *

  Celine had also taken a step closer.

  Even though Kat knew that the two of them were quite alone here, the closeness, the lowered voices, indicated that Celine wanted this conversation to remain strictly between the two of them.

  “Go on,” she said flatly to Kat, eyes locked on.

  “You said you danced at the various ship events with Mr Palmer?”

  “He was most accommodating.”

  “I bet,” Kat said. Celine’s eyes turned steely. “When you returned to London, did you continue seeing him? Albeit, perhaps not for dancing. Maybe – other activities?”

  And Kat felt as if she had poured kerosene on a smouldering fire… and yet… there was delay.

  Before the flames erupted.

  “You know,” said Celine. “I do so love American music. Cole Porter. Gershwin. Duke Ellington. Nothing like it being written anywhere else, I can tell you.”

  “And you sing it beaut—”

  Celine cut her off. “But the American people? Something about them that’s all a little hard to stomach.”

  Kat let the insult land.

  Not the first time she had been with someone compelled to deliver an opinion about her fellow citizens from the New World.

  She paused a moment.

  “You didn’t answer the question, Celine. Are you having an affair with Palmer?”

  And then Kat saw something else in those dark and beautiful eyes.

  Concern – and a smidge of worry.

  “My private life, Lady Mortimer, is precisely that. Private.”

  “True – for now. But I suspect Cyril Palmer’s private life is about to get very public. And yours with it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kat paused for a second. Should she reveal what she and Harry suspected? What if Celine was involved too?

  It was a risky call – but she felt she had no choice.

  “Celine – it’s almost certain that Wilfred Carmody was murdered last night.”

  “Really?” said Celine, her voice betraying no emotion – or even interest.

  “It’s also possible that Cyril Palmer may have been involved in the crime.”

  Kat watched Celine carefully, but the singer’s face was motionless.

  “How ridiculous.”

  “You don’t know anything about this?”

  “Of course not. It’s like something out of one of your trashy dime novels.”

  “Ridiculous or not, the police are likely to be involved soon. And your movements last night? They will be investigated.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Warning you.”

  Kat stood her ground as Celine stepped close.

  “They said Sir Harry had married beneath himself,” said Celine, her face close. “I see now – they were right.”

  And at that, Celine turned and walked out.

  Good riddance, thought Kat.

  After waiting a few seconds, gathering her thoughts and suspicions, Kat left the dressing room as well.

  Eager to find Harry, and catch up.

  What a weekend this is turning out to be, Kat thought.

  What else could be ahead?

  13. A Quiet Moment

  Kat watched Harry – his crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up – pulling on the two oars of a bright red rowboat.

  Those arms, already tanned from the warm and – so far – sunny summer.

  No one else was out in the water, most hurrying into the manor house for a sure-to-be lavish afternoon tea put out by Lavinia’s staff.

  As to the early evening, there’d be an array of activities for guests to choose from: from a ride through the nearby trail, to some skeet shooting overseen by Mr Grayer down near the open meadow.

  More and more, Lavinia had told Kat, she had gone off the idea of “hunting”.

  Far better if people just blow up clay pigeons, Lavinia had said. No harm, no foul – literally.

  Though Kat knew that, in her day, Lavinia had had a reputation as an excellent shot, not adverse to the hunt.

  Now she watched Harry, sweat on his brow, do the yeoman’s job of ploughing through the water.

  She was curious about the conversation they were about to have, discoveries shared, and then plans.

  They were nearly mid-lake, sun glistening on the water; sparkling, jewel-like dots that flashed on the surface and then vanished as the water rippled and eddied.

  “So – think we’re quite out of earshot?”

  At that, Harry laughed. “Ha. You see, I always think it’s better to hide in plain sight. If we had gone off somewhere, two of us, walking on our own…”

  “Any guilty parties would get suspicious?”

  “Precisely. And so far, knock—” Harry tapped the wood near one of the oar locks “—on wood, no one among the guests has come up with a sudden pressing reason to return to London.”

  “Which itself would be quite suspicious.”

  “Oh yes. But then, with what little we can prove – I mean, once we’ve had our chat out here – there’s no way to stop anyone from actually leaving. And questioning them, when they are safely ensconced back in Mayfair or wherever.”

  “Would be difficult. Yes. So, us out here – meant to look like a romantic bateau à deux for the relatively new newlyweds.”

  “You know, I rather like the sound of that. I should have wrangled a bottle of Perrier-Jouët from Benton, maybe a wedge of the camembert and some bread? Have you tasted McLeod’s bread by the way? I have no idea where the man gets his yeast, but it’s something.”

  Kat looked back at the manor house. “Lavinia won’t miss us?”

  “I imagine she’ll think we are doing what we can to resolve the fate of Mr Carmody.”

  Kat smiled, their “game” about to begin. This was always fun.

  “Me first?”

  “Oh yes. And by the way, did I tell you how smashing you were on the court? Quite a display.”

  “Yes. And even more interesting was the conversation I had with my opponent when we changed.”

&n
bsp; “All ears, as they say…”

  And Kat began.

  *

  “So she was hiding something?” asked Harry.

  “Most definitely. I mean, as much as one can trust instincts. Powerful man like Palmer? Might be some women’s type.”

  “Not yours?”

  Kat grinned. “No, Sir Harry. I know my type. Looking right at him.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Jolly reassuring. And what else do you think she was hiding?”

  “That’s just it. When I mentioned Carmody – and Palmer’s possible involvement – she turned very nasty. But you know, Harry, it felt like bluster. Like she knew something but was feeling cornered.”

  “Speaking of secrets – let’s not forget her husband this morning. You think he really forgot about meeting Palmer and Carmody?”

  “Again unlikely.”

  Harry looked away, wondering how these suspicions connected to what he had just learned from Forsyth.

  “Damned curious that. But – if what we’ve heard is correct – the singer and the MP are still continuing their dalliance. Both hiding something, for different reasons. Tad perplexing all that.”

  “Just a tad,” Kat said, laughing. “Okay. Your turn.”

  “Right, then.”

  He told her about the deal Forsyth had with Carmody. The evidence of corruption. But also… of an illegitimate child.

  “Now here’s the interesting part, Kat. The child was born fifteen years ago when Palmer first became an MP, living in Chichester. Palmer was already married – and apparently he was pretty ruthless dealing with the problem.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  “According to Forsyth, Palmer had the girl fired from her job in service. Pretty much put her out on the streets. Then the child was taken away from her.”

  “God. Then what happened to the mother?”

  Harry shook his head. “Died just a year later.”

  “How awful.”

  “Par for the course with men like that, sadly.”

  “And what about the kid?”

  “According to Forsyth, the child – a boy – only recently discovered the identity of his father. Tried to make contact.”

  “Let me guess – Palmer told him where to get off?”

  “Precisely. Threatened him, the works.”

  “And Carmody had evidence of all this?”