Even as I struggled with the buttons on the uniform I had worn the previous day, I wished I could have seen the young man’s face as he looked on the wonders of the gallery. Would it be like the one I loved to see when maids or footmen mastered their letters, found their first delight in reading a whole book?
At least I could watch his response to the Gräfin’s bed chamber, as concealing the key in my pocket, along with the papers Mrs Simpkiss had removed for safekeeping, I headed upstairs. I was anxious: though my escapade was probably widely known amongst the staff by now I would prefer not to run into anyone. There. I was safe. Now all I had to do was escape from the Stygian gloom of the brown and green painted back stairs into the bright sun lighting up the guest corridor.
As I unlocked the Gräfin’s door, I heard footsteps in the corridor. Surely only one person’s. I was ready to panic, to run back to the service stairs for cover – but then, as I cowered in the doorframe recess, I heard Matthew’s voice. It wasn’t, however, much comfort. It was raised in anger. As was another: Major Jameson’s.
A third, soft and with a Welsh accent, came with surprising authority. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen: this is a house of mourning, is it not? Pray, moderate your language. And it may be that folk are still asleep, so please lower your voices.’
Major Jameson fired off a salvo of invective. He was not, it seemed, a man to take orders from one of the lower orders. I could only assume that his language was that of the barracks – though would a man of his rank not be in the more august company of officers?
‘That is quite enough, Major. Now, the Colonel has instructed Mr Rowsley here to act as my deputy and to obey my instructions. I am sure that the two of us could see you safely installed in the village lock-up, if that is your desire. No? Best be quietly on your way then, sir.’
Apparently as calm as if he dealt with noisy military men every day, not just with poachers and labourers, Constable Davies stepped into the room and looked round with a mouth as wide open as his eyes. ‘And only one old woman sleeps here? Lord!’ But then he was easing that tight tunic collar and mopping his brow. ‘Lord, ma’am! My old granny would call that Major a nasty piece of knitting. But much as I’d like to I can’t arrest him for that.’
‘You handled the situation very well, Constable,’ I said.
‘He did. Far better than me. If I’d got my hands on him I’d have thrown him out of the window,’ Matthew muttered, earning a sideways glance from Davies.
‘All this and we’ve not even had breakfast,’ I said lightly. ‘Constable, might I ask you a question? No, nothing you mustn’t tell us. Can you tell me what the Major’s Christian name is? It’s just that I’ve never, ever heard it used.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s something to do with the strange etiquette that passes as normality in people like this,’ Matthew said. ‘My papa is an archdeacon whose bishop’s wife apparently calls her spouse “My Lord” and “Bishop”, never using his first name even among close friends. So – Major Jameson?’
‘Major Algernon Dalrymple Wycombe Jameson.’ He seemed to relish each syllable – and who could blame him? He ended with an ironic smile.
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘Thank you. What a shame none of his initials matches the one on the love letter I found. Now, Mrs Simpkiss sent you this,’ I added, passing the young man an envelope.
He fingered it for a while. Did I hope he would open it so we could share the contents? In the event, he buttoned it firmly into a tunic pocket.
It was the work of moments to show him where I had found the key, but he began, as thoroughly as Mrs Simpkiss or I could have done, to search clothes, underclothes, her reticule – and every nook. It fell to me to replace everything as best I could.
‘All this comfort and luxury,’ he said, ‘and then this!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Truly in the midst of life there is death. But there is no evidence of her actual life, is there? The things she found precious? Just so many clothes and shoes. Is that what it all comes down to in the end? But I’m rambling, aren’t I?’
‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘In many ways her death has been like taking a cup of water from a bucket.’
‘It makes a bit of a splash then everything settles down as normal?’
‘Exactly. Our investigations apart, the Gräfin’s death seems to have touched no one on a deep level – no one is missing her, lamenting the passing of a friend, being reminded of her at strange moments. My excuse – if excuse is needed – is that my acquaintance with her was no more than that. But our fellow guests and our hostess especially must have known her for years. They must have known her as a person, known what she held precious.’
He regarded me steadily.
I added, ‘I dare say she found her jewellery precious, and that’s somewhere within this house.’
‘With luck,’ said Matthew. ‘But not necessarily. The person who killed it might have had an accomplice to get it away. And – how had I forgotten this? – when we looked at her body on the bed there her stockings and skirt hem were wet. Yes, and Barrington ordered a search for her shoes, which were nowhere in the whole house, according to the servants searching for them.’
‘The sooner my cousin gets here the better – and every last detective in Scotland Yard, too.’
‘What would it mean for your career if you solved it before they arrived?’ I asked.
His face softened. ‘Maybe a promotion. Maybe a move from a tiny damp house in a village no one’s ever heard of to a bigger dry one in a flourishing town.’
Everything, in other words. Matthew and I had better get busy. When better to start than over breakfast in the sewing room?
I pushed the plate of scones towards him. Surely he could not resist reaching for one, especially as pots of conserve and a dish of golden butter were marshalled beside them.
‘I know you have been – well, I couldn’t have got this far, not nearly this far, without your help, yours and Mr Rowsley’s. And I dare say all these papers, and those from that curtain pole – they’d make more sense to you, probably.’ He writhed. ‘The thing is, see, the papers might not help in this case at all. Or they might. I don’t know. And the person involved … he might … or she might, not wishing to give anything away, see.’
I could have pointed out that Matthew and I knew a great deal about people who might not have anything to do with the case. ‘Of course you must exercise your discretion. But remember we are here if you feel you need to discuss anything. Or you might prefer to wait till your cousin arrives and see what his advice is.’
I could feel rather than hear Matthew’s comment: ‘Or you could consult a pigeon.’ I did not dare catch his eye.
‘He’s such a stickler … What are those, ma’am?’ he pointed.
‘Some of Mrs Dabbs’ special pastries. I believe she got the recipe from a foreign guest. Very unusual but – oh, try one.’ I waited till his mouth was full. ‘Of course, if you think your cousin would object to our interference, we could simply withdraw. Though where we should sit and where we would eat …’
Matthew was swift to grasp my strategy. ‘The servants’ hall, of course. I just wish we could go home, to be honest, Davies. God knows there’s work we should be doing there. The trustees – ah! Let me explain about our roles. They’re rather different from those of the average agent and housekeeper, since Lord Croft is too unwell to perform any of the functions associated with his rank. Although we are answerable to a board of trustees, effectively Harriet runs the house and I the entire family estate.’
‘So why does everyone treat you so badly? You’re as important as lawyers or doctors – and probably do less harm than either.’ He got to his feet, rather spoiling the effect by chasing crumbs from his uniform. Licking a fingertip, he dabbed up the biggest morsels and conveyed them to his mouth.
‘When you go home tonight, make sure you ask Mrs Dabbs if you can take some of these: they’d be such a treat for your family.’ I added, with some irony, ‘I’m sure the guests won’t miss them.’ I poured us all more coffee; Matthew and I also helped ourselves to scones and some strawberry conserve that was almost as good as Bea’s.
‘What’s the most useful thing we can do before we decamp?’ Matthew asked.
‘Decamp? No, Mr Rowsley, I’m afraid you can’t leave here. None of the guests can. If you went, and I can see you have responsibilities, they’d all be off.’
‘I only meant from this room, Davies!’ Matthew laughed heartily, if duplicitously. ‘If you have nothing else in mind, I thought Harriet might go over the accounts that so puzzled me last night. And she has asked me to double-check her chart …’
The pretty clock chimed eight-thirty, as if in approval. Ten minutes later the silence was interrupted by Mason. He spoke discreetly to Davies but clearly intended us to hear the news that the village doctor had arrived on horseback, a farm cart accompanying him to carry away the corpses. Was that the best the family could do for a godmother and a senior member of staff? It was clear that Davies, whose eyes were more like a rabbit’s than ever, shared my unease: ‘Shouldn’t there be a guard of honour or something?’ he asked.
‘Of course there should,’ I said, ‘but not for another few minutes yet. The servants will still be at breakfast.’ I clapped my hand over my mouth again. ‘Constable Davies, forgive me. I’ve done it again, imagining I have authority when I have none. This should be a decision for the Colonel and Mrs Simpkiss, shouldn’t it, though perhaps you should give more weight to one than to the other! Could Mason perhaps convey a note to him? And consult Mrs Simpkiss in person?’ I added with a smile.
Mason waited while Davies wrote his note, bowed and left us.
There was an uneasy silence as we all pretended to work.
Mason returned. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am, but Dr Highworth is waiting. Both parties stated a preference for a servants’ guard of honour but as you said they’re in the middle of breakfast.’
‘Constable Davies, do you think we should invite him to take coffee here until everyone is ready?
‘He drinks only tea,’ Mason said in that discreet way experienced butlers seem to share. ‘If I might recommend a pot of his favourite Darjeeling? No milk and no sugar, I must tell you.’
My mind’s eye saw a wizened old man in a monkish robe. I thought it best not to share the vision. ‘Thank you, Mason. And would the good doctor eat Mrs Dabbs’ wonderful Continental breakfast fancies?’
‘Brown bread only, ma’am. And honey, not jam or marmalade. Shall I bring those, ma’am?’
‘Yes please. And also more coffee for the more self-indulgent of us!’
Dr Highworth filled the doorway. He was a good six feet tall, his shoulders as broad as Matthew’s. He looked askance at us, me in particular, but the constable explained what we had been doing, and at last he offered a slightly grudging hand first to Matthew and then to me. At last, he sat surprisingly carefully, as if, like Cousin Barrington, he suffered from back ache. His handsome face was deeply lined, as if he took on his patients’ pain as well as his own. Yet it was not that of an old man: I put him at about the same age as me, in his forties.
Constable Davies added, ‘Mr Rowsley was with the Colonel when Mr Harrison took them to find Mr Biddlestone’s corpse, Doctor. Ah!’ The door opened to admit Jeremy Turton, who stopped abruptly when he saw the visitor. ‘Ah, Mr Turton. Dr Highworth, this gentleman has drawn pictures of Mr Biddlestone’s body where they found it. Would they be any use to you?’
‘Not as much as the actual corpse. The sooner I take it off your hands the better. And that old woman, too, while I’m here.’
I bridled on the Gräfin’s behalf. ‘Her ladyship was the first to die, you will recall. By strangulation, as opposed to a blow to the head and possibly drowning.’
It might have been the table that spoke for all the reaction he gave.
‘So I’ve got to sit and twiddle my thumbs till the servants have finished their porridge.’ He looked ostentatiously at his watch and crossed his arms in irritation, then drumming his fingers on them.
‘I think you will find that Gräfin Weiser and Mr Biddlestone can wait a few minutes longer,’ Matthew observed, coldly polite.
Davies froze. He was after all dependent on the doctor’s good graces for the treatment of all his children’s ailments – and Highworth might not be as benevolent as our good doctor friend at home who forgot to present bills to the poorest families and accepted payment in kind from others.
Jeremy had not yet spoken. I could not even offer him coffee as there was no spare cup. Fortunately Mason, bringing tea and brown bread, could remedy that, but Jeremy remained as resolutely silent as the doctor, who looked with increasing frequency at his watch, or, by way of variation, at the pretty clock.
At last Matthew, presumably unable to bear it any longer, asked, ‘Dr Highworth, do you do a full post-mortem examination or just look at the more obvious injuries?’
‘The latter. Why do you ask? Oh, are you one of these people who believe a hospital surgeon should cut the dead into pieces in the name of “scientific enquiry”? Let me tell you, sir, I do not. Let the interment be as swift and dignified as possible, say I. And I may add that Father Howells agrees.’
Davies coughed. ‘As soon as possible after the inquest, Dr Highworth. Inquests, I might have to say.’
Dear God! We have to come back here for them. Why hadn’t I realised? It took me all my self-control not to cry out loud. Thank goodness the arrival of Mason with a laden tray gave me a moment to regain my composure.
Matthew and I were the only guests to bid the Gräfin goodbye, standing alongside Mrs Simpkiss and Mason and the other servants, who naturally arranged themselves in order of their status, men on one side of the steps, women on the other. Cousin Barrington and Lady Hortensia stood at the top, perhaps on the last out, first in principle. But their ways parted as soon as they were in the house, Cousin Barrington waiting to fall into step with Matthew as we walked back to the sewing room.
Constable Davies more or less accompanied me. At last he took a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure I should have left Mr Turton on his own in there. But it would have looked very rude to turn him out. And that stammer of his fair turns my stomach.’
‘If you could bear to, sound him out about Major Jameson, who apparently bullied him cruelly.’
‘You’re determined to make him the killer, aren’t you, ma’am?’ He gave a rueful laugh.
‘One of the killers,’ I responded with a smile. ‘Both the Gräfin and Biddlestone were disliked, but I still can’t see why a guest should murder the butler or a servant should kill the Gräfin. Unless her ladyship caught a servant stealing her jewels, of course. But if it was a servant, what did he or she do with them? What could they do? They were clearly too expensive to be given to a sweetheart as fairings.’
‘And presumably the jewel box was big and heavy? I suppose you never had an occasion to see it? Have to be big if that key you found fitted it.’ He stopped, shifting from one foot to the other as if he was a village lad caught scrumping. ‘Ma’am, I still don’t know whether I should show you those papers, any of them. Yes, I need a second opinion – third with Mr Rowsley, of course – but …’
‘How long do you think it will be before your cousin arrives? If it is likely to be today, then waiting won’t hurt, surely. If he’s delayed, Matthew and I can swear on your family Bible to say nothing to anyone.’
‘Ma’am, you’ve got the Colonel and his bad back, the doctor and his bad back – do you want me to have a bad back too? No, I’m sure they’ll have a Bible here, and I’m sure Colonel Rowsley can find the proper oath for special constables. Even for you, a lady … no, I’m sure he’ll find a way. But I worry about Mr Turton, I do indeed. All the stick he has to take for that stutter – it might result in violence, in my opinion. He might easily have turned on a tormentor, see.’ Davies retired to stare out of the window, stroking his chin as if to make sure the huge pimple had really burst and started to subside.
I thought back to the afternoon tea in the pavilion. ‘Except that his main tormentor, possibly his only tormentor, was Major Jameson. Most people simply avoid the poor boy.’
He had the grace to blush.