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The three policemen exchanged glances at Richard’s stuttering admission. None of them looked the least surprised that Richard was worried about the possible involvement of little Agnes in her father’s death. A child who could set fire to curtains for the sake of curiosity would certainly be capable of experimenting with her father’s heart tonic.
Nevertheless, Charlie wondered if putting the blame on a child wasn’t a convenient diversion. Richard must surely have considered the possibility that his beloved Lawson had taken matters into her own hands. Lawson had every opportunity to take the poison and tamper with the tonic, as she had access to all areas of the house and workroom. If her willingness to listen at doors was an indication of her character, then Lawson might well be the person who steamed open the will. Thus, she might be the only person who knew the will had changed back in Richard’s favour.
Wallace dismissed Richard Ormsby from the interview, with orders to take a stiff brandy and get some rest. The twin burdens of grief and shock dragged down Richard’s shoulders as he shuffled out of the drawing room.
Wallace waited until Richard had closed the door. “Pyke, you seem to have a rapport with the little girl. See if you can find out if she added the poison to the tonic.”
Charlie tracked Agnes down in the nursery, with the nanny standing guard over her. The little girl denied putting anything in her father’s tonic, even in the noble interests of scientific experimentation. Bengali hadn’t either. Charlie returned to the drawing room.
“I’m almost certain Agnes didn’t tamper with her father’s tonic,” Charlie told Wallace.
“Children will tell whopping fibs to save themselves from punishment,” Kelly reminded him.
“True,” Charlie conceded, “but they rarely have the skill to lie convincingly at that age.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Kelly said. “My nephew will swear he hasn’t been in the larder, while licking a thick smear of sticky red jam off his lips. The very thought of it makes me hungry.”
They were interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. The woman who opened the door could be none other than the housekeeper, with her air of quiet command, crisp white cuffs and chatelaine of keys. Charlie rushed to hold the door open, eager to facilitate the entry of the accompanying trolley, which held the promise of a full Devonshire tea.
“That’s a most welcome sight. I’m parched.” Wallace consulted his list. “Mrs Simpson, I presume? Might we have a word, since you are here?”
“Of course, Inspector.” As Mrs Simpson gave her version of events on the day of the soirée, she handed out plates, napkins and scones with a combination of silver tongs and smooth efficiency, borne of years of service. Her evidence failed to advance their investigation, as the housekeeper’s entire day had revolved around menus, decorations, flowers, arranging tables, ensuring the silver was spotless, and the thousand other details that make a successful supper party appear effortless.
Since Doctor Ormsby’s death, Mrs Simpson had been equally busy, seeing to mourning rituals and assisting with funeral arrangements. The housekeeper never said it in so many words, but it was clear from the tasks she and the butler had attended to that Richard and Mrs Ormsby were not coping with the practicalities of their bereavement.
Mrs Simpson also declared she had no knowledge of Mrs Ormsby’s workroom, while handing a reagent bottle back to Charlie. She promised a list of delivery men and hired servers, although she assured Wallace that the delivery men never made it past the scullery and the servers didn’t arrive until just prior to the start of the soirée, too late to have poisoned the heart tonic.
When the tea was poured and set on lace doilies in front of each man, Mrs Simpson lingered. “Inspector Wallace, might I ask a question?”
“You may, Mrs Simpson.”
“It is human nature to gossip. I would like to be able to dismiss the dreadful rumour circulating below stairs, suggesting that Doctor Ormsby died of poisoning, not a weak heart. Aside from being an abominable accusation, it has created friction in the kitchen. Cook has threatened to walk out if her food is called into question. She is very strict about Doctor Ormsby’s food and far too good a cook to lose over unfounded gossip.”
“You may inform the cook and all the staff that it was not food poisoning,” Wallace replied.
“Thank you, Inspector. I’m glad to hear it.”
“However, Doctor Ormsby’s death was not from natural causes. Mrs Simpson, I trust I can rely upon your discretion, if I ask a sensitive question?”
“Yes, of course, Inspector,” the housekeeper said quietly, keeping her expression neutral, but with just a hint of growing unease.
“Mrs Ormsby produced many remedies, using a variety of herbs and other plants. Were the staff aware of that?”
“Naturally. Anything remotely different from the usual routine is discussed endlessly below stairs, Inspector. But what have Mrs Ormsby’s remedies to do with–” Only years of strict training stopped Mrs Simpson from uttering the “Oh” that formed on her lips.
“And was it generally known that Mrs Ormsby had experimented with the use of various substances as rat poison?” Wallace asked.
The housekeeper momentarily looked as if she had swallowed the poison herself, before she collected herself. “Mrs Ormsby talked about it over the dinner table, which means that everyone in the house would have heard of it. Was that ... was that how Doctor Ormsby died?”
“It is an avenue that is currently under investigation,” Wallace acknowledged. “Please keep this to yourself for the time being, Mrs Simpson. It would be helpful for us to have a tour of the house to better understand how this tragedy occurred, with particular attention to who had access to Doctor Ormsby’s bedroom and private bathroom.”
Mrs Simpson gave them quarter of an hour to finish the refreshments, before returning to conduct the tour. Needlessly, as it took barely five minutes for the three burly coppers to squeeze the last drop out of the tea pot and dispatch the pile of scones, including licking stray blobs of jam and cream from the plates.
The housekeeper had used the break to recover her poise. She nodded with satisfaction at their effusive thanks for the tea. “Follow me, officers. I take it you wish to see the whole house, including the private rooms?”
“Yes, please, Mrs Simpson.” Wallace stepped aside as a pretty housemaid with cherubic curls entered the drawing room.
“See to the rest of the airing after you’ve cleared the tea, please, Betsy,” the housekeeper instructed the maid, who bobbed at the knees and began gathering cups.
Charlie noted the dark bags under the housekeeper’s eyes and the chafing on the housemaid’s hands. A death in the family was always hard on the household staff, whose role it was to smooth the disruption, whilst preparing the house for the rituals and extra visitors brought by a funeral. He wondered if they mourned the loss of a respected master of the house, or not. If Charlie had to hazard a guess, it would be that Richard would be a welcome change from his father. Not that any of the staff would admit it outside their own tight circle.
The housekeeper guided them across the parquet floor of the large room that adjoined the drawing room, which she referred to as the grand salon. The room the soirée had been held in. French doors led to the terrace, and the stables and workroom beyond, which were partially screened by a luxuriant garden.
“Music room, connecting corridor to the dining room, kitchen and butler’s pantry,” Mrs Simpson intoned, as she swept past each of these locations, giving them just enough time to glimpse the efficient layout of the house.
They circled past the main hall, stopping before they completed the full circuit back to the drawing room. Mrs Simpson opened another door. “As you see, the drawing room adjoins the library, which leads into Doctor Ormsby’s study.”
Mrs Simpson led them through the two rooms, emerging into another corridor. Every room seemed to have two entrances, providing multiple routes through the house from front to rear, in addition to the main hall, which ran from the main entrance to the grand salon.
“Doctor Ormsby’s private operating theatre is across this side corridor, at the front corner of the house,” Mrs Simpson said. “It has a separate side entrance. And here we are, back at the entrance lobby.”
The main entrance was in the centre of the front façade, opening into a lobby and staircase to the upper floor. As the kitchen also had an exterior entrance, that made four entry points in all, only one of which was locked during the daytime.
On the second floor, the family bedrooms formed a line along the front half of the house – parents to the north, children to the south. On the garden side, the guest bedrooms were opposite the rooms of Richard, Cecilia and Henry. At the other end, the nursery was opposite Mr and Mrs Ormsby’s rooms, incorporating a room each for Agnes and her nanny. The rest of the second floor comprised a bathroom and three staff rooms, for Mrs Simpson, Miss Lawson and the valet. The maids slept in the attic space, while the butler had a room off the butler’s pantry downstairs, and the cook had in a space off the kitchen.
Thus, anyone in the household, with the possible exception of the cook and downstairs maids, might have accessed Doctor Ormsby’s private bathroom and tampered with his tonic. The murderer must have been bold, to risk an encounter with other members of the large household. However, on a day when most of the household was busy in the grand salon preparing for the soirée, the risk was lessened. Moreover, an outsider might easily have come through the side door, or even the main door, and sneaked up the stairs without being seen. With delivery men coming to and fro, and the house in a state of organised chaos, anything was possible.
Charlie returned from his examination of the second floor to find Wallace and the housekeeper engaged in a whispered disagreement over the merits of leaving Mrs Ormsby to rest versus the urgency of the police viewing the scene of the crime. The impasse was broken by the appearance of the lady of the house from out of her room.
“Thank you, Mrs Simpson,” Mrs Ormsby said. “I have indulged my grief long enough. Detective Inspector Wallace is right. The priority must be determining how my husband met his death. If there is a killer on the loose, it behoves us all to do whatever is in our power to catch him. Me most of all, as it appears I have been the unwitting source of the poison that killed my husband.”