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After Cecilia left the drawing room, Charlie showed Wallace and Kelly the business proposal written by Richard Ormsby. Wallace scanned it quickly and groaned.
Kelly shook his head in disbelief as he read of Doctor Ormsby’s intention to take control of his wife’s natural remedies business. “More suspects and motives than sand on St Kilda beach,” Kelly grumbled. “Edgar Ormsby certainly had a flair for sowing dissent amongst his family and colleagues.”
A rap at the door interrupted their discussion. A rap so similar to Mrs Simpson’s that Charlie’s mouth watered at the prospect. His prayers were answered when the housekeeper entered. Unfortunately her trolley was absent.
“Mrs Ormsby requests that you see Mr Pugh and Finch now,” Mrs Simpson said, “as they have other duties to attend to. Afterwards, I will serve your luncheon, if that is acceptable. Mrs Ormsby asked me to convey her regrets that Miss Lawson is unavailable.”
“Unavailable?” Wallace growled.
“Absent from the house, whereabouts unknown. Mr Henry is also still missing.”
In the absence of Henry Ormsby and Miss Lawson, Wallace agreed the next priority was to interview the household staff. He looked relieved. Perhaps, like Charlie, he’d had more than enough family drama for one day.
Mr Pugh, the butler, refused the offered chair, preferring to stand with his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back. His uniform was immaculate and his face devoid of expression, despite the stiffly starched white collar digging into his neck under his perfectly shaved chin. A black armband circled his left upper arm in a precise hoop. Pugh was as far away geographically as any butler could be could be from the stately drawing rooms of England, but he set a standard that would be familiar to his peers in Kensington or Mayfair.
Wallace settled into the familiar routine. “May I have your full name, age and place of birth, Mr Pugh.”
“William Logan Pugh, age thirty-two, born in Lambeth, England.”
Charlie took a closer look at this South Londoner who had polished his accent to fit his role. He had thought the butler was much older than thirty-two, due to Pugh’s pinched face and receding hair. Despite being relatively young for a butler, Pugh had that special ability of fading into the background until needed, that marked a professional. Charlie was going to have to come up with an excuse to get Pugh’s pristine white gloves off, if he was to get a fingerprint sample.
Pugh answered Wallace’s questions with dignity and careful consideration, not giving in to the temptation to gossip or speculate. The butler agreed that Doctor Ormsby had appeared unwell at times during the soirée, but soldiered on regardless, as a gentleman ought to. The only discordant note of the evening had been when Mrs Beechworth caused an minor contretemps with her intemperate manner of questioning her host.
The butler had not seen Doctor Ormsby go out onto the terrace, as he was busy serving the port to the gentlemen in the library. Pugh’s first inkling of the disaster to come was when Mr Henry Ormsby ran into the house, yelling “she killed him” and begging for a doctor and stretcher team with utmost urgency. Pugh had run into Doctor Ormsby’s surgery to gather a blanket and stretcher, before commanding three other men to sprint up the hill to his master’s rescue. Pugh’s composure slipped only when he described returning with the corpse and telephoning the police.
Charlie was impressed with the butler’s combination of stately control and swift action in a crisis. A former military man, perhaps? He must be in fair shape, to run up a hill with a stretcher.
Wallace moved on to the events leading up to the soirée. Pugh’s answers corroborated what they already knew. The house was in a state of organised chaos, with deliveries arriving throughout Saturday and extra staff hired to serve at the party.
“Mr Richard Ormsby was out on the Saturday morning, I understand, working at the hospital.”
“That is correct, Inspector,” Pugh said. “I let Mr Richard out before seven o’clock that morning. He returned via the side entrance not long before luncheon was served at one o’clock, as he had mislaid his keys again.”
Wallace arched one of his woolly eyebrows. “Was he in the habit of forgetting his keys?”
“Mr Richard is a busy gentleman, Inspector. When I took the liberty of reminding him before he left, he assured me he had his keys. Nevertheless, one of the housemaids, Betsy, found them the next day, on the mantlepiece.”
Kelly scribbled a note, while Wallace proceeded with the questioning. “Aside from the delivery men, were there any other visitors on Saturday, prior to the soirée commencing?”
“Two gentlemen had appointments with Doctor Ormsby in the morning. Mr Horncastle arrived on time for a short meeting at eleven o’clock. A matter of hospital business, I expect. Doctor Alexander had a private meeting with Doctor Ormsby at noon.”
Wallace’s nostrils flared, as they did when he scented vital new evidence. “Do you know the purpose of Doctor Alexander’s appointment?”
“A personal matter, Inspector,” Pugh replied. “I should not care to speculate, other than to say the gentlemen appeared to be on the very best of terms.”
“How long did Alexander stay?”
“Almost three-quarters of an hour. Doctor Ormsby saw Doctor Alexander to the door himself and shook his hand with marked enthusiasm.”
Charlie watched Pugh’s rigid expression soften into a hint of a smile. The butler presumably knew, or deduced, that Alexander was about to be welcomed into the family. “I’m surprised Doctor Alexander did not stay to luncheon, given his intimacy with the family.”
“I believe his services were required at the hospital.”
Charlie made a note to check Alexander’s arrival time at the hospital. He could have slipped upstairs to tamper with the tonic while the family was dining. But why would he, if he and Doctor Ormsby had parted on such good terms?
Wallace drummed his fingers on the small table beside him, signalling a difficult question was being formulated. “Did Doctor Ormsby have any interactions with family members, beyond the normal civilities?”
Pugh’s lips pressed so tightly together, he appeared to be physically holding back his words. “I am not certain I know what you are asking, Inspector.”
“Did he have any arguments or minor disagreements? Or other unusual discussions? Please bear in mind that we are investigating a death, Mr Pugh. Your admirable discretion will only get in the way of truth.”
Pugh straightened his already stiff spine. “Mr Henry had a meeting with his father at about ten o’clock in the morning.” He cleared his throat. “I overheard raised voices, but I have no knowledge of the nature of their disagreement. Suffice to say, Mr Henry slammed the door so hard on his departure that a vase was toppled and shattered. Royal Worcester. Irreplaceable, of course.”
“That will be all for now, Mr Pugh. If any other information comes to your attention, I want to hear about it without delay. Could you send in Doctor Ormsby’s valet, please.” Wallace consulted the staff list. “Finch.”
Finch walked into the room a step behind Pugh, imitating the butler’s posture and actions. The imitation fell short of perfection. Finch’s black armband was slightly wrinkled, his collar askew, and his expression betrayed an unseemly curiosity – but that only made him seem more human than the butler. He also had a fresh-faced youthfulness that made him seem much younger than Pugh. Finch hesitated at the offer of a seat, before choosing to stand to attention.
The valet gave his name as Ronald Ian Finch, aged twenty-five. A recent immigrant to New Zealand, born in Glasgow but raised in London, which explained the Scottish lilt that Finch struggled to disguise under a layer of the Queen’s English. Charlie wasn’t one to judge. His own Chinese ancestry was rarely on display outside of his own family circle, due to the pervasive bigotry shown by British immigrants to anyone whose origins lay east of the English Channel.
Under Wallace’s gentle probing, Finch confirmed he acted as both valet and footman, attending to the needs of Doctor Ormsby and his sons, serving at the dinner table, and other tasks as required. He professed to being upset at Doctor Ormsby’s death, with a strong undercurrent of distress at the possibility of losing his position. He showed no reaction to being asked about his activities on the Saturday of the supper party. Finch reeled off a long list of duties, involving spots removed from lapels, the shining of shoes, selection of the correct evening attire, and his usual job of ensuring Doctor Ormsby was given his medicine at afternoon tea.
“Are you sure he took his heart medication?” Wallace asked. “On such a busy day, it would be easy to forget.”
Finch’s poise slipped at the question. His fingers twisted together as he rushed out his answer. “Mrs Ormsby was most insistent that Doctor Ormsby took it every day. As soon as I heard the bell ring for afternoon tea, I retrieved the tonic from the bathroom cabinet and brought it down to him, as I always do. I’ll swear to it, Inspector. If Doctor Ormsby died of heart failure, it was not because I forgot his medicine. God’s truth, sir.”
“No need for alarm, Finch. We are merely establishing the facts. Did you notice anything different about the heart tonic that day?”
The genteel accent dropped away entirely under stress. “I was so busy, I just grabbed the bottle and ran downstairs. I handed him the spoon, but he took the tonic and gulped it, as he always did, then took a wee gulp of coffee and a bite of cake.”
“Did you happen to notice if the bottle was full, Finch?”
Finch shook his head, then reconsidered. “As I recall, I had opened a fresh bottle several days before, so it was probably more than half empty by Saturday.”
“And when a new bottle is required, do you fetch it yourself from Mrs Ormsby’s workroom?” Wallace asked.
“No, sir. Miss Lawson brings in the tonic as needed and puts it in the bathroom cabinet.”
Charlie held out one of the reagent bottles and asked if Finch had seen one like it. Finch took at the bottle as if he’d been asked a trick question, then shook his head.
Wallace took over the questioning again. “You must have been in and out of Doctor Ormsby’s bedroom and dressing room frequently during the day. Did you happen to notice anyone else there?”
Finch paused to consider his answer. Unlike Pugh, the valet wore his emotions on the surface. In this case, it was a deepening frown. “Did Mr Ormsby not die of a weak heart after all, Inspector?”
“Just answer the question, please, Finch.”
“Yes, sir, of course. Mrs Ormsby came through the connecting door twice during the morning, as I recall. Once to remind me to press her husband’s suit and once to select his tie and cufflinks. When I came back from pressing the suit, Miss Cecilia was coming out of her father’s room. She appeared cross and asked me if I had seen her father, which I had not. Miss Cecilia came close to colliding with Mr Richard on the way out. He stayed only long enough to pass on to his father a message from Mr Pugh about the selection of wine and port for the evening.”
Wallace sensed a hesitation. “Anybody else?”
Finch appeared to be taking an inordinate interest in a picture over Wallace’s shoulder. “Mr Henry visited his father not long before afternoon tea. I left the room, as words were exchanged that were not meant for my ears. Mr Henry pushed past me on the stairs a few minutes later, as I returned. Doctor Ormsby had gone into his wife’s room, so I busied myself with preparing his clothes for the evening. More than that, I am unable to say.”
“Unable or unwilling?” Wallace queried.
“Unable, sir. I did not wish to be accused of eavesdropping, so I went downstairs to fetch a fresh jug of water.”
“Very commendable, Finch. Were you away from Doctor Ormsby’s room for any period of the day?”
“Frequently, Inspector. While Doctor Ormsby was occupied with meetings and luncheon, I completed other tasks downstairs. And had my own midday meal, of course.”
“Finally, I have to ask about Doctor Ormsby’s illness. Were you aware he was feeling unwell on Saturday evening?”
“Yes, sir. He began to feel unwell when I was dressing him for the soirée, shortly after taking a light dinner. Doctor Ormsby blamed the meal, presuming it to have contained cheese, which upsets his stomach. Cook is normally very careful, but I suppose it is possible she made an error, with all the other food preparation to be done.”
“Can you describe his symptoms?”
Finch’s nose wrinkled at the mere memory of it. “I confess I had no idea his reaction to cheese was so severe. He had to ring for me twice during my evening break, to remove spots of ... stomach contents ... off his clothes. I don’t mean to be indiscreet, Inspector, but Betsy, the housemaid, told me that she was called to, er, freshen the water closet, several times. A very nasty stomach upset, Inspector.”
Wallace hastened to move on to the next question. “Indeed, Finch. One final question. You will be aware that Mr Henry Ormsby disappeared after his father’s body was brought back to the house. An odd reaction to his father’s death, I’m sure you would agree. Have you seen Henry? Do you know where he might be?”
“No, sir.” Finch’s hand flicked up to touch his lips. Charlie was sure he was lying.
Wallace evidently thought the same. “Might I remind you that this is a formal police inquiry? Any person withholding evidence may be charged with obstruction of justice. If you have any information about Henry Ormsby’s disappearance, I strongly suggest you divulge it now.”
Finch’s hands dropped behind his back, the intensity of his grasp showing in the tension in his shoulders. He wavered for a moment, before coming down on the side of his own interests. “After Mr Pugh had telephoned the police, he sent me to the gate to flag them down and show them to the rear entrance. I saw Mr Henry leave the house with a travelling bag.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Did Henry see you? Talk to you?”
“Not at first, as I was in the shadows. I called out to him to ascertain if he was in need of assistance. Mr Henry was startled by the sound of my voice, but assured me he was not in need of my help.” Again, a downward flick of the eyes.
“How did he seem?”
This time, Finch answered instantly and instinctively. “Frightened.”
Wallace frowned at the unexpected answer. “Did Henry say anything else? Any hint as to why he would be frightened when his father had, as far as he knew at that time, suffered heart failure?”
“Mr Henry said something like: ‘I’ll not stay in that house a minute longer, Finch. Tell them I’m devastated by my father’s death and need time to come to terms with the tragedy.’ He tossed a coin into my hands and hurried off down the road. That’s all, I swear.”
Wallace continued to look at Finch for several seconds, but the dangling silence did not draw forth any further admissions. “If you hear anything at all regarding the whereabouts of Henry Ormsby, you will inform the police directly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. That will be all for now, Finch.”
The valet departed with more speed than dignity. Wallace rose from the armchair and circled his neck until it clicked. “At least we know that Henry Ormsby left of his own free will. I can’t say I like the sound of him being too frightened to stay in his own home. He clearly believed right from the start that his father’s death was not from natural causes. We need to know why.”
“When he came back to the house after seeing his father die, Henry’s first words were: ‘She killed him’,” Kelly reminded them. “Everyone assumed he meant Miss Penrose, but perhaps he had some inkling that another woman in the house wanted Ormsby dead. A woman who might not stop at killing Doctor Ormsby, if Henry was believed to be the main financial beneficiary of his father’s will.”
“The obvious suspect is his stepmother, whom he mistrusts,” Charlie said. “Or Lawson, who is close to his stepmother.”
“Cecilia was angry at her father too, over his apparent refusal to allow her engagement to Alexander,” Kelly added. “If she believed her father had disinherited Richard, then her share of the estate might be larger, making her more of a catch to an eligible bachelor. It all comes down to who knew about the provisions of the will.”
Wallace paced the room, looking grim. “We’ll have to get the attorney to confirm what happened with the wills. I don’t like the smell of this. Far too much drama going on in this household, if you ask me, all of it orchestrated by Edgar Ormsby. I would give my right arm to know what was said at those meetings Ormsby had the morning of the soirée, with Henry Ormsby, Gideon Alexander and Mr Horncastle.”
Kelly finished scribbling his notes and got up to stretch. “I hate these domestic murders. Everyone had a motive and everyone had access, especially as Richard had left his keys lying around. No doubt the whole family is hiding secrets and long-simmering tensions. Give me a simple stabbing any day, preferably committed by a ruffian I can run down and tackle to the ground. All this sitting around in a stuffy drawing room makes my brain hurt.”
“Ah, Declan lad,” Charlie said, rocking back in his chair with a grin, “after all the scones you ate, you’d be hard pressed to run down a wee lassie like that pretty housemaid, let alone tackle her to the ground.”
Declan let out a derisive puff of air. “You’re a fine one to talk, Charlie boy. I didn’t see you holding back when food was on offer.”
“There’d be no need for me to run, as she’d not be running away from me. Unlike your good self, I am blessed with a face that doesn’t scare the ladies away.”
“You’re so full of blarney, Pyke. Any maid in her right mind would run a mile.”
Wallace shook his head, as if in despair at the younger generation, but failed to hide a smile. “If you ask me, you’d both be laughed off for acting like a couple of foolish schoolboys. Now, lads, we’d best remember it’s not only the family who had access to the poison. Any of the servants could have taken the bottle of tutu from the workroom and added it to Ormsby’s tonic, despite their claims to the contrary.”
Charlie knew that Wallace was right. In fact, with all the comings and goings upstairs, the safest time to enter Ormsby’s bathroom unseen was when the family was at luncheon. Who knew what went on behind the discreet façade of servitude? He certainly didn’t envy Finch being at his master’s beck and call all day. A man would have to crack under the pressure eventually.
“If this was a ladies’ novel,” Kelly said, “Ormsby would have a secret love-child plotting revenge from below stairs. My pick is the housemaid, Betsy Dean. Pretty little lass, perfect for the love-child character. Or perhaps she was harbouring a burning passion for one of the Ormsby sons.”
“Spare me your fevered imagination, Kelly,” Wallace begged. “We are not living in a Brontë novel, thank the Lord. As if there are not enough complications in the real world.”
“Did you say the housemaid’s surname is Dean?” Charlie asked. “Beechworth’s list of patients who have died under Ormsby’s scalpel included a Euan Dean.”
“There now, did I not tell you it was the housemaid?” Kelly crowed.
Wallace glared at his detective constable, although the reprimand was lost when the side of his lip ticked up at the same time. “What a day. I’ll be happy to see the housekeeper with our promised lunch. And for goodness sake, Kelly, don’t accuse Mrs Simpson of being Ormsby’s secret mistress or any other ridiculous fantasy.”
“A Prussian spy come to overthrow the country and steal all our sheep?” Charlie suggested.
Declan stifled a snort of laughter. Even Wallace had to bend his head over his notes to conceal a grin.