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GRACE LED THE WAY THROUGH a series of turns which Rosemary committed to memory. After all, no investigator worth their salt ought to get lost in a house. Finally, after ascending a curving staircase, Grace slowed, and her motions turned furtive as she approached a closed door about halfway down another short corridor.
“Father lets no one else in here. He’d be furious if he knew I’d invaded his privacy once already,” Grace admitted, “and even more enraged to know I’m about to do it again.”
Rosemary wondered what had prompted Grace to enter the forbidden room in the first place, but didn’t have time to ask before she twisted the knob and threw the door open. What happened next obliterated the thought entirely.
When Grace stopped short, Rosemary rammed into her back so hard it was a wonder she kept from knocking her companion flat.
“Oof!” Rosemary exclaimed and stepped around to find Grace wide-eyed and open-mouthed in the midst of a silent scream. “What?” She reached out and gave the smaller woman’s arm a shake.
When there was no response, Rosemary tracked Grace’s gaze to a large desk positioned at the back of the room, surrounded by built-in shelves crowded with books and assorted bric-a-brac. Several of the drawers had been pulled open, and there were papers scattered across the surface as though someone had emptied the wastepaper bin right on top of the desk.
Shocking as the mess was, there was worse to come. A brown-haired man sat in the ostentatious leather swivel chair, his head lolling to one side. From where Rosemary stood, it appeared as though Mr. Barton had escaped from the party and retreated to his study. Which wouldn’t have been scandalous except for the blood spattered across the top of the desk and the bullet hole in his temple.
Rosemary’s stomach heaved as she remembered that, not too long ago, she’d been thinking about guns and had enjoyed the thought of putting holes into a target. It heaved again when she recalled how she had dubbed Lorraine Blackburn a crack shot, but pushed the thought out of her head as it had no bearing on the scene laid out in front of her.
Hadn’t she seen Mr. Barton downstairs shortly before escaping the party? How could he possibly be dead in this room now? Released from her stasis and wailing with pain, Grace rushed around to the other side of the desk, and Rosemary watched as her face changed from horror-filled to relieved, and then back again.
“It’s not Father. It’s Uncle Ernest.” With that, Grace’s last ounce of control broke, and she began to scream with high-pitched wails.
Pushing the shock of seeing the body aside, Rosemary sprang into action.
“Come away, now. Shh.” The sounds of the party had muffled Grace’s screams, but Rosemary needed her lucid, and so she gave the woman a gentle shake before leading her from the room. “I need to telephone the police.”
Mind racing, Rosemary led the limp woman downstairs to make the call. Then, because Grace could only stare while her mouth worked, Rosemary informed Mr. and Mrs. Barton that there was a dead body in the study. To say the news dampened the mood of the whole anniversary celebration would be a gross understatement.
Once the police had arrived and sequestered most of the guests in the ballroom, time passed slowly. Rosemary found herself and Grace occupying one of the more secluded front rooms of the house along with the rest of the Barton family. Though Rosemary had plied her with brandy and tried to hand her off to an uncharacteristically solemn Theodore, Grace still clung to her as if she were a life raft.
After what seemed an eternity, Geoffrey, the Bartons’ butler, ushered Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge, followed by Frederick and Vera, through the door.
“Are you girls all right?” Concern coloring her voice, Mrs. Woolridge went to Rosemary, scrutinizing her daughter closely.
“They’re fine, Evelyn,” Mr. Barton barked, “though the same can’t be said for poor Ernest.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Edgar,” Mr. Woolridge interjected, answering for his wife. “It’s a tragedy.” He appeared to want to say more, but remained silent, as was his custom. He directed a searching look towards his daughter as if to evaluate her condition. His eyes met hers, and Rosemary nodded once to indicate she was, indeed, perfectly fine. As perfectly fine as one could be under such circumstances, at least.
“When we entered the room,” Rosemary explained even though she hadn’t been asked, “Grace thought it was you.” She looked at Mr. Barton. “You see, the chair was turned just so, and all she saw was a head of similarly colored hair. She’s still a bit shaken. The brandy is helping calm her nerves.”
Mr. Barton’s eyes widened, whether due to the actual words Rosemary had uttered or her outspokenness, she couldn’t discern. “Why on earth would anyone want to murder me? And why would they do so with a whole ballroom full of guests present? Awfully risky.”
“Certainly,” Rosemary agreed, noting that Mr. Barton appeared incredulous although he’d recently received a death threat.
“It was risky, which means whoever did it must have been desperate. Desperate enough to move quickly, and with haste comes mistakes. Mistakes we may be able to use to track him or her down.”
She realized her own mistake rather quickly as Mrs. Woolridge cut in with a sharp reprimand. “There is no “we” involved, Rosemary. You will leave this matter to the police.”
Evelyn didn’t add that she believed Rosemary had become too entrenched in her late husband’s work, but she needn’t have voiced those concerns, anyway, because Rosemary had heard them enough times to assume that was exactly what her mother was thinking.
In any case, Andrew’s job had not involved the solving of murders, though no amount of explanation to that effect had changed Evelyn’s view of the work. What she knew of private investigations came from the penny dreadfuls she devoured every chance she got.
Thankfully, the Bartons were so involved in their own thoughts that none, save Theodore, who peered at Rosemary with curiosity in his eyes, paid much attention to what Evelyn had said.
For that matter, neither did Rosemary herself. She’d come here to try to ease Grace’s mind—had been brought here, really, to prevent a murder from happening. Only she had failed, and a murder had happened, even if the victim had not been the expected target. Still, Rosemary didn’t believe in coincidences, and now she was right and fully intrigued.
“I just can’t believe this has happened,” Mrs. Barton said, her back ramrod straight in her chair, while she wrung her fingers nervously.
It was the first time the woman had displayed anything other than contempt or irritation, and it reminded Rosemary that there was a person inside the cantankerous shell of Mrs. Barton. A woman who had thoughts and feelings, and who, despite the wealth at her disposal, did not appear to have much joy in her life.
Mr. Barton’s eyes narrowed as he gazed upon his wife. “Pull yourself together, Eva. Now is the time to show fortitude.” His eyes roamed to his daughter and softened slightly.
Any further discussion was cut short when the parlor door opened and in walked a man who was, to Rosemary anyway, as familiar as an old, comfortable jumper. His deep, chocolate-brown eyes met hers and widened slightly with surprise, but he maintained his composure as he made his way across the room to greet Mr. Barton.
“Hello, sir. My name is Inspector Maximilian Whittington, and I’ll be handling this case.” He thoroughly shook Mr. Barton’s hand. “I have performed a preliminary search of the scene, and determined that time of death was around eleven forty-five—not much more than a half hour before the body was found. Most of the party had, as I have been informed, left by that point. My lads are taking statements from the guests still present. We ought to have them all dismissed within the hour. However, I’ll need to ask each of you a few questions, starting with whoever was unlucky enough to have found Mr. Cuthburt’s body.”
Mr. Barton pointed to Rosemary and Grace. “My daughter and her friend found Ernest in the study. But poor Grace is absolutely distraught. Is it necessary to put her through the ordeal of explaining herself at this very moment?” His brusque tone rubbed Rosemary up the wrong way, and she noted the way Max bristled at his words.
“Not immediately, no, but I will need to talk to her before the night is over. For now, I’d like to talk to Rosemary. Is there a place where we can talk in private?”
Seemingly appeased, Mr. Barton directed them towards the parlor door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge, it’s a pleasure to see you, though the circumstances are, once again, less than ideal,” Max said, stopping on his way past Rosemary’s parents and referring to the last time they had met, which had been at Andrew’s funeral. Max and Andrew had been chums throughout school, and then partners in the police force before Andrew had come into his inheritance and opened Lillywhite Investigations.
After exchanging pleasantries, Rosemary and Max followed Mr. Barton to another sitting room on the opposite side of the entrance hall. Once the door had closed behind him, formality went out of the window. This was a man Rosemary knew she could trust, though whether he would accept her interference in the case was another matter entirely.
