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ROSEMARY WANTED TO squirm under Max’s gaze as she led him to the room where, less than an hour earlier, she had found a dead body.
“You needn’t stare at me as though I’m made of glass, and you’re expecting me to break at any moment.” Amusement seemed inappropriate given the circumstances in which she found herself, but really, the man was the living limit. “I promise not to succumb to a case of the vapors or fall into a faint at your feet.”
While not previously so intimately acquainted with death as on this occasion, Rosemary had dealt with the harsh realities before. Looking down at the slumped body, she felt both saddened and sympathetic at the evidence of a life cut short. She allowed those feelings to guide her through the unpleasant task of revisiting the crime scene, knowing that the images would remain etched in her memory for years to come.
“Give us a few moments, Officer Stalwart,” Max instructed the constable stationed inside the door as he poked his head into the study, “but stay close. Nobody gets in here without my express permission.”
The aptly named Officer Stalwart, with his thick, rope-like arms, appeared as though he’d enjoy nothing more than to be called upon for a task involving necessary force. He nodded once and positioned himself on the other side of the door with a formidable expression on his face lest anyone unauthorized for entry attempted to gain access.
Rosemary entered the room just as she had before. “Grace was the first to walk inside. She stood just there, and when she stopped short, I came up hard against her back. It wasn’t until I came around and saw the expression of sheer horror on her face that I knew something terrible had happened.”
She repeated her steps from before.
“Mr. Cuthburt sat slumped over in the chair, although based on his hair color, and due to the angle, for a moment, we thought it was Mr. Barton who had been shot.” Rosemary retraced her steps and came to stand in front of the body. “We approached and realized our mistake. It was clear that Mr. Cuthburt was deceased, so I refrained from touching the body at all. I can vouch for Grace as well.”
“Is that all?” Max asked, his face a mask and his tone light. Rosemary recognized the tactic, as it had been one Andrew frequently employed.
She looked him square in the eyes and replied, “Yes, that’s all. We touched nothing save the doorknob on our way in and again on our way out.”
Max appeared to accept her answer for the truth it was and allowed his shoulders to relax slightly. “All right then. Now, I need you to tell me if anything here looks any different than it did when you found the body.”
Rosemary appraised the area behind the desk within a matter of seconds, the mental photograph she had taken earlier still swimming vividly behind her cornflower-blue eyes.
The jumble of papers, the empty bin, the spatter of blood. Everything looked the same.
“Nothing has been touched or, if it has, everything has been set back to exactly where it was before. Do you suspect that the scene has been tampered with?”
“I suspect that something—besides the obviously dead man—is amiss. Before I allowed anyone to examine the area, I thought it best to eliminate the possibility that someone contaminated the scene after you and Grace had found the body.”
Understanding, Rosemary nodded. “You wanted to determine whether it was the murderer—or perhaps Mr. Cuthburt himself—who rifled through the contents of Mr. Barton’s desk.”
The conclusion seemed more than obvious to Rosemary, and she was getting a bit frustrated with Max’s continued attempts to test her mettle—and her intelligence. She had always felt respected by her husband’s former mate, and now she wondered if she had been mistaken. Still, Rosemary called upon a deep reservoir of patience and maintained her composure.
She did, however, allow a few choice words to roll through her head while Max assessed her further.
“Yes, that is exactly what I would like to discern,” Max replied evenly. “Along with the current whereabouts of the letter Grace described. You never actually saw the letter, did you?” he asked.
“No, but Grace indicated it was in one of the desk drawers. After we found the body, all thought of looking for it went straight out of the window.”
Max’s brow furrowed, and he pulled a pair of gloves out of the depths of his jacket pocket, put them on, and began carefully searching through each of the desk drawers. “Now, technically, you ought not to be present for this search, Rosemary, so I have to ask for your full cooperation and discretion,” Max warned. “Not that I expect any less,” he rushed to say after her composure finally broke, and she directed a scathing glare in his direction.
This Max and the one with whom she’d spoken upon his arrival seemed two sides of a coin. This Max was all business.
He hadn’t wanted to anger her, not really, and he respected that she could remain calm even while observing the worst of what one human being could do to another. But he also found Rosemary interesting when she was right and fully riled up.
Max continued his search and finally returned each of the drawers to their original positions. “Whatever was here,” he said, “is here no longer. Which means either Grace was mistaken, though that seems unlikely, or the letter was indeed removed. I’ll need to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Barton, as well as Grace, to see if someone moved it before the party. It’s also possible the letter has nothing at all to do with the murder and is simply a coincidence.”
The expression on his face told Rosemary he didn’t really believe that, and it made her feel better to know he would continue to investigate every lead there was to follow.
“I suppose there’s no way to keep Grace out of it,” Rosemary mused. “Mr. Barton is still unaware she found that letter, and I don’t believe she needs to endure any more stress right now. He will be angry, I am sure, despite the gravity of the situation.”
“I’ll do my best,” Max promised. “But understand that everyone who attended the party, including Grace, is still under suspicion. Anyone present at the time could have followed Mr. Cuthburt up the stairs and shot him before he had a chance to defend himself.”
“It could just as easily have been a woman, is what you are implying. You are correct in that, Max. What I’d like to know is what the man was doing sitting in Mr. Barton’s chair. The last time I saw him, he was toasting the happy couple. Like I told you downstairs, I wasn’t paying much attention after that, and my eyes were mostly on Mr. Barton, considering he was the one I thought to be in danger. Also, the two men wore nearly identical suits, which made identifying their movements even more difficult.”
Rosemary was regretting having come to Barton Manor at all. If Max harbored similar thoughts, he wisely kept them to himself.
“I will take it from here, Rosemary. We don’t know if the murderer was aiming for Mr. Cuthburt or Mr. Barton, and regardless, he or she is still out there. If Mr. Barton was indeed the intended victim, and Cuthburt’s death was a mistake, the murderer could strike again. I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire.”
Rosemary steadied herself with a deep breath and then said with a mischievous glint in her eye, “If I’m a suspect, I assume I am expected to not leave the area. That is what you said, isn’t it? That everyone at the party is a suspect and will need to answer questions. My family lives a few miles away, and I have just decided that a little time at Woolridge House is exactly what the doctor ordered. I appreciate your concern, Max, but I will stand with my family until all of them are cleared.”
“No one is above suspicion, Rosemary. You know that. Your family attended this party, which means they’re connected to the Bartons at the least. I’ll do my best, as I said before, but I can’t let personal relationships stand in the way of this investigation.” Max’s eyes searched Rosemary’s face, his own a blank mask. He’d landed in an unenviable situation, and now he was stuck between duty and friendship.
She softened, realizing the conundrum he was in, held his gaze, and nodded once to let him know she understood.
Rosemary would have liked to have left Max overseeing the processing of the crime scene and taken the opportunity to meander through Barton Manor on her way back to the drawing room where her family, Vera, and the Bartons were waiting, but he insisted on walking her downstairs.
“Wait here while I have a word with my officers,” Max commanded, leaving Rosemary in the hallway where she had stood at the start of the night. Her gaze turned towards the door from which she had seen the now-deceased Mr. Cuthburt duck out shortly after her arrival.
She peeked into the open door of the ballroom and noted that most of the guests had been sent on their way, their statements recorded and logged.
Along with a handful of the village residents, Marjorie and Herbert were still present, as was Mr. Abbot and his doctor, and Mrs. Blackburn’s unmistakable voice drifted to her as well. Vera would be inside and chomping at the bit to hear every tiny detail, but she would have to wait.
Rosemary knew Max would go over each statement with a fine-tooth comb and wondered what sort of secrets and lies he would uncover.
No matter, she thought to herself. I have my own ways of obtaining information, and they’re far more entertaining than sitting behind a desk reading only the bits people want one to know.
Max was standing in a group with two other officers, but he kept one eye on Rosemary, giving her no choice but to leave her exploration of the mystery door for another time. A moment later, he was at her side again, leading her back to the front of the house.
