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“YOU NEEDED TO SPEAK to me?” Rosemary asked, her tone neutral as she led Max to a pair of chairs on the veranda. They settled in, and she looked at him expectantly.
Max eyed her thoughtfully and loosed a barrage of questions, all of them personal in nature. “Rosemary, I merely wanted to see if you’re all right. I know you’ve become peripherally involved in cases in the past, but those all concerned people unknown to you. This is different. I’m being forced to investigate you, your family, and your friends. How are you faring? Were you able to get any rest?”
He recalled the time just after Andrew had passed away and remembered the red circles that had become a regular fixture around Rosemary’s eyes. No, she hadn’t been close to Ernest Cuthburt, but death was death no matter how you looked at it, and being involved in a murder investigation might have dredged up feelings he was afraid she might not be equipped to deal with.
It wasn’t that Max believed Rosemary a wilting flower; in fact, he considered her one of the strongest women he had ever known. Still, even steel had a melting point, and strong or not, she was only human.
“Max, I appreciate your concern, but I promise you, I’m perfectly fine. Vera stayed with me, and I’m nearly positive Wadsworth ordered one of the staff to stand guard by our door all night.”
Max nodded, grateful for that. “I’m afraid this is about to get even more complicated for you. The murder weapon has yet to be found, but Mr. Abbot reluctantly admitted to having seen your brother in the entrance hall, acting somewhat oddly during the window of time when the crime took place.” He noted that Rosemary didn’t seem surprised by the news. “Your father claims he doesn’t own a gun of the caliber that was used and has assured me neither does Frederick. Abbot stressed that your brother was not carrying a weapon and that he had no reason to suspect Frederick as the murderer; however, I have to follow any and all leads to the full extent of my ability.”
“You know me, and I think you respect my judgment,” Rosemary replied. “I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt, Frederick had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of Mr. Cuthburt. Even if you can’t see that for yourself, please understand that I do. I know my brother better than anyone on this earth, and he isn’t capable of that level of treachery.” Her nose tipped into the air as she spoke.
“I hope your faith in Frederick isn’t unfounded.” He waited for the onslaught of questions he thought she would ask. He might have been knocked over with a feather when instead, she offered information.
“In the interest of full disclosure, and,” Rosemary raised an eyebrow, “the hopes you will continue to treat me as a friend rather than a suspect, there is something else you ought to know. Vera noticed an exchange between Mr. Barton and Marjorie Ainsworth at the party last night. I’m positive she had every intention of telling you about it herself; however, it slipped her mind during the brief questioning she received from your constable.”
Rosemary explained how Vera had watched the unlikely couple exit to the balcony outside the ballroom and engage in what appeared to be an argument. “It may have nothing to do with Mr. Cuthburt’s untimely death, but the possibility remains that he wasn’t the intended victim and therefore Mr. Barton’s actions must be reviewed. I‘m sure you’ll agree.” Her tone indicated that if he didn’t, she might think him rather daft.
“As I said, all lines of inquiry will be followed, you may rest assured. I believe I’ll have a personal conversation with Miss Vera Blackburn, now that you mention it.” Max’s eyes took on a faraway look for a moment, and at that moment, Rosemary wondered if he found her dear friend attractive.
Of course, he does. Everyone with eyes finds Vera attractive. Max was a handsome man and a single man. Vera was a single woman. Rosemary put the image of the two of them together to the back of her mind for the time being. She had hoped her friend would find happiness again someday but had never considered her husband’s former colleague a contender. Unsure what the unpleasant, niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach might be, she set her mind back to the task at hand.
“Please, Max, tell me where you are headed with this investigation, aside from my brother. Have you been able to narrow down the suspect pool? There were so many people milling about, not including the staff. However, it seems unlikely one of them murdered Mr. Cuthburt. I can’t imagine what their motive might have been.”
Rosemary allowed her eyes to well up slightly, attempting to use her feminine wiles to appeal to Max’s chivalrous sensibilities. After all, he seemed to care about her well-being, and she now wondered if brushing off those concerns and citing herself as “perfectly fine” had done her a disservice.
He softened slightly, just as she hoped he would, and she vowed to be less pushy and more pleading in the future. It might not sit well with the bright young things of her time, but it was a means to an end. With her family on the line, she wasn’t in the position to put pride before purpose.
“None of the staff appear viable suspects, and neither do most of the guests. The study was on the second level, as you know, and accessible via three separate routes. The servants’ staircase is out, due to the fact that activity in the bowels of the house was extensive, and anyone attempting to use that means of egress would have been spotted by one of the staff.”
When Max rubbed at one of his eyes, Rosemary noticed signs of fatigue. Had the poor man been up all night?
“You look exhausted, Max. Could I offer you something to eat?”
He shook his head and continued the conversation. “We already know you and Grace used the exit towards the side stairs, though your escape was noticed by the butler. That may be because he’s trained to keep an eye on the members of the household, however, and it’s possible someone else slipped out through that door without him noticing.” Max stopped for a moment, his eyes searching back and forth even though his gaze was trained on something only visible in his imagination.
“That leaves only the main staircase, or perhaps the balcony. Is there any way the killer could have scaled the exterior wall?” Rosemary asked.
“No. There isn’t so much as a trellis that reaches the second level. It’s also clear from the wound that the killer was standing in the doorway.”
Rosemary frowned. “The main staircase, then. Am I to assume that’s where my brother was spotted?”
“Yes, and the fact that it had to be the entrance hall stairs supports the theory that the killer was someone who knows the layout of the house. By all accounts, your brother does not fall into that category, and that’s why he falls low on my suspect list. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for as long as I’m able.”
In silent thanks, Rosemary laid a hand on his and kept it there for a moment.
“Woolridge & Sons has a minimal stake in Barton & Co., and Mr. Barton confirmed that until last night, to his knowledge, Frederick had never been inside the manor. The theory that Mr. Barton was the intended victim still holds water. It’s almost as though I’m investigating two separate crimes. I cannot as yet discern a motive for killing Ernest Cuthburt, and I also have to be mindful that if Mr. Barton was the target, he might still be in danger.” Max sighed and rubbed his eyes again.
“Is that why you’re concerned about Grace’s whereabouts?” Rosemary interjected, feeling a little like a cat pouncing on an unassuming mouse.
Max pierced her with a look. “Were you stationed outside the door with a highball glass to your ear, Rosemary? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you were.”
“Not exactly,” she said evasively, “and it doesn't matter how I know. It doesn't make a lick of sense that Grace would tell me about the letter she found in Mr. Barton's desk if she intended to murder her own father.”
“I agree,” Max said. “Furthermore, the letter has gone missing, and if it had been part of her plan to implicate someone else, it seems like she would’ve left it there.”
“It still hasn’t turned up? Did you ask Mr. Barton about it?” Rosemary inquired.
He nodded wryly. “I did not, however, alert him to the fact that his daughter was the one who informed me of its existence. I tried to lure him into telling me about the letter himself, and when he didn’t rise to the bait, I cited an anonymous source and finally broke through his protests.”
“And?”
“He denies receiving a letter of the type I described, which means he probably disposed of it himself.”
Rosemary was quiet for a moment. “Or the murderer did. Perhaps he sent the letter, didn’t get the response he wanted, and then decided to simply do away with Mr. Barton anyway. He didn’t want to leave behind evidence, so he took the note with him.” She threw out the first theory that came to mind and reiterated that she could not fathom Grace Barton having the temerity to kill her own father.
“I understand she’s your friend, Rose, but sometimes people do things for reasons beyond our comprehension. From what I understand, she may have had a personal motive. You said yourself she has no desire to marry the man her father wants her to. Perhaps the notion of a life spent with Herbert Lock pushed her over the edge.”
“Well then, I would have expected the body to have been that of Herbert Lock himself! Wouldn’t that make more sense?” Rosemary retorted. “Let me help in any way I can. I was there, Max. My observations could be of some use to you, and it would ease my mind, for Frederick’s sake. He is my only remaining brother, you know.”
It was a low blow, and they both knew it, but it squarely hit the mark.
“Fine. What I have is a whole houseful of people with either a clear motive and an iron-clad alibi, or no discernible motive and no alibi at all. Mrs. Barton says she was in the kitchens, though the butler swears it was Grace who came to speak to him. There could be many personal reasons she—or either of her children—might want her husband dead. You are just as well acquainted with the type of man Mr. Barton is as I am, so that doesn't come as a surprise. Mr. Barton didn't leave the ballroom during that time, and your own parents have attested to that. Theodore Barton was in the billiard room—according to what you told me last night, avoiding Marjorie Ainsworth—and several men can vouch for him, as well as Marjorie herself. She insisted upon speaking to Theodore and according to his chums, dragged him outside like a naughty puppy. They had quite a laugh over it, from what I'm told. I didn’t, however, realize Marjorie had any personal relationship with Mr. Barton, so that is a lead I will follow after I hear what Miss Blackburn has to say. Mr. Abbot was with his doctor, getting an insulin injection. The only other guest who wasn’t present in the ballroom was Mrs. Blackburn, who has no discernible motive, as far as I can tell.”
By the end of the speech, Max’s jaw had clenched in frustration.
“This entire case is one big circle. Nobody so far has had anything bad to say about Ernest Cuthburt, and I’m at a loss for a motive that doesn’t have to do with some nebulous theory about a business deal gone sour.” He stood and so did Rosemary, recognizing they were nearing the end of the conversation.
Laying a hand on her arm, Max squeezed gently and delivered his request in the same way. “Please, heed my advice and stay out of harm’s way. I’ll need to speak to your friend briefly, and then I’ll be on my way. I still have the accounts of the rest of the guests to sift through. Perhaps I’ll find something that will clear Frederick, and point towards the actual killer.”
Rosemary nodded. “I’ll just go and get Vera for you, then. Are you certain I can’t get you something to eat? I’m sure there’s something left from breakfast.”
“Thank you, but no. Just send Vera along.”
Rosemary went and did just that, but she stayed and listened while Vera launched into a detailed explanation of her movements during the party, including the scene between Marjorie Ainsworth and Mr. Barton.
“Thank you, ladies. Your cooperation has been duly noted. I will be seeing you,” Max said, nodding at each of them and then ambling down the driveway to his parked car.
