| |
––––––––
INSPECTOR MAX WHITTINGTON’S mouth was drawn in a thin line when Rosemary and her entourage emerged from the stables. It surprised her to see him sitting on one of the garden benches, a cigarette in one hand. “Hello, Rose,” he said evenly.
“Max. I assume you would like a private moment,” she replied.
Rosemary caught Vera’s arm and whispered, “Go up to the house and plan your party while I talk to Max. Perhaps we can get all of our suspects in the same room again.”
“Leave it to me, my love,” Vera whispered back with a wink. “I shall wave Mother as bait, and none shall resist.”
Teddy Barton kept his eyes on Max as Vera—and Frederick, who had overheard Rosemary’s instructions—led him up the path toward the main house. The look etched on both faces told the same story; they were already aware that the other had sights set on Rosemary’s affections. It had taken Teddy no longer than it had taken Max to figure out what a remarkable woman Rosemary was. Except, Max had been living with the knowledge for the best part of a decade, whereas Teddy had just become acquainted with it a few days before.
It mattered little that the woman in question was so closed off to finding another love that she chose to ignore their attention. When they were out of earshot, Rosemary took a seat and looked at Max expectantly.
“I feel it’s my obligation to inform you I have come against a new line of inquiry that peripherally affects you,” Max began stiffly.
Rosemary scrunched up her nose at his choice of wording and laid a hand on Max’s tense arm. “I can only assume that your obligation is that of a trusted friend, and in that case, Inspector, I beg of you to dispense with the severe level of formality you are displaying,” she said, just as formally but with a twinkle in her eye that begged him to comply with her request.
“I’m serious, Rosemary. Somehow, during the course of reading through all the statements made that night, I came across a discrepancy. It has to do with Mrs. Blackburn.” He paused and watched as the twinkle left her eye. He was sad to see it go, especially as a result of his own words.
“Lorraine? Oh, please, you must be able to see that her attitude is no more than the affectations of an actress and a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy,” Rosemary objected. The thought that Mrs. Blackburn had anything to do with Mr. Cuthburt’s death had never even flitted across her subconscious, and she vehemently resisted it entering her mind now.
Max shook his head. “You know damned well I have to keep my wits about me, Rosemary. I cannot go on gut instinct alone. Of course, I find it difficult to believe she might be a killer. But I believe she’s capable of having done it. Everyone is, on some level. You must know that. She has a reputation as a live wire, and she’s made no secret of the fact she knows how to handle a pistol. From what I understand, she could shoot the fleas off a dog’s back at fifty paces.”
“Please explain how that has any significance, considering half the room was watching her every move all evening. Where does she say she was during the time of the murder?”
“In the downstairs toilet. The one at the back of the house, not the one in the entrance hall, which she claims was locked when she wiggled the handle,” Max explained. “One of the maids admitted to showing Mrs. Blackburn to the loo, but she immediately returned to her post and can’t say where the woman went after that.”
Rosemary gaped at Max. “That’s still not enough evidence. You saw what Lorraine was wearing that night. She couldn’t have fitted a paper clip between the dress and her skin, much less hidden a gun.”
“I don’t know. She could have had it in her handbag or stashed in the coat cupboard. Regardless, I discovered a connection between her and Mr. Cuthburt. So far, all the evidence we have indicates Mr. Barton was the target. What I have found is the first clue that points to a motive for killing Cuthburt. After all, he is the one who’s dead.” Max ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the jerky quality of his movements.
“What evidence? You chose to warn me, so now you must give me all the information. I cannot—and will not—allow anything to tarnish Vera’s name without solid proof. You had to have known that, or you wouldn’t have come here.”
Max sighed. “Yes, I believe on some level I knew that. Ernest Cuthburt and Lorraine Blackburn apparently had past connections. According to Arthur Abbot, there was no love lost between the two. Cuthburt owned the rights to a play Lorraine desperately wanted to star in—this would have been when Vera was a teenager, during the war. From what I understand, Lorraine thought it would be her big comeback to the stage, and then at the last minute, he pulled the plug.”
Digesting the information quickly, Rosemary shook her head in bewilderment. “Why would a businessman like Cuthburt have anything to do with the theater?”
“He doesn’t, normally. It seemed to be a departure for him. Abbot did not enjoy speaking ill of his dead friend, but eventually, I hammered out of him that he believed Mr. Cuthburt bought the rights just to spite Lorraine. It’s possible their connection extends further into the past than even Mr. Abbot knows. If that is the case, well, it doesn’t look good for Mrs. Blackburn.”
Rosemary could recognize how difficult it was for Max to give her information that ought to have remained classified and appreciated that he had gone to the trouble, but at the moment all she could feel was frustration. Frustration and dread.
“Perhaps not. And here I thought it was only my own flesh and blood I would need to defend, and it turns out I have two people to clear from suspicion: my brother and my second mother.”
Max frowned deeply. “This is still my investigation, Rosemary. However, I see no harm in you learning whatever you can from Lorraine Blackburn herself. She’ll be far more candid with you than she would with me. Not, mind you, that I believe she hides much from anyone. As for Frederick, the only reason he’s not in my custody now is that not a shred of physical evidence points irrefutably towards him. If anything else, however seemingly inconsequential, indicates his involvement, I will have no choice but to arrest him.”
“Well, your timing is impeccable,” Rosemary said, ignoring the point about Frederick, so sure of her own convictions that he couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Ernest Cuthburt’s murder. “Vera has decided to throw a party at her mother’s house this evening. It will be the perfect opportunity for sleuthing. Might I say, it feels very much like you need my help, Inspector. I do recall you implying that I’d be a hindrance to the success of this investigation.”
“Yes, Rosemary. I know what I said. You can waste time poking fun at me, or you can get on with it.” He couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice, even though he could tell she was taking it personally. He had gone over and over the facts so many times he couldn’t keep count anymore and still had no idea who had killed Ernest Cuthburt or why. Now, he was alienating the woman he admired most in the world, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
“Just figure out a way for me to clear your brother. I’m inclined to believe he’s telling the truth, and both Teddy and Marjorie confirmed seeing him leaving Barton Manor around midnight. However, that’s quite close to the time when the murder occurred, and he could have been coming from the study when he met them in the drive. Unless more compelling evidence turns up to implicate someone else, he could end up a scapegoat. Not all of my superiors are sticklers for proper procedure.”
That was not what Rosemary had wanted to hear, and she recalled her brother’s statement about how he had nothing to fear since he had done nothing wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time Frederick had been wrong about something.
“I guess I have some work to do,” Rosemary said, and after a few more minutes discussing the case, she bade the grumpy Max goodbye.
