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JUST AS ROSEMARY HAD predicted, the prominent players accepted Lorraine Blackburn’s last-minute invitation and had assembled in one of the downstairs parlors. Music that was probably a touch too upbeat considering the tragedy that had recently occurred wafted from the Victrola at a volume that still allowed for conversation.
Also, as expected, once she learnt of Rosemary and Vera’s intent to discover Ernest Cuthburt’s killer, Mrs. Blackburn had agreed to host the little get-together with a vengeance. On top of being considered a suspect, a notion Lorraine refused to take seriously, the mystery and intrigue were too tempting for a woman who thrived on drama. Now, she looked like a piece of art, coiffed to the extreme, and dressed as though she were attending an event organized by the Queen herself.
Lorraine Blackburn’s slinky silk dress clung so tightly and was of such a similar shade to her milky-white skin that if one were to catch a glimpse out of the corner of one’s eye, it might appear as if she weren’t wearing anything at all. Only a delicate lace ruffle beginning at mid-thigh and skimming the floor detracted from the effect.
Rosemary shook her head as she watched the spectacle from across the room, thinking perhaps this had not been the grandest of ideas. Yes, they’d got their suspects gathered in one space, but if Mrs. Blackburn’s antics distracted everyone all evening, prying information from the guests would be a chore.
Grace and her brother were cozied up to Frederick, and Rosemary got the distinct impression that, unless it turned out one of them really had murdered their dear Uncle Ernest, Frederick might have found himself a new friend or two.
Across the room, Marjorie Ainsworth perched on the edge of a gilt-trimmed armchair and sipped a gin and tonic while her beautiful, keen eyes fluctuated between attempting to catch Teddy’s or Frederick’s gaze and casting narrow glares in Herbert Lock’s direction. Teddy duly ignored the woman, and Rosemary felt sorry for her until she remembered the way Marjorie had acted at the Bartons’ anniversary party. She hoped her brother had sense enough to follow Teddy’s lead, but he appeared intrigued by Marjorie’s charms.
The most shocking additions to the party included Mr. and Mrs. Barton themselves, though it was clear that, for once, the obnoxious man’s wife had had her way. Clearly, Mr. Barton had not wanted to attend the party and sat sullenly in one corner with Arthur Abbot, downing expensive whisky as though it were water. Mr. Abbot’s eyes widened as Mr. Barton threw another dram down his throat, but he did not caution his friend. Rosemary couldn’t blame him, having seen Mr. Barton’s temper firsthand.
To round off the guest list, Rosemary’s own parents were in attendance. Mrs. Woolridge, as always, took great pains to make sure every other attendee knew that she was a frequent visitor to the Blackburn house.
“You went with the cream silk wallpaper, I see, Lorraine,” she said loudly, just in case there was a soul left in the room who did not recognize the claim she had as the hostess’s closest friend.
Mrs. Blackburn looked at Rosemary’s mother blankly for a moment. “Oh, yes, you are right, Evelyn. I think it looks simply smashing in here now, don’t you?”
Evelyn Woolridge would never have chosen the plum-colored sofa or paired it with the emerald-green swirl-patterned rug, but she agreed with Lorraine anyway. “It looks lovely. You’re so daring when it comes to mixing patterns.”
Rosemary hoped her mother would keep Mrs. Blackburn occupied with inane chatter but also hoped she wouldn’t have to listen to talk about the drapes all evening.
When Mrs. Blackburn turned off the music and stood at the front of the room, Rosemary realized that her concern regarding the woman’s distracting antics had been unwarranted. After all, the actress who could so easily command a room could also use her je ne sais quoi to lead the conversation in precisely the direction Rosemary required.
“Thank you all for coming here tonight.” Staff with trays of champagne circled the room while Lorraine stood before her guests with a solemn expression. “Won’t you raise a toast to poor Ernest Cuthburt? May God rest his soul.”
Brilliant, Rosemary decided as, from her vantage point, she watched faces in hopes one would reveal his or her true feelings about the deceased. None did.
The moment over, Mrs. Blackburn turned the music back to its previous volume and then ambled over to the drinks trolley and began mixing up cocktails for the guests.
Marjorie rose, and Rosemary heard her ask Lorraine where to find the toilet. “It’s through that door there and down the corridor,” Mrs. Blackburn answered with a smile that Marjorie reciprocated, though without the level of sincerity as the one she was given.
Recognizing the opportunity, Rosemary slipped out behind her. Marjorie headed in the wrong direction, and Rosemary helpfully pointed out the fact. “I am afraid the arrangement of rooms in this house can be rather confusing. You want to go this way.”
“Thank you,” Marjorie said, smiling a tight smile. She appeared drawn, and upon closer inspection, her eyes were ringed with red, though it was apparent she had tried to cover the fact with an abundance of kohl.
Rosemary considered how best to proceed. Her desire to glean information was at odds with her reluctance to scare Marjorie off. “This is all rather maudlin, don’t you think?” she commented wryly.
“Yes, I suppose so. Though, life does go on,” Marjorie replied, turning on her heel without another word and closing the door behind her. Silently, Rosemary berated herself for thinking it would be easy to gain the trust of a woman like Marjorie with so little effort.
As Rosemary turned to head back towards the parlor, she noticed Herbert Lock, arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb. His menacing expression set Rosemary’s heart thumping a little harder in her chest.
“Quite a little sleuth, aren’t you, Mrs. Lillywhite?” he spat. “Poking your nose into matters that are none of your concern.”
“A man is dead, Mr. Lock, and since my brother is the one being accused of the crime, it certainly is my business. You're looking pretty good as a suspect if you ask me.”
The color in his face continued to rise as he sputtered, “Why on earth would I have killed Mr. Cuthburt? We were in negotiations for a deal that would have made me a lot of money. You’re obviously not as clever as you think you are.”
“Unless you thought he was Mr. Barton and that Grace had already told him she wouldn’t marry you,” Rosemary retorted. “Then, your plan for getting to her money would have been out of the window, and you’d have had nothing to lose.” Nor would he have had anything to gain, which was the sticking point.
Herbert blanched. “This is your fault, you meddling little wench. You’re the one who whispered in Grace’s ear and told her not to marry me. We were just fine until you came along.”
“Your mistake is in thinking Grace is the type of woman who would listen to someone else rather than her heart. However, she’s the one who has decided you aren’t good enough for her. Mind you, I heartily agree with her conclusion,” Rosemary said, crossing her arms in a mimic of Herbert’s stance, the same way a wild animal might mirror its prey.
His eyes goggled out of his head, and his arms became rigid as his hands turned to fists at his side. He wasn’t nearly as formidable as he thought he was, but Rosemary still didn’t wish to have to defend herself, particularly in heels.
Herbert sputtered. “Keep your nose out of our business, or you might live to regret it,” he threatened, coming toward her with a look of sheer rage on his face.
Marjorie exited the loo and stopped short, taking in the scene before her. “Herbert, leave her alone. You always aim above your station; it is truly ridiculous. Return to the party. Now.”
Had he been a cartoon character, steam would have poured out of Herbert’s ears as he looked back and forth between Rosemary and Marjorie. Swallowing heavily, he let out a frustrated grunt before turning around and walking back in the other direction.
“Thank you,” Rosemary said quietly.
“You probably would have come out on top. That man is an utter arse,” Marjorie replied.
“I hope Mr. Barton realizes that before he ties Grace to him for life.”
Marjorie rolled her eyes. “Don’t believe every word Grace Barton says. That one is not quite as innocent as she would like people to believe. Whatever happens to her will be well earned.”
“What do you mean?” Rosemary pressed.
“Honestly, Herbert was right about one thing. You would do better to stay out of matters that do not concern you,” Marjorie retorted, striding back into the parlor with a toss of her golden hair.
