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THE ARRIVAL BACK AT Woolridge House saw Rosemary feeling defeated and at a loss. Her head was swimming, and all she wanted to do was take a nice, long bath. Vera declared she could use a bit of fresh, albeit exceedingly damp air, and elected to pull on a pair of wellies and take a walk out to visit the horses while Rosemary retired to her bedroom.
“Anna, please make the water as hot as possible,” she said, rubbing the kink that had become lodged in her neck and shoulders.
“Yes, madam. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
With a shake of her head, Rosemary declined. “No, no, I’ll just find my slippers and close my eyes for a moment.” She remembered having kicked them underneath the bed and bent down to search. Her eyes lit upon a sheaf of papers, the sketches she had begun the night of the Bartons’ anniversary party.
Retrieving them, she moved to the desk and noticed the sketch she’d been making when she’d realized Frederick hadn’t returned from the party. Instinct rose up to set her blood thrumming in her veins. There was something here, she simply knew it.
Rosemary leafed through the drawings, memories of the evening returning once more to swim vividly behind her eyes. There was the desk, strewn with papers and detritus, behind which Mr. Cuthburt had met his end; there was the ballroom where Rosemary had captured the allure of Mrs. Blackburn in shades of charcoal, as well as the look of envy on Mrs. Barton’s face; and the vision of Grace standing stiffly next to her father and mother.
At the bottom of the pile was a sketch that made Rosemary’s hands shake with excitement and hope. Quickly, she snatched up the drawing she’d made at Leonard’s behest and compared the two.
“Oh my heavens,” Rosemary breathed, rousing Anna’s attention away from her task of returning a pile of dresses to their hangers. “I know who the murderer is.”
Anna blinked a couple of times and dropped the garment she had been holding.
“Drain the bath and go and find Vera, please. Tell everyone to gather in the parlor. I’ll be right down.”
The maid nodded and complied, leaving Rosemary alone for a moment. She was grateful for the reprieve and the opportunity to collect her thoughts. Glancing down at the paper in her hand, Rosemary shook her head and chided herself. She might have been able to spare Herbert Lock’s life, and Frederick’s misery, had she come to the realization sooner.
It’s impossible to start at the beginning and skip straight to the end. Andrew’s words bubbled up from her memory. It’s in the middle where we discover the truth. Rosemary stood up, collected herself, and said a silent thank you to her late husband for having been a man who could comfort her even from beyond the grave.
“It’s Arthur Abbot. He’s the murderer,” Rosemary explained to her family once they were all gathered in the parlor. “Look at this.” She showed them all the sketch of Mr. Cuthburt emerging from the coat cupboard beneath the stairs in Barton Manor’s entrance hall. “I knew something wasn’t quite right about that little room, and I’ve finally figured out what. It’s the end of a secret passage that leads upstairs.”
Vera’s face cleared as she caught up with Rosemary’s supposition. The others, save Leonard, who was grinning like the cat who ate the canary, appeared somewhat confused.
“Don’t you see? He popped out, killed Ernest Cuthburt, and then took the passage back down. He wasn’t counting on Frederick seeing him, but even so, he wasn’t close enough to the stairs or any other known exit, and therefore aroused no suspicion,” Rosemary explained. “I’m right, I can feel it. Despite the incongruous nature of her personality, I’ve never truly believed Grace was responsible.”
Rosemary ignored Vera’s smirk since she had, indeed, thought Grace a possible killer at one point.
“All Grace wanted was to get out from under her father’s thumb and marry her chemist, a man of whom she thought Mr. Barton would never approve. There are other ways to accomplish that without resorting to murder, and I’m positive she doesn’t have the stomach for it. We’ve already counted out Mr. Barton, Teddy, Marjorie, and of course poor Herbert Lock. Mrs. Barton never left the ballroom all night and was alibied by the staff for the time of the second murder. All the pieces fit together nicely.”
Her father drummed his fingers on the table beside his chair and slipped a sliver of doubt into Rosemary’s conclusion. “What about Abbot’s alibi? That physician fellow stated that Arthur was with him, in one of the sitting rooms off the ballroom, from half past eleven to nearly midnight.”
Rosemary faltered, her mind searching for an explanation, and wondering how a man who couldn’t remember what he ate for breakfast could suddenly recall the specific details of Mr. Abbot’s alibi. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. The physician is lying. I’ll just have to prove it.”
“Maybe not.” The admission came from the most unlikely of mouths: that of Mrs. Woolridge. “We only need him to confess. Isn’t that how they always do it in books? Set a trap, get him to talk. Don’t the criminals always want to tell their story? Then we can let the inspector handle the rest.”
Stella’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, but she kept her mouth firmly closed. “Wipe that look of incredulity off your face, daughter,” Evelyn said anyway. “I want this case closed, and my son returned so we can all go back to our normal lives. If it means a little game of entrapment, well, that’s exactly what we’ll do.”
Everyone present nodded their heads in agreement. “For Frederick,” they agreed and set about making a plan.
“What about the Bartons? Do you suppose they’ll go along with it?” Rosemary posed the question that, if not answered in the affirmative, would throw a spanner in her idea.
Her father stood, determined. “Never you mind about the Bartons. I’ll take care of them. Give me a few moments.” He strode out of the room and returned a short time later with a smile upon his face.
“I told Edgar we’d discovered who the murderer is and that if he didn’t cooperate with my requests, he wouldn’t get another penny from Woolridge & Sons. He confirmed that he has been out hunting ever since he heard the news of Herbert’s death, and he hasn’t spoken to anyone outside his family all day.”
The pieces fell into place as several calls were made. Mrs. Woolridge left to ring Mrs. Blackburn and then, when she had finished, left the door open for Vera. Once Marjorie Ainsworth was instructed to find herself at Barton Manor later in the evening, it was Rosemary’s turn to make a call.
“I need to talk with Inspector Whittington, please.” Rosemary’s mouth formed a thin line as she listened to Max’s landlady’s reply. “Do you happen to know when he’s due back?” Another pause and she let out a sigh. “Can you please tell him Rosemary Lillywhite needs to discuss a matter of some urgency? Yes, he will know how to get in touch with me. Yes, I will try his office. Thank you.”
Rosemary depressed the receiver to disconnect and then immediately placed another call, but still could not reach Max. “Drat,” she spat, before returning to the parlor. She hoped her message would reach him in time, but reassured herself that if it came down to the wire, the local police would have to do in his place. Then, she summoned Anna for the final preparations.
“We don’t have time to wait for a messenger, and since Arthur Abbot has not been to Woolridge House since we arrived, that means you’re the only one he won’t recognize,” Rosemary told her maid. “I’m counting on you to deliver this to him.” She handed the shaking Anna a sealed envelope. “Wadsworth will drive you. I trust he can keep from being seen unless it’s necessary. There will be a special bonus in it for you.”
Anna didn’t appear to relish the thought of delivering a message to a murderer, but she trusted her mistress and decided the possibility of a new dress or perhaps a pair of shoes was worth the risk. Once she had departed, it was time to wash and ready for an evening of subterfuge.
“What about us?” Stella asked before anyone else could exit the parlor, indicating herself and Leonard. “We don’t want to miss out on all the excitement yet again.”
Mrs. Woolridge dismissed her daughter. “You have a child to look after, dear. It’s best if you stay behind where it’s safe.”
For a moment Rosemary thought her sister would do as she always did and submit to Evelyn’s demands without argument. However, it seemed Stella had reached her breaking point. “Mother, if you want another grandchild out of me, I’d suggest you have second thoughts. We’re coming, and that’s final.”
Rosemary wished she could have the expression on her mother’s face captured on canvas and hung on the dining room wall for all to enjoy. She and Vera chuckled over it all the way back to Rosemary’s rooms, where they quickly dressed and readied themselves.
Back downstairs, Stella examined her son while the nanny stood nearby waiting to take Nelly up for a bath and bedtime. “Whatever did you get into, little one?”
“I was playing out in the barn. I was a pig. The pony thought it was funny. He licked my whole face,” Nelly explained, causing Stella to wrinkle her nose.
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t kiss your cheeks, then,” she said, but Nelly had already turned his attention to Rosemary.
“Tomorrow you’ll take me on the horses, won’t you, Auntie?” he asked, his eyes so full of hope Rosemary couldn’t have denied him even if she’d wanted to.
“Of course, darling,” she replied, and then nearly keeled over when Nelly launched himself into her arms. Rosemary hugged him close, sent him upstairs, and then realized her mistake. “I’m covered in mud. Drat. I’ll have to change. Why don’t the rest of you go on ahead? I’ll come along behind with Wadsworth. Vera as well, if she doesn’t mind.”
“Where you go, I go, remember?”
The rest piled into Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge’s car and headed down the drive while Rosemary changed her clothes for a second time. When she met Vera at the bottom of the stairs, she was slightly winded and eager to get on with the events of the evening.
Rosemary exited the front door, avoiding a strip of darkness created by the shadow of Woolridge House that splayed across the driveway, and shivered in the cold night air. She rejected the idea of going back inside for a coat and climbed into the backseat of her car with Vera at her heels. “Wadsworth, get us to Barton Manor as fast as you can,” she said, raising her voice so he could hear her through the closed partition.
He didn’t answer, but pressed the accelerator and made his way down the drive. Rosemary wrung her fingers as she thought about what was ahead of her and was so distracted she didn’t notice when the car took a right-hand turn rather than continue up the hill where Barton Manor loomed.
“Rose, why are we headed in this direction?” Vera asked, puzzled.
“Wadsworth, you’re going the wrong way.” She pushed the window that separated the front seat from the back and gasped when she realized it wasn’t her butler at the wheel, but Arthur Abbot. He had a gun in his hand, and he glared at her in the rearview mirror.
“Neither of you will make it to Barton Manor tonight. Because tonight, you’re going to die.”
