Four

The doctor and the police arrived at nearly the same moment, not very long after Drew and MacArthur had found Lord Rainsby dead there in the meadow with his broken saddle under him. Dr. Portland, the Rainsbys’ physician, proved to be a dour but unflappably competent man. He was quick to pronounce the victim dead and then hurried a dazed Lady Rainsby to the house to be looked after.

By then the local police had inspected the site of the accident and questioned the witnesses. Satisfied that there was nothing untoward about the scene or the victim, there seemed little for the inspector and his sergeant to do after that other than allow two sturdy footmen to carry the body back into the Hall and up to the waiting Dr. Portland as decorously as possible.

Half an hour later, with the pall of mourning settled heavily over the house, Dr. Portland came down the stainless-steel stairway, his purposeful steps loud. At Drew’s request, he came into the drawing room, sank onto the sofa, removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I wish there were more I could tell you. He’d been warned, time and again, to take it easy.”

“Was it his heart?” Drew asked, careful to keep his voice low. “I thought his neck—”

“Oh, quite right. Quite right. His neck was definitely broken. The girth on the saddle pulled loose and he was thrown.”

The doctor glanced at the door that led into the hallway, clearly impatient for his promised cup of tea. He looked weary. Perhaps he was tired of giving medical advice that was seldom followed.

“Then there’s no question of its being an accident,” Drew said.

“I see no reason to think otherwise. But it was foolish all the same. He was a heavy smoker and a heavy drinker. Diabetic as well. His bones were brittle, and I told him he ought to give up riding if he couldn’t give up the whisky and cigarettes. At least the jumping, at any rate. After he broke the same leg twice, I told him a fall could easily kill him. But he knew better. Ah well, I’m just the doctor. What would I know about it?”

The man was well into middle age and must have been in practice thirty years or more. This sort of thing had to have grown tiresome to him years ago.

“How’s Lady Rainsby bearing up?”

“As well as might be expected,” Dr. Portland answered. “It’s all a shock, naturally, but she isn’t the hysterical type. Still, I’m glad you and Mrs. Farthering and the others are here. Lady Rainsby oughtn’t to be left alone at such a time.”

“Not to worry. My wife and I will stay and see if we can be of any assistance. And then there’s Mrs. Pike, whom she’s known for years. I doubt she’ll be much help, but Lady Rainsby might find her a comfort. Or at the very least, a distraction.”

“Excellent.” The doctor looked to the doorway again, sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. “I won’t wait. I’ve got other patients who’ll want to ignore my advice. If you would, when Lady Rainsby is up to it, let her know I will see to the death certificate and send over the undertakers.”

“I’m sure she’ll be most grateful.”

“And Miss Rainsby? I take it she’s from home.”

Drew nodded. “Coming back today sometime. I believe she’s been sent a wire to let her know what’s happened.”

“Very good. Do let me know if you think Lady Rainsby needs me to return.”

Drew stood and shook the doctor’s hand, then walked with him to the front door.

Lady Rainsby spent the evening in her room accompanied only by Mrs. Pike. All the others spent an hour or so after dinner playing cards, but eventually the games broke up, and one by one everyone retired for the evening. Everyone but Drew.

“Someone ought to wait up for Miss Rainsby,” he’d told them.

Madeline had offered to wait with him, but when she dozed off for the second time, he walked her upstairs and put her to bed. Then he went back into the library, found an unabridged edition of War and Peace, and settled himself in an armchair to await the return of the daughter of the house.

Finally, well after midnight, a cab pulled up to the front steps, and a young woman in a plain black frock let herself out through the rear door. Drew recognized the girl from the photograph in Rainsby’s study, dark-haired, patrician-looking, though she was a bit older now. Older and in mourning.

She crushed out her cigarette on the drive and came into the house.

“Miss Rainsby?”

She started when he spoke to her. She hadn’t noticed him waiting there. “Who are you? Where’s my mother?”

“In her room, I believe. I’m Drew Farthering. She and my father were cousins.”

Joan blinked and then gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Oh. I remember now. She said she was going to ask you here. I’m sorry.”

“My condolences.” Drew made a slight bow. “May I escort you up to her?”

That brought a touch of a wry smile. “I’m not quite the hothouse bloom my father thought I was. I think I can find my own way.”

“Just as you say.” He stepped back. “If I can be of any help to either of you, do let me know.”

She put her black-gloved hand on the gleaming steel stair rail and then stopped, not looking at him. “I hate to make my mother think about all this just now, but, well . . .” She drew a little breath, not quite enough to be a sob. “Were you there? I mean, when he fell?”

“I didn’t see the accident, no. But Mr. MacArthur and I found him a few minutes afterward. He’d ridden ahead. My wife, Madeline, and your mother were following him while MacArthur and I were a little behind, talking. Your father’s horse came back without him, and without its saddle, so MacArthur and I went out looking.”

She turned, her pale forehead puckered. “Atalanta didn’t have a saddle?”

“No,” Drew replied. “It was a blustery day and there were several tree branches down. It seems something of that nature must have startled the horse and, while your father was trying to get it under control, the girth must have broken and he was thrown. That saddle seemed awfully worn.”

“He liked that one.” There was a touch of wistfulness in her expression. “We’d got him several others, very nice, very expensive, but he finally told us not to bother. He said that the one was comfortable and he was too old to adjust to another.”

Drew nodded. “It seems rather a shame, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose things like this happen. Still, it wasn’t like him not to check his tack before he rode. He was very particular about that. From his polo days, I imagine.” She rubbed her eyes, looking perplexed and horribly exhausted. “I’d better go up to Mother.”

“If there’s anything I can do for either of you . . .”

Without offering a response, she trudged up the stairs and disappeared into the white hallway.

“It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?” Drew ate another bite of onion-and-bacon tart, trying to keep the divine combination of flavors from interfering with his ability to think logically. Clearly the staff were well trained, and the excellent service continued even in the face of tragedy. “I don’t quite feel right staying on when the ladies of the house are in mourning, but it would seem unfeeling to rabbit off before the funeral, don’t you think?”

Lady Rainsby and her daughter had not appeared at breakfast that morning and were absent from the midday meal now.

“Perhaps we ought to find out what Lady Rainsby would prefer,” Carrie suggested. “I didn’t really want anyone around when my father died. Not in the house anyway. I needed someplace to get away from all of them, no matter how kind they all were.”

Madeline nodded. “I felt that way when Uncle Mason died. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.” A smile touched her lips, and she squeezed Drew’s hand. “Hardly anyone.”

“I tried to speak to Lady Rainsby this morning,” Drew said, “but her maid informed me that she wasn’t seeing anyone quite yet. According to Twining, however, she’s left word that we’re all welcome to stay for as long as we like.”

Kuznetsov perked up at that and helped himself to another plateful of rashers.

“Until the funeral,” Pike growled at him. “Then we’re going.”

“But if Louisa needs us . . .” Mrs. Pike began, her bright eyes pleading, and her husband softened.

“We’ll see.”

She turned to Madeline and Carrie. “I know if either of you had a terrible loss like this, you’d want the other to stand by you.”

“Naturally,” Carrie said.

“Well, that’s how Louisa and I are. We’ve been friends since well before we were your age, you know. I couldn’t leave her on her own at a time like this, now, could I?”

Madeline gave her plump arm a pat. “No, not at all. And if there’s anything Drew and I can do to help, we’ll stay, too.”

“It’s awful, that accident,” Carrie said, looking down at her half-eaten tart. “I’m glad it was only an accident. I don’t know if I could take it if it were more than that.”

Nick glanced at Drew. All right, they hadn’t discussed it, but clearly Nick was wondering it as much as Drew was—wondering if Lord Rainsby’s death had been something more than just an accident. Drew returned him the subtlest shake of the head. No. There was no evidence of anything extraordinary about the death. Rainsby had taken a silly risk and had paid for it with his life. Sad? Yes. Even tragic. But not sinister.

Following the pork pie, cold pea-and-basil soup, and the goose confit salad, there was a pudding of strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, and raspberries with sponge cake and whipped cream. Afterward, Mrs. Pike went up to see Lady Rainsby while Mr. Pike shut himself in the library to make some business-related telephone calls, and Count Kuznetsov announced that he was going to go write the more tragic parts of his long-awaited symphony. Somehow Drew suspected his efforts would begin and end with his napping on the library sofa.

Pleased to find they would be left on their own for a while, Drew and Nick and the girls settled up on the Hall’s flat roof where there was an assortment of chaises and comfortable chairs. The view was magnificent, the lush rose garden and the little ivy-covered folly at one side, the wood with the road that wound down into the village on the other, and at the back of the house, the sheer cliff, the rocks, and the wide expanse of the sea.

Nick looked out toward the water, shading his eyes with one hand. “Last day of the Open and now we get the sun. I was listening to the wireless before lunch, and I heard this Alf Perry cove is making a run for the championship, record-breaking third round and all that. You know, Drew, your Mr. Cotton might not be everything advertised.”

Drew huffed. “As our dear Chief Inspector Birdsong likes to tell us, it’s early days yet. I don’t know if they’ll have even begun the final round by now, and you saw Cotton on Wednesday. I doubt he has much to worry himself over.”

“I don’t, uh . . .” Nick glanced guiltily at Carrie and Madeline. “I don’t suppose it would be quite the thing for one or two of us to toddle off to see the last round.”

They both shot him poisonous glares, and he sank down in his chair.

“No. No, of course it wouldn’t. I didn’t mean that I wanted to—”

Drew leaned closer to him, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “You ought to just stop talking now, old man, discretion being the better part of valor and all that.”

Nick winced and was silent.

Madeline pointedly turned her back on him and smiled at Carrie. “You are still coming back to Hampshire with us for a nice long visit, aren’t you? I mean, if you’re sure you want to stay in the same country with certain brutes I won’t bother to name.”

“I guess you’re all stuck with me.” Carrie gave Nick a mischievous glance. “Even the brute.”

Before Nick could throw himself at her feet and pledge to lead a blameless life ever after, there was the sound of a motor car on the gravel drive. A few minutes later, MacArthur came up onto the roof, hat in hand, his clothing not quite mourning but certainly somber enough for a home bereaved.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I didn’t want to disturb anyone, but I saw you all up here and thought I’d find out how Lady Louisa and little Joanie are doing.”

Drew stood to shake the man’s hand. “We haven’t seen them today, I’m afraid. Quite understandable.”

“Yes, of course,” MacArthur said, shaking Nick’s hand. “Terrible business, all of this, just terrible. I suppose I’ll just leave my card with Twining, and a note to let them know they can call upon me at any time.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Joan stood before the door that led out onto the roof. She was wearing an old jumper of an indeterminate gray color and a dark skirt, something she must have worn when she was still in school, something that made her look as if she were still in school. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and her bobbed dark hair was held back with a piece of grosgrain ribbon as faded as the jumper.

“Joanie, darling,” MacArthur said, going to her. “How are you? I know what happened to your father must be quite a—”

“I am not your darling,” she said, her eyes as cold as her voice. “And please don’t call me Joanie. I’ve asked you before.”

He cleared his throat, twisting up the hat he held. “Terribly sorry. Terribly sorry. Just didn’t think.”

She took two audible breaths and smiled faintly. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me and I apologize. It’s just that Dad always called me . . .” Her face twisted up as if she might burst into tears, but then it smoothed again into impassivity. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t mention it,” he told her. “Perfectly understandable, and it was rotten of me to be so thoughtless.”

Madeline got up and went to Joan. “Why don’t you both sit down with us? It’s so nice and sunny right now, and there’s a delicious breeze off the water.”

She sat the younger girl between her and Carrie, and MacArthur sat on the low wall that ran around the top of the house.

“How are you feeling, Joan?” Madeline asked when no one else had anything to say. “Have you had anything for lunch?”

“I don’t want anything.” Joan bit her lip and once more managed a smile. “Really, I’m all right. It’s just odd right now, and it’s worse because nobody knows what to say or do around me and I don’t know what to say or do. I guess I’m supposed to be hysterical or something, but I’m not. He’s dead. It doesn’t seem real yet. Maybe I’ll be hysterical later.” She seized Madeline’s wrist. “Do you think I’ll be hysterical later?”

Madeline covered Joan’s hand with her own. “I don’t think so, but you might be. If you are, it’s all right. Everyone will understand.”

“Strange as it sounds,” Drew said gently, “I believe the funeral will help. Makes everything more real, and you have your friends and loved ones close by to let you know you’re not mourning alone.”

“Yes,” she said. There was a sudden softness in her expression. “That will help, I think.”

MacArthur cleared his throat. “I won’t disturb your mother just now, but if you would, please tell her I’d be honored to escort her to the church tomorrow.”

Her gentle expression vanished, and she was once again emotionless. “I don’t know what she’s going to want to do.”

“Please just tell her. It would be very good of you.”

“I’ll tell her.”

With that seen to, MacArthur made a hasty retreat, and with the sputter and roar of his motor car, he was gone.

Drew looked expectantly at Joan, but she looked away from him out over the sea. “He seems to have upset you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She only shrugged.

“Funny how some people just rub us the wrong way.” Madeline also looked toward the water. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? But I guess you get tired of seeing it all the time.”

Joan shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Every morning I get up and go out to the little balcony outside my bedroom and watch the sea. It’s never the same, and yet it never changes.”

Madeline gave her a gentle smile. “I believe it’s warm enough to go swimming. I never would have expected that when we first came into Waverley Station. Or would the water still be cold?”

“You don’t have to humor me,” Joan said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at him, but the man just gets on my nerves. Why can’t he leave my mother alone?”

“They seem on friendly terms,” Drew said. “Has he been annoying her?”

“No. Actually, she enjoys his company. Always has. I suppose it’s me he’s been annoying.”

“What’s he done?” Nick asked

“I just don’t like how he talks. He always knows everything about everything. Exactly who ought to be doing what and when. It’s all very annoying.”

“He does have some very strong opinions,” Drew agreed. “What does your mother say about that?”

“Oh, Mother doesn’t care. She and Mac have always been good friends. If you ask me—” she broke off, smiling a little—“she and my father, of course.”

She didn’t say more, and the conversation moved on to the usual trivialities. But that evening after dinner, when they were all sitting on the roof, chatting and watching the night, she pulled Drew aside.

“I just can’t make myself believe it.” She sat beside him on the low wall where MacArthur had sat before, puffing smoke like a train engine, her voice low and urgent. “Dad was an excellent rider. You can ask anyone. And I’m sure he must have told you about the London Olympics.”

Drew nodded. “But that’s getting on thirty years ago. He wasn’t a young man anymore.”

“I don’t care. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t stay in the saddle. Also, I can’t believe he wouldn’t have checked his tack before he rode. It was one thing he always drummed into my head when I was a girl. Never ride without making sure your equipment is sound.”

“That may be so. But either way, that girth broke loose and he was thrown, and that’s as much as there is to say. I’m sorry. With a saddle that old—”

“Yes, it was old. He was forever having it mended. But that’s why it makes me wonder. Spender and Martin’s have been our saddlers since before I was born. I’m not prepared to swear to it, but they must have replaced those buckles six or seven times by now. I can’t imagine they didn’t secure them properly. But even if they hadn’t, I tell you my father would have checked. He would have noticed anything coming apart.”

“What do you think happened, then?” Drew asked, thinking back to the private conversation he’d had with her father before his accident.

“I don’t know. I’m just saying it wasn’t like him. Maybe there was something on his mind that day and he was too worried over it to do what he usually did. I know he’s been a bit preoccupied lately.”

“There’s something not quite right,” Rainsby had said. But was that something enough to precipitate a murder? Not that Joan had suggested her father was murdered, just that he had been preoccupied enough to make him careless. But still . . .

“Would it help at all if I were to make inquiries?” he asked.

She frowned. “I already asked Mother about it. She said there were some business matters he was worried about, but nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, isn’t everyone worried about business matters these days? Losses and unemployment and unrest? It would be strange if he weren’t worried over something, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Drew said, “I suppose it would. But maybe I can ask a question or two here and there and set your mind at ease. Sometimes an accident is just an accident.”

“I’d be very grateful.”

“All right then.” He gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “Leave it to me. If there’s anything to be found out, I’ll find it. If not, at least we’ll know, eh?”

“Right.” She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Right.”

Then the maid brought up the coffee, and they went to join the others.