Chapter 26

STILL AT THE CASTLE, OR RATHER IN A QUAINT ENGLISH COTTAGE

SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1934

I opened my eyes to the twittering of birds and gray daylight filtering in through lace curtains. Darcy was already up and dressed, sitting on his bed, tying his shoe.

“Good morning,” he said.

“What time is it?” I yawned and attempted to sit up gracefully.

“Still early. I thought I’d get going if the sheriff gives me the nod. I want to reach Scotland Yard during their working day if I’m to get answers quickly.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

He shook his head. “I think you’d be more use staying on here. Frankly I don’t believe the bumbling sheriff will find out anything useful. He certainly won’t arrive at the truth without a lot of luck or maybe someone breaking down and confessing.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll stay. But don’t be gone too long, will you? I feel much safer with you here.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Darcy said. “This wasn’t some random homicidal maniac. It was someone who wanted Mr. Goldman dead. Now he or she has achieved their purpose and it’s just a matter of seeing if they can keep their composure and not lose their nerve. That’s where you might come in. You’re a good judge of character.”

“Unfortunately I’ve seen murderers who are as cool as cucumbers,” I said. “And the person who did this must have nerves of steel to start with. Knowing that we were all within earshot if Mr. Goldman had cried out—knowing that he or she could have got blood on their clothing . . . someone took a terrible risk.”

“That’s a good point,” Darcy said. “Did we notice anyone whose clothing might have been sponged clean?”

I shook my head. “Certainly not Stella. I noticed how lovely she looked when she was standing by the window. Not a hair out of place. Just perfect.”

“Speaking of looking lovely, do you know how delightful you look when you are asleep? Like an angel with blonde hair spilling over your pillow. When we’re married I shall sit and watch you every morning.”

“Oh, Darcy,” I said, giggling with embarrassment because I’m not very good at accepting compliments, certainly not from handsome men and certainly not when I’m in my night attire. “Won’t that be lovely? I just wish I knew how long we’d have to wait.”

“Maybe we’ll have to run off to Argentina or Australia and make our fortune there,” he said.

“I wouldn’t mind. Anywhere would be fun with you.”

“Come here,” he said and pulled me up into his arms. “Do you know how adorable you are?” And he kissed me. Properly this time.

“Cor blimey, miss. At it again?” said Queenie’s disapproving voice from my doorway.

“Queenie, did I not teach you that you have to knock?” I said, feeling my cheeks burning.

“I don’t knock when I bring in yer morning tea, do I? I tiptoe in and wake you gently. Well, I ain’t got no tea, but I was going to lay out yer clothes for you, but I can tell I’m not wanted.”

“It’s all right, Queenie,” I said. “Mr. O’Mara and I were just about to go up to the main house for breakfast and then he has to go back to Los Angeles.”

“What, and leave us here alone with no bloke to protect us?”

“Queenie, I’ve told you. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’m sure this whole mess will be sorted out today.”

“If you say so, miss.” She didn’t sound convinced. “And where am I going to have me breakfast? There ain’t no food in this place. I already looked.”

“You’d better come up to the main house with us and I’m sure there will be food for you in the kitchen. Then perhaps you can bring something back for Claudette.”

“What? Me wait on another maid?”

“Queenie,” Darcy said firmly, “I think you had better realize that Lady Georgiana is only taking you back out of the goodness of her heart, after you betrayed her and abandoned her. If you are going to continually whine and complain then you may find that she will leave you behind in America when she goes back to England.”

“Cor blimey, miss. You wouldn’t do that, would you?” Her mouth dropped open.

“I might, unless you put your best foot forward and act the way a lady’s maid should.”

She stared at the ground. “I don’t rightly know which is my best foot, miss,” she said.

“Hopeless. Utterly hopeless,” I muttered to Darcy as we started for the main house. There was no sign of Belinda. She was not the earliest of risers. I wondered how she had handled reporting for duty at Harrods. She wasn’t exactly used to waking in her own bed either.

“I suppose it’s all right to leave Belinda here alone.” I turned and looked back at the cottage.

“I think your friend Belinda can take care of herself,” Darcy said. “She invited herself here, didn’t she?”

He stood there, frowning. “God, what a hideous-looking monstrosity this is,” he said. “The man had no taste.”

“It was supposed to be an English country cottage,” I said. “And the one over there through the trees is even worse. At least this one would be all right in an impossibly adorable English village, whereas that one could only be inhabited by the Brothers Grimm.”

Darcy grinned as he took in the sloping roof, gingerbread trim and small-paned windows. “Who is staying there then?” he asked. “Frankenstein’s monster?”

“Nobody. We were given the English cottage to make us feel at home.”

As I went to follow Darcy I found myself staring at the other cottage. A thought that something was wrong came to me and departed again before I could latch on to it. I shook my head and followed Darcy up the path.

Fog still draped over oak trees and occasional bursts of birdsong echoed strangely so that it was hard to place where the sounds were coming from. The Gothic castle loomed up ahead of us and somewhere off to our right there was a weird flapping sound. I moved a little closer to Darcy. I could well understand how frightened Claudette had been last night. I was rather glad to have Darcy beside me. But then I was always glad when he was near me. I sneaked him a little glance and he smiled, making me feel warm and glowing inside, as if nothing else really mattered.

As we stepped into the foyer of the castle there was no sign of anyone. No sheriff’s man was guarding the front door, at any rate. I wondered if anything had happened while we’d been gone.

“It doesn’t look as if you’ll get any breakfast,” I said. “Nobody’s up yet.”

“Then let’s find the kitchen and see if we can make ourselves some coffee,” Darcy said, going ahead of me down the main hall and into a narrow tiled hallway leading to the back of the house. As we came closer to the kitchen we heard sounds.

“You see. Someone’s at work in the kitchen. We shall get breakfast after all,” he said, turning back to me.

The kitchen was surprisingly twentieth century compared to the rest of the house. There was a large shining gas range and even a refrigerator. When we entered we saw Maria at the stove. She spun around at the sound of our voices.

“Oh, you scare me. I not expect”—she put her hand up to her large bosom—“and I apologize. I don’t have your breakfast ready yet. That sonofabitch sheriff don’t let us go to bed before early morning so I don’t wake at my usual time.”

“That’s all right, Maria,” Darcy said. “We’re up rather early, I know, but I want to drive into Los Angeles. Do you happen to have any coffee?”

“Coffee is in the percolator on the stove, senor. Help yourself. And you tell me what you want me to cook for you—eggs, ham, pork chop, pancakes . . .”

“Just some toast would be fine for me,” I said.

“That’s all Miss Brightwell wants this morning,” Maria said. “Real cut up, she is. She normally has a good breakfast but not today.”

“Miss Brightwell’s up and around, is she?”

Maria shook her head. “No, senorita. She locked up in one of the rooms upstairs. Locked up like a common criminal. I ask you. They think she killed Mr. Goldman but that’s stupid. She wouldn’t have done that. She loved him. One of those men came down and said Miss Brightwell wanted toast and tea, so I fix it for her. Now I’m waiting for him to come back to take the tray up to her.” She indicated the table.

“I’ll take it,” I said eagerly. “We don’t want the toast and tea to get cold, do we?”

“Muchas gracias, senorita,” she said, smiling shyly. “I would have taken it myself but these old legs are not good on the stairs no more.”

“It’s no problem.” I picked up the tray. “Which room is it?”

“It’s in that corridor to the left, second door toward the back of the house. You can’t miss it because it looks like the door from another of those old churches.”

I picked up the tray and went carefully up the stairs. I noticed then for the first time that each of the rooms had a different door, taken from some old building. This one was particularly solid and impressive, which was presumably why they had chosen to keep Stella shut in there. I kicked at the door with my foot and it was opened by one of the sheriff’s men, looking even more rough and haggard after a sleepless night.

“I’ve brought up Miss Brightwell’s tray,” I said.

“How kind of you, Georgie,” Stella said as I carried it into the room before he could take it from me. In contrast to her unshaven, unkempt guard, Stella still looked perfectly groomed. She was sitting in a high-backed armchair, wearing a black silk dressing gown trimmed with white feathers.

“There’s no news, I take it,” she said as I put the tray in front of her. She sighed. “I thought not. That horrid man has decided that I’m guilty and he’s not even going to keep looking, is he?”

“We’ll do our best to help,” I said. “But it’s not easy when the murderer must be one of us. You said that you suspected Mrs. Goldman.”

She glanced across at her guard, standing in the doorway watching us with a rather large weapon on the table beside him. “Of course I do,” she said. “She was the only one of us with means and motive, wasn’t she? She said she went up to bed, but did anyone see her actually go up the stairs? And that poisonous Barbara Kindell might well be in it with her. They probably plotted together. Helen Goldman knew that Cy wanted to divorce her and marry me and he was going to cite denial of conjugal rights. Why else would she have come back here? She hates the place.”

She put some sugar in her tea, stirred it, then took a long drink. “Ah, that’s what I needed. I’ve lived in America for years but the need for a cup of tea is bred into one, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It certainly is. A wonderful comfort when all else fails. In fact . . .” I stopped, staring at her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I think I can prove that you didn’t kill Mr. Goldman,” I said. “I must find the sheriff. Where might he be found?” I asked the guard.

“He was outside, searching the grounds with our guys,” he said.

“Super. Thank you.” I ran down the stairs, across the foyer and outside. Cold air was coming up from the ocean, giving the day a clammy feel to it. I made my way around the house until I caught the sound of voices coming from among the trees. Sheriff Billings was standing there with another man, kicking at something on the ground with his foot.

“Careful how you pick it up,” he said, then looked up with a start as I came toward him.

“Lady Georgiana. What are you doing out here? A spot of sleuthing of your own?”

“No, Sheriff. I came to find you. I think I can prove that Stella Brightwell didn’t kill Mr. Goldman,” I said.

“Oh really? Is that so?” He was smirking, which annoyed me. I hate it when men put on a superior “I’m a man and you’re only a woman” act.

“Yes, it is.” I gave him the stare I hoped I had inherited from my great-grandmother Queen Victoria. “I want you to cast your mind back to the crime scene. Can you picture the body, lying on the floor?”

“Of course I can.”

“How would you describe the wound to Mr. Goldman’s head?”

“Someone had struck him in the back of the head with considerable force, using a blunt object.”

“Correct. Was he struck directly in the back of the head? Right in the middle, would you say?”

The sheriff frowned. “More to one side.”

“Which side?”

“The right. The wound was more to the right.”

Now I allowed myself to smile. “I’ve just taken Stella Brightwell her breakfast, Sheriff. I watched her put sugar in her tea, stir it and then pick up the cup and drink. And all using her left hand. Stella Brightwell is left-handed, Sheriff. That blow could not have come from a left-handed person.”