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There was a telephone in the front hall of Wit’s End. Tucked into a corner beneath the stairs, complete with a comfortable chair upholstered in red velvet and a curtain for an attempt at privacy. I glanced up and down the hall to ensure I was alone before settling myself in and ringing up Varant. It was getting dangerously close to supper time, but I decided to risk it. This was more important.
Kenworth answered with his usual stiff-upper-lip arrogance. “Fair Woods.”
“Hello, Kenworth. Lord Varant, please.”
“And who may I say is calling?”
I rolled my eyes. He knew who I was. “Lady Rample, Kenworth. As you well know.”
“Very good, my lady. One moment.” I heard him put the phone down on the table, then his measured footsteps as he walked away. Slowly. Very slowly. If I could have reached through the telephone and throttled him, I daresay I would have.
I tapped one fingernail impatiently against the telephone table, then inspected it carefully for chips. Same with the rest of my nails. Still all perfectly manicured and painted cream. I generally preferred something brighter. Red or raspberry, but this new color from Revlon had been irresistible. The minute I’d seen it in Selfridges, I’d needed to try it.
Finally, Varant’s voice came over the line. “Ophelia?” Clear in his tone was his surprise at my calling him. Not something I usually did. I wasn’t sure whether to be put out or not.
“Varant...Peter. At last. I thought Kenworth had disappeared forever.”
Varant snorted. “No need to be dramatic.” I scowled at his words. I was not being dramatic. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering...I know you have contacts in interesting places. If I wanted to check someone’s past, how would I go about it?” I asked.
“You mean a background check?”
“That’s the one.”
There was a pause. “Who do you want checked out?” His tone was resigned.
“Well, there is—”
“Wait! Why don’t you send over a list? Have one of Harry’s servants drop it off.”
I frowned. “Why not just tell you over the phone?”
“Because prying ears might be listening.”
I swear I heard an outraged squeak, quickly muffled. Ah, I’d forgotten about small villages. In London, no one would have paid the call any attention, but out here, it would be all over Devon by tea time, thanks to the exchange operators. “Very well. I’ll have it sent over straight away. Now about that other matter we discussed. Any movement there?”
“Give it time, Ophelia. The wheels of justice move slowly.”
“More like glacially,” I muttered.
He chuckled. “I can’t guarantee results, but I’ll do my best. I’ll speak with you later. I’ve errands to run.” And with that he rang off without waiting for me to respond. I wasn’t entirely sure whether that was rude or efficient.
Dropping the headset into the cradle I pulled the phone pad toward me and used the pencil provided to scribble a list. At the top was Harry’s chauffeur, Stevens. Next, Binky. After all, what did I really know about him? He’d spent no time with Felix, instead gadding about London spending money he didn’t have and, as it turned out, never would. I would have liked some information on the dead guy, but since we didn’t have a name, that was a lost cause. At least for the moment. Adding “dead guy” to the list would only amuse Varant.
I also included Mathew Breverman simply because he was a stranger and new to the area. I realized, of course, that a woman could just as easily be behind all this, so I added Miss Semple since she was young and reasonably fit and had been at the fete with Binky and me. Not to mention, she was a newcomer to the area, unlike the sisters. For the same reason I included Maude Breverman. Not that I believed she had anything to do with it, but you just never know about people.
I managed to track down Jarvis and beg for an envelope which I proceeded to seal tight. With some reluctance, he sent one of the footmen over to Fair Woods to deliver the list. But only after giving me a few exasperated sighs and some suspicious looks. He reminded me an awfully lot of Varant’s butler, Kenworth. Did all butlers train at the same place? Have a rule book which they butled by?
Satisfied that I’d done all I could for now, I ambled into the drawing room for tea. I was rather famished after my endeavors and was pleased to see Mrs. Bates had set out a rather generous spread provided by Cook. There were egg and mango chutney, lobster, and potted shrimp sandwiches, all on thin slices of brown bread. Rose petal sandwiches on soft white bread. Thick slices of Madeira and seed cakes. A plate of brandy snaps. And, naturally, Devonshire splits—scones split in half and stuffed with fresh strawberry jam and clotted cream.
Aunt Butty already had a plate piled high, so I crammed my own plate full and joined her on the settee. I barely waited to sit down before I was stuffing my face.
“That cook does know how to do a proper tea,” Aunt Butty said around a mouthful of potted shrimp sandwich.
I nodded happily as I munched on seed cake, almost moaning in delight. I’d ignored the sandwiches entirely in favor of the sweet treats. “That she does.”
“Discovered anything new?” Aunt Butty asked in a low voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening in. They weren’t. The sisters were arguing over the merits of Madeira versus seed cake. Binky and Miss Semple were ignoring the food and instead downing cocktails like there was no tomorrow. Chaz and Harry were both absent—Harry no doubt locked away in his study as usual. And the Breverman’s were as busy stuffing their faces as Aunt Butty and I.
“The chauffeur has some kind of European accent,” I said. “Could be German.”
“I think he’s Swedish.”
“Swedish? How’d you come up with that?”
“One of the maids. Mary. She’s been helping me dress with Maddie gone. She told me he was from Sweden. Or was it Switzerland?” She popped a bite of seed cake in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“Oh, well. I’ve asked Varant to run a background check on him and a few others.”
“You should have him run one on those sisters,” she said, nodding toward the two women sitting at a gaming table next to the window. “I don’t trust them.”
“They’ve lived in Devon their whole lives. Why would they go about spying for the Germans now?”
“Who knows. Money? People do lots of dastardly things for money. They used to live in this house, you know. Their father had to sell it. Gaming debts. The man he sold it to let it run to ruin and Harry snapped it up for a fraction of the cost. Of course, he poured a great deal into fixing it up.”
I glanced at the Kettington sisters’ shabby, out-of-date gowns. Probably cost a pretty penny a couple of decades ago, but now they looked like they belonged in a charity bin. “You think they need money that badly? Ethel, the older one, seemed happy enough about Harry fixing the place up.”
“Depends. I understand they get a small stipend from what was left of their late father’s estate which allows them to live quite modestly, but I imagine it’s difficult after having once been so wealthy. No more new clothes. No trips abroad. No lovely foods. No posh manor house. Just the bare bones basics. Not to mention they were once admired and feared in the village, and now...” She shrugged.
“People pity them,” I said softly.
She nodded. “Indeed. And Ethel, at the very least, doesn’t strike me as a woman who enjoys being pitied.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I agreed.
It was easy for me to imagine what it would be like to be vastly wealthy and lose it all. But in my case, I already knew how to survive without. How to make the most of what one has when one has next to nothing. If I lost everything tomorrow, I would simply carry on. I would manage fine. But the Kettington sisters would have no doubt found it impossible to really adjust to their new circumstances, having never been poor.
I felt suddenly sorry for them. Even if Ethel was a bit of a bully. I could see now how hard things must be for her. A proud woman reduced to such circumstances. No doubt she was doing her best without much help from her rather ditzy sister.
Regardless of circumstances, I found it hard to imagine either of them murdering a random stranger in their neighbor’s study. Miss Semple on the other hand...
I eyeballed the woman in question. She was flirting wildly with Binky, who seemed flattered. Chaz was still nowhere to be seen. Harry had appeared from the depths of his study and was deep in conversation with Mathew Breverman, so I guess there weren’t many other options for her. Could she have been the one to strike the deadly blow?
I couldn’t imagine why. Unless, perhaps, the victim knew something about her. Something that might hinder her marriage machinations. And she had been at the fete, though I hadn’t seen her anywhere near the stranger. Maybe she was helping Binky with whatever he was up to. Or maybe she was entirely innocent, and Binky had been using her as cover. I found it difficult to credit him with such intelligence, but then again, stupidity would make a perfect cover for a spy.
––––––––
I SPENT THE REST OF the afternoon in my room writing up notes about the murder and break-in. I needed to get my thoughts in order and writing them out helped. If I was a betting woman, I’d say the break-in and murder were connected. In fact, the victim was likely the initial criminal returning to the scene after having been unsuccessful in his first attempt—regardless of what Constable Smith had claimed. It would make perfect sense. In fact, it was the only thing that did. But the facts remained:
Why had he broken in?
What was he after?
Who had killed him? (After all, Harry deVane or his employees would have had a perfect right to kill an intruder. No one would have blamed them, so why not confess?)
And, perhaps most importantly, who was the man? And was he the spy I’d heard Harry, Chamberlain, and Varant talking about that first night after supper?
It made perfect sense to me that he was, indeed, the spy. That he’d broken in to steal...something. He’d failed the first time—or at least partially failed, perhaps not obtaining all the information necessary—and so broken in again. But this time someone had been ready for him. With a knife.
But why the secrecy? A simple cover story would be that the man was a robber and the killer had simply been defending himself, or herself. That would be the end of it, no one the wiser as to the true motives. Unless...
The dead man wasn’t the spy at all but had been called there by someone. To meet the real spy, perhaps? Why? Because the man knew the identity of the spy and had threatened to tell? Or perhaps he was simply a loose thread that needed tying and the spy had done away with him in order to keep his, or her, secret. It made sense. But that begged the question—
A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
“Who is it?”
I assumed it was Aunt Butty, or perhaps Chaz, but no one replied. Instead, there was a faint scraping sound as an envelope was slid under the door.
I got up quickly and dashed across the room, throwing open the door. The hall was empty. No one in sight. How bizarre.
I shut the door and collected the envelope. It was thick and creamy, and my name was scrawled across the front in black ink. It matched the stationary that I’d been provided in my room. No doubt every guest had access to it.
I slit the envelope with a silver letter opener from the desk and pulled out a single sheet of paper. In the same sprawling hand was the message: Meet me in the rose garden before supper. It was signed with Hale’s name.
My heart gave a little flutter of excitement. We hadn’t had much of a chance to speak since the walk to the fete.
I glanced at the time. It was still a good hour until the evening meal, so I rushed my toilette. And, with thirty minutes to spare, descended the stairs. The drawing room was empty, so I stepped out through the French doors leading to the great lawn. A path took me ‘round to the rose garden at the side of the house in front of the long, low orangery building.
The roses perfumed the dusky evening with their heady scent, inviting me to relax and enjoy a leisurely stroll, but I was too eager. I strode briskly down the path, assuming Hale meant to meet me at one of the benches tucked beneath the trellises. It was all rather mysterious and romantic.
The little flutter grew stronger. It was ridiculous, reacting to a man like this. I was a modern woman, in control of her emotions. Aunt Butty would no doubt laugh and tell me there was no such thing as being in control of emotions when it came to men. Such feelings were meant to be enjoyed, savored, and experienced.
Unfortunately, the rose garden was empty. Perhaps I was early. I sat down on the first bench, folding my hands genteelly in my lap, trying not to fidget. The perfume of roses teased my nose, along with something else. Something slightly sweet. Vanilla? Almond? How odd.
One moment I was sitting there, enjoying the evening. The next, something was wrapped around my neck and someone was choking the life out of me!
Unable to scream, I writhed against my attacker, jamming my fingers up beneath the scrap of material around my throat, trying to pull it away. I kicked wildly, using my body weight to thrust myself forward, then back, slamming into my attacker.
The move was unexpected, causing the attacker to stagger and the noose to go slightly slack. I dragged in a lungful of air and let out an unholy shriek. Startled, the attacker let loose the bit of fabric—which fluttered to the ground—whirled and ran. I tried to get a good look, but he—I assumed it was a man—had disappeared into the bushes.
“It came from here!” Aunt Butty’s strident voice echoed over the gardens.
“I heard it, too.” Miss Semple, not to be left out.
“Down here.” Chaz, taking charge.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel as the entire guest list charged down the path toward me. They stopped abruptly as they spotted me.
“Ophelia,” Aunt Butty cried. “Are you all right?”
I shook my head. “Someone just tried to kill me.”