Monday
What were the odds? Pretty much incalculable. Dev was not a betting man anyway. When the call was patched through to his flat from the Cirencester constabulary late yesterday afternoon, he knew the news wouldn’t be good. But he hadn’t anticipated Lady Adelaide Compton being smack in the middle of another suspicious death investigation.
In a few minutes, he would see her again, so he steeled what was left of his heart.
Dev tried to put her out of his mind. He was highly unsuccessful, but he couldn’t go around kissing marquesses’ daughters and live with the consequences. The caste system in the United Kingdom was as strict and as real as in his mother’s native India. If Lady Adelaide temporarily suspended society’s rules, he could not. In his experience, the rich could get away with literal murder. She could afford to skirt propriety, experiment, and be daring.
Not he.
He never should have accepted her invitation to visit Compton Chase in April in the first place, but a month had passed since their collaboration, and he missed her. He also wanted to reassure her that he didn’t hold her responsible for his own brush with death.
Dev worked through his discomfort until the pain receded. His superiors offered him leave, which he refused. One didn’t take unnecessary time off and hope to be promoted; his father taught him that. Harry Hunter was renowned for never taking a sick day either in the army or at the Yard, and he expected his son to follow in his footsteps. They were big shoes to fill, but so far Dev had managed.
He did not speak to either of his parents about his infatuation with Lady Adelaide. He didn’t want to hear the practical lecture from his father or see the sympathy in his mother’s eyes. So he spent what little free time he had lately reading and studying the Ancients, trying his best to ignore the modern world around him.
A car from Fernald Hall was sent to meet the first train. Dev’s sergeant, Bob Wells, sat up front, chatting with the chauffeur in hopes of gleaning any servants’ gossip. Bob was good at that, leaving the posh people to Dev. Over the past ten months, he met more exalted folks than in his previous thirty-four years and was still figuring out how they ticked.
Dev read through his notes. Hugh Fernald was a baronet badly wounded in what turned out to be a hopeless battle, saving the lives of all his men bar one. Fernald’s Fury. The newspapers heralded the man’s bravery through gassing and grievous wounding. Dev remembered the headlines as he recuperated in a field hospital from his own less-publicized fury. The man was a national hero.
His wife, Pamela, was found on the floor of their conservatory by the housekeeper, still warm to the touch and showing no physical signs of any violent attack. The laboratory had not yet determined the cause of death, but poison was suspected.
There was a young son, John; the victim’s mother-in-law, the “other” Lady Fernald; an aunt-in-law who lived in a cottage on the estate; eight houseguests; and a full complement of staff on the premises. Unlike many other country houses since the war ended, Fernald Hall was not run on a shoestring. Dev had yet to work a case where “the butler did it,” so he concentrated on the guests but did not rule anything or anyone out.
Except for Lady Adelaide. Unless she’d undergone a massive personality shift, he did not expect to add her to the list of suspects. According to the Cirencester police, she attempted to protect the scene, forbade anyone from leaving the property, and asked pertinent questions of the other people at the house party before the police had a chance. The word “interfering” was used, and Dev could easily picture her ruffling feathers with her usual charm and determination.
And she asked for his help specifically. He wasn’t sure if he should feel flattered or foolish. One thing he was sure of—he would not kiss her again, no matter how much he wanted to.
The Bentley turned down a long drive lined with evergreens. Despite the morning’s sunshine, the car was enveloped in darkness for a bit, then emerged onto a circular drive. The impressive Tudor house was mostly stucco with elaborately patterned black beams, massive chimneys, and the odd architectural brick and Cotswold stone element denoting “improvements” over the centuries. A butler and two footmen stood on the steps. In the open doorway, a man in a Bath chair and his attendant awaited their arrival.
“There’s Sir Hugh,” the chauffeur said, pulling up directly in front of the house. “Poor bloke’s had enough trouble. We all hope you get to the bottom of this quick.”
Dev concurred. His last few cases had dragged on forever—there was always a surfeit of suspects and precious few leads.
“We’ll do our best,” Bob said.
It might help that they were to be put up at Fernald Hall for the next couple of days. Dev accepted the baronet’s offer despite his misgivings. Lady Adelaide would be impossible to escape, and escape he must, for both their sakes.
They exited the Bentley, the butler organizing the footmen to take their travel cases. Dev extended his hand to Sir Hugh. “Please accept our condolences. You have my word we’ll work as hard as we know how to discover what happened.”
The man’s firm grip was a surprise. “As I told you on the telephone, it must have been an accident. Pam would never have gotten into anything—well, she knew her plants, and she never, ever touched drugs. They haven’t found a reason? The coroner’s office, I mean?”
“Not as yet.” There was a backlog at the laboratory, and it wouldn’t help to let Sir Hugh know they didn’t drop everything for his dead wife in the past twelve hours.
“And I suppose we can’t rule out natural causes,” Sir Hugh said, more to himself than Dev. “I know she was young, but strange things happen, don’t they?”
“They do. But from what I gather from my colleagues in Cirencester, it looked like an overdose of some kind to the attending doctor.”
“As I said, Pam never used drugs! Why, she barely finished a glass of wine with dinner. Never even took aspirin. Natural remedies only, and she knew what she was about. My wife had everything to live for—our son, her gardens…” Sir Hugh coughed. His manservant placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder while he pulled himself together.
“Let’s get you inside, Captain,” the man said.
“My valet, Jim Musgrave. Formerly my batman, now my nurse. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Musgrave flushed. “Stop your nonsense now.”
“Let me introduce my sergeant, Bob Wells. I don’t know what I’d do without him, either, although we didn’t serve together.” The injury to his foot was nothing compared to Sir Hugh’s sacrifice, but the war had left its indelible mark, no matter what social strata one belonged to. “If you could ask your guests to convene in a suitable place, say, in half an hour, I can introduce myself and begin the questioning.”
“I suppose the library’s best, but these are our friends! Nobody would want to hurt Pam,” Sir Hugh insisted. “The doctor has got the wrong end of the stick, I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right. We’ll do our best to make this process as painless as possible.” Dev knew no matter what he did, someone was bound to object. Several someones, if his previous experiences proved true. He was often stuck between a rock and a hard place, with both suspects and superiors clamoring for his head. So far, he’d held onto it and his job.
He and Bob were shown to a pair of rooms in a no-man’s-land upstairs between the staff quarters and the grander guest suites. The floors were carpeted with sisal rugs, the simple brown furniture serviceable, a white-tiled bathroom connecting the two rooms. Fluffy towels had been laid out on the beds, but there were no fresh flowers or biscuit jars or bowls of fruit that might have welcomed “real” guests. Sir Hugh’s housekeeper had visibly firm ideas as to where London policemen fit into the order of things.
Dev splashed water on his face and unpacked the few possessions he’d brought. It wasn’t as if he’d be dressing for dinner or a cricket match, so he didn’t need much. But he was wearing a newish suit, replacing the one that had met an unhappy encounter with a bullet a few months ago. Despite his mother’s valiant attempts at darning, that jacket would never be suitable for a baronet’s house.
While the air outside was heavy with heat, the house remained cool, even this room on the top floor. A hardship in the winter, no doubt, but Fernald had the money to keep frostbite away with blazing fires and electric heaters. Dev gazed out his window and admired the formal Elizabethan gardens and sweep of lawn below. Everything he’d seen so far indicated that Fernald Hall was a prosperous, well-run establishment. He wondered if the mistress’s death would change that.
There was a knock on the door. Bob must be anxious to get started. But when he opened it, it was not his trusty sergeant.
“Lady Adelaide.” Further words eluded him.
“May I come in? I know it’s bold of me, bothering a gentleman in his bedroom. My mother would have a fit if she found out. You might get Bob to come in and chaperone if I make you uncomfortable.”
There was something in her tone that mocked him. By God, he should drag Bob in here. Or erect a barbed-wire fence. Hang up bulbs of garlic. Splash some holy water about. Make the sign of the evil eye. Chant something incomprehensible like the Holy Rollers and fall to the floor babbling in tongues.
Alas, nothing could diminish her unsuitable attraction.
“That won’t be necessary.” He stepped back, and she headed for the only chair in the room. He returned to the window. It was a very long way down, but still tempting.
“How have you been, Inspector?”
“Busy. And you?”
“I wish I could say the same. This murder has perked me up.” She crossed her legs and swung a foot.
So, she was as nervous around him as he was with her.
“Lady Adelaide! We have not yet established that Lady Fernald’s death is murder.” Granted, it was an unusual, unattended death. And because of Lady Fernald’s place in society and her husband’s reputation, custom dictated it deserved scrutiny.
“Piffle. I wouldn’t have called for you if there was a question in my mind. I thought I might fill you in before you interrogate the suspects.”
“Guests, Lady Adelaide.”
She waved a jeweled hand. He noted she was still wearing her wedding rings, sparkling diamonds and sapphires he’d never be able to afford to give her if he lived forever. “A question of semantics.”
“What makes you so sure this is murder?”
Lady Adelaide gazed off into a corner. “I suppose you’d call it a hunch. After what’s happened lately, I’m learning to trust my instincts.”
Just as Dev trusted his. The odd feelings he got doing police work were inexplicable, especially if he tried to reveal them to his bosses. They’d think he was barmy if he talked about prickles up and down his spine or suddenly acute hearing. But most good coppers operated on some form of instinct; whether it could be chalked up to experience or something less tangible was a matter for debate.
“Tell me then.”
Lady Adelaide’s foot continued to jiggle. She was wearing sensible oxfords, perfect for tramping through the countryside. She had not dressed as a femme fatale, for which he was grateful. Seeing her in glittery evening clothes would test his resolve.
“Talk belowstairs is that Pamela was having an affair with Simon Davies. I have no idea whether that’s true or not, but the rumor alone might cause someone to poison her.”
“Let me guess—Beckett is your source.”
“Naturally. I expect you’ll want to talk to her.”
Dev hoped Bob wouldn’t mind—Beckett was always good for a laugh. She might be just a maid, but there was no “just” about her. “Was Lady Fernald’s husband aware?”
Lady Adelaide shrugged. “I have no idea, and I’m not about to ask him and presume on our friendship. He has enough to worry about.”
“You don’t think he killed his wife?”
She looked at him with scorn. “Of course not! He loved her, would do anything for her. Why, he just bought her three horses.”
A betrayed husband was always a prime suspect. Hell, one didn’t even have to be betrayed. Husbands killed their wives with alarming frequency for all sorts of reasons. Burnt toast. Mismatched socks. A sharp retort. The horses could be a cover-up for his nefarious intentions.
“Besides,” she continued, “as you know, he has great difficulty getting around. He wasn’t anywhere nearby when she was found, and his valet can vouch for him.”
“Not if they were in it together,” Dev replied, enjoying the shock on Lady Adelaide’s face.
“People like Hugh…” she trailed off, realizing her mistake. In Dev’s opinion, almost everyone was capable of murder if pushed far enough.