Thursday afternoon
Having nothing more exciting to do, Addie absentmindedly sipped a cup of tea in the sunshine-flooded Great Hall as she looked over the household account books. Her checkbook was at hand, her terrier, Fitz, snoozing at her feet. She trusted her steward, Mr. Beddoes, completely—a holdover from Rupert’s grandmother’s day, he knew the mechanics of running Compton Chase far better than she ever would. But at the moment he was in his cottage in the village suffering from an attack of gout, thus Addie was temporarily taking over.
He was so supportive after Rupert died, patiently teaching her basic accounting methods to help her make sense of the columns of figures. It was a far cry from her maths classes at Cheltenham Ladies’ College all those years ago, which she hated with a fiery passion. As far as she could remember, she never wrote an accurate geometry proof, and x remained unsolved in algebraic perpetuity.
To give her late husband credit, he truly loved Compton Chase and was successful improving the estate once he inherited. The infusion of Addie’s money helped, of course. It also went into the purchase of the sleek cars in the converted stables, some of which Mr. Beddoes urged her to sell. She—or her chauffeur—could only drive one car at a time, and owning seven automobiles was a bit excessive.
There had once been eight. But the Hispano Suiza met its untimely fate with Rupert and Mademoiselle Labelle.
“Don’t do it. Didn’t we have this conversation the other day? My cars are sacrosanct.”
Rupert! Fitz continued to sleep. What a watchdog.
Rupert stared at her inky fingers. “You look…charming.”
“Liar.” Addie wore ancient sagging jodhpurs from her teen years when she actually tried to ride every day to please her father, and one of Rupert’s old collarless shirts, not even tucked in. That the pants still fit was something of a miracle, although admittedly the top two buttons remained unfastened. If her mother saw her in this condition, she’d throw up her hands in defeat, as one was always supposed to be prepared for unexpected company.
In the dowager marchioness’s universe there were rules. One’s hair was brushed. Face washed. Body perfumed, but not too heavily. One wore pressed, elegant clothes, and lipstick was permitted as a grudging nod to the twentieth century.
Addie didn’t qualify on any of those counts.
But then, her unexpected company was only Rupert, and he was dead.
“I’ve been giving this Fernald business some thought,” he said. “No tea tray?”
“I’m slimming,” Addie said, sucking her tummy in. “And you’re too late. There’s no point to thinking. The inquest was this morning.”
“It’s never too late to think, my dear. You don’t mind if I sit, do you?” He made himself comfortable in the chair opposite without waiting for her answer. “Are you sure there’s no tea tray forthcoming?”
“Positive. And I’m not ringing for one.”
“Oh, you are a cruel mistress.”
“You’d know all about mistresses,” Addie drawled.
“A poisoned dart. Tipped with aconite.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. I have a theory. What if Juliet poisoned Pamela?”
Ridiculous. “Why would she?” Addie asked.
“Jealousy. Spite. Her dream of being the next Lady Fernald.”
“She was with John all Sunday afternoon, Rupert.”
“So? She might have doctored Pamela’s tonic bottle or something. A ticking time bomb just waiting to be ingested.”
“Pamela took a tonic?”
“Several. I told you she was witchy. She was a firm believer in natural remedies for everything, and she decanted them herself. Drinks to keep one’s hair shiny and face spot-free, etcetera. How do you think she kept so fashionably thin? Purging, my dear.” Rupert shuddered.
Yuck. “If Pamela was dead and out of the way, why would Juliet kill herself?”
“Guilty conscience,” Rupert said promptly. “I was just getting to that. Thought she could go through with it, but her courage failed her. She always was a mousy little thing. Talked a good game in the beginning but lacked confidence in the end.”
“How would you—oh, my God, Rupert! Not her too! Is there ever an end to your conquests?” Juliet Barlow! And here Addie had felt sorry for the woman. Invited her to look at Rupert’s damn cars!
He shrugged. “Obviously. I’m dead now. No more fun for me until I get to Heaven.”
Addie simply couldn’t contemplate fornication in Heaven—it wasn’t…seemly. “There is a fly in your ointment. According to Inspector Hunter, falling down stairs is a very ineffective way to kill oneself. He said she should have jumped from the roof instead if she were serious.”
“Perhaps she had a fear of heights.”
“Rupert, you’re reaching. And who spilled gin all over her? Juliet did not drink. ‘Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine’ and all that.”
“Well, she was fibbing there. I always enjoyed a glass or two.”
Or about seven French 75s, a lethal combination of cognac, champagne, lemon juice, and simple syrup, Addie thought darkly, the cause of Rupert’s demise.
“Only six. I’ll have you know I was not inebriated that freezing February night. I could always hold my liquor. If Claudette hadn’t—all right, all right, put your teacup down. I’ll spare you the details. Accidents happen.”
Addie knew that all too well. “I don’t wish to discuss the past. Five days of sneaking around at Fernald Hall and this is all you have? I don’t believe this will advance your cause much.”
He plucked an invisible thread from his sleeve. “I agree it’s too bad Juliet didn’t leave a written confession in the pocket of her robe. That would tie things up.”
“Too neat by half. Inspector Hunter probably already thought of it and dismissed it. However, I will mention the idea if I get a chance.”
“Fine, fine. We can’t all be brilliant Anglo-Indian detectives. I’m doing my best for a dilettante, and a dead one at that. But I do know something you don’t. Patrick Cassidy never came back from London last night.”
Oh dear. “Do you think something happened to him? Is he another victim?”
“You mean was he coshed on the head and thrown onto the tube tracks? Your inspector has made inquiries. So far, the man is nowhere to be found, dead or alive.”
Addie didn’t even bother with the “your inspector” bit. “He went to London on business, supposedly. Does anyone know where? Maybe he’s gone back to Belfast.”
Rupert shook his head. “He wouldn’t leave those valuable horses behind. Hugh hasn’t paid for them yet, what with everyone dropping like flies.”
“Ugh. You sound so bloodthirsty.”
“Occupational hazard. So, that’s two of your admirers who’ve flown the coop.”
“You can’t blame me!” cried Addie. “And besides, Lucas is engaged now. I really do wonder where he is. Poor Mr. Hunter.”
“Yes. Two of his suspects suspiciously scattering. You know he’s not satisfied with the results of the inquest. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“That won’t get us anywhere. Come on, Rupert. Earn your keep! You must have some inkling of what’s really going on.”
“Truly, I don’t. Believe me, I’m a bloody bloodhound, sniffing and snuffling all over creation. I’m as anxious to put this all behind me as you are. Third time’s the charm, remember? And I’m not even counting New York or your equine disaster. Off to Heaven I’ll go.”
Addie thought Rupert was perhaps being too hopeful. Granted, helping to solve these murder cases was not insignificant, but he had been especially sinful the last years of his life. More might be required.
She wisely kept this thought to herself. As hurtful as he’d been to her during their marriage, she knew Rupert was making a real effort now. Was it too late? Only time would tell.