When she returned to the conservatory from her tête-à-tête with Rupert, Mr. Hunter wasn’t there. According to Hugh, he was on a call with Scotland Yard.
She hoped he wasn’t in trouble. Everyone was satisfied with yesterday’s results except the detective and herself. Surrounded by his son, good friends, and neighbors, Hugh even laughed a time or two. Life would go on here.
The mourners began to thin out. Addie waited for Mr. Hunter as long as she could without looking obvious before deciding to drive home. Cee was still entranced by Colin Stewart, and the twins were eating Ian up with two spoons, so she abandoned her matchmaking. Kissing the Fernalds goodbye, she asked Trim to have her car brought around.
The sky was forget-me-not blue, too pretty a day for memories of death. Addie tried to lift her spirits, mostly in vain.
They were all missing something. Someone. Too many “accidents,” in Addie’s not-so-humble opinion. No wonder Mr. Hunter was not happy and couldn’t let it go.
She rumbled over a cattle grate, startling her from her grim thoughts, and decided to appreciate the beauty around her.
When she got home, Addie changed into something more comfortable. Not as comfortable—or sloppy—as yesterday’s wrinkled shirt and jodhpurs, since she had a niggling feeling that Mr. Hunter might stop by before he left the area.
At least she hoped he did. She wanted to say a proper goodbye, even if they both were not convinced of the proper disposal of the cases.
It might be the last time she ever saw him.
Butter-yellow linen sheath, matching yellow shoes. She was a ray of sunshine, except her hair was a trifle flat from being underneath her hat all day. Addie clasped a string of amber beads around her neck and went downstairs with a book.
She didn’t have too long to wait. The Bentley deposited Mr. Hunter in her drive, suitcase and briefcase in hand. Fitz barked at the doorbell and raced out of the Great Room.
Even her dog knew a good thing when he saw it.
Forbes announced Mr. Hunter and he entered, holding Fitz in the crook of his arm. The dog was vibrating with happiness, and Addie envied him.
Mr. Hunter set him down. “Third day in a row. You’ll be glad to see the back of me.”
“Not at all! I missed you after the funeral. Thank you for coming by. May I get you anything?”
“With reluctance, no. The next train to London leaves soon. I just stopped to say goodbye.”
“Thank you. Won’t you sit down at least?”
“Only for a minute.”
He lowered himself into the embroidered wing chair, looking weary. It had been a hard week for everyone.
“What’s next for you, Inspector?”
“More theft and murder, I expect.”
Addie shuddered. “I don’t know how you cope.”
“Someone has to. There’s a lot of evil in the world.” He gazed around the paneled room, with its vaulted ceiling and sparkling windows. “Not here, though. Your home is very…cozy, Lady Adelaide. Peaceful. And you are good company.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Thank you for your help. I know you did your best.”
It was all thanks to Rupert, but Addie couldn’t say that.
In fact, she couldn’t say anything. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, she’d blurt out something entirely inappropriate for the occasion.
The awkward silence was broken by Forbes, who carried in a tea tray. It was hastily assembled, with just a pot, cups, and a plate of biscuits. Four kinds, since Cook was still trying to impress. She always had water on the boil.
“I know you don’t have much time, sir, but Cook insisted,” Forbes said. “There’s always time for a cup of tea.”
Addie was grateful that pouring the tea gave her something to do and something else to look at besides Inspector Hunter’s dark eyes. She handed him a cup.
“I’ll miss our chats,” he said.
Oh, he really was making this difficult.
“I will too.” She bit into a biscuit, which tasted like sawdust.
“And I’ll miss Cook. You are lucky to have such devoted servants.”
“Yes, I am.” She wondered who cooked for Mr. Hunter in London. His mother? She knew they lived in the same building.
He swallowed half the cup at one go. “I should be leaving.”
Through the window, Addie saw a taxi come up the drive. “Did you arrange for a car to take you to the station? That was unnecessary—my chauffeur can take you. Or I can, if you don’t mind driving with me again.” She referred to last spring, where she was behind the wheel, a murderer at her side, Mr. Hunter tied up in the backseat.
He looked out the window. “Not I. It appears you have another surprise visitor, Lady Adelaide.” He whistled, and Fitz cocked his head, ears lifting. “Speak of the devil.”
In less than a minute, the devil pushed past Forbes in the doorway. His face was…green, or close enough, his suit stained, his hair rumpled.
“I’m glad to find you here, Hunter. Someone tried to kill me.”
“Sit down before you fall down, Mr. Cassidy.” Mr. Hunter gave up his chair and guided the man to it. Patrick Cassidy was so unsteady he nearly toppled over despite the detective’s firm grip.
“May I pour you some tea? I think it’s still hot,” Addie said.
Mr. Cassidy shuddered. “Not unless you want me to ruin your carpet. Persian, isn’t it?”
“It was Rupert’s grandmother’s.” Only slightly moth-eaten, the colors still vibrant. But Mr. Cassidy was obviously not here to discuss home furnishings. “Why do you think someone tried to kill you?”
“Because I nearly died. Had to get off the train at Swindon, I was in such agony. Stopped at the first hotel I found near the station and spent two days…well, I don’t want to disgust you with the details. The doctor the hotel management called in told me I had food poisoning and gave me something wretched to take, and I lay abed wanting to die.”
Mr. Hunter dragged another chair over to the fireplace. “Why did you come here?”
“I wasn’t about to go back to Fernald Hall and risk a second whack at me, was I, even if all my belongings are in my room. I thought the lovely Lady Adelaide could put me in contact with you in case you were still there without arousing any suspicion from those wicked people. Somebody’s out to get me, just like they did Michael.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Hunter said, leaning forward. “Why didn’t you tell me he was your half brother?”
“I didn’t want that lot to know who I was. Thought I might nose about and find out what really happened to him. Desertion!” Cassidy’s face twisted in anger. “The shame of it killed my mother. She never recovered, wondering where he was. Why he did such a thing. She might not have raised him, but he was her firstborn son, and she loved him, maybe more than she loved me. It was easy for the influenza to carry her off, and my father with her. Someone topped Michael, and let the world think he was a coward.” He paused, trying to gain control. “How did you discover we were related?”
“Telegrams came late Tuesday.” Mr. Hunter looked thoughtful. “Someone else might have read them before I did.”
“And that someone put something nasty in my breakfast early Wednesday! Food poisoning, my arse. Begging your pardon, Lady Adelaide. I was running late and never ate it all, thank the good Lord, or I might not be sitting here.”
“Who brought your tray up?” Mr. Hunter asked.
“One of the maids. I didn’t pay much attention. As I said, I was dashing about to get dressed and told the girl to put it on the table. I didn’t even look at her face.”
One didn’t, Addie thought ruefully. For many, servants were just part of the domestic landscape, like so much moving furniture. She liked to think it wasn’t that way at Compton Chase.
“I can ask Mrs. Lewis. Somehow I don’t see her or the maid as the culprit, however.”
“Could it have been a simple case of food poisoning?” Addie wondered aloud. “Accidents happen even in the best of households. Food does spoil, even with modern refrigeration. Did the doctor test any of the, uh, effluvia?”
Mr. Cassidy shook his head. “By the time he saw me, the worst of it passed. I didn’t think of poison at first—why would I?—but the longer I lay in that hotel room, the more sense it made. I was meant to disappear in London and die there in the street like a dog.”
Good heavens. The man was dramatic, but Addie supposed he had every right if what he suspected was true.
“What did you ingest?”
“Coffee. A few mouthfuls of porridge. Half a slice of toast. As I said, I was in a rush.”
“Sugar, cream, butter, and jam as well?”
Mr. Cassidy thought for a moment. “No jam. There was some on the tray—marmalade and honey, too, if my recollection is accurate, but I never used any of it. The coffee tasted bitter, even after sugar and cream.”
“Did the kitchen know your preferences? For example, that you use sugar in your coffee?”
“I have no idea, do I? I’m not a cook. Does it matter?”
“It would be helpful to know how the poison got into your system, if poison it was. Mr. Trim keeps a book of guests’ menus—they’re very organized over there. I’ll have to take a look at it.”
“You mean if I drank black coffee, they wouldn’t bother tampering with the sugar bowl.”
“Precisely. If someone at Fernald Hall wanted to kill you, they’d make sure you actually drank or ate what was contaminated.” Mr. Hunter looked over to her. “Lady Adelaide, I intended to go home tonight. Would it inconvenience you to put me up here for a day or two, as well as Mr. Cassidy?”
“Of course not! You’re both welcome.” One a little more than the other, to be truthful.
She’d have to say goodbye all over again, wouldn’t she?
“I think it best if Mr. Cassidy lays low. We don’t need to advertise he’s here, especially to the inhabitants of Fernald Hall. May I count on the discretion of your staff?”
“We’re a good twenty miles away, practically in another world in some ways. I’ll speak to them.”
“As will I. And if I could borrow a car tomorrow, I’ll pay another visit to gather up your things, Mr. Cassidy, since you are now officially a missing person.”
Cassidy smiled for the first time. “I am? Who reported me?”
“Let’s see. You were to meet with a Mr. Garvin for lunch at Rules on Wednesday, were you not?”
“You are thorough.”
“You left your appointment book behind. No wonder we didn’t find you in London if you’ve been holed up in Swindon all this time.”
“I’m sure the town has its attributes, but I’m not aware of them,” Mr. Cassidy said with another smile. He was looking slightly less green, which was a relief. “What’s to happen with my horses? I’d guess you’re not going to bring them here.”
“I’m sure they’ll be well taken care of at Hugh’s stables. Pamela was very particular about her horses, and the grooms were hired with that in mind,” Addie said. She might not be much of a horsewoman, but it was indisputable that Fernald Hall was famous in Gloucestershire and beyond for its hunters.
“When do I become unmissing?”
“When I’m satisfied that no one tried to kill you. It will be hard to prove, but then everything that’s happened this week falls into that category,” Mr. Hunter replied.
Addie rose. “I’ll inform Forbes and Mrs. Drum that you’ll both be staying, and I’ll see you at dinner.” Cook would be pleased; Addie lived so quietly now that the woman had little opportunity to show off her culinary skills. Even at short notice, Addie knew dinner was bound to be delicious.
She left the gentlemen to discuss the recent events and went down to the kitchen wing. Forbes was observing a footman who was polishing already perfectly polished silver in the butler’s pantry and took the news with his usual sangfroid. Mrs. Drum and Cook (whose real name was Mrs. Oxley) were sharing a pot of tea and seemed exceptionally pleased that their mistress was entertaining two gentlemen for the foreseeable future, even if no one was to mention it. Cook disappeared into the larder for extra provisions, and Addie went up to her room to freshen up.
Rupert lounged on her bed, looking much too comfortable, as usual.
“Now what?” she snapped.
“Now, now, pet. Someone has to chaperone you. All the old things you employ will turn a blind eye to any hijinks. And Beckett will try to bully you into someone’s arms. My presence is absolutely necessary.”
Where was Beckett? Her presence was absolutely necessary too to make some semblance of order to Addie’s person.
“Lurking about the kitchen garden, last time I looked. Jack is weeding and she is trying desperately to distract him. She has turned up the hem of her uniform by at least two inches, the little minx.”
“Stop listening to my thoughts!”
“Entirely inadvertent, I assure you. Are you satisfied with Cassidy’s explanation, or is it a bunch of malarkey?”
Addie tried to fluff up her hair with little success. “He certainly looks dreadful.”
Rupert sat up and smoothed down his jacket. How could he be so immaculate when he was so very dead? “He could have dosed himself, don’t you think?”
“Why would he do that?”
“To gain sympathy. To cast aspersions upon the residents of Fernald Hall and deflect his own guilt.”
“You are suspicious.”
“Always, when it comes to the males of the species. You are far too trusting, Addie.”
Guilty as charged, at least when it came to Rupert. Talk about turning blind eyes—she wore a sack over her head for much of their marriage. “What do you think he’s done?”
“We can assume he didn’t kill his brother, but really, how do we know? He could have got leave, snuck up on the poor fellow, and pulled a Cain and Abel. We only have his word for it that they were on good terms.”
Addie put the hairbrush down. It was hopeless, requiring the talents of her absent maid. “It should be easy enough to check if he had leave at the time. I expect Mr. Hunter has already done that.”
Rupert snorted. “Do you honestly think our government is one hundred percent reliable when it comes to keeping paperwork? You’ve never been in the British Royal Flying Corps. It’s either fifteen smudged copies which are entirely illegible or none at all. No, mark my words—there’s something off about Patrick Cassidy.”