Saturday
In the end, there was a choice between seven utterly unsuitable cars, and the truck that young Jack Robertson used to fetch gardening supplies. That vehicle, because it was part of the Compton estate, was so immaculate that one could have dined happily on its flatbed without incident. There was only the vaguest whiff of spent blooms and compost, and the leather seats gleamed with saddle soap, thanks to the elderly grooms who maintained the garage and clearly missed their horses.
Jack had no objection to Dev borrowing the truck for the morning. It was his day off, and he and Beckett were to picnic later but would walk to their preferred spot on the land. Dev had no idea how many acres Lady Adelaide possessed—hundreds, probably. He was very much out of his element here, although everyone made him feel accepted.
But he felt remorse—he was using Lady Adelaide’s home as a base of operations, hiding a potential suspect there, and possibly giving her the wrong impression about their relationship again.
The devil of it was, when he was with her, he enjoyed their conversations. Enjoyed looking at her.
Far too much.
He kissed her a few months ago. But that kiss was not to be repeated. She was a distraction he didn’t need, and couldn’t afford, in all senses of the word.
So Dev did what he did best—compartmentalized, focused solely on the family and friends at Fernald Hall and reviewed the case in all its opaqueness as he drove those twenty miles through the green countryside.
For a city fellow, he had an unexpected appreciation for Gloucestershire. When he was here on the Grant case last August, he very much enjoyed tramping down the lanes to think.
He wished a good brisk walk would help him now. A policeman for more than a dozen years (with a hiccup in the middle for his war service and recuperation when his foot was nearly blown off), he had never encountered anything quite as baffling as this Fernald business.
A beautiful, young, unfaithful wife, poisoned. The husband would be the obvious suspect in other circumstances, but Hugh Fernald, because of his immobility and clear affection for his wife, was unlikely. But could someone have acted under his direction?
A poor relation, with little to no influence. Why would someone arrange her death to appear to be a drunken accident? No one would benefit from her death, unless it was to silence her.
A soldier. Friend. Shot and buried for nearly a decade. What had the man done to deserve such a fate?
Dev knew these three disparate deaths were related, but damned if he could see how. And Cassidy’s alleged mishap was just the icing on a most indigestible cake.
He drove through the open gates of Fernald Hall, its distinctive Tudor chimneys visible over the trees at the end of the long driveway. If anyone spotted him in the truck, they’d think he was a tradesman and expect him to go round to the back. But he rolled up to the nail-studded front door, and it wasn’t long before Trim opened it, a frown upon his face until he saw the vehicle’s occupant.
“Inspector Hunter! Are you expected? No one told me.”
“I should have called first.” Dev deliberately had not. He hoped to arrive before the household was awake, although any element of surprise was going to be lost once the servants got wind of his presence.
“We thought you returned to London.”
“I would have, save for a directive from Deputy Commissioner Olive,” Dev fibbed. “Patrick Cassidy has been reported missing.”
Trim looked flummoxed. “Missing, sir? We thought he stayed in Town to, uh, avoid the unpleasantness here.”
“No. He never met the fellow he was to have lunch with Wednesday. An important business acquaintance who reported it, he was that worried. It’s been more than seventy-two hours since Cassidy was last seen. I’d like to speak to everyone who had an interaction with him before he left. And if you would be so good to see that his belongings are packed up, I’ll take them with me.”
“Is that usual, Mr. Hunter? What if he comes back here?”
“Scotland Yard is reliably safe, Mr. Trim. It even has a safe. I’ll make sure his possessions are returned to him intact.”
The butler nodded. “Of course. I’ll see to it. I presume you’d like to interview the kitchen staff. One of the maids brought up his breakfast tray—I’m not sure which one. Mrs. Lewis will know. And then there’s Evans, the chauffeur.”
“You didn’t see Cassidy leave?”
Trim winced. “I did. I opened the door for him, as I was nearby when he came down. But that was all. I don’t even think he wished me a good morning. He was late leaving for the first train. It wasn’t our fault—his breakfast was brought up at the time he requested, but he was still getting dressed. Evans waited for him in front of the house for quite a while.”
“What was your impression of him that morning?”
“Well, as I said, he was in a rush. He seemed annoyed.” Trim paused. “His hair wasn’t combed to its usual standard, but then he put on his hat.”
“He showed no signs of illness?”
“I wouldn’t say so. Mr. Cassidy looked perfectly healthy to me, but of course I’m no expert. Do you suppose he’s fallen ill somewhere?” the butler asked.
“Anything is possible. Cassidy definitely left before Miss Barlow’s body was discovered on the back stairs?”
“Oh, yes. A good half hour before. And well after Lady Adelaide departed.”
Dev pulled out his new notebook. “I’m curious if he had any dietary requirements or preferences. Would you recall offhand, or do you need to consult your book?”
“I’d have to look in the book. The past week has been very stressful, you know.”
Didn’t Dev just. “Thank you, Mr. Trim. Will you also notify Sir Hugh that I’m here when he’s awake? I don’t want to disturb him, but I’d like a word with him too when it’s convenient.”
Strictly speaking, he should ask the baronet’s permission to speak to the staff first. But damn it, three murders had been committed, no matter what was decided at the inquest. “I know my way to the kitchen.”
It was good that Dev’s sense of direction was impeccable, for the layout of Fernald Hall was Byzantine. He passed several surprised housemaids, who were carrying breakfast trays upstairs.
So much for his attempt at stealth.
Mrs. Lewis was squinting at a list in her hand, bedecked in a spotless cap and apron. She looked pleased to see him, a welcome he was not generally used to.
“Mary, you finish Mr. Davies’s tray. It’s just the tinned fruit left. What can we do for you, Inspector? I didn’t think to see you again.”
“I had a change of plans. Mr. Cassidy is considered a missing person, and I have a few questions for you and the kitchen staff.”
“Really! We wondered where he’d got to, didn’t we, Mary? He and Lord Waring both, though at least Lord Waring took his things with him. I do hope they’re all right somewhere.”
“Are the other guests still here?” Dev asked.
“Mr. Davies is staying until a decision is made about the improvements. Everyone else plans to leave after lunch tomorrow. To try and make the best of the week and support Sir Hugh.” The Jordan sisters, Clifford, and Bradbury. The captain was cutting it fine joining up with his regiment, wasn’t he?
“Can you remember who brought Mr. Cassidy’s tray to him Wednesday morning?”
“I did, sir,” Mary said, vigorously cutting into a can of grapefruit segments with an opener. “But when I brought it down, he’d barely touched it.”
“What was on it?”
“Everything he asked for,” Mrs. Lewis said. “Coffee, Irish oatmeal, wheat toast.”
“Who made the tray up?”
“I did myself. I remember, since I cooked a special pot of porridge for him every morning. He said it was like a good bran mash to his horses for him. Got him ready for his day. Very fussy, he was.”
“Who else knew of the oatmeal?”
“Why, it was in this year’s book.” She pointed to the Welsh dresser, where a diary lay next to a wooden bowl of walnuts. “Are you thinking he’s been poisoned too? I wouldn’t do such a thing, Inspector! Surely you know that!”
Mrs. Lewis was offended, and Dev regretted the thrust of his questions. But really, he couldn’t omit Mrs. Lewis from his list just because he liked her.
“No, no. I just wondered how he seemed before he left, and if anything he ate might have caused him distress. He never arrived at his luncheon appointment.”
“Well, you can take the oatmeal away and have it tested!” The housekeeper went into the pantry, emerging with a tin that had “Mr. Cassidy” written on a strip of masking tape. “He brought it with him in his suitcase! As if our old-fashioned English oatmeal wasn’t good enough for him.”
“Thank you.” Anyone who visited the kitchen had access to it, then. Cassidy himself was in the kitchen with Lady Adelaide. Had he tampered with it while he was wooing her with hot milk?
The young maid picked up the tray, looking anxious to escape Mrs. Lewis’s wrath. “Mary, before you go upstairs, how did Mr. Cassidy seem to you Wednesday morning?”
“I dunno, sir. All I did was set his breakfast on the table in his room. He never said nothin’ but ‘enter.’ He was doing up his tie in the mirror and never looked at me or even said thank you.”
“Well, I thank you, Mary.” Dev smiled at her, and she turned scarlet as she fled the kitchen.
“Now, what’s this all about, Mr. Hunter? The man’s probably gone to meet a lady friend somewhere. Thinks he’s God’s gift, doesn’t he?”
“Did he flirt with you, Mrs. Lewis?”
The housekeeper gave him a look that reminded him of his mother. “Don’t be silly. But he was even after Lady Adelaide’s little maid, her eyes as big as saucers. I don’t need a man like that around my girls.”
Did she dislike the fellow enough to make him sick? Dev really hoped not.