Mr. Cassidy was sleeping in. Understandable. He had a scare, and Addie asked her servants not to disturb him. Whenever he awoke, he should be given whatever he wanted.
Just like the old days, when guests slept their hard-earned hangovers away at one of Rupert’s wild house parties. The staff at Compton Chase was unused to company since her husband died, and even before that. Addie found it difficult—to say the least—to entertain his mistresses and rackety friends the year or two before he landed in Limbo. As a hostess, she felt like the soggiest of wet blankets, but it was very hard to remain cheerful when one’s husband was cheating with virtually anyone of the female persuasion.
Addie wondered what kind of progress Mr. Hunter made some twenty miles away as she sat at the breakfast table. She didn’t envy him one bit, returning to the scene of multiple crimes. No one, including the guilty party or parties, would like that. Would he be safe?
Her heart stuttered. A few months ago, she thought he was dead. Until he winked at her. The overwhelming feeling of joy—
And of her own guilt too. It was her fault he came so close to being murdered himself. Addie shook the memory away, locked it up in a padded room just like the perpetrator was in now.
“My, you’ve a hard case of the blue-devils, haven’t you?”
Rupert was inspecting the covered dishes on the sideboard. Thank heavens Forbes left the room to get her a fresh pot of tea.
She whispered anyway. “What are you doing here?”
“I caught a ride to Fernald Hall with your inspector and am back to make my report.”
Addie didn’t even bother correcting him. Really, what was the point? She supposed Mr. Hunter was as much hers as anybody’s.
Rupert fished out a mushroom from one of the chafing dishes and popped it in his mouth. “In the truck,” he said, chewing. “Reminded me of my flying days, bumping along the French countryside to the airfield, adrenalin flowing. Young Jack’s truck does not, as you might expect, provide the smoothest of rides. I must say your policeman friend is overly cautious in terms of speed, so it wasn’t too hair-raising or bone-shattering or much fun, really. But I’m glad I went.”
Did Rupert ride in the back, or next to Mr. Hunter? On top of the cab, like a genie on his rug? The image was preposterous, but then, this entire situation was preposterous.
Including Forbes entering just then with the tea. Rupert waggled his tongue at him and thumbed his nose. He never really cared for Forbes, as Forbes never really cared for him. The butler was always proper and deferential, but there was a slight hint of disapproval at his master’s life choices, shown by a discreetly raised eyebrow or a nearly silent sniff on requisite occasions. He knew Addie since she was ten years old and was a very loyal retainer.
“Thank you, Forbes.” Addie reached for the sugar. “I think I’ll take a cup with me out into the garden. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed, my lady. Though some might like a little rain to fall. I understand the farmers are concerned.”
Which reminded her of Lucas. She wondered if Rupert had word of him and hurried out the morning room’s French door that Forbes held open for her.
“Alone at last!”
“Not yet! We’re still too near the house,” she muttered. It was unfair that Rupert could read her mind when she didn’t have the faintest clue about what made him so puffed up with pride this morning.
She whisked him through the lavender-lined walkway, sloshing tea onto the saucer. At the end of the path was a weathered bench under an arbor of pink climbing roses. Jack was doing a yeomanly job keeping the garden watered, as their part of the world was in near-drought conditions. The ornamental lake on the estate was low, though the ducks hadn’t noticed.
Addie sat down, pointedly placing the teacup beside her so Rupert would have to stand. “All right. What is it? You look like the cat who’s drunk up every last drop of cream and is too full to ask for more.”
“This is a bombshell, my dear. I’ve cracked the case. I have every right to be proud. ” Rupert straightened his straight tie and shot his cuffs. It was as if he expected celestial trumpets. Alas, only crickets and birdsong were audible.
Addie rolled her eyes. “What makes you think so?”
“I can read, can’t I?”
“I don’t think that’s ever been in question.” Rupert was a Cambridge graduate, whose degree was more than adequate even if he paid very little attention to his tutors. He told her it wasn’t until the war, when he was surrounded by danger and death, that he’d come alive.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious to ask what I’ve read?” he huffed.
“I expect you’ll tell me, whether I beg you to or not.” Addie took a sip of her tea, enjoying Rupert’s disappointment.
“You are a flat tire.”
Addie had to agree with him there. She had not enjoyed herself much in weeks.
Months.
Years.
He threw up his hands in disgust. “I don’t know why I even bother. Here I am, offering the murderer’s head on a platter, so you can inform your inspector and get all the gold stars. I’ll never be able to take any credit.”
“Pooh. Every good deed you do here is in aid of you finally getting into Heaven. Don’t be so disingenuous.” For the hundredth time, Addie wondered how many more good deeds Rupert was required to do before they were both released from their unwanted partnership. She had a large bone to pick with the Fellow Upstairs when she saw him.
If she went in the right direction. Which she had every good intention of doing.
Rupert plopped down on the grass. “All right. I’ll tell you anyway, so you can get over to Fernald Hall in time to stop the madness. Evelyn Fernald is being blackmailed.”
“By the murderer?”
“Don’t be silly—she is the murderer. Or murderess? I’m not sure what’s grammatically correct.”
“Rupert! Stop joking!”
“Oh, now I’ve got your attention.” He gave her a superior smile, and she squelched her urge to slap it off his face. Violence was never the answer. Or hardly ever the answer. But when it came to Rupert, it was all too appealing, no matter how reformed and sympathetic he’d become.
“I don’t believe it. Not one word, no matter how grammatical you are.”
It couldn’t be true. Evelyn and Addie’s mother were friends. It was like accusing the dowager marchioness herself.
“Believe what you want. But yesterday evening the kitchen boy from the Pig and Shilling in Broughton Magna delivered a very interesting letter to Lady Fernald from Pamela’s ex-maid, Murray. She took refuge there before seeking new employment. If she has to ever work again. She accused Hugh’s mama of putting something in the fruit cordial Pamela drank every afternoon, and wants a substantial sum to keep quiet about it. A really substantial sum. The poor woman has delusions of grandeur, I’m afraid.”
Addie was almost too shocked to speak. “You read the letter?”
“But of course I read the letter. I explained my reading prowess earlier, didn’t I? Keep up, my dear. I could have brought the thing with me, but that would alert the old gal that the jig is almost up. It’s in her unlocked jewel case where any idiot can come upon it. Hunter should find it with no problem.”
Addie refrained from calling Rupert an idiot himself with some difficulty. “You went through Evelyn’s things?” The thought made Addie very uneasy. It wasn’t…cricket.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! The woman has killed people! It’s not as though I was rummaging through her brassieres and panties for prurient purposes. I do have some standards. She’s old enough to be my mother. You’ve got to tell the man to arrest her.”
Addie shook her head. Rupert was obviously off his own. “But that letter doesn’t sound like proof,” she said reasonably. “It’s just an ex-employee’s attempt at extortion. Which, may I remind you, is against the law too.”
“Well, damn it! Murder is a hell of a lot worse than blackmail. Have him arrest Murray too, I don’t care. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Murray is pretty convinced that Evelyn poisoned Pamela. Your inspector is a persuasive fellow—I’m sure he’ll get somebody to confess to something in one shake of a lamb’s tail.”
“He’ll want to speak to Murray first before he does anything,” Addie mused. Mr. Hunter did not go about half-cocked. Especially to accuse Lady Evelyn Fernald of murder! He was an ambitious man, and that would be the height of folly without something substantial to link her to Pamela’s death.
“He’d better hurry up then. They’re meeting tonight at the pub, or at least Murray demanded Evelyn’s presence. Says she’ll be sorry if she ignores the ‘invitation.’”
“Hm. Maybe Inspector Hunter can catch them red-handed. Eavesdrop somehow.” Not that Addie believed he’d hear anything worthwhile. Rupert’s “radio signals” must be getting crossed.
“I personally wouldn’t want to wait that long,” Rupert said, examining his fingernails.
“Why? What’s Evelyn going to do beforehand?”
“One doesn’t like to think of it. Murray, in my humble opinion, is in way over her head. It’s very foolish to threaten someone as formidable as Evelyn Fernald. She’s a dangerous woman.”
Addie picked up the teacup and rose. She might as well humor him. “I’ll go talk to Murray myself. Tell her to be careful.”
“Tell her to leave the area and put aside her greed. I wouldn’t put it past Evelyn to set fire to the pub.”
Was Rupert exaggerating? He had the ability to capture fleeting thoughts of those around him, which was too provoking when they were Addie’s thoughts.
“And then,” he continued, “you can go over to Fernald Hall and inform your policeman of the latest developments. Tell him Murray confided in you because of your kind face and trusting nature.” He lay back on the grass, closed his eyes, and was gone.
What was she to do? Ignore Rupert at her peril? He hadn’t been wrong before, just…incomplete. Still, what he told her seemed entirely out of the question.
Addie walked back to the house, stopping by the garage first to ask her chauffeur to ready the Rolls for her. After changing her clothes to make herself more presentable, she touched up her lipstick and ran a comb through her curly bob. She put on a pretty hat that Inspector Hunter had not seen.
Did gentlemen even care about hats? Probably not, until they had to pay the bills.
Perhaps she spent too much time primping. According to Rupert, this was an emergency situation, although Addie simply couldn’t take him seriously. He was desperate to get all this over with and was grasping at straws.
Addie found Forbes and informed him of her various destinations and set off for her old stomping grounds. The late morning really was remarkably fine, although gray clouds swirled inside Addie’s head. She spent a good portion of the drive working up a convincing explanation as to why she wanted to see Murray.
She hardly exchanged a word with the woman when she was a guest at Fernald Hall—why would she? Addie might gossip with Beckett, but most maids did not enjoy such warm relations with their so-called betters.
Addie had a front-row seat at the crumbling of British social stratification, and she was generally all in favor. The war had changed so much, despite people like her mother and Evelyn clinging to the familiar old ways. And it wasn’t as if they were deliberately unkind, merely traditional.
For example, in their view, men were meant to take care of women. Addie was aware her mother still had marital expectations for her, continually casting about for some eligible man to mend Addie’s opinion of husbands. But one husband was very much enough, especially since she couldn’t seem to shed him.
Deciding it was best to “accidently” bump into Murray somehow and commiserate with her over Pamela’s death meant that Addie had the barest of plans. How she would get around to bringing Evelyn into it was a mystery.
Evelyn! It was too absurd.
But Rupert was convinced. She hadn’t been able to trust him when he was alive, but now…
Addie prided herself on making the best of difficult situations. Her mother had raised her to get along with both dustmen and debutantes, and she hoped she could earn Murray’s confidence before—if Rupert was right—another awful thing happened.
If, if, if. Such a tiny word freighted with so much power.
She arrived at the pub, where lunch was in progress. Several people she recognized sat in the beer garden, their pints and pies in front of them. After being suitably polite as a favored daughter of the late marquess, Addie excused herself and went inside, her eyes adjusting to the cozy dark room. All the tables were occupied, a big change from the war years.
The landlord, Bill Parks, greeted her effusively. A dozen years ago, she spent many an evening here with Lucas and other young friends, nursing a cider while the boys proved their manliness by arm-wrestling and drinking a little too much away from their parents’ eyes. Bill never let them get out of hand, though, and had taken many a lad—and a few girls—home in his pony trap after last call.
Between sets of darts and heated disagreements about the village cricket team, they had discussed the problems of the world as only the naive and innocent can do. The world still had more than its share of problems, but Addie was smart enough now to know she couldn’t solve them, with an infusion of cider or without.
And too many local boys had never returned to play cricket again.
She gave Bill a hug and caught up with his laconic version of local affairs, conscious that the clock was ticking. But she didn’t want to be rude, so let him ramble on uninterrupted. When she finally asked if she could see Murray, he shook his head.
“Up and left this morning, she did. Came here Thursday with her carpetbag in quite a state. Don’t blame her for not wanting to stay at Fernald Hall one minute longer. So much sadness there. The poor woman said she couldn’t even bear to go to the funeral. But she must have forgotten something back at the house—she sent a note with one of my boys after supper, and Sir Hugh’s mother came to see her about it first thing today.”
So Rupert was half-right. “Lady Fernald was here?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. She’s not as top-lofty as all that. Why, I fixed her a lemon shandy myself a time or two. Lovely woman.” He sighed. “Awful business. Those poor people. Haven’t they had enough trouble? I gather they still have to bury the governess, though that won’t be as much of a fuss as it was for young Lady Fernald.”
“Did she say where she was going? Murray, that is?”
“Sorry, Lady Adelaide. I expect Miss Murray has to earn her bread like most of us and walked to the station. What with one thing and another, I didn’t notice—she was all paid up for the two nights and didn’t give me a goodbye kiss. She’s probably bound for London and an employment agency. Told me Sir Hugh gave her a fine recommendation; I imagine Lady Fernald will speak highly of her as well. They were upstairs half an hour or more.”
“Da—uh, drat. My friend Lady Grimes needs a lady’s maid, and I thought Murray would be perfect. On the odd chance she comes back, could you tell her to get in touch with me?”
“Of course, my lady. I trust your mother and sister are well?”
“Yes, thank you for asking. How is Mrs. Parks?”
“Just the same. Keeping me on my toes. She’ll be sorry to have missed you, but she’s gone to the outdoor market in Stroud. Left me on my own to deal with the tourist crowd.”
“I’m so glad business is good! Please give her my best.”
Once she was outside, her smile wavered. Addie slid back into the driver’s seat and put on her gloves. There was nothing for it. Lady Grimes to the rescue once more.