British Manor Murder (15 page)

“Nonsense.” Gerald drained his glass and promptly refilled it. “Stuff's rather thin, if you ask me. Goes down like water.”

“I think we're all a bit on edge,” said Desi in a soothing tone.

“Well, it's not at all pleasant having police in the house,” declared Lady Wickham, sailing in and casting a rather disapproving eye on the group. “I believe it's teatime.”

“I'll put the kettle on,” said Poppy with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

“Oh, let me,” said Lucy. “You must be exhausted.”

“I am, rather,” admitted Poppy. “I can't think why. I didn't really do much today.”

“It's stress, Mummy,” said Flora. “It wears you out.”

“Nonsense,” declared Lady Wickham, plunking herself down in the middle of a sofa and leaving no room for anyone else to sit. “When I was a girl, there was no such thing as stress and I do think that nowadays it's simply an excuse for all sorts of bad behavior. ‘I would have replied to your invitation, but I was simply too stressed.' That sort of—” she dropped her thought, observing Quimby entering through the French doors.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” he began.

“Well, you should be,” said the dowager. “You're intruding.”

“I have something rather important to tell you,” he said, looking at Poppy.

“Well, go on,” said her ladyship, impatiently.

“It's bad news, I'm afraid.” He paused a moment, allowing everyone to prepare themselves.

“Well, don't keep us hanging,” ordered Lady Wickham. “If it's bad, it certainly won't improve with keeping. Best to tell it and get it over with.”

“The police have taken the vicar in for questioning,” he said as the kettle began to shriek and Poppy got up to make the tea.

“The vicar!” exclaimed Perry. “That's preposterous.”

“I can't believe it,” said Desi.

“Well, I think it's high time,” declared her ladyship. “I always thought there was something suspicious about him.”

“The only thing you found suspicious about him is his skin color,” said Flora.

“I simply don't trust black people. It's as simple as that,” said Lady Wickham, accepting a cup of tea from Poppy. After examining it she handed it back. “I do hate to be a bother, Poppy dear, but I do think this milk is a bit off.”

“You're the one who's a bit off,” continued Flora. “I can't believe you've decided Robert is a criminal simply because he's black.”

“He hasn't been arrested or charged,” said Quimby. “It's as they say . . . he's helping the police with their enquiries.”

“I think we all know what that means,” said Flora, implying something worse.

Poppy busied herself opening a fresh bottle of milk and fixing a second cup of tea for her aunt, but she gave her daughter a warning look. “The police have information that we don't have.”

Flora reacted angrily. “You're just as bad as Aunt. Robert's been so good to us. It's as if he's a member of the family.”

“Oh, heavens,” moaned Lady Wickham. “Perish the thought.”

“Well, I do not believe in deserting my friends,” said Flora. “I'm going over to the vicarage to see Sarah. She must be beside herself with worry. She might even need someone to stay with the boys.”

“And you're going to be the child-minder?” inquired Gerald. “That would be a first.”

“Your father has a point,” said Poppy. “Sarah doesn't need visitors now. You'd merely be a complication. I think you should stay home.”

“Why must you all be so horrible?” demanded Flora, putting on her jacket. “I'm going, and if I'm not needed, I'll come home.”

Lucy found that she agreed with Poppy, but for a different reason. She remembered the inspector's warning that a dangerous murderer was at large. “I don't think you should go,” she said. “It might not be safe.”

“I refuse to be afraid in my own back yard,” declared Flora.

“Well, then,” said Lucy, “I'll go with you. You shouldn't go alone.”

“Oh, all right!” snapped Flora as Lucy grabbed one of the waxed jackets off its hook and followed her out the door.

Chapter Fourteen

L
ucy felt extremely awkward, tagging along with Flora who didn't even deign to acknowledge her presence as she marched purposefully along the path to the vicarage.

“It's so pleasant here,” said Lucy, hoping to strike up some sort of conversation. “And the garden is so lovely. You're very lucky to live in such a beautiful place.”

“I guess,” muttered Flora.

“I don't really know them, but the Goodenoughs seem to be such a lovely couple. This must be terrible for them,” continued Lucy as they passed the maze. “Do you know them well?”

“Kind of,” said Flora, keeping her head down, studying the path.

“When Sue and I had tea at the vicarage—” Lucy tripped on a root and nearly fell, but managed to save herself by executing a series of awkward maneuvers.

“Look,” said Flora, turning to face her. “I'm really fine on my own. I know every bump and twist on these paths. There's no need for you to come, too.”

Lucy was not impressed by Flora's bravado. The girl looked so frail that it hardly seemed possible she could make it to the vicarage, much less fight off an attacker.

“There is a murderer on the loose,” said Lucy, in her mother-knows-best tone of voice. “I don't think it's wise for anyone to be wandering about alone.” She gave an uneasy glance in the direction of the afternoon sun covered with clouds. “Especially in the rain.”

“I don't know how that man came to get himself killed and stuffed in that priest's hole,” said Flora, “but I'm quite sure it has nothing to do with me.”

“You can't be sure of that,” said Lucy. “We don't know the killer's motive. For all we know, the killer could be some psychopath, some serial killer who simply enjoys killing people and hiding their bodies in unusual places.”

Flora almost grinned, finding this amusing. “I suppose that sort of thing happens more in America. . . .”

“No, we go in more for mass shootings of innocent schoolchildren and police killing people they've arrested, especially if they're black,” said Lucy, causing Flora to raise her eyebrows in surprise. “You Brits, on the other hand, are much more imaginative, what with your poisons, nooses, and lead pipes.”

“Is that what this is to you?” asked Flora, challenging her. “A game of Cluedo?”

“Absolutely not,” said Lucy. “I hate violence of any kind, and I also hate seeing an innocent man accused of a crime.” She resumed walking. “Of course, we can't be sure that the police are wrong and that Robert is innocent.”

“I'm sure,” said Flora, falling into step beside her and surprising Lucy as she easily kept up with her brisk pace.

Lucy was struck by Flora's absolute faith in Robert's innocence, but couldn't share it. She was older and, if not wiser, more experienced, and knew that life was sometimes complicated. She could think of any number of reasons why Robert, or anyone, might commit murder and some of them—like self-defense—were completely justified.

When they arrived at the vicarage, the grassy yard was empty except for a soccer ball abandoned by the boys. The kitchen door, however, was ajar and they could see Sarah and the boys sitting at the table, eating their evening meal. Flora tapped on the door.

Sarah jumped up and invited them in. “We're just having tea. Will you join us?” She bit her lip, then added, “Since Robert's not here, there's plenty of food.”

“He'll be back in no time, looking for his supper,” said Flora in an encouraging tone.

“I wish I could believe that,” said Sarah, collecting plates and mugs from the tall kitchen dresser and setting them on the table.

Lucy and Flora were soon tucking in to a delicious shepherd's pie, accompanied by a fresh garden salad and gallons of strong, hot tea. When they'd finished eating and the boys were dismissed to do their homework, Lucy and Flora helped clear the table.

“Do you have any idea why the police think Robert killed Cyril Harrison?” asked Lucy, spreading a piece of cling wrap over the remains of the shepherd's pie.

“Apart from the fact that he's the only black man in the county?” countered Sarah.

“They must have had a better reason than that,” insisted Lucy, getting snorts from both Sarah and Flora. “Did he have a history with Cyril?”

“Years ago,” admitted Sarah, “when he was a young curate, he was running a boys' and girls' club in Hoxton. He got in a dispute with Cyril over one of the kids, but that was years ago.”

“What was it about?” asked Flora, scraping a plate into a container of food scraps intended for the compost heap.

“Wasn't that poor kid who died of an overdose in the maze from Hoxton?” asked Lucy. “Eric something or other?”

“Probably just a coincidence,” said Sarah, “but I'm not surprised. Everything in Hoxton was about drugs. Cyril was trying to get one of the regular club boys to sell drugs to the others and Robert, well, I remember he was very upset about it.”

“Did he threaten Cyril?” asked Lucy. “Did they fight?”

“I can't remember if it actually came to blows,” said Sarah, who was bent over the dishwasher. “In most unchristian terms, he probably just told Cyril where to go.”

“So Cyril was a drug dealer,” said Lucy.

“Hardly what you'd expect of Harrison's child,” said Flora. With a snap, she replaced the lid on the container of compostables.

“I wonder if the kid Eric had some connection to Cyril,” mused Lucy.

“Oh, probably,” said Sarah. “We like to think that drugs are an urban problem and a lower-class problem confined to council housing, but that's not the reality at all. Opioid addiction is everywhere and it's about time we started treating it like the disease it is, instead of criminalizing it.”

Everywhere indeed, thought Lucy, wondering exactly what business had brought Cyril to Moreton Manor. Was it a desire to see his mother or was Eric one of his customers? Or both?

Their chores complete, the three women stood awkwardly in the kitchen. It was time for Lucy and Flora to leave and let Sarah get on with supervising the boys' homework, but they were reluctant to go.

“I'm not terribly worried about Robert,” said Sarah in a reassuring tone.

“How so?” asked Lucy.

“Well, once they have established a time of death, it will be easy enough for him to produce an alibi. He is absolutely religious about writing everything down in his calendar, you see, and he's a very busy man.” She smiled. “He hasn't had time to commit a murder!”

“That is good news,” said Flora.

Lucy wasn't so sure, however. Her experience with criminal investigations had given her some insight into the way police operated, and she knew that a strong alibi was often seen as a red flag. Most people couldn't remember what they did the day before, and innocent people didn't bother to build alibis.

“Thanks for the dinner,” said Lucy, remembering her manners. “If you need anything, don't hesitate to call.”

“Right,” added Flora, pausing at the door.

“Well,” said Sarah, “you might mention Robert in your prayers.”

Lucy wasn't normally given to praying, but Robert's situation was definitely on her mind as they walked back to the manor, reaching it just as the rain started.

* * *

Once in bed, she found it hard to get to sleep. She doubted very much that the police were interested in Robert simply because he was black and she wondered if his dealings with Cyril back in Hoxton had been as straightforward as Sarah had claimed. Lucy had found Robert to be a charming dinner companion, and she admired the warm and easy relationships he had with Sarah and the boys, but she also knew that people could change. Perhaps Robert had some secret that Cyril had threatened to reveal, a secret that could destroy the life he had created since leaving Hoxton. It was possible, she thought, as she finally drifted off.

* * *

She woke up later than usual, and when she went downstairs to the great room she found Sue was just leaving, eager to see Camilla's feather fascinator that had finally been delivered. Left to her own devices, Lucy found there was just enough coffee left in the pot to fill her cup, which she took outside to the terrace. She was sitting in the sunshine, savoring the coffee and the fine day when two women came through the gate and seated themselves on the teak garden bench.

“It's quite nice here, isn't it, Madge?” commented the one with badly dyed hair cut in a mannish style. She was dressed in jeans and a sparkly top and was holding one of the maps of the manor given to visitors when they paid admission.

“I'm glad to get off my feet,” said her companion, who was similarly dressed but had unwisely chosen to wear a pair of high-heeled boots. “I forgot how these boots pinch my bunion. It hurts something awful, it does.”

Lucy was quite sure the two women were day-trippers who had no business being in the part of the garden reserved for the family, but she didn't know how to broach the subject. She wasn't even sure it was her responsibility and wondered if she should call someone.

The matter was decided for her when one of the women addressed her. “Pardon me,” began Madge, “but could you tell me where you got that cuppa? I'm parched, I am.”

Lucy glanced down at the mug in her hand, noting that it was decorated with the Moreton Manor logo. She realized the woman must think she was sitting in an outdoor café and decided she had to clarify the situation. “I'm afraid you've wandered into a—”

“Ooh, you're not from around here, are you?” interrupted Madge.

“I bet she's from America!” exclaimed her companion.

“I am,” admitted Lucy. “I'm from Maine.”

“That's near Boston, isn't it? I have a cousin who lives there. Perhaps you know Dennis Maitland? I think he lives in Marblehead.”

“I'm afraid I don't,” said Lucy. “And I have to tell you that you're actually trespassing on a private area. This garden is reserved for the family and their guests.”

“You don't say,” said Madge, raising her eyebrows. “It doesn't look like much, if you ask me. I'd expect toffs like them to have a nicer garden, wouldn't you?”

Her companion agreed. “I would. There's really nothing here but that sad climbing rose, and the furniture is pretty much past it.”

“It's a shame, really, when you think how nice some of that plastic outdoor furniture is,” continued Madge.

“And very reasonable, too,” added the companion.

“Well, I guess they put most of their effort into the parts that are open to the public,” said Lucy, getting to her feet. “The gate over there will take you back to the public area.”

“And how did you come to be here, in this special private area?” asked Madge, narrowing her eyes.

“I'm a guest of the family,” said Lucy, feeling rather annoyed at the women's persistence. “I haven't had my breakfast yet. So if you'll just move on . . .”

“Do tell,” said the companion, who had gotten up from the bench and was standing next to Lucy. “What does the earl eat for breakfast?”

“If I was rich, I'd have a big fry-up every day,” said Madge, who had also gotten up from the bench and was examining the developing buds on the climbing rose.

“I hate to disappoint you,” said Lucy, “but it's mostly Weetabix and fruit.”

“That's how these rich folk stay so thin, I expect,” said the companion, wandering over to join Madge by the rose plant that was clambering up the side of the manor. “What are you looking at, Madge?”

“Aphids. Look here.”

“Oooh, you're right.”

“Better get the gardener on it right away, dear,” said the companion, speaking to Lucy.

“I will,” said Lucy, “but you really have to leave. Now. Or I will have to call someone.”

“There's no need to get all shirty,” said Madge, shifting her carry bag from one arm to the other.

“We're just being friendly, is all,” said the companion, taking Madge's arm. “I guess we know where we's not wanted, don't we Madge?'

“Indeed we do,” said Madge as the two made their way, in a maddeningly slow fashion, to the gate.

Once they'd finally gone through, Lucy considered latching it, but remembered that various family members and manor employees went through it all the time. There had to be a better way, she thought, considering the ease with which Madge and her friend had entered the private garden.

As she thought about it, Lucy realized the manor had virtually no security system at all. There were no keypads requiring insiders to enter a number code, there were no ID cards with magnetic strips or readers to scan them. The manor relied on the guides and other workers to keep a watchful eye on the visitors. If no one was looking, which seemed to be case this morning, anyone could just walk in and make themselves at home.

Lucy supposed that Cyril, as Harrison's son, had a legitimate reason for being in the manor, but what about his killer? Could it have been an intruder? Someone with absolutely no connection to the manor except the fact that Cyril happened to be there? It was possible but unlikely, she decided as she went inside in search of something to eat. Anybody could have killed Cyril, but that left the problem of the secret room. As upsetting as it was, she had to conclude that the murder was an inside job after all.