British Manor Murder (13 page)

“If the body got in there, there must be some sort of opening,” argued Winifred.

Perry turned to the historian. “Willoughby, you've been studying this building for months. Have you found any reference to walling off the window?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Willoughby, moving on to his second sandwich.

“Then I guess we have no choice,” said Perry with a sigh. “Poppy will be devastated.”

The police officers trooped off to begin the process of dismantling the wall and uncovering the body. Perry went to inform Poppy, and Lucy and Sue began collecting empty tea mugs and crumpled napkins.

“I can't believe there's no record of such a significant alteration,” said Winifred, furrowing her brow and searching through the pile of documents.

“I'm sure you're right, but I haven't found it yet,” said Willoughby. “You know how it is with these places,” he added with a shrug. “They've never had an organized, systematic scholarship—what we professionals would consider standard operating procedure. In times past, they wrote it all down and tucked it away in a chest or someplace they thought would keep important papers safe. Two or three generations later, somebody decided that old chest was an eyesore and banished it to the attic or a pantry. Think of that inventory they found at Burghley. Used to wrap china, wasn't it?”

“I suppose you're right,” said Winifred. “And I imagine they'll find the secret entrance once they've got inside.”

“Mystery solved,” said Willoughby.

“Well, one mystery, anyway. There's still the question of the corpse's identity.”

“Of course,” said Willoughby, busy rolling up the documents and replacing them in their glass case.

Lucy and Sue departed with their loaded trays and returned to the kitchen. They found Lady Wickham dozing on the sofa, and Robert and Poppy sitting at the kitchen table. The vicar was doing his best to console Poppy.

“You must think me awful,” said Poppy, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “After all, a person is more important than a building, right? Instead of worrying about the wall, I should be thinking of this poor corpse and the people he left behind.”

“It's completely understandable,” replied Robert, covering her hand with his. “The manor is part of your heritage. It's like a member of your family.”

“You're so understanding,” said Poppy, giving Robert a long look before lowering her eyes.

As Lucy and Sue loaded the mugs into the dishwasher, they were aware of the demolition work taking place in the ancient building. Through the windows, they saw the crime scene officers moving back and forth, carrying equipment. They could even hear the faint whine of power tools grinding through the thick stone wall, as well as bangs and crashes, and occasional grunts and exclamations. A sudden cessation of noise indicated the barrier had been breached, which was followed by an ear-piercing shriek.

Lady Wickham started, suddenly awake, and raised her head. Robert and Poppy came to attention at the table. Lucy and Sue were frozen in place at the sink.

The silence was broken when Sgt. Matthews brought an ashen-faced Harrison into the kitchen. “We need some strong tea with lots of sugar. She's had a shock.”

“Why, Harrison, I wondered where you'd got to,” said Lady Wickham, looking up from her magazine.

“I am sorry, m'lady,” said Harrison, quickly wiping her eyes and tucking the tissue into a pocket. “I was gathering up your things. We had to move you, of course, because of the work. Them taking down the wall, you see,”

“Very well,” said her ladyship in a rare exhibit of cooperation.

“Well, to make a long story short, I saw the body and it gave me quite a turn,” continued the lady's maid.

“Quite natural, I'm sure,” said Lady Wickham.

“It was me son, Cyril, you see,” said Harrison, waving away the cup of tea that Lucy had prepared for her.

“Your son?” inquired the elderly countess, whose face had gone quite white. Then she quickly added, “I had no idea you had a son.”

“Oh, how awful!” exclaimed Poppy, full of sympathy.

“I'm so sorry!” added Sue.

“What a dreadful shock that must have been,” said Lucy, proffering the tea once again.

“Do sit down,” urged Poppy. She glanced at the vicar. “Perhaps a prayer?”

“No, no,” insisted Harrison, waving them all away. “It's time I got her ladyship settled in her new room”—she paused and added with a disdainful sniff—“such as it is.”

Poppy turned to Sgt. Matthews. “May Harrison take my aunt to her room?”

“Of course,” replied the sergeant, writing in her notebook.

“I shouldn't think I need permission to move about in my nephew's house,” snapped Lady Wickham, accepting a helping hand from Harrison to rise from the sofa. Leaning heavily on her maid's arm, she was led away from the kitchen.

“My goodness,” said Poppy after they'd gone. “You'd think it was Aunt Millicent who lost her son, instead of the other way around.”

“Grief takes people differently,” said Robert. “Poor Harrison is most likely in denial, clinging to her routine duties as a way of avoiding the dreadful truth.”

“That doesn't change the fact that Aunt Millicent is a monster,” said Poppy, looking up as DI Hennessy entered the kitchen, followed by Perry and Quimby.

“We have made a preliminary identification of the body, one Cyril Harrison,” said Hennessy. “Considering the identity of the victim and his relationship to a member of the household, not to mention the location of the body, I will require a complete list of employees and family members and will be conducting interviews over the next few days.”

“We are prepared to offer every cooperation,” said Poppy. “Will it be possible to keep the house open for the visitors?”

“What about the hat show?” asked Perry. “Can it open as scheduled?”

“If I may,” began the vicar in a reproachful tone. “Might I suggest a prayer?”

Somewhat chastened, they all fell silent and bowed their heads.

“O God, we give you thanks and praise for your goodness and pray that you may give to the departed eternal rest and let light perpetual shine upon them, and most especially on Cyril.”

They all joined in the final amen, but Lucy knew that while Cyril might or might not find perpetual light and eternal rest, there would certainly be no rest for those left behind at Moreton Manor.

Chapter Twelve

“N
ow, if you'll show me the way, I would like to offer some support to the lady's maid, the victim's mother,” requested the vicar.

“Do you really think that's a good idea?” asked Desi. “She didn't seem to want any sympathy.”

“I won't press the issue,” replied Robert, “but I do want to let her know that the church is there for her if she should find a need for support and consolation.”

“Well, it's your funeral,” said Poppy with a sigh. “Aunt Millicent's been moved upstairs here in the family wing. Desi can show you the way.”

They left and Poppy collapsed in a chair at the big kitchen table, her chin propped on one arm. “I suppose we ought to do something about dinner,” she said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“I don't think anyone's very hungry,” volunteered Flora. “I know I'm not.”

Lucy didn't like the way this was going, not one bit. She was starving, although somewhat ashamed to admit it. “Aunt Millicent will certainly expect something,” she said in an effort to divert blame.

“There's an Indian take-out place in the village, isn't there?” suggested Sue. “Lucy and I could pick up some supper there.”

“What a good idea,” said Perry. “I haven't had Indian in ages.”

“I simply adore chicken korma,” volunteered Vickie, who had just arrived in the kitchen with Gerald. She seemed to have made a full recovery from last night's binge, although she had substituted a pair of nubby-soled flat driving shoes for the perilously high-heeled Louboutins.

“What about Lady Wickham? Will she be okay with Indian?” asked Lucy.

“Absolutely,” said Desi, returning to the kitchen. “It reminds her of the glory days of the Raj.”

“But only if we put it on a Crown Derby plate,” said Poppy with a laugh that was verging on the hysterical.

“I'll go dust one off,” said Perry, handing a set of keys to Sue. “You can take the Ford. That's probably the most familiar to you. Before you leave, you better check with the inspector and make sure it's all right.”

“Maybe they'll want some food, too,” said Sue.

When Sue and Lucy found the inspector in the stable yard, he was deep in conversation with a scene-of-crime officer and wasn't interested in Indian food. “No, no, none for us. We'll fend for ourselves, but thank you for asking.”

“It's all right for us to leave the estate, then?” asked Sue.

“Just don't try to leave the country,” he advised.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” said Lucy, speaking more honestly than the inspector imagined. She was finding the whole situation absolutely fascinating, and her reporter's blood was up, keen to discover the story behind the murder. “Do you have any leads so far?”

“Early days, early days,” said the inspector, dismissing them.

When they reached the garage, actually converted from part of the stable, they found Sgt. Matthews busy checking out the vehicles parked there. In addition to Perry's Ford Focus, there were several Land Rovers, Flora's Mini Cooper, and a sporty MG convertible.

“Quite a collection,” said Lucy.

“Never ceases to amaze me,” said Sgt. Matthews, “how some people have so much and others have so very little.”

“We're supposed to take the Ford to go get Indian food,” said Sue. “The inspector said it was all right.”

“I'm just getting the registration information,” said the sergeant. “Routine.”

“Any leads so far?” inquired Lucy. “It seems like one of those locked room mysteries. Something Agatha Christie might write.”

“I've seen some pretty weird stuff and this one is right up there,” said Sgt. Matthews. “Did you happen to notice anything out of the usual in recent days?”

“Only the awful smell,” said Sue.

“Well, there was the body in the maze,” offered Lucy.

“The OD,” said Sgt. Matthews with a nod.

“There might be a connection,” said Lucy.

“Perhaps,” admitted Sgt. Matthews. “We'll be looking into it.”

“We're only visitors,” continued Lucy, responding to the sergeant's dismissive tone, “but it does seem to me that there's quite a bit of tension in the household.”

“How so?” asked the sergeant.

“I think it's just the unexpected arrival of Lady Wickham,” said Sue, giving Lucy a warning look. “She's rather difficult and demanding.”

“It's more than that,” said Lucy, disregarding Sue. “Poppy and Gerald don't seem to be getting along, Flora's anorexic, Gerald disapproves of Desi being a dancer, and I think there may be money problems”

“Money problems?” asked Sgt. Matthews, somewhat incredulous.

“Poppy frets about money all the time. There's a lot of expense running a place like this and there's dry rot and paintings falling off the walls. Things are not as perfect as they seem,” said Lucy.

“They never are,” said Sue in a cautionary tone. “But Lucy's one of those glass-half-empty people. On the other hand, there's a lot of excitement about Perry's hat show. It's due to open in a few days and it's already generating quite a buzz.”

“I don't suppose you knew the victim, this Cyril Harrison?” asked the sergeant.

“How could we?” replied Lucy. “We've only been here a few days.”

“People get around,” countered Sgt. Matthews. “I understand you live near Boston, which is quite popular with British travelers.”

“Sorry,” said Sue. “Never met the man—not here and not in the US.”

“Perhaps you heard some mention of him here?” asked Sgt. Matthews. “Or Eric Starkey?”

“That's the man in the maze?” asked Lucy.

“Right.”

“Not at all,” said Sue. “I never heard either of those names until now.”

“I don't think they even knew of Cyril,” volunteered Lucy. “Even Lady Wickham seemed surprised to learn that her maid had a son.” But even as she spoke, Lucy wondered if Lady Wickham had been telling the truth when she claimed she didn't know Harrison had a son.

“Now that doesn't surprise me,” said the sergeant, “since the upper classes tend to think only of themselves.” She paused, then shrugged. “Somebody knew Cyril, that's for sure, and you know what else? They didn't like him.”

“For sure,” said Sue, unlocking the door to the Ford. “We better get going. People are starving.”

“Death has that effect on some people,” said Sgt. Matthews with a dismissive wave.

Sue started the car and Lucy hopped in, feeling slightly disoriented to be sitting on the left-hand side as a passenger. “Can you do this? Drive on the wrong side of the road?”

“Not sure,” said Sue, carefully backing the car out of the stable and driving toward the gateway. “We'll find out.”

After Sue had successfully negotiated the gateway and was proceeding at a stately pace along the drive, Lucy spoke up. “You know Sergeant Matthews was questioning us, don't you? At first, I thought she was just chatting us up, being friendly, but then I realized that we're suspects, too.”

“Was it when she asked you if you'd ever met Cyril in Boston?” asked Sue in a rather sarcastic tone.

“That was a definite clue,” admitted Lucy, “but I think it has to be an inside job. Somebody here at the manor killed Cyril.”

“I'm putting my money on Vickie,” said Sue. “She's an outsider, and so was Cyril.”

“You just don't like her,” said Lucy.

“True, but you have to admit, she's the one who was most likely to have known Cyril. She's a party girl. She's a networker and could have run into him anywhere. I betcha she knew Eric. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if her little binge last night was a reaction to his death.”

“You might be on to something,” admitted Lucy. “But what about Cyril? We don't know anything about him. Why do you think he was going to parties and networking?”

“I don't have a clue about Cyril, true, but I do think Vickie's the sort of girl who gets around, who isn't above a bit of slumming,” said Sue, attempting to make a left turn onto the wrong side of the road and causing some other drivers to honk at them. “Oops,” she said, correcting her course.

“Do you want me to drive?” suggested Lucy.

“No, no, I'm getting the hang of it,” insisted Sue as the car strayed over the line toward the opposite lane. “Do you have a favorite suspect?” she asked, swerving back into the proper lane.

“Willoughby,” said Lucy, keeping a nervous eye on the oncoming traffic.

“The librarian?” exclaimed Sue. “Mr. Milquetoast?”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” said Lucy, “and he's the one most likely to know about the secret room.”

“But he insisted he didn't know about it,” insisted Sue.

“He could have been lying,” said Lucy.

“A librarian wouldn't do that,” said Sue. “Think of Miss Tilley back home.”

“Willoughby is nothing like Miss Tilley,” said Lucy, who was very fond of the elderly, retired librarian. “ I can't help feeling there's something a bit off about him.” She fell silent for a moment, studying a green field dotted with white sheep. “If it's not Willoughby, I think it's probably Gerald.”

“There's more to Gerald than meets the eye,” agreed Sue, signaling left and turning right at a stop sign, much to the surprise of an approaching driver. “I don't trust him.”

“So we're agreed?” asked Lucy as Sue pulled into the parking area in front of the Indian restaurant.

“Agreed. Chicken korma, assorted curries, jasmine rice, samosas, and plenty of naan bread, right?”

Lucy chuckled at this abrupt change of subject. “Right.”

* * *

It was getting on to eight o'clock when they returned with the take-out food and appetites had definitely improved in the interim. There was great interest as Lucy and Sue unpacked the food and set it out on the kitchen island. Poppy added a pile of plates and a handful of silverware, Flora produced a stack of paper napkins, and Gerald, after considerable thought, decided that a Riesling was the perfect wine to accompany Indian food.

“Grub's ready,” declared Perry, inviting everyone to partake.

Vickie was the first to grab a plate and was just about to add a dollop of chicken korma when Harrison sailed in, grabbed a plate and shoved her aside. “Her ladyship specially requested chicken korma,” she said, scooping up spoonful after spoonful of the stuff until it was all gone, then topped it with a small mountain of jasmine rice.

She set the plate on a tray, then added a huge piece of naan bread, a wineglass, a few pieces of silverware and a napkin. Then, tucking one of the bottles of Riesling under her arm, she lifted the tray and carried it out of the kitchen.

“Well, I'll be gobsmacked,” said Vickie. “She took every last bit of chicken korma.”

“There wasn't all that much,” said Sue. “They were running out at the Curry Palace and they gave us all they had.”

“Well, I guess it's curry for me.”

Soon everyone had filled their plates and settled at the big scrubbed pine table. There was little conversation as they all focused on eating.

It was Desi who finally said what they all were thinking. “Did we know that Harrison had a son?”

“I certainly didn't,” said Poppy. “And we've known Aunt Millicent our whole lives. She was our mother's favorite sister-in-law. And Harrison, too. She's been with Aunt forever. If we visited Fairleigh, she was there; if Aunt came to visit us, so did Harrison. They were—they are—like Siamese twins.”

“But Cyril was never mentioned?” asked Lucy.

“Never,” said Perry. “I mean, we used to call Harrison terrible names. The Miserable Maid. The Spiteful Spinster. The Woeful Wonder. Remember?”

“I still call her names,” admitted Gerald. “To myself, o' course. Wicked Witchy Bitch comes to mind.”

“Now I feel rather awful about it,” said Poppy.

“I don't,” said Gerald, refilling his glass. “The woman's awful—and ugly to boot.”

“She's certainly devoted to Aunt,” offered Flora.

“Apparently to the exclusion of her own son,” said Sue.

“I wonder if he came here to do one of those birth mother reunion things,” speculated Lucy. “I mean, maybe she'd put him out for adoption so she could keep working. Maybe that's why nobody knew about him.”

“I doubt it very much,” said Desi. “I suspect he was up to no good.”

“Probably right,” agreed Gerald. “Who would want the Wicked Witchy Bitch for a mother?”

A short rasping sound caught their attention and everyone turned round to see Harrison standing in the doorway, tray in hand. “I'm just after a bit of the Major Grey's for m'lady. She does like a little bit of chutney with her chicken korma,” she said, approaching the table. “I do hope I'm not intruding.”

“No, no,” said Poppy, hopping up and plucking the jar of chutney off the table. “Take this. We have more in the pantry.”

“And if you don't mind, her ladyship would appreciate another bit of that funny flat bread.”

“The naan, of course,” said Poppy, producing the last piece. “Anything else? Or will that be all?”

“That will be all,” said Harrison, turning rather smartly on her heel and leaving.

Once the door had closed behind her Flora and Vickie exploded in nervous giggles, which earned them a disapproving look from Poppy. The others, however, were embarrassed and finished the meal in silence.