British Manor Murder (17 page)

“Absolutely,” agreed Sue. “I must say, I'm burning with curiosity. From what she says, it's a fine example of Georgian architecture.”

When they arrived at the gates to Fairleigh, they found them closed and locked, and any view of the house was blocked by an imposing stone wall. Driving on, however, they found the imposing stone wall soon became the ordinary wire fencing that enclosed most of the farms in the area. That fence was broken a bit farther on by a utilitarian gate that opened onto a dirt road.

“Shall we?” asked Sue with a nod at the gate.

“Not if it's locked,” said Lucy. “If it's open, well, that's as good as an invitation, right?”

“Right,” agreed Sue, pulling the Ford onto the verge and braking.

As it happened, the gate was unlocked and the two walked along the dirt road that ran between two large, empty pastures.

“No livestock,” said Lucy. “Maybe she sells the hay.”

Sue kicked at one of the many weeds growing in the dirt roadway. “I don't think this is used much.”

“It doesn't seem like an active farm,” said Lucy. “At the manor, tractors and trucks are always coming and going.”

“How far should we go?” asked Sue as they began climbing a slight rise.

“Let's just check out that little woods,” said Lucy.

As she guessed, a thin strip of woodland marked the edge of the lawn that surrounded the ancient house, and they could clearly see Lady Wickham's home. It was much smaller than Moreton, but still very large, and did have the classic Georgian proportions that her ladyship was so fond of.

“Rather spooky, isn't it?” said Sue.

The dreary weather didn't help, but it was obvious, even from a distance, that the house had seen better days. A large urn, one of a pair that sat on either side of the front door, had fallen from its base and was lying on its side. Brown, dying vines covered the walls, and clumps of grass sprouted in the drive. The place seemed deserted, and no watchman or groundskeeper approached to question their presence.

“No wonder Aunt Millicent is in no hurry to leave Moreton Manor,” said Lucy.

“It looks to me as if her ladyship has come on hard times,” said Sue as they made their way back to the car.

* * *

The Jugged Hare, it turned out, was practically just around the corner in a charming thatched cottage and the two friends enjoyed browsing amongst the bread tins, plate racks, Windsor chairs, and Toby jugs that were displayed for sale. Sue was contemplating buying a Nottingham lace panel when Lucy spotted a charming porcelain figurine of a ragged man accompanied by a little dog with an adorably bent ear that exactly matched the description Flora had given of the missing statuette.

“That's a very fine piece,” the shopkeeper told her, noting her interest. “That's Saint Roch. He was driven away by folks because he was a leper. The little dog brought him bread, keeping him alive until he was miraculously healed.”

“That's quite a story,” said Lucy. “Do you have any idea how old it is?”

“That I can't say,” admitted the shopkeeper. A balding man with a very red face, he was dressed in a faded brown cardigan sweater. “It's not from one of the English potteries, y'see. My guess is that it's French. But,” he added, lowering his voice, “it's got excellent provenance. It comes from a fine lady, it does, and that's no lie.”

“Really?” Lucy suspected she knew who the fine lady was and leaned a bit closer. “Can you tell me who?”

“Now that I can't. Sworn to secrecy. She's a bit short of the ready and is selling off a few bits and pieces.” He paused. “If you're interested, I could do a bit better on the price.”

Lucy turned the piece over and saw the price written on the little sticker was one hundred pounds. “That is a bit rich for my blood,” she admitted, “but I do like the piece very much.”

The shopkeeper took the statuette from her and checked the price, then went off to consult his records. “Eighty pounds?” he inquired when he returned from the back room.

“Sold,” said Lucy.

Sue watched with amazement as her notoriously thrifty friend forked over four twenty pound notes.

Encouraged by the reduction in price, Sue attempted to bargain for the lace panel. “It's machine made,” she said, offering half of the ticketed price of fifty pounds.

“Of course it is,” retorted the shopkeeper, indignantly pulling himself up to his full five feet four inches. “That's what Nottingham lace is, and it's very popular these days. I sell a lot of it.”

“Forty pounds?” offered Sue.

“Sold,” said the shopkeeper.

When they were back in the car, Sue spoke up. “I didn't think china figurines were your thing, and certainly not at that price. It's pounds, not dollars, you know.”

“I know,” said Lucy, “but I have a hunch about this little guy.”

“What sort of hunch?” asked Sue, unfolding the map.

“I think it might be a missing piece from the manor,” said Lucy. “I heard Flora saying that a St. Roch figurine had mysteriously disappeared.”

“And putting two and two together . . .” prompted Sue.

“Well, it wouldn't be the first time that an impoverished old lady found a way to supplement her meager income by stealing, would it? Maybe it isn't even her ladyship. Maybe it's Harrison.”

“I think you're reaching,” said Sue. “Harrison seems to be a pillar of respectability.”

“It's true that she seems incorruptible, but I think it may simply be a façade. And you've got to admit, she'd do anything Lady Wickham asked her to do. She's insanely devoted to the old woman.”

“I think it's more likely that Cyril is the thief,” said Sue. “According to Sarah Goodenough, he was hardly a model citizen. Maybe he was at the manor to steal valuables and was discovered and that's why he got himself killed.”

“By a member of the family?” asked Lucy, incredulous.

“They're the ones most likely to know about the secret chamber, what with all those games of Sardines,” said Sue, barely able to keep a straight face.

“Oh, you're teasing me!” exclaimed Lucy.

“Only to make a point,” said Sue in a serious voice. “I think you may be getting too involved. Remember, we're guests and we have no business poking into the private affairs of Perry and his family. No family is perfect.”

“Most families don't have dead bodies in their closets,” said Lucy.

“Everyone has a skeleton or two, though,” said Sue. “And they don't appreciate having their dirty laundry aired publicly, pardon my mixed metaphor.”

Lucy smiled, imagining a couple dancing skeletons stuffing dirty clothes in a washing machine. “Well,” she said, stroking the little figurine she was holding in her lap. “It will be interesting to see if this really is the missing statuette.” And even more interesting, she thought to herself, would be seeing how the various members of the family reacted to her discovery.

Chapter Sixteen

T
he sun was coming out when they returned to the manor. The day's visitors were drifting along the path to the parking lot where their cars and busses awaited them. Aware that she and Sue attracted some curious glances as they drove through the gateway marked
PRIVATE
, Lucy couldn't help but feel a bit smug. She had never flown first class, she'd never had front-row seats at the theater, and she didn't have a platinum credit card so it was a rare treat to find herself on the VIP side of the rope.

Looking down at the package in her lap that contained the figurine the shopkeeper had wrapped with great care, she wondered what it was like to be one of the privileged few, like Perry and Poppy and the rest of their family. They came and went from grand houses that were filled with priceless treasures. Did they really take it all for granted? Or did they pause now and then in front of the Renoir painting or the Hepplewhite chair and thank the fates for their extraordinary good fortune?

When she and Sue entered the great room, it was clear that Poppy was not enjoying her exalted position. “We're going to have to go begging to English Heritage,” she was saying to Gerald, waving a piece of paper. “There's no way we can afford a million and a half pounds. No way at all.”

“It's got to be done,” said Gerald, taking the paper from her and studying it. “If we don't stop the dry rot, it will wreck the whole place.”

“Just thinking about the paperwork makes me weak,” said Poppy, sinking into a chair.

“There is another way, you know,” said Gerald. “That Vickie girl has some good ideas, and she's had some interest from Cadbury and Watney's.”

“I'd rather fall on my knees in front of that stuck-up English Heritage examiner than use the manor to sell chocolate bars and beer,” said Poppy with a sigh.

“Come on, Mum,” said Flora, drifting into the room. “Maybe Watney's will brew a special ale for us. Moreton Manor IPA—drink as if you're to the manor born.”

“Perish the thought,” groaned Poppy, shaking her head. Smiling wanly, she addressed Sue and Lucy. “Sorry to burden you with our problems. How was your day?”

“Interesting,” said Lucy, unwrapping the figurine. “I found this darling little piece in an antique shop. What do you think about it?”

“I think it looks a lot like one of ours,” said Poppy, narrowing her eyes.

“It is!” exclaimed Flora, who had picked up the piece and was examining it closely. “See this little chip on the dog's ear? I'd know it anywhere.”

“We must reimburse you,” said Poppy. “Did you pay a lot for it?”

“Let it be my gift,” said Lucy. “A thank you for your generous hospitality.”

“Wherever did you find it?” asked Flora.

“In a shop called The Jugged Hare.”

“That place near Aunt Millicent's house? In Hazelton?” asked Flora, exchanging a meaningful look with her mother.

“In Riverdale, I think,” said Lucy, unwilling to admit she'd made the connection.

“You know what this means, don't you?” Flora posed the question rhetorically. “It proves what I've thought for some time . . . that things have been disappearing from the house. We need to get to the bottom of this.”

The door opened and Harrison entered the kitchen, bearing her usual burden of a tray overloaded with crockery.

Flora continued. “Tomorrow, I'm going to enlist Winifred to check the inventory of the manor's contents, starting with the library.”

Lucy watched in horror as Harrison seemed to lose her grip on the tray and various cups and saucers began sliding toward one end. She regained control at the last moment.

“Can I help you with that?” offered Lucy.

“No, thank you, madam,” replied Harrison, adding her usual sniff. She set the tray down on the island and turned to Gerald. “Her ladyship asked me to request a dry sherry, if you have one.”

“I think we can manage that,” he replied, stepping over to the drinks tray and choosing a small stemmed glass.

“She would prefer to have a bottle in her room,” said Harrison, busy filling the dishwasher. “She's not feeling up to coming down for meals just yet.”

“Of course,” said Gerald with an amused smile as he handed over a bottle of Tio Pepe.

Harrison set the bottle on the empty tray and carried it out of the room with an air of great solemnity that was broken as soon as the door closed behind her and everyone erupted into giggles.

“Shame on us all,” said Poppy.

“If we didn't laugh, we'd cry,” said Gerald, who was opening a bottle of wine. “Rose all right?” he asked, getting nods all round.

After dinner, when Lucy and Sue were climbing the stairs to their rooms, Lucy voiced a revised opinion of Gerald. “You know, at first I couldn't imagine what Poppy sees in Gerald. I even suspected he was carrying on with Vickie.”

“If he isn't, I think he'd like to,” said Sue. “He does seem sort of a stereotype—a Barbour-wearing, hard-drinking, tweedy snob.”

“He is all that,” agreed Lucy, “but we got a glimpse of the man beneath the bluster tonight. I suspect he behaves exactly the way Poppy expects him to, the way she thinks all husbands behave, and as a good wife, she turns a blind eye to his failings.”

“I think you're right, but I still wouldn't want to find myself alone in a secluded spot with him,” said Sue.

“Better safe than sorry, as my mother used to say.”

* * *

Next morning, DI Hennessy and Sgt. Matthews were back at the manor for a second round of questioning. The police weren't saying much, but word spread quickly that Robert was no longer a suspect. As Sarah had insisted, he had an unshakeable alibi. He'd been having dinner with the Bishop of Canterbury at the time of Cyril's death, determined to be between six o'clock and midnight on April 27.

DI Hennessy had nothing to say on the subject when he interviewed Lucy, however, and he wasn't very interested in her suspicions about Lady Wickham and Harrison.

“I overheard Flora saying a favorite figurine of hers was missing,” said Lucy. “A little ceramic figure of Saint Roch with a little dog. You can imagine how surprised I was when I found a figurine matching her description in an antique shop practically around the corner from Fairleigh, which happens to be the home of Lady Wickham. The shopkeeper said it came from a titled lady who had come on hard times and was selling off some of her things. Except it wasn't Lady Wickham's to sell, after—”

“Actually, Mrs. Stone,” the inspector interrupted, “all I really need from you is a statement of your whereabouts on the evening of April twenty-seventh.”

“Of course,” said Lucy, feeling rather put down. “That was the day we got here. We had dinner with the family and went to bed early. I was pretty wiped out with jet lag.”

“You slept alone?” inquired the inspector.

“Of course. My husband is in Maine,” responded Lucy. It was only after she'd spoken that she realized her virtue had left her without an alibi. “I certainly didn't spend the evening killing Cyril,” she added. “I didn't even know him or anything about the secret room.” She watched as the inspector wrote it all down in his notebook. “I gather you've figured out how the secret room works.” She hoped he wouldn't be able to resist showing off a successful bit of investigation.

“Trap door. Neatly hidden under the floor and a rug. No sign it was there unless you knew.”

“And I suppose whoever knew about it is the killer,” said Lucy.

“Not necessarily, but so far nobody is admitting to knowing about it.”

Lucy thought of Desi and Flora's youthful explorations of the manor. “Not even—” She stopped, thinking it better to not mention it.

“Yes?” coaxed Hennessy. “You were about to say . . .”

“Nothing, really,” said Lucy, “except that with all the research and restoration that's gone on through the years, you'd think it would have been discovered.”

“Exactly,” said the inspector, leaning forward as if he was going to share a confidence. “I suspect some of the people I've interviewed here at the manor haven't been entirely forthcoming.”

“I suppose that's par for the course,” said Lucy, smiling.

“Sadly, it is,” the inspector said, nodding. “The trick is figuring out who's lying and who's telling the truth.”

“Well, I'm going to be helping Flora and Winifred with the inventory of the manor's contents and if anything interesting turns up, I'll let you know.”

“That does put my mind at ease,” said Hennessy, dismissing her with a wave.

It wasn't until she was outside, in the stable yard, that she realized he was being sarcastic.
Never mind
, she told herself. She hadn't exactly been impressed with his investigation so far, and prospects for a sudden breakthrough seemed slim. Most crimes were never solved and it looked as if that was going to be the case for Cyril's murder, too. Even if the police had someone in mind, it seemed doubtful they could make a case against the murderer. Time wasn't on their side, and neither was the fact that the crime had taken place in a manor owned by one of England's oldest aristocratic families. The law was supposed to apply equally to all, but Lucy knew that was not always the case, not in England and not home in the US, either.

She caught up with Sue in the library where the little figurine of St. Roch was back in its proper place, and asked about her interview with Sgt. Matthews. “Did you tell her about the figurine and our suspicions of Lady Wickham and Harrison?”

“I did,” said Sue, “and she seemed quite interested.”

“Really? Hennessy just gave me the brush off when I told him.”

“Well, that's the difference between men and women,” said Sue with a smile. “Women are more open-minded.”

“I think you mean they're more willing to think poorly of one another,” said Lucy.

“That, too,” agreed Sue as Winifred arrived, accompanied by Flora and Willoughby.

Winifred had come armed with copies of the manor's inventory, which she admitted was incomplete but was a starting point.

“You might find items that are not listed, so please jot them down. And if something is missing, we mustn't conclude that it's gone. It might just be in another room. Things do get moved, especially in the rooms that aren't on the tour.” She paused. “I'm quite confident about the public rooms, but with over one hundred smaller rooms, it's very difficult to keep track of things.”

“I think you will find that the library is in good order,” said Willoughby, pursing his lips.

“Everything present and accounted for.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Winifred.

Looking around the huge room, however, Lucy wasn't convinced. Dotted here and there hung oil paintings and the walls were lined with shelves filled with hundreds of leather-bound volumes. A series of blue and white vases were arranged on top of the bookshelves, along with an occasional marble bust. The room also contained numerous couches and chairs, tables holding lamps and assorted bits of decorative china, as well as potted plants and vases of flowers. Even the floor was covered with numerous antique rugs laid over the wall-to-wall carpet. This room alone, she decided, must contain thousands of items and it seemed impossible that any one person could keep track of it all.

In fact, she realized, spotting a jib door that she would never have noticed if it hadn't been left ajar, the manor was full of back passages and hidden doors that made it quite easy for a person to move about without being discovered. She'd learned on her tour of the manor, that the grand master bedrooms once occupied by the earl and countess were connected by a discreet passage so the couple could meet privately without the entire household knowing whether they were spending the night together or not.

“Where does that door lead?” she asked Willoughby, pointing to the jib door.

“That's the little library. Gerald likes to sit there with his cigars and agricultural journals.”

Winifred suggested they work in pairs, so Lucy and Sue were assigned to the hallway outside the library. Willoughby and Flora were given the job of checking the contents of the rooms along the hallway, which included a billiard room, a boot room, and several guest bedrooms. Winifred herself was doing a quick survey of the library and then planned to go on to Gerald's little hideaway.

The plan was for one member of the team to assess the various items in the assigned space and for the other to check them off on the printed inventory. Sue and Lucy were working their way down the corridor, with Lucy describing and Sue checking, when they heard a dreadful crash in the library. They rushed in and found Winifred on the floor where she'd landed after tumbling from a library ladder.

“Are you all right?” asked Lucy, bending over the fallen woman.

She was on her back, and one leg was twisted beneath her in an impossible position.

“My leg . . .” she began, then fell back with a groan.

“Don't try to move,” said Sue, reaching for the phone. “I'm calling for help.”

“We're here and you're going to be all right,” said Lucy, taking Winifred's hand and holding tight.

Winifred was obviously in quite a bit of pain, her face was white and she was pressing her lips together. “I can't believe I was so careless,” she whispered.

“That's how it is with accidents,” said Lucy. “One minute everything is fine and the next you're flying through the air.”

“The ladder just slid out from under me when I was reaching for the Thomas Aquinas.”