Read Malice in Miniature Online
Authors: Jeanne M. Dams
“That's kind of you. I'd like that, and I'm sure Richard would, too. He's not working today, of course, it's far too wet, but I'll ring him. Would you like us to pick you up, or shall we meet somewhere?”
“I thought I'd pick you up. I'd like to make sure Sir Mordred is feeling all right. He was looking very ill yesterday.”
“I think he's fine today, but come fetch us if you like. There's a pub not far from here that does excellent bar food, if that's okay with you?”
“Perfect. Around twelve-thirty?”
The rain made me extra cautious about my driving, and my Milquetoast style was not appreciated by others on the road, but I got to the Hall without incident and exactly on time. I had to ring the bell; the door was locked, but not guarded. Presumably Inspector Morrison had found more productive work for his men.
Meg answered the door herself.
“Ready to go?” I asked.
“Ready. What a marvelous hat!”
“I'm glad you like it,” I said demurely. I had taken an old orange knit cap and dressed it up with feathers given to me by a dear friend, including one rakish pheasant feather. “At least the rain can't hurt it much. Is Richard coming?”
“I am.” He appeared behind Meg. “I'm in working clothes; I hope you don't mind.” He eyed my hat doubtfully.
“Oh, don't let the hat bother you. I wear them everywhere except the bathtub. Got into the habit when I was young and somehow never got out of it. You look fine. Umâwould one of you like to drive, since I don't know where we're going?”
They exchanged amused looks, and Meg led the way to her car.
It wasn't until we had ordered and settled ourselves that I brought up my agenda.
“Meg, I saw the new education director the other day, but I can't remember her name.”
“Butler. Dulcie Butler.”
“Oh, my, she didn't look at all like a Dulcie. Very efficient woman, more of an Edith or a Caroline, or something of that sort.”
“I suppose,” said Meg with a smile, “that she didn't have gray hair and a commanding personality when she was christened.”
“Maybe not gray hair,” I said doubtfully. “I'll bet she's always been the commanding type; that kind are born, not made. I stand in awe of anyone who can make that many children behave. I used to be a teacher, and I could handle my own class well enough, but not hordes of somebody else's kids.”
“She's very good,” agreed Meg. “There's a lot more to the job than supervising the school tours, of course, and she's barely had a chance to begin, what with all the upsets, but she's going to make a real difference. I think, when the current crisis has been sorted out, the Museum is going to be really well run. It'll make a big difference to have a full staff. I'm glad Sir Mordred is finally getting around to seeing to it.”
“Has he had any luck finding a new accountant?”
“Not so far, but he's looking. I think he's close to hiring a new assistant director, as well. It'll be a happy day for me when I can get back to doing what I'm supposed to be doing, looking after the collection.”
“How about a housekeeper?”
“That'll come after he has the Museum re-staffed. I know he needs one badly, but he cares more about the Museum than he does about the Hall, or about his own comfort, for that matter.”
Richard had been silent, but he spoke up at that point “I intend to ask him for a second undergardener. I can't go on trying to hold together a place this big without more help. I'd like to have Finch full-time, but I don't think he'll agree to that.”
“You don't think Sir Mordred willâ”
“Sorry. I meant I don't think Finch will agree to come. He likes his independence. Sir M. wouldn't mind. He's always said Bob was a good man, and he thinks there was some mistake about the thefts. It's my opinion there've been no real thefts, just what you might call natural attrition.”
“I hope you're right, I must say.” I took a swig of my half-pint “About the thefts, I mean. And you might be surprised what Bob would agree to. He's in a bad way right now. He's lost a couple of jobs because of all the uproar at the Hall. Grossly unfair, but what can anyone do?”
Richard finished his beer and growled. “Pack of idiots. If they can't see Finch is honest, they deserve to have their gardens go to couch grass.”
“Indeed.” I drained my own glass, and our food arrived. Richard had another beer; Meg and I, mindful of the drinking-and-driving laws, switched to mineral water.
“So what do the two of you think about the latest developments?” I asked when we had taken the edge off our hunger. “Have you had any thoughts about the mysterious woman?”
Both of them shook their heads.
“We've thought and thought,” said Meg. “Richard's tried to remember a bit more of what she looked like, but of course he couldn't see details, and it's nearly a week ago, now. He can't even say how tall or fat she was, because of the angle, and the moonlight. He's pretty sure she wasn't young.”
“She moved a bit stiffly, like someone with a touch of arthritis,” Richard elaborated.
“Like me,” I said ruefully.
“Wellâ”
“It's all right. I'm not embarrassed about getting old and creaky. It happens to the best of us, if we're lucky. I'm just old on the outside, though, not on the inside.” I looked to see if they knew what I meant. They were too young to know from experience that a person's age doesn't have much to do with what the calendar says.
Meg looked polite, but Richard smiled, that warm smile that so changed his solemn countenance. “I know. My mother is like that. Nearly sixty, but she says she's younger than I am, and she acts it, too!”
“Good for her. She doesn't live around here, does she?”
He surprised me by roaring with laughter. “No, and she'd not be bicycling about the countryside doing in housekeepers if she did! But that's the sort of person we're looking for, I'd bet.”
Despite my resolution not to get into an exhaustive examination of all the possible women connected with the Hall, we ended up doing just that. Meg came up with more names than Richard did. He had little to do with the Museum staff, and he was sure neither of the maids at the Hall fit his mental picture. But Meg's names weren't much help, and she said she'd already given them to the police.
“There's really only Mrs. Butler. Oh, I knew why you were asking, Dorothy. But I'm sure it wasn't her. She's a nice woman, and anyway, why would she murder two people she scarcely knew?”
“Does she have a key to the Hall?”
“Yes.” Her blue eyes flashed. “She has to,” she added defensively, “for special events and that sort of thing.”
“Then she has to be considered as a possibility. I agree that she isn't likely, but I'd like to talk to her, anyway. Is she in today?”
Meg, rather unwillingly, said that Mrs. Butler was indeed working today, and added that she had better get back to work herself. She wasn't very happy with me, I could see. Neither was Richard. Well, they couldn't have everything. I'd gotten them out from under suspicion, but that meant other people had to be suspected. We drove back to the Hall in an uncomfortable silence.
When we arrived at the parking lot, I stopped them for a moment before they went their separate ways.
“I forgot to say, by the way, that I'm very happy for you both. Don't let what's happened spoil your happiness. You deserve it.”
Their acknowledging smiles were a trifle stiff, and very much alike.
“Now. Where would I be likely to find Sir Mordred?”
“I thought you wanted to talk to Mrs. Butler.” Meg still sounded annoyed.
“I do, but later. Just now I'd like to make sure Sir Mordred is well.”
“He's probably in his workshop, making furniture.” Meg sighed with the old grievance and shook her head. “He insists on stocking the rooms with reproductions, no matter what I say. And Mrs. Butler is on his side; she says the children appreciate the houses more if they're complete, which I suppose is true. Or if he's not there, you might try his rooms. He's been on the telephone a lot, trying to settle the staffing problems.”
“I'll try the workshop first. I'm sure I can find it, whereas his private rooms . . .” I made a face, inviting a laugh, and got it, though a grudging one.
“I'll lead you through the maze, if necessary.”
“Thank you, my dear. And give me some bread crumbs, so I can find my way out.”
She disappeared into the Hall and Richard down the drive, and I squelched through the parking lot, glad I'd remembered my wellies. They were heavy with mud by the time I reached the corner of the workshop; I stepped off the path to wipe them in the soft grass that surrounded the building.
I didn't mean to startle anyone. It was just that the grass muffled my footsteps. I paused in the doorway and spoke. “Anyone home?”
In the shadows by the far corner of the workbench a figure whirled, hand to mouth. Before I could say another word it sagged against the bench and started to slither to the floor.
W
ith a lunge that my joints and muscles would regret later, I managed to reach him before he hit the floor, and softened his fall a little. It was the least I could do, seeing as how I had caused his collapse.
He was out cold for a few moments, only a few, thank goodness. I aged a good deal in those moments, caught in an impossible predicament: I could neither do anything useful nor go for help. It was with enormous relief that I saw his eyelids flutter, but he wasn't quite functional for another five endless minutes. I helped him to a chair and hovered anxiously.
“Sir Mordred, I am most terribly sorry! I didn't mean to sneak up on you like that. Will you be all right alone for a little while? Because I need to get help. There's no phone out here, is there?”
“Noâphone,” he said vaguely. “Noâhelp.”
I remembered his phobia about doctors. Well, I intended to get a doctor, but I'd only upset him if I said so.
“All right, but I'll just run into the house and get some tea. You need to get warm. Here, I'll tuck this around you.” I stripped off my coat and laid it over him like a blanket. “Now don't you move; I'll be right back.”
I tried to run between the raindrops, but I was pretty wet anyway by the time I made it to the front door and rang the bell. If it hadn't been for the deep portico over the door I would have gotten much wetter; they took their time about answering the bell. Growing more and more frantic, I finally put my finger on the bell push and left it there. When the door finally opened it was with an angry jerk.
“The sign plainly says that we're not open. What do you thinkâ”
“Mrs. Butler, where's Richard?”
“What do you mean, where's Richard? Who are you? How do you know me?”
“My name is Dorothy Martin, and I need Richard Adam immediately!” I, too, can be commanding when I need to be. “Sir Mordred is ill and needs help at once. Please find Richard and tell him to go to the workshop with blankets, while I get some tea.” I strode off in what I hoped was the direction of the kitchen, leaving the suddenly galvanized woman to run like a rabbit down another corridor.
Fortunately, lunch was not long past. When I got in the general vicinity I could follow my nose down to the kitchen. It was deserted (I assumed Mrs. Hawes was resting from her noon-time labors), so I put the kettle on the hottest burner of the Aga and began to rummage for tea and a pot.
“And what,” said a loud voice behind me, “do you think you're doing, poking about in my cupboards?”
She stood in a doorway, massive arms crossed, the bosom of her white apron heaving with disapproval.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Hawes.” Now that Richard was presumably dealing with the emergency, I could afford manners again. “I'm trying to make tea for Sir Mordred. He had some sort of fainting spell in the workshop, and I thought he needed something hot.”
“Hmmph!” She didn't seem overly impressed, but she moved forward, quickly for a woman her size, and began laying out a tray with the necessities. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Dorothy Martin. We did meet, when my husband and I had tea in the kitchen that terribly stormy day.”
“Oh.” Either she didn't remember, or her memory was not pleasant. I didn't pursue it.
“Does Sir Mordred Have a heart condition, or something like that?” I ventured while we waited for the kettle to boil. “I did startle him today, I admit, and that's probably what made him faint, but I've seen him looking pretty pale and shaky on several occasions now. Do you know what doctor we should call?”
She sniffed and filled the teapot with boiling water. “Won't see a doctor. One of them Scientific Christians, or whatever they are. I've got no patience with that sort of nonsense. What have we got the National Health for, is what I say. Drop down dead one of these days, I tell him, and then where'll we all be? But he don't care for nothing but them toys of his.”
She thumped the teapot down on the tray. “Here's the tea. I hope you don't expect me to carry it out to him. I got the rheumatics something cruel, and I'm not traipsing out there on a day like this. Not to mention I need my rest. Doing the work of five people in this great barracks of a house, and at my age!” She thrust the heavy tray into my arms and clumped back toward the door into her quarters, breathing heavily as she went and slamming the door behind her with a loud thump.
I might have to rethink my opinion of Mrs. Hawes as a murder suspect.
Meanwhile, however, there was Sir Mordred. I put a few more cups on the tray and hurried back through the long hallways to the front entrance hall, where I filched someone's coat off the rack and squished my way to the workshop, tray in hand.
The lord of the manor was ensconced on a chaise longue that someone, probably Richard, had brought from some garden storage. It was the folding kind, and didn't look particularly comfortable, but it was well padded with blankets, and Sir Mordred seemed to be doing all right. His color was back, and so was his temper.