Rules of Murder (4 page)

He caught her hand, and her fingers squeezed his at the next explosion, a shower of red, white, and blue. After four more red bursts, each more impressive than the last, Drew gestured toward a stone bench a little way ahead of them, and they sat down.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s been quite an exciting night.”

“Sorry about that unpleasantness with Lincoln earlier. I should have warned you about him.”

“I’ve already been—” The blast of another round of fireworks overpowered her words and rattled the panes in the greenhouse standing about thirty yards away.

“That was loud enough for them to hear in London,” he said once the echoing boom had died away. “Must have been two or three at once.”

“We used to have this sort of thing all the time when we still had our house on Lake Michigan. The reflection of the fireworks on the water was the most beautiful thing.”

“You don’t still have the house?”

She shook her head. “When Mother and Daddy died, there was evidently a lot of debt to be paid, and the house went for that. I was ten, so I didn’t know much about it. I’m just thankful Uncle Mason made sure I was taken care of. He’s taken very
good care of me since then, even if some of Mother’s people thought he was a bit too extravagant.”

He chuckled. “Protestant work ethic and all that, eh?”

“Something like that. Don’t scoff now. There’s a lot of wisdom in that school of thought.”

“I wouldn’t dream of scoffing,” he assured her. “There must be something right in it if it produces such unaffectedly lovely creatures as you.”

With a hiss and a boom, another rocket exploded over them, bathing them in red light. When it faded, there was still a becoming pink tint to her cheeks.

“And what about your Protestant work ethic?” she asked, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Or perhaps the Church of England has its very own work ethic.”

“I daresay it does,” he replied. “I don’t know how much it’s rubbed off on me, though. I was raised in the faith, mind you, but you know how it is. One gets a bit old to be playing church.” The sparkle in her eyes faded, just slightly, and he hastened to add, “Of course, lord of the manor and all, I still attend services most times. Funny old Bartlett, the vicar. His homilies never have a thing to do with the texts he chooses.”

She smiled. “As long as he reads the text, I think it’s a good start. No one can really listen to those words and not feel them inside.”

“Perhaps that’s so. Once my father passed on, though, none of it seemed quite the same to me anymore.” He shrugged and looked down, not wanting her to see into his eyes just then.

“You loved him very much.”

“He loved me,” Drew replied with swift certainty. “And I never saw him do an unkind or dishonest thing all my life.” He smiled a little wistfully. “As Hamlet said of his own father, ‘I shall not look upon his like again.’”

She smiled, too. “My father was like that. I suppose every child of a loving father makes him into a bit of an idol.”

“That may be so. At least you had your uncle to look after you. Losing my dad—I guess I’ve been rather at loose ends ever since.”

“Uncle Mason has been awfully good to me. My faith meant a great deal to me too after I was left an orphan.”

“I can understand how you felt.” He looked up again, making his expression exaggeratedly sincere. “At the tender age of nine,
I
was left an orphan.”

“You were not,” she said with a giggle.

“I was,” he insisted. “But, being so young, I hadn’t a clue what to do with it, so I sent it back.”

Her laughter was covered by the fireworks’ grand finale, a last salvo of green and red and blue, hissing and booming, answered by thunder from the clouded sky. Then, save the faint sounds of music and laughter from the house, there was silence.

They sat for a few minutes not saying anything, and Drew felt as if he could stay there with her for a very long while indeed. He’d never felt quite this way about any girl before, especially not so suddenly. But did she—?

“Madeline?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light and conversational.

“Yes?”

“I think . . .” He reached over and took her hand. “I know we’ve only just met, but I’ve already grown terribly fond of you.”

He waited expectantly, but she said nothing. She didn’t even look at him.

“You haven’t told me how you feel,” he pressed after a moment, and she turned her face nearer to his, until their lips almost touched.

“Do I have to put it into words?” she asked, her voice low and languid, her eyes inviting.

He could feel the rush of blood in his veins. “Yes.”

She moved even closer and then gave him a quick, childish peck on the cheek. “I think you’re cute.”

She jumped to her feet and stood looking down at him with a pixie grin. After a stunned moment, he stood beside her, glad for the darkness that covered his flushed face.

“I see.”

She kissed the tip of one finger and pressed it to his lips. “I think you’re awfully handsome, and I’ve never been attracted to anyone half so much, but that may be nothing but moonlight and Bucks Fizz.”

Laughing softly, he shook his head and sat down again. “Fair enough.”

“Well, I
am
a tease,” she admitted, “and so are you, if you want the truth. Bringing me out here into this lovely garden and not even trying to kiss me. And looking at me through those long lashes. You should be ashamed.”

He laughed again. “And if I
had
tried to kiss you?”

She put her hands behind her back, a coy little gesture that made her all the more enticing. “I might have let you.”

“Or poured a drink down my shirt.”

She grinned at him still. “You can never be too sure.”

He drew one of her hands into his own and pressed it with a light kiss. “I thank you, mademoiselle, for returning me to my senses.” Looking up at her, he kissed her hand again, this time with tantalizing deliberation. “We’ll talk about this again one day.”

With a flash of lightning and a rattling clap of thunder, the sky ripped open, releasing a torrent of rain.

“Quick!”

He grabbed her hand and ran toward the greenhouse. It wasn’t
far away, but by the time they reached shelter they were both soaked through with cold rain and warmed with running and laughter. The smell of earthy decay inside the greenhouse seemed stronger than usual. There was also the faint odor of fresh paint and another nasty smell too, but rain did that sometimes. He hunted down a lantern and a dry match, and soon they had a small circle of light.

“I’m afraid your lovely dress is spoilt,” he said, plucking at her rain-spotted sleeve.

She laughed. “You’re not much better.” She pushed a lock of hair from his forehead and wiped away the little rivulet of water that had run down from it onto his nose.

“We shall look a sight, the pair of us, going back into the house like this.” He dared her with a smile. “We could stay out here and create a scandal. Or, I should say, have one invented for us.”

She pursed her Cupid’s bow lips and leaned conspiratorially closer, clinging more tightly to his arm. “You mean when they find us out here frozen to death?”

“Oh, I say, what an idiot I am. Of course you’re cold.”

He began struggling out of his sodden dinner jacket, but she stopped him.

“No, thank you. I’m drenched enough as it is.”

“Well—” He held up the lantern, shining its feeble light around the greenhouse. “Ah, just the thing. Come along.”

He marched her over to a pile of mackintoshes tossed in the corner.

“We mustn’t have you catch your death. It simply isn’t done.”

He picked up the coat on top of the pile and held it up for her to put on, but she wrinkled her nose, shrinking back. The nasty smell was stronger than ever now.

“It doesn’t look entirely clean, does it?” he admitted, a bit embarrassed.

She took the lantern and examined the next one down. “This one’s worse, I think. Smells sort of sickening.”

“Hold that closer,” he said, puzzling over the dark stain.

Something had spilled or soaked over the coat, and he pulled it back to see if the rest of the pile were in the same state. Madeline gave a sudden, stifled cry, and he grabbed the lantern and set it down before she could let it crash to the floor. She didn’t make another sound, but she clutched his shoulder painfully hard, her breath coming in little smothered gasps.

He flung the coat back into place and stood up, as shaken as she.

“Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

“Drew, that’s—”

“Come on,” he urged, and he led her back to the house, through the kitchen door, and into the chair nearest the fire.

“Are you all right?” he asked, dropping to one knee on the stone floor beside her. “Here, give me that, if you please.”

He snatched a drink from the tray Anna was taking to the guests and pressed Madeline’s hands around it.

“Drink that down. You all right?”

“I don’t—”

“Drink it,” he insisted, and she managed a sip.

“Is the young lady ill, sir?” Anna asked.

Drew looked up, distracted. “No. Yes. Go and get Mr. Parker straightaway, if you would, please.”

“Yes, sir.” She bobbed a tiny curtsy and disappeared through the kitchen’s swinging doors. A moment later, the doors swung again and Mason came into the kitchen.

“Drew? Madeline, my dear, what is the matter?”

Drew got to his feet. “We just found Lincoln in the greenhouse. I’m afraid he’s taken a load of buckshot to the head.”

W
e’re to touch nothing in the greenhouse and allow no one to leave the party until they arrive,” Mason said as he replaced the telephone receiver.

“I could have told you that much,” Drew muttered, wishing he could do something more than stand about waiting for the police. “Besides, it’s too late about the greenhouse. No telling what evidence we’ve ruined.”

“I’m sure the police can handle this,” Mason said, his face pale. “We’d best tell Dennison what’s happened. He can keep his eye on the guests, too.”

“Nick as well, if you don’t mind, sir. He can be quite useful from time to time.”

“Very well. Send Anna for them both, if you like. No need to tell her what’s happened yet. It’ll be all over the village by morning anyway.”

Soon Dennison,
père et fils
, joined them in the kitchen.

Keeping his voice low, Drew gave them the news.

“David Lincoln!” Nick said. “Of course, it stands to reason that someone would eventually—”

Madeline took a quavering little breath and hugged her arms around herself.

“Quiet, you brute,” Drew growled. “Why don’t you just make a general announcement?”

“Sorry.”

“Give me that.” Drew began to pull off Nick’s dinner jacket, intending to put it around Madeline, but Dennison interrupted.

“No need of that, sir. I have just the thing. I’m certain Mrs. Devon won’t object.”

The housekeeper had an old flannel wrapper she liked to warm at the kitchen hearth before she retired in the evening. Dennison handed it to Drew, who quickly swaddled Madeline in its capacious warmth.

“Good work, Denny.” He knelt again at Madeline’s side. “Better now?”

She managed a slight nod and a trembling smile.

“Good girl. Sorry you had to see that. And sorry this cretin has upset you.”

He glared at Nick.

“Now, see here, Drew,” Nick protested, “I know this is no game anymore. A man’s been killed, and the guilty party is most likely in the next room drinking Bucks Fizz. I think we should start questioning everyone.”

“We?” Drew felt a tingle of intrigue in spite of himself. “You mean—”

“Please, boys.” Mason glanced at his niece. “I’ve sent for Mrs. Devon to look after Madeline until the police have had a chance to speak to her. We can let them see to things from here on in.”

“But, sir,” Drew began, but he stopped when he saw the look on his stepfather’s face. “As you say, sir.”

Nick heaved a sigh of disappointment. “I suppose we shall
have to miss our opportunity to play Holmes and Watson, then, if the police are to see to things.”

Drew grinned a little. “All for the best, my man, all for the best. Our Miss Parker wouldn’t love us anymore if I took up smoking a foul-smelling pipe and you had a Jezail bullet in your shoulder or your leg. The stories aren’t actually too clear on which it is, so perhaps you’d best have one of each. Just to be certain.”

“Anything for our Miss Parker,” Nick agreed. “Still, it seems a shame. We could solve the thing and then see if Father Knox would approve of our methods.”

“We’re more likely to break all of his fusty ten commandments,” Drew said, “and that will make him so cross he’ll never let you read another of his stories again.”

“What shall I tell your guests, sir?” Dennison asked after he had given both young men a stern look.

Mason shook his head. “Nothing yet. No need to spoil everyone’s good time, so long as no one tries to leave. If anyone does, ask him to step into my study, and I’ll have a word with him myself.”

“I shall have the staff keep watch.”

“And post Peterson outside the greenhouse, if you would, please,” Mason said. “Just to be certain.”

“Very good, sir.”

As it turned out, none of the guests, save the guilty party, realized anything was amiss. The drinking and dancing proceeded uninterrupted, Mrs. Devon came into the kitchen to fuss over Madeline, and soon there was a discreet tapping on the kitchen door.

Drew answered it himself.

“Evening, sir,” said Police Constable Applegate. “I understand there’s been a bit of trouble.”

Drew peered into the darkness behind the constable’s gawky
frame in disbelief. “They didn’t send anyone down from Winchester?”

Applegate’s freckled face flushed red. “Chief Inspector Birdsong’s gone up to Skegness, sir. On holiday.”

“So you’re, ummm . . . it.”

“Well, Hodges had to stay back at the station,” Applegate said defensively. “But the chief inspector’s been wired. He’ll be down on the first train tomorrow.”

Nick only partially concealed a chuckle, and Applegate lifted his chin.

“I
am
a fully qualified police constable, you know.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Drew soothed. “Come in. It’s just we rather thought the chief inspector would come for this sort of thing. We don’t have much in the way of homicide round these parts, do we?”

“No, sir. I thought we’d never—”

Mason cleared his throat, and Applegate made his expression suitably solemn.

“Evening, Mr. Parker. I’m sorry to hear there’s been an unfortunate incident.” Applegate took out his official notebook and pencil. “I understand a Mr. Lincoln was the victim. Your houseguest, was he, sir?”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “And he was part owner at Farlinford. His father was one of my partners until he passed on.”

Applegate made the appropriate notations. “I see, sir. And Mr. Drew found the body?”

Mason nodded. “That’s right.”

Drew went to Madeline’s side. “Miss Parker and I.”

“Miss Parker is my niece,” Mason added.

“And the scene of the murder?” Applegate asked.

“The greenhouse.” Mason gestured toward the kitchen door. “This way.”

“If you’ll come along, sir.” Applegate motioned to Drew and then to Madeline. “And you, miss.”

“I should say not!” Mrs. Devon kept her arm around her charge’s damp shoulders. “And I will thank you, Jimmy Applegate, to ask the poor girl your questions straightaway so I can get her into some dry things and a warm bed. I fancy your mum would like to hear how you do your job without a thought for a young girl’s sensibilities.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Devon,” Madeline said. “If they need me to—”

“Is it absolutely necessary for her to go back out there?” Mason asked.

The constable glanced at the uncooperative faces surrounding him. Mrs. Devon was positively bristling.

“No, I don’t suppose so, sir,” he conceded. “Perhaps just a few questions and then I don’t suppose there would be any harm in just you and Mr. Drew going out with me. Has someone been watching the greenhouse to see it’s not tampered with?”

“Our gardener,” Mason said.

“That’s all right then. Now, miss.”

“I really don’t know what to tell you,” Madeline admitted. “We watched the fireworks and then it started to rain, so we ran into the greenhouse. Drew—Mr. Farthering was going to get me a raincoat from the pile there, but when we looked at them, we found . . .” She bit her lip. “We found Mr. Lincoln.”

“And you knew Mr. Lincoln, did you?”

“Not really. I met him tonight. At the party.”

“But you recognized him when you saw him there? In the greenhouse?”

She shook her head rapidly, closing her eyes as if to block out the gruesome sight. “Not really. His face . . . his head . . .”

She clung to Mrs. Devon, who was stroking her hair, making
little soothing noises even as she stared daggers into P. C. Applegate.

Drew knelt by Madeline’s chair once more and took her hand. The poor kid. “Come on, Jimmy. She really didn’t see any more than that.”

Applegate sighed. “All right then, Mrs. Devon. I suppose that will be all.”

“I should say,” Mrs. Devon muttered as she led Madeline up the back stairs.

Drew watched after them until they were out of sight, then turned back to the young constable. “Shall we press on?”

“Right,” Applegate said. “The greenhouse, was it?”

“This way.” Nick hurried to the kitchen door to usher them all out, but Applegate held up his hand.

“Just Mr. Parker and Mr. Farthering, if you please.”

“Don’t be such a stick, Jimmy,” Nick said. “Just one good look, eh? You know you’re just aching to see. Why keep it all to yourself?”

“The chief inspector would never—”

“Oh, let him,” Drew said with an air of sage resignation. “He’ll only badger you until you do anyway.”

“I will,” Nick confirmed.

Applegate looked heavenward and heaved a great sigh. “Come on then.”

“You’re a positive ghoul, you know that,” Drew told Nick as they followed the faint light of P. C. Applegate’s torch through the dark garden.

“Evidence, man, evidence. How are we to find the murderer if we don’t see the evidence?”

“The chief inspector will be up here in the morning. You know you’ll never be able to push him about the way you do Jimmy.”

Nick grinned. “That’s why we have to have a look tonight.”

Everything at the scene of the crime was just as Drew and Madeline had left it. The lantern still burned, the air was still thick with the sickly sweet smell of blood, and the body on the floor was still quite dead.

Nick crowded in to look over Applegate’s shoulder as he pulled the soiled mackintosh away from the victim’s mangled head. Then he turned away with a quick intake of breath.

“Too much for you, old man?” Drew asked with a smirk.

Nick gulped. “Not at all. It just doesn’t take me long to look at a dead body.” He gulped again and gave Drew an anemic smile. “He is rather a mess, isn’t he?”

Applegate covered the body again and jotted down a few notes.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Drew, but how is it you know this is Mr. Lincoln?”

Drew thought for a moment. “I suppose I just do. I mean, he’s got Lincoln’s build and fair hair and all. That’s his ring, I’m certain. No gentleman of style would wear such a vulgar thing. Of course, it’s a bit hard to tell one man from another in eveningwear.”

“We’ll have fingerprints taken, naturally,” the constable said. “Is there family we should notify, Mr. Parker?”

“Not that I know of,” Mason said. “His father died three years ago. His mother, some time before that. I don’t believe there were other children.”

“He wasn’t married?”

“I believe there was a Mrs. Lincoln for a short while. Remarried and living in Ibiza now, as I recall.” Mason rubbed his hands together. “I suppose we ought to have Dr. Wallace out. Or the mortuary.”

“We’ve seen to that, Mr. Parker,” Applegate said. “They
should be here anytime now to get everything put right. You did say Mr. Lincoln was staying the weekend?”

“That’s right,” Mason told him, looking relieved to be going back into the house. “Would you like to see his room?”

“In a moment, sir. First off, I have to ask if there was anyone in particular who would benefit from Mr. Lincoln’s death. Or anyone with a grudge?”

“Of course not,” Mason said, his expression bland. “Not that I know of anyway.”

Applegate looked at Mason narrowly, and Drew could tell what he was thinking. The rumors about Constance and Lincoln were well known in the village. Applegate couldn’t have missed hearing them.

“I see, sir.” Applegate made a few more notes. “Now, as it’s rather late, if I can just have a list of your guests, as well as everyone living at Farthering Place, including staff, we’ll let you get to bed. Of course, we’ll have to lock up the room Mr. Lincoln was using. And leave your gardener out here to keep watch. P. C. Benson will be on duty at six. He can take over for your man then.”

“Naturally. Naturally.”

Mason led the constable out of the greenhouse, but Drew stayed behind, staring down at the body. Thinking.

After a moment, Nick nudged his arm. “I say, Drew, hadn’t we best get back to the house? I mean, I’m sure old Birdsong won’t much like it if we’re out here mucking things up worse than they already are.”

“Evidence, man, evidence.” Drew grinned. “Wasn’t that what you said?”

Nick glanced at the stained mackintosh and grimaced. “Couldn’t we look for evidence in the house?”

“I was just wondering about that ring of his,” Drew said.

“You mean why the killer didn’t take it?”

“No. Look at his hand.” Drew held the lantern close to the body. The right arm wasn’t completely covered up, and the third finger of the right hand had a band of flesh clearly lighter than the rest. The ruby ring glimmered just above the knuckle. “What would make it move up like that?”

“Gentlemen, if you please.”

Drew and Nick turned to see Applegate at the greenhouse door, looking disapprovingly at them.

“Sorry, Jimmy,” Drew said.

“We haven’t touched anything,” Nick added. “Just looking for evidence. Can’t solve the case without evidence.”

“I’m sure we’ll thank you to leave the evidence to the proper authorities,” Applegate said, drawing himself up to his full, very official height. “I need to dust for fingerprints and take photographs before they come round for the body, so if you’ll kindly excuse me . . .”

“But, Jimmy,” Drew said, “did you notice—?”

“I am a highly trained observer, Mr. Drew.”

“As you say,” Drew said with a sigh. “Come on, Nick. Let’s see what else there is to be seen.”

The festive atmosphere inside the house had turned somber. The band were packing up their instruments, and the guests huddled in murmuring groups, most with a cigarette or a drink to soothe the nerves. Per Constable Applegate’s instructions, Dennison was dutifully taking the name of each of the guests, and Mason was at the back of the room talking to Rushford.

“It’s horrible,” the old man said as Drew and Nick came up to them. He removed his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief. “My word. Lincoln. I mean, the man was a bit of a cad, but you know what young people are nowadays. We never had such things happen in the old days.”

“Certainly not,” Mason soothed. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“Just some bicarbonate, if you don’t mind too much.”

“Seems everyone’s at sixes and sevens right now, Mr. Rushford,” Drew said. “Nick, old man, would you mind . . . ?”

“Not at all,” Nick replied. “Just don’t start without me.”