Death Sits Down to Dinner (21 page)

Suffering as she was from a liverish condition, Clementine was only mildly enthusiastic for her housekeeper’s good work.

“Well done, Jackson, you are extraordinarily on top of things. I learned last night that Captain Vetiver remained in the dining room with Sir Reginald, with the door closed, and the butler outside so they might not be interrupted. Interesting, don’t you think?” Her housekeeper acknowledged that indeed it was.

“And, I heard about Mr. Tricklebank’s lie too. I wonder if he is under arrest? Let’s talk about that in a moment, Jackson. Please sit and make yourself comfortable, so we can concentrate on all we have learned, and work out our next steps. It seems we have been awarded some possible suspects.

“So, Miss Gaskell with her unaccounted-for twenty minutes has put herself at the top of our list, and now this connection with Sir Reginald makes me very suspicious. What d’you think, Jackson?”

“I am not too sure about…”

“It appears she has a motive. She was dangling after an independent man, an ideal marriage prospect for her. He obviously reciprocated in some way; perhaps he gave her a photograph of himself, which she kept hidden. Right there a red flag is waving away at us. Then perhaps he decides Miss Gaskell is not an appropriate wife for a newly appointed peer and he backs away. He tells her as much on the evening of the party. She finds herself downstairs alone with him, they quarrel, and she kills him.”

She turned to her housekeeper, who was watching her closely. The expression on Mrs. Jackson’s face was quite neutral, but there was a decided frost in the air at her end of the room.
Jackson doesn’t think it is Miss Gaskell
.

“Who else then, Jackson? Come on, tell me your theory, I can tell you have one.” She laughed at her housekeeper’s determination always to remain circumspect and never to thrust an opinion forward until she was good and sure of herself.

“Far be it for me to comment, m’lady, but I do not favor Miss Gaskell as the culprit. I agree she had the time and the opportunity. But I am not sure whether she is capable of murder. I find her to be timid, and the method of murder was so brutal…” She almost wrinkled her nose. “And required close physical proximity.”

Mrs. Jackson went on to describe finding the torn photograph in Miss Gaskell’s wastepaper basket. “If there had been an understanding between them, his death certainly crushed her hopes for the future, but I do not see her killing him in that way.”

“He jilted her?” Clementine put in, and then she nodded encouragement for Mrs. Jackson to continue with her train of thought.

“He might not, m’lady. They might have planned to marry, which would explain her grief. If you saw Miss Gaskell at this moment, m’lady, I think you would agree that her behavior is one of despair, rather than fear that she might be caught as a murderess … it’s just a feeling I have. She has been brought low by Sir Reginald’s death.”

Clementine decided that strong black coffee had only made her headache worse. “Right, Jackson, I’m with you so far. But don’t let’s forget:
hell hath no fury …
and all of that, and what about the photograph torn in two! If you are grieving for a lost fiancé you don’t tear up the only image you have of him. Sir Reginald throws her to one side, and she kills him. As she lies in bed stricken with fear at being discovered, she takes the photograph of Sir Reginald out of the frame, tears it up, and throws it away.”

“Yes, m’lady, if you say so, but she threw it in her wastepaper basket for the maids or anyone to discover. She could have thrown it on the fire…” Frost was gathering again.

“A good point. So she was angry with him for throwing her over, hence the torn photograph, but not bold or angry enough to kill him. But I think it is important we continue to discover more about her relationship with Sir Reginald.

“But didn’t you say Matron told you that Adelaide was out for
any
of the men in the house. What about Mr. Tricklebank? Miss Kingsley is immensely rich and Mr. Tricklebank will inherit the lot, unless he misbehaves and his aunt leaves it all to the Chimney Sweep Boys. And that’s been done before by elderly spinsters, think about all those well-endowed cats’ homes in Surrey.

“So perhaps Miss Gaskell was involved with Mr. Tricklebank. Together they eliminated Sir Reginald to clear the way for Mr. Tricklebank to step into a plum position with the charity and an increased allowance from his aunt.” Clementine felt a surge of energy overtake her precarious stomach.

“But Miss Gaskell did not have a photograph under her pillow of Mr. Tricklebank, m’lady. And I think Miss Kingsley would disinherit her nephew if he were to marry her paid companion. He is expected to marry Miss Wells-Thornton.” Mrs. Jackson’s tone was without emphasis, but she straightened in her chair, her back determinedly defending her position. And Clementine wisely rushed in to agree with her, mindful that she must be respectful of her housekeeper’s opinion after she had so definitely asked for it. Mrs. Jackson’s hunches had been spot-on in the past, she reminded herself.

“Let’s concentrate on Mr. Tricklebank as a solo suspect, because of his lie. I wonder where he went after he left Chester Square. You said that he didn’t get to his club until one o’clock. That leaves two full hours unaccounted for. Oh good heavens, I just remembered that the window in the dining room was unlocked, and I am wondering if it could have been unlocked by Mr. Tricklebank. I think Mr. Tricklebank might easily have returned to the house after he left, through the dining-room window. He is tall and quite athletic enough to stand on the portico balustrade by the front door and get onto the window ledge from there. He leaves the house with Jennifer Wells-Thornton, having said they are going on to another party. Off she goes, leaving him to reenter the house from the dining-room window, unnoticed.”

Quite pleased with herself, Clementine got up and walked to the drawing-room window and looked out onto the street, trying to gauge the distance from the sill to the railings on the edge of the pavement, headache quite forgotten.

“Yes, the gap between the pavement and window sill is too far to breach, but not from the front door to the windowsill. Will you please check that, Jackson? Will you see if you can measure the distance from the portico balustrade to the windowsill at Chester Square and see if it’s possible?” She turned from the window and looked down at the floor in concentration.

“Mr. Tricklebank was living above his means. If Sir Reginald was out of the way, he could step in to his place on the board, to a greater annuity from his aunt. I think we’re onto something, Jackson, I really do! If you will check the dining-room windowsill in relationship to the front door, I will go further into the alibis of the other two men who were downstairs at the crucial time: Mr. Greenberg and Captain Vetiver. And you will hopefully find out where the servants were then, and keep tabs on Miss Gaskell. Is there anything else we should talk about, have we covered all points?”

“Yes, we have, m’lady.” Clementine was relieved that Mrs. Jackson’s enthusiasm had returned during the last few moments; she evidently approved of Mr. Tricklebank as the chief suspect. But now she noticed that her housekeeper was looking regretful, an expression she had become familiar with over the twenty years she had been in her service.

“There is something else I feel I must tell you, m’lady, and it’s not about Chester Square. It’s about Montfort House.” Clementine experienced a sinking feeling and it wasn’t from a hangover. “I am rather surprised that the new cook makes such elaborate meals for the servants. I know they are not hard-pressed in the kitchen, as you and his lordship have been dining out so often. But it’s not right in my opinion for a cook to serve up Coquilles Saint Jacques for a servants’-hall supper, even if, as she says, they would have gone off and had to be thrown out. It seems an unsuitable way of doing things, to my mind. Blurs the lines of propriety and causes confusion.”

Clementine closed her eyes.
On no,
she thought,
not after months of interviews and dissatisfactory meals prepared by talentless kitchen maids
. If there was one thing her husband would not forgive, it was bland and unappetizing food. In her mind she saw Montfort House up for lease, and that would never do.

“Well, Jackson, better keep an eye on things down there. Quite frankly, I am not too concerned if Cook is being a little overgenerous with our food. Lord Montfort thinks her cooking is superb and that’s all I am concerned about for the time being. Did you speak to White and the footmen about helping out at Miss Kingsley’s charity evening?”

“Yes, m’lady, he is happy to be of help.”

“Good, and let’s hope that we can sort out this Ginger business in a satisfactory way before we all go back to Iyntwood.” She had thoughtlessly referred to the cook by her sobriquet and it was pounced on.

“‘Ginger,’ m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson’s face for the first time in their many years together betrayed not just surprise but outrage.

“Yes, that’s what she likes to be called. Didn’t you know?”

“I most certainly did not, m’lady. I am genuinely shocked by such indecorous behavior.”

“Pettigrew puts it down to her being a Londoner.” Clementine wished she had not brought up the subject.

“The cook is from Lancashire, like myself, your ladyship. I can’t imagine what she thinks she’s playing at. ‘Ginger’ indeed.”

Chapter Eighteen

It was a particularly fine early-winter morning; the sky was the palest of blues, a light frost spangled the grass, and the air smelled like freshly washed laundry. It was, thought Clementine as Herne drove her over to the Knightsbridge Barracks, a perfect day for a ride
and
the kind of weather that makes high-spirited horses friskier. She prayed the mount Lady Ryderwood had for her was well behaved and not some overwrought young mare that had not been out for days.

She need not have worried about the temperament of the horse she was given to ride. Lady Ryderwood was hardly the most athletic of women and her horses were calm and well trained. The dark bay, saddled and waiting for her, was a gentlemanly gelding kept for the sole purpose of providing a mount for any friend of Lady Ryderwood to accompany her early-morning rides.

Sir Francis Ryderwood must have had considerable clout with the Household Cavalry after his heroic participation in the Boer War, for his wife had miraculously secured stabling at the Knightsbridge Barracks for the year. Both horses were gleaming with health and the sort of grooming that could be achieved only by cavalry discipline: the tack was immaculate, bits and stirrup irons gleamed, and Clementine was reassured by the friendly young lance corporal of the Blues who helped them up onto their horses. And then off they went out into a bright winter sun, still low on the horizon, and turned left onto South Carriage Drive.

“What a wonderful idea, Lady Ryderwood, it’s a perfect morning for a ride.” Clementine relaxed as they walked their horses up the wide tree-lined avenue that led from Hyde Park corner toward Serpentine Road.

“How is Bellman for you, Lady Montfort? He’s a nice steady boy, but I can tell he is quite ready for a little run.”

“Then when Bellman and I have had an opportunity to get to know each other, let’s give him one.” Clementine leaned forward and smoothed her gloved hand down the arch of the gelding’s neck.

“I haven’t been out much in the past week,” Lady Ryderwood continued. “But the trooper at the barracks is happy to exercise the horses, so they are not too skittish. Life in London can sometimes be demanding, and an early-morning ride stops me from feeling seedy when I have been spending too much time in drawing rooms and theatres.”

Clementine noticed that Lady Ryderwood rode much as she had expected: she sat well on her horse, did not fidget, and had quiet hands, but she was certainly a passenger on a pretty little mare as delicate and beautifully mannered as her rider
. Someone has spent a lot of time training these animals,
thought Clementine,
and has done a good job of it indeed.

“Did you ride much in Ibiza?” she asked.

“Yes, we did. My husband lived for his horses, he chose and trained both of these sweet-tempered beasts; I just accompanied him on short rambles. This little girl,” she leaned forward and patted her mare’s neck affectionately, “is part Connemara and a wonderful jumper, but I am afraid I am not an awfully courageous horsewoman.”

“You were not lonely for society in Ibiza?” Clementine thought the cultured Lady Ryderwood far more suited to town life than to an outdoor life in the Mediterranean.

“I had my music, and my teacher would come and spend weeks with us in the summer. He found it restful after the fast pace of Milan.”
She must mean her voice teacher,
thought Clementine.

“I was so disappointed that we only had one song from you the other evening, but that one was quite beautiful, you have a wonderful voice.”

“Thank you.” This was gravely said, without any trace of conceit or false modesty. “I wanted to sing professionally when I was younger, but of course it was out of the question, and then I met my husband…”

They rode on for a few moments in silence, the only sound was birdsong and the distant hum of traffic.
We could be in any country-house park,
thought Clementine, as she watched a fat gray squirrel drop its acorn and run for a tree at their approach.

“Lord Montfort told me of Captain Wildman-Lushington’s terrible accident the other day,” said Lady Ryderwood. Clementine knew it was unusual for her husband to pass on this kind of information to someone he barely knew. This indication that he already considered Lady Ryderwood to be “one of us” did not surprise her; Lady Ryderwood’s unaffected manners and quiet dignity would appeal as much to her husband as they did to her.

“We heard the news quite quickly because our son is thinking of joining the Royal Navy Air Service. I am horrified that such a wonderfully bright and promising young man could have died so tragically.” The murder of Sir Reginald had not moved Clementine quite as much as the loss of the younger man’s life, she realized, and went on, more to herself than to her friend, “Flying is such an awfully dangerous business, but Harry’s enthusiasm knows no bounds ever since he spent a summer with his friend Tom Sopwith, who designs and makes these wretched contraptions.”