Death Sits Down to Dinner (9 page)

“The name by the way honors Miss Kingsley’s uncle, Charles Kingsley, who was a tremendous social reformer, sympathetic to the plight of working children. He wrote
The Water-Babies,
in which the main character, Tom, is a chimney sweep—hence the charity’s name.” And to herself:
I should be one of the directors, I think I put that all rather well.

“Yes, I remember the book from my childhood—a cautionary tale, strong on ethics and morality; Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby and the Golden Rule.” Most policemen, thought Clementine, would have never have heard of the book, let alone remembered it as an instructive tale.

Inspector Hillary took an appreciative sip of his coffee. “Miss Kingsley is most anxious that our inquiry does not interfere with her annual charity evening and I have assured her it won’t. Mr. Churchill has instructed that this investigation is to be conducted with the utmost discretion, no newspapers, no fuss of any kind. We will do what we can of course, but people do talk.”

Clementine laughed and said yes they certainly did. And it occurred to her that one of the reasons this amiable and pleasant-mannered young man was conducting this inquiry was probably that the ex–home secretary, Winston Churchill, had requested he do so. As Lord Montfort had already pointed out, Detective Inspector Hillary was a far cry from the ham-fisted individual they had been lumbered with for the Iyntwood murder.

She was just relaxing into what she had mistaken for a conversation when she was subjected to a swift change of tack, so startling in its speed that she had not sensed it coming.

“Apart from the butler, you were the first person to enter the dining room that night. Why was that?”

“Miss Kingsley heard a cry from downstairs, we were sitting by the salon door, and before I knew it we had run downstairs to see what was going on. Miss Kingsley stopped to tend to her butler, poor Jenkins was suffering from shock. And I went on into the dining room.”

“Now tell me exactly what you saw. Please take your time, no detail is unimportant, and remember all your impressions are valuable.” He did not look at her but down at his notes, his pen poised.

She described her entry into the dining room and her realization as soon as she saw Sir Reginald that all was not well. She then went on to describe Miss Kingsley’s reaction, and how she and Jenkins had taken her from the room.

“After that it was all hubbub and confusion,” she said. “And it was then I realized exactly what had actually happened—that he had been murdered.”

“Delayed shock,” he said with some sympathy.

“Yes, something like that.” She made herself sit back in her chair and unclench her hands.

“When you were standing in front of Sir Reginald, you say Miss Kingsley shook him and that was when you saw…”

“The blood on his suit and shirtfront, and on the edge of the tablecloth.” She insisted on saying this herself, because every time she did so, the image receded a little and lost some of its ugly power.

“What did you do then?” He looked up at her, his pen still poised to write.

“I bent down and could see the knife handle sticking out of the middle of his chest. A little to his left perhaps. It was in quite deeply, I couldn’t see the blade, but I knew it was a knife.” She was amazed that she could say this now without a trace of a wobble in her voice.

“And then?”

“When Miss Kingsley realized that he was dead, she became ill. She was half fainting, so I took her from the room.” He wrote for a few moments and then looked up at her.

“She was on the other side of the table, you said. So how did you get to her?” He narrowed his eyes as he waited for her reply, and Clementine straightened in her chair,

“I walked around the back of Sir Reginald. He was seated at the top of the table.”

“So you walked between the back of his chair and the dining-room window?” He was busily writing all this down, and she craned to see if it was in a column. It wasn’t; his columns were on the other page, filled with neat, precise writing in timetable form, like a Bradshaw train schedule.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And were the curtains closed or open?” Again that direct, intent gaze.

“Closed.”
Had the murderer come in through the window?
This had not occurred to her before.

“You are sure of that?” His eyes, a mild, cool gray common in most fair Englishmen, were steady and unwavering.

“Yes, quite sure,” she said, and she was.

“And you didn’t suddenly feel cold, find the window open, and close it?” He was watching her closely and it made her feel she should doubt herself.

Clementine didn’t answer for a moment. She cast her mind back to the dining room and briefly closed her eyes, the better to envision the scene. She had been standing behind the chair she had occupied at dinner. She hadn’t felt cold during the meal, but as she stood in front of the body of Sir Reginald; there had been a distinct chill in the air.

“I do remember that it felt cold in the room, not when I came in, but at the far end of the room. I assumed that it was a reaction to what I had found. But I am quite sure I did not close the window.”

“So you think the window was open behind the curtains.” It was not a question.

Clementine felt a shiver ripple up her arms.

“I have no idea … Was it…? Open, I mean?”

“When I checked the room it was closed, but the catches that lock the window were undone, and the butler is quite sure that all windows in the house were locked, and that those on the street side of the house on the ground floor are never opened or unlocked.”

“So someone came in through the window from the street?” She had blurted this too quickly and he lifted his head from his notes.

“Too soon to be sure, but it is possible.” He had stopped taking notes and sat back in his chair.

“And that would mean that the man who killed Sir Reginald was not one of us, not one of us in the house.” Clementine had questions of her own, but she knew she must be careful not to be too impetuous.

“It certainly might look that way, but again it is too early to say. But, let’s go back to the other evening. You said last night that Miss Kingsley and Miss Gaskell both left the salon at a critical time.” He smiled, and Clementine realized that he was fully aware of her interest. Her curiosity had given her away; this was not a good thing. She got up and poured him another cup of coffee.

“I doubt if either Miss Gaskell or Miss Kingsley was capable of killing Sir Reginald,” she said as she handed him his cup. It sounded quite ludicrous, she thought, like something from Oscar Wilde’s story “Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime.”

“Yes, of course, it’s highly improbable, they were all such close friends.” It was a statement but he was asking a question. He took another sugar lump and stirred his coffee as he waited for her answer.

“Miss Kingsley and Sir Reginald certainly were good friends, for many years. Miss Gaskell is Miss Kingsley’s paid companion and has been with her for three or so years. But after dinner there were several opportunities for Miss Kingsley’s guests to be anywhere in the house, the men especially came up to the salon in twos and threes, some of them stayed downstairs for quite some time. Mr. Churchill was down there for…”

“Mr. Churchill was in the library, he was on the telephone to his secretary at Admiralty House.” There was no change in his tone, he made this statement in an almost matter-of-fact voice, but it was clearly made as a point. Mr. Churchill was off-limits as a suspect, full stop.

“So Mr. Churchill has an alibi,” Clementine observed to her hands folded in her lap.

“Yes, Lady Montfort, he does, so you can cross him off your list.” She looked up to find him looking at her, his lips curved in a smile of indulgent amusement. “I’m sorry, this is not fair of me, I should have told you before when we first talked: Colonel Valentine is my uncle.”

She felt like a guilty child.
Here’s a pretty situation. Why on earth didn’t someone tell me Detective Inspector Hillary was related to our chief constable, the man who so carefully tied up the loose ends in that little matter of our Iyntwood murder?

“Might I say this, Lady Montfort, without offending you?” All traces of the policeman were gone; he was a nice boy from a good family, being considerate. “I want to add that this murder strikes me as both audacious and brutal. And I have been instructed that the inquiry is to be carried out with as much discretion as possible, which means that there are people in the government who are concerned about Sir Reginald’s death. I think your interest in the events surrounding the murder might best be confined to—how shall I put this?—let’s say academic interest. Do I need to be plainer than that?” His voice was pleasant, gentle even, but his face was expressionless and he nodded slowly, as if eliciting complete agreement from her.

Good grief,
thought Clementine, as she gazed across at the serious face in front of her, feeling embarrassed and thoroughly caught out.
You would think that I had asked all the questions just now.

Chapter Eight

Clementine was enjoying the company of her son, Harry Talbot, Viscount Lord Haversham. They were sitting in deep, comfortable chairs on either side of the fireplace in the drawing room, waving their glasses of sherry in the air and interrupting each other, amid exclamations of astonishment from Harry, when Lord Montfort came into the room after his brief session with Detective Inspector Hillary.

“Poor old thing, it was such a terrible shock, she is actually carrying on as if nothing…” Clementine broke off as her husband joined them. “Well that was awfully quick! Did he ask you anything at all?” She laughed; Harry’s arrival had lightened the mood in Montfort House considerably.

“He asked me a lot of things, but
I
manage to keep my answers to a simple sentence. My business with Hillary is concluded and, unlike you, I am allowed to leave town whenever I wish to.” Lord Montfort not only sounded smug, he looked almost pleased with himself. He nodded a greeting to his son and turned to accept a glass of sherry from the butler. “Good to see you, my boy.” He raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. “I can tell that your mother has filled you in on this awful business. We are of course not talking about it, as specifically requested, aren’t we, darling?” He smiled at his wife.

Clementine had just reached the part in her story when she had taken Hermione from the dining room, and Harry was hanging on her every word. Lord Montfort found a comfortable chair between the two of them and sat back, savoring his Fino, the better to enjoy his wife’s animated recounting of Hermione’s disastrous dinner party and interrupting her only occasionally to add his own perceptions of what had occurred there.

“Now, Harry, not a word outside the family. You understand the importance?” After recounting the horrors of their evening with evident relish, Clementine now unfairly prevented her son from enjoying the same experience.

“Yes, Harry, it’s being kept hush-hush.” Lord Montfort was quick to back up his wife. “Hermione’s charity evening for the Chimney Sweep Boys is a week away. It is vital that this lamentable business does not become a topic for the newspapers, and the endless speculation and gossip that follows.” He could have added, thought his wife, that the less that was known to the public, the better for all Hermione’s guests, especially Mr. Churchill.

“Yes, of course, sir.” To his credit, Harry didn’t bristle at being lectured on discretion. “But who on earth would murder that pompous old windbag? Surely you don’t bump someone off because they’re a crashing bore. And what I can’t quite take in is that this all happened at Miss Kingsley’s birthday party for Mr. Churchill. It’s like something out of a farce.” Their son was apparently oblivious to the fact that murder had been done in the house of a close friend, causing everyone there acute embarrassment, not to say shock and grief, and putting Miss Kingsley and her household in an unpleasant position. Like his parents, he’d had no real friendship with Sir Reginald, who was a friend of a friend and someone he would perhaps vaguely recognize if he bumped into him in the street.

The farcical aspect of the murder aside, Harry was enjoying the situation far too much, thought his mother, but it was understandable because he had not been a witness to the hideousness of the thing. She was glad when he turned to his father to catch up on Iyntwood news, as she was still trying to decide if the fact that Detective Inspector Hillary was Colonel Valentine’s nephew might be useful or a stumbling block in her inquiry. She had been unable to gauge from the policeman whether he disapproved of her participation in the Teddy Mallory affair. She glanced across at her husband, who, in an effort to distract her son from the melodrama at Chester Square, had involved him in a discussion about the new Purdy shotguns Harry had bought for Iyntwood’s shoot in a fortnight.

I must be careful,
Clementine thought
, not to appear to encourage Hillary to involve me. I must advise only if asked and save up my questions and favors for when it counts and not willy-nilly as they occur to me, otherwise I will annoy. I can perhaps make certain observations, might even guide conversations with Hillary to areas I need to know more about, but absolutely no more than that. S
he returned her attention to the conversation between her husband and her son and was immediately aware that its mood had changed.

“Well actually, I have some news of my own…” Harry was saying as he leaned farther back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. When her son and his father were together these days she was continually reminded how alike they had grown in the past few years. They were tall men, athletic in build, with the Talbot dark hair and blue eyes. They were at ease in their world, quietly confident and comfortable with who they were. Even their voices were similar in quality and cadence. Harry had never looked more like his father than he did now.

“I met with Captain Vetiver at the Admiralty this morning, it was a brief meeting, and not a word of what happened at Miss Kingsley’s by the way. He has asked me to join the Royal Naval Air Service. I would be headquartered at the flying field out at Eastchurch.” Clementine noticed that Harry was speaking to the space between where she and Lord Montfort were sitting, his manner was slightly guarded, and the announcement sounded overly rehearsed. “But of course I would not be in uniform yet…” He added hastily, glancing at his father, “Not until that is…” He did not look at his mother, anticipating a flood of objections from her.