Murder at Kingscote Read online

  As Maude greeted us and took her seat, the footman named Clarence entered from another doorway that led through the back of the house to the kitchen. As soon as he’d set a tray of tea and refreshments on a side table, Miss King dismissed him, then waited another moment. Once she could no longer hear his footsteps, she peered into the other drawing room.

  “Please, help yourselves.” She motioned to the tea tray. Her gaze pierced my own as she spoke in a hurried whisper. “Miss Cross, Mr. Andrews, my friend and I have reason to believe our new butler, Merrin, is not who he says he is.”

  “Oh . . .” This announcement took me utterly by surprise. I darted a glance at Derrick, who had schooled his features not to reveal his thoughts. I hoped my own attempts proved as successful. “What made you reach such a conclusion, Miss King?”

  It was Maude Wetmore who replied. “He doesn’t know the first thing about a butler’s duties. He’s all thumbs and he’s constantly referring to any number of cue cards he carries in his pockets. He’s a fraud, and that’s the truth.”

  Miss King nodded at her friend’s assessment. “I fear he might even have had something to do with Baldwin’s death.” Her eyes opened wider. “A scheme to take over the position, perhaps.”

  “Miss King, do you really believe a man would commit murder for a butler’s position?” Derrick rose from his seat and went to the side table. He began pouring tea and handing cups to each of us, followed by the sugar bowl and creamer. “That’s rather extreme, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Who am I to judge what lengths to which someone will go?” She accepted the teacup from his outstretched hand and selected a lump of sugar from the bowl. “The position is a coveted one among those in service, isn’t it? No one is higher up than the butler, except possibly the housekeeper.”

  Her mention of housekeepers gave me an idea. “Have you consulted Mrs. Peake about this? Perhaps she has an opinion as to Merrin’s qualifications.” I wondered if Ella King had taken her housekeeper into her confidence concerning Ethan’s identity and his reason for being here. Although Mrs. King had promised to keep our secret, I understood her housekeeper to have been with her many years, and whenever Mrs. King traveled, Mrs. Peake accompanied her. Obviously a deep trust had grown between them. “Perhaps Merrin hadn’t served as a butler very long before coming here. Which could explain his lack of expertise. He is quite young, after all.”

  “With that taken into account,” Derrick said before either of the two young women could reply, “is he really doing all that badly?”

  “Yes,” the two friends said simultaneously.

  Derrick passed me the platter of sponge cake. I selected a small slice. “And have you spoken to your mother about this, Miss King?”

  Maude spoke up first. “I urged Gwendolen to call the detective. What is his name?”

  “Detective Whyte,” Miss King supplied. She turned an anxious look on her friend. “That won’t do, Maude. And no, I have not consulted my mother. I don’t want her hearing of this. Not yet. Not until we know more. It would alarm her overmuch. That’s why I telephoned you, Miss Cross, and why I’m glad you came along as well, Mr. Andrews. With your newspaper experience, you are both well versed in the art of investigation.”

  “I’m not sure what we can do to help you,” I began slowly. “We could perhaps speak with Mr. Merrin, but beyond that . . .”

  “You could search into his background, couldn’t you?” Miss King shook her head to Derrick’s offer of cake. “He could be a criminal for all we know. And Baldwin’s killer. I tried asking Mother where she found him, but her answer was so thoroughly convoluted I could not attempt to repeat it to you. Something about Mrs. Astor’s lady’s maid’s daughter’s brother-in-law who works for the Berwinds, who knew Merrin’s uncle . . . and so on.”

  I bit back an urge to laugh, and across from me, Derrick ducked his head in a similar attempt. So often, when Nanny tracked down details through her connections to Newport’s servants and beyond, the path the information took sounded much like Miss King’s description of Ethan’s references. With a hand over my mouth, I pretended to cough. Once I’d brought my mirth under control, I said, “Truly, Miss King, I’m sure this young man is harmless and merely new to the responsibilities of a butler.”

  “What if that’s not so? What if he’s dangerous?” Miss King clutched her hands in her lap. “What if he murdered Baldwin?”

  A doubt rose up to shadow my original resolve of keeping Ethan’s identity a secret. I had reasoned the fewer people at Kingscote who knew the truth, the better our plan would work. Not that Miss King couldn’t be trusted, generally speaking, to keep a secret. But I knew how easily a revealing word could slip out, however unintentionally. Still, I saw how this was distressing Miss King and sending her imagination on a riotous course.

  With a sigh, I appealed silently to Derrick, who gave the slightest of nods. “Miss King, there’s something you should know. You see—”

  Heavy footsteps pounded above our heads. There came a deep shout of, “You will not, by God,” followed by a woman’s shrill threat to call the police.

  Chapter 11

  Gwendolen King turned white. After setting aside her teacup with a slosh, she jumped up from her seat. “What on earth?”

  She scrambled from the room, the rest of us quick to follow. The argument upstairs continued, and though less threatening than the initial outburst, three voices—two men, one woman—carried an intensity that sent us charging up the staircase. The landing opened onto a large square gallery. Derrick made his way to the front of our little group and proceeded toward the sounds of the scuffle.

  Philip King, Francis Crane, and Louise Peake, the housekeeper, stood outside a bedroom at the far side of the gallery. Although their shouting had ceased, the two men had each other by the fronts of their attire—Philip’s shirt and vest, Mr. Crane’s coat lapels. Each held bunches of fabric in his fists as they played a strange tug of war. Mrs. Peake was attempting to separate them by use of both vocal commands and shoves at their shoulders, but they weren’t cooperating. In fact, I doubt they noticed her. They were both red faced and practically snorting like bulls. Derrick strode to them and added his efforts to the housekeeper’s.

  “Gentlemen, and I use the term lightly, what is going on here?” His tone demanded an immediate answer. Gripping each man firmly by the shoulder, he forced the pair apart. “That is quite enough.”

  The command proved unnecessary, for as they stumbled backward, they involuntarily released each other. Derrick moved between them and held up the flats of his hands, one at either man. “What the deuce prompted you two to behave so swinishly in a house where ladies reside?”

  Mrs. Peake, a woman about Mrs. King’s age, sighed with obvious relief and backed away to stand near Gwendolen and Miss Wetmore. Her agitation hadn’t fully abated, and her bosom rose and fell with each labored breath. Clearly their behavior had left her shaken. Philip King noticed the rest of us hovering beyond Derrick and raised a hand to point.

  “It’s because of her—Gwennie—that I’d like to wring his neck.” Philip started toward Francis again but Derrick stopped him with thump to his chest.

  “What do you mean, Philip?” Without hesitating an instant, Miss King went to stand before her brother and set her hands on her hips. “How can you possibly think I’d want you to threaten Mr. Crane, or any guest in our home?”

  “He doesn’t deserve to be in our home.” Philip’s chin went up in a show of defiance.

  His sister fanned her hand back and forth in front of her face. “You’ve been drinking, Philip, haven’t you? That’s why you’re not making any sense. Mr. Crane is your friend. You’ve no business treating him in such a deplorable manner.”

  “Don’t you wish to know why he’s here?” Philip countered.

  “He came to visit you, you dunderhead.” Her voice started to rise. She paused a moment to calm herself. “But I do have one question for him. Mr. Crane, did you bring my brother liquor?�
�

  “I most certainly did not, Miss King. I wouldn’t disrespect you or your mother that way. Isn’t that true, Philip? Why don’t you tell us where you got your brandy?”

  The question drew our curious stares to the young Mr. King, who shuffled his feet and pressed his lips together.

  His sister poked his upper arm. “Well? If it wasn’t Mr. Crane, who? Was it one of the servants?”

  “It was no servant under my supervision, I can tell you that.” Mrs. Peake spoke with wounded dignity. “And if I find out someone has been sneaking alcohol up to this room, it will be the last thing they ever do in this house.”

  “No, I don’t suppose any of the servants would take such a chance.” Miss King’s countenance fell as her bravado failed her. “He probably had it hidden somewhere in his room. Is that it, Philip?”

  The young man shrugged and angled his glance away, but only for a moment. When his gaze returned to her, it was with a burning intensity. “Beware of him, Gwennie. Yes, I believed him to be my friend, but it’s not my friendship he seeks. He’s reaching above himself. Thinking he can—”

  Miss King held up her hand. “Philip, please, don’t say such things.”

  “He’s not good enough for you, Gwennie.”

  “I think it’s time you returned to your room,” she snapped. She turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Peake, you have the key?”

  “I do, Miss Gwendolen.”

  “Well then.” Miss King turned away from her brother and returned to her friend’s side. Miss Wetmore slid an arm around her waist, and Miss King did likewise. As one, the pair turned and retreated across the gallery. Mrs. Peake remained, but moved off to a respectful distance, her key at the ready. Francis Crane hesitated.

  “I’m sorry, old man. Didn’t mean to stir up trouble for you. Just wanted to see how you were doing, try to cheer you up and all that.”

  Philip shook his head slowly, his eyes narrow slits. “Liar. You’re here for Gwennie, but it won’t work. She has no inkling you want her, and do you know why?”

  Francis Crane only shook his head, prompting Philip to chuckle.

  “It’s because she couldn’t conceive of tying herself to the likes of you. The idea would be so outlandish as to never cross her mind.”

  “We’ll see if I’m good enough or not,” Mr. Crane said softly, but not so softly that I didn’t hear him. But even if those two simple words weren’t enough to prove Philip’s point, what Ella King had confided to me previously led me to believe Philip’s claim and suspect Mr. Crane’s motives for coming to Kingscote today.

  Which was not to say I didn’t feel a certain sympathy for Francis Crane. If his intentions toward Gwendolen were honorable, why shouldn’t the pair be given a chance to discover whether or not they suited each other? I understood social barriers better than anyone, and I also believed that an intelligent woman like Gwendolen King could make such decisions for herself.

  “Leave my sister alone, Francis.” Philip pivoted on his heel without waiting for a response from his friend, reentered his room, and shut the door behind him with a bang. Mrs. Peake moved swiftly to relock it, then proceeded along the corridor, presumably to the servants’ staircase. Francis Crane brushed past Derrick and me. We lingered a moment before following him downstairs.

  Along the way I whispered, “I wish we had been able to speak privately with Philip, but I don’t suppose he’d be in a mood to answer our questions.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so. Besides, what might he tell us that he didn’t already tell Jesse? He’s claimed innocence and hasn’t wavered. We know where he was that night. We know he drank heavily all day and drove the motorcar that hit Baldwin. And we also know that when he entered the dining room, he behaved as if he hadn’t a care in the world.”

  “None of which proves his innocence.” We reached the turn in the staircase, draped in shadows. Derrick stopped me.

  I looked up at him in silent question. He dipped his head and brushed his lips across mine, then pressed deeper in a warm and sensual kiss that left me rather giddy. Bemused, I gave a little gasp, a quick inhalation to replace the breath he’d stolen from me. He eased away, smiling, and touched a spot of moisture on my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Shall we?”

  As simple as that we continued down to the Stair Hall, to be greeted by the others in the front drawing room.

  “I’m terribly sorry about that, Miss King,” Francis Crane was saying. “I want you to know what he said isn’t true. I merely wish to support you and your mother during a difficult time.”

  I glanced at Derrick, who quirked his lips in doubt.

  “Yes, Mr. Crane, and thank you.” Gwendolen extended her hand to him, which he took in his own. “Philip’s accusations are terribly embarrassing, for both of us. I’m sure it’s the alcohol talking, and that if my brother were in charge of his faculties he’d never say such things. But it’s not the first time, as you may be aware.”

  “Yes, I am. I’d always chalked it up to teasing, but now . . .” He sighed.

  Derrick and I remained in the Stair Hall, where we could hear but not yet be noticed by the others. I could make out Miss King’s face only in profile, but I had a full view of Miss Wetmore. Her expression had turned wary, her features rife with speculation. If Miss King gave Francis Crane the benefit of the doubt, I fully believed Miss Wetmore did not.

  * * *

  I returned to Kingscote sooner than I could have imagined—the very next day—and it was another telephone call from Ethan that brought me there. This time, however, I went in through the servants’ entrance rather than the front door.

  Mrs. Peake admitted me with a shrewd look that made me wonder if she had learned of Ethan’s and my roles in the investigation. However, she said nothing and brought me directly to the butler’s pantry, where I discovered Ethan sitting at his desk, peering at the housemaid, Olivia Riley, who perched stiffly in a hard-backed wooden chair. Unlike my own fiery-haired maid-of-all-work who also hailed from Ireland, Miss Riley possessed wheat-blond hair, pulled severely back beneath her linen cap, green rather than blue eyes, and not a freckle to be found anywhere on her fine-boned face. Jacob had termed her pretty. This was the first time I’d ever seen her, and for a brief moment I found myself envying her porcelain beauty.

  Ethan stood when I entered the room. Miss Riley glanced up in surprise, but also in unhappiness at whatever situation had brought her to Ethan’s pantry. Ethan wasted no time in getting to the point. Mrs. Peake had followed me inside and closed the door, heavy oak with a large frosted glass window.

  “I caught her rummaging through Baldwin’s room,” Ethan announced without preamble. Resuming his seat behind his desk, he explained for my benefit, “It hasn’t been cleared out yet, and I’ve been assigned a smaller room on the third floor.”

  “What excuse did she give for being in Baldwin’s room, Mr. Merrin?” Louise Peake, dressed in somber black punctuated by a stark white collar and cuffs, folded her arms across her bosom. “I’ve a right to know. The women servants do fall under my jurisdiction.”

  Ethan waggled an eyebrow at her, as if to say she had shirked her responsibilities. She seemed to read his meaning, for her nostrils flared and she stood taller. “She said she was cleaning the room,” he replied.

  Mrs. Peake stared down at Miss Riley. “Now, we both know that’s a lie, don’t we, girl? I’ve given you no orders to clean that room.”

  The girl took her time in answering, obviously weighing her options. It was clear she didn’t wish to respond, but she must also realize failing to do so could result in a prompt dismissal. She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I was searching for something that belongs to me.” She spoke with a sharper brogue than Katie’s more melodic, West Ireland dialect. “Mr. Baldwin took it from me. Or stole, is more like it.”

  “And what was the item?” I asked her.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded in return.

  “You’re in no position to be asking q
uestions,” Mrs. Peake reminded her sternly.

  Olivia Riley raised her chin. “It’s my business and no one else’s.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. King should be asking these questions.” Mrs. Peake smiled without mirth. “She’s home this morning. Shall I ask her if she has a moment?”

  Miss Riley’s mouth flattened and she shook her head. “Don’t disturb the missus, please. It’ll just get me sacked. I was looking for a brooch. My brooch. Belonged to my grandmother. Even during the Great Hunger, she refused to sell it. Not that selling it would have done much good when there was no food to be bought.”

  I found a stool near Ethan’s hulking rolltop desk and brought it closer to Miss Riley. Sitting, I asked, “Why wouldn’t you want us to know that?”

  “Because it’s valuable. I didn’t want anyone knowing I had it.”

  “Or because you stole it from the missus,” Mrs. Peake charged, “or from your last employer.”

  “I never stole a thing,” the maid insisted with quiet dignity.

  “What does this brooch look like?” Mrs. Peake persisted.

  Miss Riley’s mouth curled wistfully and she tilted her head. “Oh, it’s lovely. A cameo inside a ring of seed pearls. Mounted on gold, it is.”

  “Where would you come by something that dear?” Mrs. Peake’s skepticism filled the room.

  “I told you. Twas my grandmother’s.”

  Mrs. Peake nodded, obviously contemplating Miss Riley’s story. “All right, so she wouldn’t sell it. What about your mother? Is your family so well off they didn’t need the money a piece of jewelry like that could fetch? I find it hard to believe.”

  “Mrs. Peake, please,” I said, but Miss Riley didn’t appear daunted.

  “We’re not well-off or I wouldn’t be working as a maid, would I? But I won’t sell it, not even as a last resort. It means too much. It’s a reminder we Rileys weren’t always poor, and a promise that one day we’ll be prosperous again.”