A Devious Death Read online

  Despite the terse message, the voice was not an unamiable one, but of course that did not stop Miss Stanley harrumphing again. Finally, they climbed a narrow flight of stairs up three levels to a utilitarian corridor with numerous rooms opening onto either side. Their footsteps were loud on the wide-plank flooring. Panting to catch her breath, Eva peered into simply furnished bedrooms, some with two iron bedsteads, others with one. The rooms were spacious for servants’ quarters, with large windows affording generous views of the surrounding treetops. What these quarters lacked, however, were any signs of habitation. There were no garments hanging on the wall pegs, no personal effects neatly arranged on the dresser tops, and not a single scuff mark on the buffed wooden floors. Miss Brockhurst appeared to be living in her newly acquired estate with merely a cook, a cook’s assistant, and whatever role this woman happened to play.

  “Here you are.” The woman raised both tweed-clad arms, pointing to two rooms across from each other. “You may select whichever you prefer. These are the closest to the washroom and water closet.” She stepped into the bedroom on her right. “See here.” She waved Eva and Miss Stanley inside and pointed to a contraption with buttons, a tube, and a cone that sat on a hook much like that on a telephone. “Have you used one of these before?”

  Both Eva and Miss Stanley shook their heads. Foxwood Hall still used the original system of bell pulls to alert the staff to the family’s needs, but vocal communications were achieved through the more modern intra-house telephones that connected several of the main rooms to the housekeeper’s office and butler’s pantry. Eva had never had occasion to use a system like this.

  “These speaking tubes connect you to the rooms below. When one of your employers pushes the button for a certain room, the bell will sound, letting you know she wishes to speak with you. Rather archaic, but efficient.”

  With that she exited the room with a quick step that spoke of the same efficiency as the speaking tubes—simple but direct. Miss Stanley followed her out to the corridor. “Excuse me.”

  The woman turned, one eyebrow raised in expectation. She waited in silence.

  “We would like some tea, if you please.”

  “Then I suggest you return to the kitchen and make some.”

  With a huff, Miss Stanley drew up short. “How dare you? I’ll have you know I intend to see that Miss Brockhurst learns of your boorish behavior. Miss Huntford and I are lady’s maids, not common servants. Clearly you do not understand protocol, nor do you have the slightest grasp of basic common decency.” Several seconds passed. When no response seemed imminent, Miss Stanley raised her chin to a haughty angle. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  The woman smiled, but only briefly. “Clearly there has been a misunderstanding. I am no servant, common or otherwise. My name is Olive Asquith, and I am the very good friend of Miss Brockhurst. I received you below as a courtesy to Miss Brockhurst and her guests, and if you must know, I believe lady’s maids—and butlers, footmen, and all the rest—are a good lot of balderdash that have no place in modern society. You had best realize that if you intend to survive in a world that is fast losing its patience with oppressive and outdated traditions.

  “Now, in this house,” she went on briskly and without giving Miss Stanley a chance to deliver the retort so obviously sizzling on her tongue, “you’ll find only the cook and her assistant, for neither Miss Brockhurst nor I know our way around a kitchen.”

  “But who cleans?” Miss Stanley demanded. “Who does the laundry?”

  “A married couple comes every other day or so to clean and perform any labor that needs doing. The laundry is sent out, and Miss Brockhurst intends to engage a gardener, since again, neither of us have any aptitude for horticulture. Other than that, we see no use for servants. Our meals are served buffet style; we serve ourselves and stack our own used dishes on the sideboard for the cook’s assistant to collect. Now, I’ll leave you to settle in, and if you need anything, there is a linen cupboard at the end of the hall. It’s kept unlocked. Anything else you’ll most likely find belowstairs.”

  She strode away, her boots again loud on the floorboards, her small hips barely swaying beneath her narrow skirt. Eva rather enjoyed the moment; for the first time that day, Miss Myra Stanley had been rendered not only silent, but utterly dumbfounded, as indicated by the drop of her chin and her gaping mouth.

  * * *

  “Everything goes.” Cousin Regina stood in the center of the drawing room and swept her arms in wide circles. “All of it.”

  Phoebe exchanged a glance of surprise with Julia. She had just finished complimenting the lovely balance of the room’s heavy brocades with lighter, airy florals. Regina had immediately turned up her nose.

  “It’s awful,” she sang out. “So utterly last century. I bought the place lock, stock, and barrel, as you can see, but I had no intention of keeping any of the furnishings. We are marching into the modern era, and this house shall march with us.”

  “So you intend to gradually replace what’s here,” Phoebe ventured as she mentally began adding up the expense of such an undertaking.

  Regina shook her ebony curls and wrinkled her nose. “No, silly. I want it gone as soon as humanly possible. That’s why you’re here.”

  Julia sat across from Phoebe on one of several settees in the long room, one leg crossed over the other and swinging with restless energy. “A rather ambitious endeavor in a house of this size, not to mention the expense.”

  Phoebe shot her sister another glance. Never mind that they rarely agreed on anything; it was uncharacteristic of Julia to ever mention money, or frugality in particular.

  Regina chose to ignore the observation. “There is a particular style I want. I saw it in France before the war, promoted by La Société des Artistes Décorateurs. My instincts tell me it is going to be all the rage once the rest of Europe settles down. It’s divinely innovative and so very modern. The best way I can describe it is clean, flowing, curving lines, very geometric, very . . .” Her expression became animated. “Daring and unencumbered.”

  “Rather like you,” Phoebe remarked.

  “Yes,” Regina exclaimed. “Like me. I suppose spending the first few years of my life in India, during Father’s posting on the viceroy’s executive council, taught me to appreciate the exotic and the unexpected.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Julia said with a slight roll of her eyes. “And how can we be of help?”

  “I need your keen eyes to help me design a concept for each room of the house,” Regina replied. “I wish to begin placing orders at the first opportunity.”

  “Shouldn’t you seek out a professional? Julia can be of help, of course, but I’m afraid I’m not much for design of any kind.” Phoebe took in the room again, experiencing a vague sense of mourning for the lovely furnishings, carved and gilded, that would soon be cast off. The paintings, many of them portraits of the family who once owned the estate, would undoubtedly be among the first to go. And the two matching silk fire screens, the heavy curtains with their sweeping, tasseled valances, and the adorable courting sofa in the far corner, with its seats that curved around to face each other—all relics of a bygone era.

  Then, suddenly, she had an idea . . .

  “Are you interested in donating some of the house’s contents?” Hopefulness filled her. “Of course you’ll wish to sell the larger pieces and anything of true value, but the organization I started last spring for the Relief and Comfort of Veterans and their Families, or the RCVF, as we call it, could truly benefit from household items—linens, draperies, bedding, things of that sort. It’s for the—”

  “Perhaps you should concentrate on a room at a time,” Julia interrupted. “Not merely with expense in mind, but due to the rather overwhelming nature of such an undertaking. We’re talking about an entire house.”

  Not to be overshadowed by her sister, Phoebe tried again. “Yes, but the RCVF—”

  “I see your point,” Regina said to Julia as if P
hoebe hadn’t spoken, “but I wish to accomplish one overall look for the place, rather than make a disjointed, higgledy-piggledy job of it. That’s the old way. I want unity. Uniformity. A sense of order throughout.”

  “Well, all right then . . .” Julia trailed off as a figure appeared in the doorway. She and Phoebe both regarded the woman, dressed in dreary country tweeds of a color that matched the severe and simple arrangement of her hair. The housekeeper, Phoebe guessed, possibly just arrived home from a trip to town. Regina’s attention was focused on a collection of porcelain figurines in the gold-leafed curio cabinet. Julia whispered her name to capture her attention. “Regina, dear, this creature seems to want to speak to you.”

  “Creature?” Regina repeated far too loudly for Phoebe’s comfort. She inwardly cringed at the discourtesy and was sorely tempted to kick Julia’s ankle. Regina glanced over her shoulder, then straightened and turned. “Olive, don’t be a goose. Come in and meet my cousins. Phoebe, Julia, this is my dear friend, Olive Asquith. Olive, these are my Renshaw cousins, whom I have told you so much about.”

  Julia’s eyebrows went up, her interest obviously piqued. “Asquith, as in our former prime minister?”

  “Indeed not. How d’you do?” Miss Asquith ran her gaze over Phoebe and Julia, leaving Phoebe with the distinct sense of having been judged and found wanting. It was something in the tilt of the woman’s head, the twitch of her eyebrow that reminded Phoebe of her grandmother when she disapproved of something. She instinctively sat up straighter. “I’ve shown your maids to rooms on the third floor. Though honestly, Regina,” she added, shifting her attention as she walked several steps into the room, “isn’t relegating them to the attic rather an affront to our ideals?”

  “What”—Julia spoke out of the side of her mouth, for Phoebe’s hearing only—“is she talking about?”

  As Phoebe shrugged, Miss Asquith’s slight form whipped about in Julia’s direction. “I am talking about the ridiculous notion that someone can be born better than anyone else.”

  If Regina’s friend thought she could take Julia aback, she was in for disappointment. Phoebe compressed her lips to hide a smile as Julia met Miss Asquith’s obvious disdain with an innocent expression. “But what has that got to do with where Eva and Myra sleep? Surely there are no ghosts in the attic, or bats or squirrels to bite them in their sleep?”

  Phoebe suppressed a chuckle.

  “Olive, be nice.” Regina moved to her friend’s side and wrapped an arm about her waist. “My cousins are used to doing things in a certain way. People don’t change overnight, you know.”

  Miss Asquith shrugged, and her features eased from their stern expression of a moment ago. “If you say so, Regina.”

  “I do. We were discussing the refurbishment of the house, so you’ve arrived just in time.” Regina said to Phoebe and Julia, “Olive has quite a few ideas herself.”

  “Exactly how do you believe people should change?” Julia persisted, apparently enjoying the discussion. Phoebe detected the mockery in her tone that would be lost on someone who didn’t know her well.

  “Oh, let’s not talk about such things,” Regina said quickly. “We’re here to have a little fun. Come, let’s all walk through the downstairs rooms. Julia, I’d especially like your opinion on the dining room. Come along, ladies. You, too, Olive,” she added when the woman seemed disinclined to follow.

  Regina and Julia led the way across the hall, charmingly oval in design with several rooms opening onto it from three sides of the house, and presided over by a curving staircase. Phoebe let her pace lag so Miss Asquith would have no choice but to remain alone in the drawing room, contrary to Regina’s request, or fall into step with Phoebe, which she apparently chose to do. She seemed an unlikely companion for Regina, for the two women couldn’t be more opposite in manner, looks, and, if Phoebe guessed correctly, circumstances. Surely Miss Asquith hailed from modest means—not that she personally found that a deterrent to friendship with Regina. But Regina had always struck her as someone who believed in choosing one’s friends from one’s own social circle. What could two such apparently different individuals possibly have in common?

  A small suspicion sneaked into Phoebe’s mind. She hoped it wasn’t Regina’s money that drew Olive Asquith to her side.

  “How long have you and my cousin known each other?” she asked as she and Miss Asquith followed several paces behind Regina and Julia.

  “About a year now, I suppose.”

  “And how did you meet?”

  “At a meeting.”

  Phoebe waited for more to this cryptic answer, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. “Oh? What sort of meeting was that?”

  “A social meeting,” she said evasively. “Of the sort that are rather common in London nowadays, especially since the war ended.”

  “I see.” Phoebe did not see, really, but she supposed direct questions would glean little from the reticent Miss Asquith. “Perhaps one of your social groups would be interested in the charity I run. We provide aid to veterans of the Great War who reside in the Cotswolds. Now that Regina owns a home here—”

  “You’ll have to speak to her.”

  The terse interruption felt rather like a slap on the hand. Phoebe flinched but quickly recovered. “Yes, I suppose that would be best. Will you be staying on here for a while?”

  To her complete astonishment, Miss Asquith sped up to join the others before Phoebe had finished asking the question. When she entered the dining room, Miss Asquith had once more taken up position at Regina’s side. They linked arms. With her free hand Regina gestured to the tapestries, depicting hunting scenes, covering the north wall above the massive stone-and-marble hearth. “Those dismal things must come down, of course, and I intend to reface the fireplace in something sleek and—”

  “Modern, yes.” Julia went to the fireplace and ran her hand over the surround and mantle. “It’s quite good craftsmanship, Regina, and I can see this has been carved from a single block. What a shame if it were to crack while being uninstalled. Are you certain you wish to take the chance?”

  “Oh, pish posh. So what if it cracks into a million pieces. I don’t want it, and so it must go.”

  With a sigh, Julia glanced up at the tapestries. “Are these very old, do you know? They look to me to be Flemish, which would mean they’ll fetch a good price at auction.”

  “I suppose, but I won’t wait for them or anything else to sell before I began making changes. I want this house renovated before Christmas at the latest. If I have to, I’ll give them away. Do you think a museum might want them?”

  Phoebe rounded on her cousin. “Surely you can’t mean to simply dispose of a fortune’s worth of treasures, Regina. There is no sense in that.”

  With laughter, Regina said, “Darlings, rest assured, I do not need the money. I’ve got heaps. Father saw to that.”

  Phoebe and Julia exchanged a thoroughly puzzled look. Julia cleared her throat. “I’m sure your father was very generous to you in his will, but what you’re proposing for this house is—”

  “You don’t understand.” Regina let go another peal of laughter. Miss Asquith sniggered into her hand. “Father left me nearly everything.”

  Phoebe frowned, her expression mirrored by Julia. “But the entail . . . your brother . . .”

  “Oh, yes, Hastings has inherited Father’s title and honors. He’s now Lord Mandeville, and long may he relish it. The entail, you see, is for all practical purposes bankrupt. Has been for nearly two generations before Father. But Father had a knack for finance and built up a fortune of his own, with which he was free to do as he pleased. And it pleased him to leave his riches to me.”

  “But . . .” Feeling slightly disoriented, Phebe pressed a hand to her breastbone. “What about your mother? And the London house? Without resources, how will Hastings manage?”

  “That’s Hastings’s problem, isn’t it? And Mother has a decent dower portion, if she can learn to live within her means.” />
  “Surely you’ll supplement her income.” Even Julia, usually uninterested in the fortunes of others, seemed shocked by this development. “And you won’t allow Hastings to lose Mandeville House.”

  Regina’s only response was to turn a beaming smile on Olive Asquith. The two linked arms again, and Regina turned with her to face the windows. “Those diamond mullions obstruct the view, don’t you think? I find them depressing.”

  “They certainly are,” Miss Asquith readily agreed. “I think replacing them with wide-paned French doors would be a vast improvement. They would let in more light and give easier access to the veranda.”

  With a nod, Regina once more appealed to Julia. “Come, cousin, and give me your ideas on how to arrange this room to its best advantage.”

  Julia stayed where she was. “Perhaps if you gave us a hint as to your intentions for the house, I’d be better able to advise you. Will it be house parties, hunting, or perhaps your personal retreat?”

  A school, Phoebe thought with a ray of hope, but knew better than to suggest such a thing.

  “House parties, now there’s a thought.” Regina tipped back her head and laughed once more. “I assure you, I’m quite finished with house parties. Such a bore.”

  Phoebe tended to agree, but her cousin had yet to answer the question. “Then what? You’re being terribly mysterious, Regina.”

  After seeking and receiving an encouraging nod from Miss Asquith, Regina grinned. “High Head Lodge is to be a place of study, discussion, and debate. A gathering place for today’s enlightened individuals, where they can explore new ideas without fear of harassment. A place where the—”

  “Perhaps that’s enough said, Regina.” Miss Asquith gave Regina’s sleeve a tug. She also, Phoebe noticed, clenched her jaw before continuing. “You don’t wish to overwhelm your cousins. And first things first. The house must be made ready before it can be used for anything.”

  “You’re so right, Olive, dear.” She regarded Phoebe and Julia like a society hostess greeting her guests. “Come. Let’s have a little fun redesigning these rooms, and then we’ll see what Cook has concocted for lunch. She’s no Parisian chef, but for a local woman she’s delightfully talented.”