Mornings in London Page 2

  “Fascinating,” I said and set off to find the handsome footman Jenkins.

  The same Jenkins was now rolling out of bed and collecting his clothes. He eased open the door with practiced care and disappeared into the corridor. I checked my watch. It was six fifteen. I had a full day of country delights ahead of me.

  Chapter 2

  I grabbed the bathroom before the other guests lined up. The manor house had been updated with indoor plumbing around the turn of the century, an improvement that caused the major both pride and regret. His father and grandfather had been “forward looking” but not always as “respectful of the fabric” as the present owner.

  “A time capsule,” he said. “One of the great resources of England. A great house carries the nation’s history.”

  I could but nod. At the time, we were admiring the first indoor convenience, centrally located off the entrance hall, with a marble seat, handsome tile work, and the faint but penetrating odor of ancient drains. The upstairs facilities were more comfortable if less historic. Washed and ready for the day, I stepped into the hallway to see Signor Rinaldi. Wearing a fine cashmere dressing gown and carrying his toiletry bag, he was just leaving Freddie’s room.

  I knew it was Freddie’s, because we had heard someone pass my door in the night, and Jenkins, who clearly knew every creak of the stair and every board in the corridor, said, “That’s Mr. Freddie. He staggers when he’s drunk,” before we heard the door opposite mine close.

  “Morning,” I said.

  When he saw me, Signor Rinaldi stuck his free hand into his pocket and looked ready to sink through the floor, but he recovered with a big smile, revealing quite splendid teeth. “Signor Freddie is early awake.”

  “Out riding, I expect. With his fiancée.”

  “The beautiful Miss Penelope, of course! My mistake!” He clapped a theatrical hand to his forehead and said something in rapid Italian, before adding, “I was returning a book he so kindly lent me.” With this, Rinaldi gave a little bow and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

  Well, well. Shared reading material? The latest novel out of Rome in the original Italian? I didn’t think so. Poor Poppy! The leopard was still a spotted cat, and the sooner she dropped Freddie, the better. I thought I should tell her that and then I thought I should keep my mouth shut. I still hadn’t decided when the riders returned with a bustle in the front hall.

  “Wait, Poppy!” Freddie’s voice was full of suppressed agitation.

  My cousin’s voice rose an octave above. “Only my friends call me Poppy!”

  “You don’t understand my situation—”

  “I understand it perfectly now! I should have listened—” Then a door slammed.

  I stepped into the hallway. The two of them were closeted in the library, where they felt free to shout. “I could just kill you,” I heard Poppy scream.

  Not a bad idea, but she would have been better to keep her voice down, for the other riding ladies were distressed, and their consorts, embarrassed. Shouting and threats of what Nan’s favorite crime columns call “grievous bodily harm” are bad form at country house parties. We had a few moments of paralyzed awkwardness before Freddie banged the door against the major’s prized paneling and clattered upstairs in his riding boots.

  Signaling for the others to wait, I entered the library and closed the door softly behind me. I guessed that I’d been invited because Poppy had suspected the lay of the land, now confirmed. She was standing at the far end of the handsome room, all fine mahogany cabinetry and leather-bound volumes. I joined her at one of the long windows, and we did not speak for several minutes.

  “You knew,” she said finally. “You knew all about him. I blame you for this.”

  That was going too far even from the brokenhearted. Although I loathe I told you so, I said, “I did try to warn you. I told you he was a terrible man and to stay clear of him.”

  “But you weren’t convincing, Francis.” Poppy attempted her usual arch manner despite her trembling lip. “You weren’t convincing at all.”

  I put my arm around her. “You were in love.”

  “Love,” she said bitterly. “Love is supposedly kind, but I could cut his throat. Now I’m not sure I know what love is.”

  I drew Poppy close to me and stroked her hair. I wasn’t a big expert on love, either, though I’m pretty knowledgeable about lust, its disreputable sibling. Maybe I told her that. I think I did, because she wiped her eyes and used her handkerchief.

  “Can we go now? I’ll be a gentleman and escort you back to London.”

  Poppy stiffened immediately. “Leave a house party because of Freddie? I’m not the one sneaking around with that slimy consul or attaché or whatever the hell he is. Let Freddie crawl back to London.”

  I saw her point, but I wasn’t going to accompany her grieving ex-fiancé back to civilization. “You’re condemning me to church brasses and Jacobean oak and an early Norman crypt.”

  “Do you good, Francis. Exert yourself and see if you can’t convince Major Larkin to add a modern rug to his collection. Oh, and perhaps you’ll return this to Freddie.” She twisted a handsome sapphire-and-diamond ring from her finger and dropped it into my hand. Then she put her chin in the air and walked out.

  The end of Poppy’s engagement undeniably enlivened the party. Everyone had an opinion on the breakup, and everyone was eager to talk about it, with the exception of the major, whose head remained in the architectural clouds. Our visit to the small Norman church actually provided a welcome break, and what was even more welcome was learning on our return that Freddie had been driven to the London train. Good riddance!

  When I’d returned the ring, he’d struck me as angry rather than sad, confirming Poppy’s narrow escape. Later, I supported my cousin during an unpleasant lunch. The other guests were uncertain where to look or what to say, but, if anything, Poppy was overly bright, the deb’s way of defying fate and showing the flag. She insisted on my giving an account of the Norman church, an account continually amplified and corrected by the major. This got us through the soup and fish and most of the way through the roast before an uncomfortable silence fell.

  Mrs. Larkin took up the running with remarks on the Conservatives’ prospects that led by devious paths to the mysterious Wallis Simpson. The major’s wife claimed to have good intelligence about this lady, and I pricked up my ears, for if there is one thing Nan enjoys more than good crime coverage, it’s royal gossip.

  “She was with him at Ascot,” said Peter Tollman. The older of the Conservative gents was tall and very conscious of his silver hair and fine profile. He’d been in various government posts and assisted the major with his investments.

  “That’s public knowledge.” Mrs. Larkin leaned forward confidentially. “I can tell you that they were together on the Riviera.”

  “Surely not on the royal yacht!” This from Daphne Grove, who my father would have called a “horsey lady.” She had a strong face, burned red from sun and wind; curled blond hair; and large, strong hands. Top to toe, she suggested established money.

  “My dear! Certainly not. On a wealthy friend’s. Some Greek magnate, I think, a man with connections. Here and there.” She sniffed and added, “Including some that wouldn’t bear examination, I should think.”

  “Not much danger for the king, though, seeing the lady is married,” said Basil Grove. Younger than Tollman, robust, complacent, and shrewd, he supplied furniture to the big department stores. “Lord spare us from Americans.”

  “Mrs. Simpson is married in name only,” observed Mrs. Larkin.

  “And supposedly, she knows the way to the divorce court,” Lea Tollman added in a high, fluting voice. “This is husband two—or is it three?” She twitched her dark, plucked eyebrows and smirked.

  Everyone laughed at this.

  “I shouldn’t worry about the l
ady from Baltimore,” said Peter. “A divorced woman as royal consort! The British public wouldn’t stand for it. I tell you, the British public is sound. Not to mention the C of E.”

  Opinion was uniform on this, although Poppy did mention that the Church of England might look to its founder on the matter.

  The ensuing laughter led the major, stronger on history than tact, to observe that Henry VIII found beheading easier than divorce. This caused the party to remember the morning’s scene and rather dampened conversation.

  Soon afterward the pudding was finished, and we left the dining room, Poppy to retire to her room. I took a turn through the shrubbery on the forlorn hope of seeing Jenkins, then went to the library where I paged through a handsome edition of Shakespeare. My tenure in school was mercifully brief, but I love books and mean to be educated. I was deep in the tragedy of Richard II, who, like me, had a taste for handsome men, when Poppy came in, leaned on the back of my comfortable leather chair, and looked over my shoulder.

  “Richard II. Wasn’t he an early York or something?”

  “The last Plantagenet. The play has some marvelous verse.”

  “You have surprising enthusiasms, Francis,” she said before she raised my hopes by adding, “I need to get out.”

  “You’re so right. You need London, a night at the theater, followed by a club with a jazz band and very strong cocktails.”

  “I’ll settle for a walk,” she said and took my arm.

  Outside, Poppy immediately went quiet and stayed silent through a long walk down the grassy lanes that skirted the pastures and the tenant farms. We loitered long enough to miss tea, and the light had shifted to the west before we reached the field below the stables and the major’s prized ruin. The track was quite steep there, the old Normans having selected what the military minds in my family would call “a defensible and dominating site.” At the bottom of the track, some earlier Larkin landscaper had planted a grove of oaks, creating a nice prospect from the fields. We were passing through the shadows when Poppy drew in her breath and stopped.

  “What’s that?” The first thing she’d said for more than an hour.

  I followed her glance to the base of the tower, spotted something dark sprawled awkwardly in the weeds, and felt uneasy. “Just a bundle of rags?” Though where would they have come from? “A sleeping vagrant?” Quite likely, I thought, I hoped, for though we were assured the worst of the depression was over, homeless wanderers and itinerate job seekers were still all too familiar.

  “No. No, that’s a good suit, that’s—” She started forward with me a step behind. Then she gave a cry, and I grabbed her arm and held her back.

  “Poppy, no!”

  She stopped, shock making her biddable. I stepped around her. The man was lying facedown, but I recognized the fine pin-striped fabric, well-cut black hair, and expensive shoes. This was no vagrant.

  I took a big breath and knelt down, but I knew before I put my hand on his shoulder—and even before I saw the red-and-black gash across his throat—that Freddie was dead. I took another breath and found my legs.

  “Is he?” Poppy had edged closer.

  “Don’t look,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Oh, God, this is my fault,” she cried and burst into tears. “Was he hurt somehow?”

  I nodded.

  “What, what was it, Francis?”

  She moved to step closer and I held up my hand. “He was attacked. His head and his throat. You don’t want to see it.”

  She gave a great wail of pain and her legs folded. She pounded the grass with her fist as if she really had been crazy about Freddie, as if all her clever remarks and teasing and frivolity were just a mask, as if underneath she was someone who could threaten a lover and mourn his death like a madwoman. “I wanted him dead! I did! But I didn’t mean it. Oh, Francis, if only I hadn’t said anything! And now there he is.”

  “Poppy, get hold of yourself.”

  “But, Francis, it’s my fault. It really, really is.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  She sobbed and denied it.

  “Well then, we have to get the police and you best be careful unless you want to be ‘assisting with police inquiries.’ This may be messy.”

  As soon as I spoke, I knew it would be. Freddie’s death provided just the story ingredients my dear nan adored: a country house, society folk, a dodgy corpse, a grieving fiancée—regrettably, in this case, ex-fiancée. However desirable the morning’s blowup had been for my cousin’s future, it was not the best thing at the moment.

  “There will be police.” Her voice was flat.

  “Yes.”

  “And press. There will be press, won’t there, Francis?

  “You can count on it.”

  “How I used to love being in the papers! All my deb year and ever since, too. What a fool I was! They’ll have my pictures. Francis. Mugging for the camera and posing in silly costumes! Poor Freddie! It’s not right that he’ll be in with such nonsense, is it?”

  She was unfocused by shock, and I gave her a shake. “Poppy, you must be careful. Say as little as possible. And don’t read the papers.”

  “But we must find who did this to Freddie!” She wiped her eyes. “He could be irresistible, you know, Francis.”

  Actually, I did know that.

  “He was awfully handsome.”

  “His undoing,” I said and helped her up. Poppy was trembling; I didn’t feel too solid myself. We staggered up the slope, past the stables and into the house. Fortunately, Jenkins met us at the door.

  “Get Miss Penelope a drink, a stiff one, please, Jenkins. Somewhere quiet if you could.”

  “No one’s in the morning room, sir.”

  I handed Poppy off to the footman and went to the salon. Everyone was still gathered around the tea table, Mrs. Larkin presiding. When she saw me, she raised her head and stretched her wattled neck like an annoyed fowl. Missing tea was bad form.

  “Major Larkin, might I speak with you privately? Something very urgent.”

  He was surprised, but I must have looked and sounded shocked. I stepped back into the hallway and led him away from the door. “You must call the police,” I said quietly.

  “The police? Whatever’s wrong? Not more of those damn hunger marchers?”

  “No, far worse.”

  I told him what we’d found and watched his eccentric duffer manner slide away. By the time I was finished, he was metaphorically standing atop the trenches, ready to order the advance.

  “Your cousin?”

  “In shock. I asked Jenkins to give her a drink. She’s in the morning room.”

  “Right. I’ll get my wife to—”

  “Maybe I should look after Poppy,” I said quickly. “There’s no need to alarm the others yet.”

  When he hesitated, I added, “I could do with something stronger than tea, myself.”

  “Right. Steady on. I’ll call the police. But take your cousin directly to her room. She won’t want a lot of questions at the moment.”

  Nor later, either, but those could not be avoided after the local constabulary arrived, a contingent consisting of a man on a motorbike, the local doctor, and two husky constables in a battered police van. The major led them to the base of the tower, and as soon as they took in the situation, they used the house phone to summon reinforcements. An hour later, another car arrived, this one new, black, and official. Two men got out; the older, tall, stoop-shouldered, and dressed in a bulky tweed coat, was Alex Carstairs, a detective inspector from Hastings.

  He had a long sallow face, small eyes in dark pouches, shadowed cheeks, and an air of terminal boredom. His fingers were stained brown from the cigarettes that he smoked compulsively. I never saw him except veiled in a bluish cloud, all the better to hide any expression in his narrowed eyes from witnesses, suspects, an
d villains.

  As the discoverers of the corpse, Poppy and I came in for special attention. Of course, I described finding the body straightaway.

  “Did you move the body?” he asked.

  “Certainly not. I touched his shoulder, thinking maybe he was hurt not dead. And then I saw his throat and the blood on the grass.”

  “The body was lying quite close to the wall of the tower,” he observed.

  “That’s right. Very close. Without the wound in his neck, I’d have figured he’d fallen,” I said. Indeed, thinking about his position, I wondered how his assailant had managed at all.

  “Was there a way up into the tower?” Inspector Carstairs asked.

  “I don’t know. When Major Larkin showed me around, we stayed on the ground.”

  The inspector puffed for a moment on his cigarette, then thanked me for my information. That was at dusk.

  Once the van had carried Freddie away, the police commandeered the library. Inspector Carstairs cleared its large table and set up shop with his assistant, a weedy-looking sergeant with a bony face and a quick, alert manner. Carstairs worked his way through the guests, collecting names and addresses, and trying, as he put it to me on our second interview, to “get a picture of the deceased and establish a time line of events.”

  The deliberate and cautious inspector did everything with an absolute poker face and a neutral voice. On my second interview, I tried to operate the same way, thinking over each answer. To lie to the police is stupid. But to volunteer information unnecessarily is foolish.

  “You say you went out at four forty-five p.m.?” Carstairs began. We had, of course, established this at our first interview.

  “Thereabouts,” I said.

  “That was”—here he consulted a note on his pad—“nearly time for afternoon tea.”

  I nodded.

  “Might that have been considered discourteous?”

  “Not under the circumstances, I don’t think. Poppy—Penelope—wanted to take a little walk. She’d been terribly upset.”

  “By breaking her engagement?”