Mornings in London Read online

  The Larkins were included in her joy. She gave Eveline an exuberant hug, and the major, too, and immediately asked about Yankee, the gelding she’d ridden on her visit. “Thriving,” said the major, “and there’s a new filly I want you to see.”

  With that, they set off to the stables, Poppy in a borrowed pair of Wellies, the better to tromp through stalls and wade into pastures. I was left with Eveline Larkin, who I expected would direct me to my room with as few of her precious words as possible. But I was wrong. Assuring me that Jenkins would find me an evening jacket (as if this had been my worry) and some toiletries, Mrs. Larkin led me into the library. A fire was burning in the grate, and I was invited to sit on one of the big leather sofas.

  “How good of you to come down with Penelope,” she said, her voice almost without expression. Even her compliments had a cool edge.

  “She would have been better off with a lawyer, but you can’t tell Poppy much. And Aunt Theresa even less.”

  “There’s no question about Penelope’s innocence.” Eveline phrased it as a statement, but I heard it as a question. And Penelope. She had been Poppy to the Larkins just three weeks before. Be careful, Francis!

  “Of course not,” I said, trying for indignation, although, in fact, I was surprised that Poppy had been allowed out of the station. Another thing that merited consideration.

  “I’m sure she doesn’t need a lawyer,” Eveline repeated. “When she has family and friends. You can be sure the major and I will do everything in our power.”

  “Poppy will appreciate that.” She would certainly have more belief in their goodwill than I had. “The blouse that turned up. You know, I could swear Poppy never wore it here.”

  “Young ladies change their clothes so often, don’t they? All the better to dazzle their young men.” Her frightful smile made me wonder if she had ever been flirtatious. If so, she was seriously out of practice. Realizing that or else sensing that she’d picked the wrong target, she abruptly switched gears. “I can tell you finding her blouse was a terrific shock for Magnus.”

  “The major found it himself?” That was not what the police had told us.

  “Who else? He was inspecting the building, prying up some boards to get ready for Bailey. Ever since the war, our local carpenter has charged the most frightful prices, perfectly criminal, so Magnus takes on some of the work himself. Anyway, Magnus was checking a rotten board, and there it was. Blood-soaked,” she concluded.

  Although I thought that an old friend convinced of Poppy’s innocence might have lost that piece of evidence, I agreed it was shocking. “But puzzling,” I added, “if we are agreed Poppy is not to blame.”

  “I am sure there is an explanation,” Eveline said.

  “The simplest explanation is that someone wishes to frame my cousin.”

  “Unthinkable!”

  “There aren’t too many alternatives,” I said. “A ‘passing stranger’ would have been hard-pressed to steal one of Poppy’s blouses.”

  Eveline Larkin expressed her displeasure with this analysis, and she left the library in such a huff that I had to find the housekeeper to locate my room. Predictably, dinner was an awkward affair. Miss Victoria Larkin was away appreciating culture and fascism in Rome. The gossipy old cousin had returned home. We were strictly en famille at dinner.

  Poppy, looking quite smart in a borrowed frock, talked horses with the major as if she hadn’t a care in the world, while Eveline and I sought for neutral topics without much success. Given the circumstances, it’s surprising that only one moment really made me uneasy.

  Major Larkin had just finished a long anecdote about a point-to-point race on a headstrong mare, when Eveline turned to Poppy. “How is Theresa?”

  “Mother’s fine,” Poppy said. “I told her we were staying over. She thanks you profusely and apologizes for my informal clothes.”

  “It is our pleasure.” The major reached over to pat her hand. “We’ll get this sorted out jolly soon.”

  “A quiet resolution,” Eveline agreed, “is much desired by all parties.”

  “Has your mother arranged for a solicitor? You were quite right when you told the police you wanted one,” I said.

  Poppy frowned. “Time enough for that tomorrow.”

  “No need to trouble your mother about that. My solicitor here can look into the matter,” the major said quickly. “Clarkson’s a good man. He’s helping me in negotiations with the National Trust. Larkin Manor’s so integral to the fabric of the county that we must make plans for its preservation. Even though there is no entail.” He turned to Poppy, “You see, my dear, the Larkins did not have the old prejudices against female inheritance.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” said Poppy, “and Victoria must be, too.”

  “I think a flat in Bloomsbury or Chelsea might suit Victoria better.” Eveline’s voice was dry, as if her husband’s enthusiasms found little echo from her.

  “Victoria will do her duty by the estate,” the major said. “And Clarkson will see that the Trust handles the manor. You can’t think how complicated it is to preserve the treasures of England.” Once launched on his favorite topic, the major was unstoppable. The possibility of the hangman’s noose for Poppy was a minor detail when weighed against the upkeep of the manor, which the major hoped to arrange at public expense with minimal interference.

  This interesting topic took us right through dessert, coffee, and liqueurs, and as we were so few, we all sat together in the salon for what seemed to me an interminable time, made worse by the fact that the butler, rather than my agreeable friend Jenkins, was serving. Finally, Poppy pleaded fatigue, and I took the opportunity to go upstairs with her.

  “You haven’t yet gotten a solicitor?” I asked as soon as we were out of earshot.

  Her eyes slid away. “I didn’t want to worry Mother.”

  “Aunt Theresa will be a lot more worried if you wind up in a cell. You turned quite white when Carstairs mentioned the banqueting house.”

  “I’d met Freddie there. Once on a previous visit. And the day of the argument, he’d been after me to meet him someplace quiet, to talk things out, you know. Maybe he already had the key; I’ll bet he did. When the inspector mentioned it, I couldn’t help thinking—I don’t know what. A bad moment is all, and anyway, the major said—”

  “Poppy! This Clarkson chap is the major’s solicitor. He’s going to act in the Larkins’ best interests, which may not be the same as yours. There’s something else you should know, too. It wasn’t the carpenter who found that wretched blouse. Eveline said that it was the major himself.”

  She was surprised at that, and she stopped at the door of her room. I stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind us.

  “Does it matter?” Poppy asked, although her face suggested it did. “He would have to tell the police, wouldn’t he?”

  “Maybe, but maybe not, if he’s as convinced of your innocence as he claims.”

  “He does believe me. I know he does.”

  I reserved judgment on that. “Something else I noticed. He and Inspector Davis know each other. Quite well, I’m guessing.”

  “Hunting, horses, historic preservation—the major belongs to all sorts of organizations. Or maybe he and the inspector served together. He keeps up with his old regiment.”

  “Still, why is the Met involved at all? Carstairs seems thorough and capable.”

  “I don’t know, Francis! I don’t know why you think I would know.” Poppy whipped out her cigarettes and lit one greedily. She was not as calm as she’d seemed at dinner.

  “I’m worried. You need legal advice, because innocence isn’t always enough. You and your mother and Eveline are ignoring the damage this can do even if you are eventually cleared.”

  “What does Eveline have to do with it?”

  “Earlier, she was on about how you didn’t need a s
olicitor.”

  “I see.” Poppy looked thoughtful but added nothing more.

  “The major, when you were with the horses, did he say anything about the case or about Freddie?”

  Poppy shook her head. “I’m tired, Francis. It will be time enough in the morning for all this.”

  With that, Poppy turned mulish and I gave up. I changed out of my borrowed dinner clothes and, using their return as an excuse, ventured down the back stairs in search of the agreeable footman, the only person who could redeem the dismal evening. Instead, I met the butler, who gave me to understand that I might have left the clothes in my room. As for my desire to thank Jenkins, no thanks were required, and he was otherwise engaged.

  Let your imagination go, Francis! Disappointed, I went to bed alone, intermittently disturbed by the wind and rain that beat against the house until a pale and watery morning dawned.

  Below my windows, weak sunlight reflected in the puddles: Poppy would want to ride. Possibly, she was already out.

  Downstairs, I had tea, an egg, and toast. The major came in, followed by the butler with the morning papers.

  “You’re not riding, Major?”

  “Not this morning. Penelope said she would have to be ready to return to the police station early.” He opened the Times and disappeared behind its folds. I went to the library and checked the morning from the garden terrace. Dry now, though the fields would be wet and the lanes, muddy. When I returned to the breakfast room, Poppy still hadn’t appeared. The major offered me The Daily Express, and I sat down to read the news of the day à la Beaverbrook.

  Eight o’clock. Poppy must have overslept, not too surprising under the circumstances. I went upstairs, noticed that the bathroom was empty, and tapped softly on her door. “Poppy?”

  No answer. Inside, the curtains were drawn; the room, chilly and still. Alarmed, I opened a drape. The bed was rumpled but empty. Perhaps Poppy was on an early morning visit to the horses, her most reliable consolation.

  Or else she’d made a run for it, suggesting— I shook my head. I refused to think she was guilty. Frightened, maybe, for the whole business had unsettled her, though more likely defiant. I’d seen her often enough on the hunting field to know that she was willful and brave. But if she was innocent, running was as foolish as failing to hire a solicitor. What had looked like confident innocence was now going to put her in a bad light.

  Another thought: What if she had been lured, or forced, from the house? Better in some ways, much worse in others, suggesting that she, like Freddie, had gone to a dangerous meeting or that someone wanted her temporarily—or permanently—out of the way. Wasn’t that more likely than that, bruised and scraped as she was, Poppy had set out through mud and wet to catch the early train? I ran down the service stairs to see if the Wellies she’d borrowed the day before were still in the back entry.

  Riding boots, gardening shoes, a variety of Wellies, including a pair that looked to be Poppy’s size. Had she walked the few miles to the station in her dress shoes? Or had a friend with a car run down to Sussex in the wee hours of the morning? Though I doubted that Aunt Theresa would be part of such a scheme, I couldn’t rule out her deb friends, madcap lassies who careened around London on scavenger hunts with equally silly boyfriends.

  If she’d gone with one of them, she was safe for the moment. I was trying to decide how likely that was when I heard a familiar voice in the front hall. Back up the service stairs to descend to the main hall like a proper guest. Inspector Carstairs was in the breakfast room with the major. The inspector was holding an unlit cigarette, and so far as he ever looked eager for anything, he looked eager for his next hit of nicotine. “Good morning, Mr. Bacon.”

  “Morning, Inspector.”

  “Is Penelope ready?” the major asked me.

  I took a breath. I still hadn’t decided whether it was better to stall or to raise the alarm. It would have helped if my cousin had confided her plans to me. “Poppy isn’t in her room. She must have gone for a walk.”

  “Nonsense! We’d have heard her on the stairs. She’s about the house somewhere. Taking counsel with Eveline, I expect.” The major pushed back his chair and went up to disturb his wife, who seldom saw the light of day before ten or eleven.

  He returned looking puzzled and concerned. “The staff didn’t hear her go out, either,” he reported. “That means she’s probably been gone for several hours.”

  “The station’s within walking distance. If she caught the early train up to London, we can catch her at Victoria.” Carstairs went off to phone the train station, apparently without success, for when he got off the phone, he announced that the house and grounds would have to be searched. He and his sergeant proceeded to go through the house, top to bottom, before investigating the garage, stables, and barns. All the cars were in the garage, but Carstairs still made a point of asking me if Poppy could drive. I said I had no idea as neither her mother nor Freddie had owned a car.

  There were no prints of her heels in the lane, and no sign of my cousin in the stable and no missing hunter, either. Even the old pony was safe in its stall.

  Back in the house, Eveline had arisen, very cranky, to confirm that she hadn’t seen Penelope since the previous evening. The butler, cook, housekeeper, and chambermaids confirmed the major’s account: They had not seen Miss Penelope leave the house. My friend Jenkins was doing early errands in the village. I wondered if there was any connection, and maybe Carstairs did, too, because he said that he’d wait.

  The major went off to work in his office, first escorting Carstairs and me to the smoking room, a venue that completed my happiness. Dogs, horses, cows, pollen, farm dust, and smoke: the asthmatic’s dream combination! Plus a guardian of the law. This was certainly my lucky day.

  The inspector puffed up a storm, and when he had established the requisite cloud of smoke, he turned to me. “Where is your cousin?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “I believe she trusts you,” he said carefully.

  “I know she does, and that’s why I’m worried. She didn’t even hint about leaving.”

  “Ah.” Carstairs studied the end of his cigarette for a moment. “The simplest explanation is that your cousin, being guilty, has decided to make a run for it.”

  “I don’t believe that, and I don’t believe she panicked, either.”

  “Your reasoning, aside from family loyalty?”

  “The fact that you can’t believe she’s guilty. If you did, you would have charged her yesterday or found some excuse to hold her.”

  Carstairs studied me for a moment. “We will talk more at the station,” he said.

  I wanted to return to work and, failing that, to help search for Poppy. He dismissed both possibilities with a wave and disappeared into the service quarters. I guessed that Jenkins had returned with a satisfactory explanation, for Carstairs soon reappeared to announce that we were to meet his colleague from the Met. His sergeant had the police car waiting to take us to the station.

  Back to the interview room. We were three this time, Carstairs, Davis, and yours truly. “We have some problems,” said Davis.

  “You’ll have more when my aunt learns Poppy’s missing.”

  He ignored this. “You may be our best hope of finding her quickly.”

  I was uneasy. I find it hard to be cooperative with officials who see me as a civic undesirable and a potential boost to their arrest rate. “I don’t know where she is, but I’m sure she didn’t kill Freddie.”

  “We will reserve judgment on that. We have considerable circumstantial evidence.”

  “Equally strong for the whole house party, I would think. But how many people arrive for a weekend equipped with a lethal knife?”

  “Exactly. And the attack on your cousin, severe enough to appear genuine, plus her claim that someone searched her flat, might lead us in a different direction.�
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  “You might have assured Poppy of that yesterday!”

  “Her disappearance, however, casts a different light on everything. Suggesting strongly that she may have something to hide.”

  “Or that someone was anxious to get her out of the way. She should never have been without police protection.”

  “There were complications,” Davis said irritably.

  He didn’t elaborate, and Carstairs continued. “What interests us at the moment is that someone made an effort to implicate your cousin with that bloodstained blouse, as well as with highly colored accounts of her relationship with Mr. Bosworth.”

  How could they be surprised? “Aside from me, everyone who heard them arguing was Freddie’s friend. Naturally, they put him in the best possible light.”

  “You did not consider him a friend?” Davis asked.

  “I considered him dishonest and unreliable. I thought Poppy was making a colossal mistake.”

  “Then you knew him?” the inspector asked slyly.

  “Knew enough about him.”

  “Lover’s jealousy, perhaps?”

  Careful, Francis. When I said nothing, Davis added, “Your habits, Mr. Bacon, are known.”

  “Then you’ll know that my contact with Freddie was a casual one. He was handsome, but blackmail was one of the nicer rumors going around. I had no time for him—or for his politics.”

  When Davis smiled, I realized that in my anxiety for Poppy, I had maybe said too much.

  “We have another possibility: a devoted cousin who knows a former lover’s reputation and decides to prevent that ‘colossal mistake.’”

  “I suppose that ‘devoted cousin’ also stole Poppy’s blouse, soaked it in Freddie’s blood, jimmied the banqueting house lock, and planted the bloodstained evidence to implicate her. I don’t think that will hold up at all.”

  “No,” said Davis. “Not in the long run. But you own a design studio that’s profitable enough to support you and an old retainer. Such concerns depend on the luxury trade, don’t they?”

  “Good design isn’t cheap,” I said, but my heart sank.