Murder at Melrose Court: A 1920s Country House Murder (Heathcliff Lennox) Page 2

  A knock on the door interrupted my reverie. I drained my glass, reached over to switch on my desk lamp, and shouted, ‘Enter.’

  ‘Telegram, sir!’ Tommy Jenkins brought it in – he was the house boot boy and was Cook’s nephew. He was deputising for Greggs, who had gone to lie down with a dram or two, with which I sympathised; I wouldn’t have minded doing the same.

  ‘Read it out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Tommy Jenkins pulled off his cap, shoved it into his pocket and swept his hair out of his eyes. ‘Sorry I missed out this morning, sir. ‘’Ad to be in the village pickin’ up groceries, sir. Aunty said that man was ’uge. She went to ’ave a look while they was liftin’ ’im into the wagon.’

  It had been a taxing afternoon. More bobbies had assembled and the Inspector had officiated as they tried to heave the body into an ambulance on a stretcher that didn’t so much stretch as bend almost to breaking point. I had opted to watch the proceedings while Greggs made more tea and Cook provided biscuits for the assorted crew. Once the fat man was loaded into the van, the police searched the grounds and gardens while the Inspector insisted we each sign statements. A few locals turned up having heard the news, and offered advice as they thought fit; naturally Greggs and Cook had to cater for them too. By the time they all drove off, the place had taken on the atmosphere of a village fete.

  ‘Just read the telegram, Jenkins.’

  ‘Ay, sir.’ His round-eyed face glowed with excitement; no one had ever died with such drama in the neighbourhood. ‘An’ nobody knows who ’e was neither. But the grocer said ’e saw a strange motor go down the ’igh street an’ turn up the lane toward ’ere, sir. Then ten minutes later it came back again!’

  ‘What sort of car was it?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Go and find out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The boy turned to dash off.

  ‘Wait! Read the telegram first.’

  ‘Ay, sir.’ He came back to stand in front of my desk and lifted the telegram to read slowly, one word at a time. ‘Lord Melrose kindly invites you to Melrose Court for the forthcoming festivities. Stop. Please come. Stop. Important news to impart. Stop. Your Loving Uncle. Stop.’

  He placed the grubby square of yellow card bearing an official red Post Office stamp on my desk and left at a run. I tossed it onto the pile of papers and sighed. The formal invitation from Melrose Court was in there somewhere; I hadn’t yet replied because I didn’t want to go – but didn’t want to upset Uncle either. Given today’s events, maybe I’d better accept? I ran a hand through my hair and looked at the pile of paper again. If my shares don’t buck up, I’ll have to sell something soon to settle that lot.

  My hand reached for the whisky decanter, but I held off; too easy to take that route.

  Flakes of snow were swirling in the grey sky. I went over to stoke the fire and then settled beside the hearth in my favourite chair. Rubbing my jaw, I thought back over the day’s events.

  The Countess Sophia Androvich Zerevki Polyakov – she was a White Russian, one of the Tsarists who had escaped when the Bolshevik Revolution overran the country in 1917. Having lost their homes, their lands and their peasants, the Russian aristocrats were selling gold and jewellery to survive. But Countess Sophia wasn’t, she was buying, and I knew she had a knowledgeable and expensive eye.

  I was frowning into the flames with Fogg at my feet and a tray of coffee at my elbow when Tommy rapped on the library door. He came in holding his cap and fidgeting with excitement.

  ‘Car was an Austin Seven, sir, dark blue, bit battered. Mr Benson the grocer didn’t know nothin’ more, but ’e reckoned it were from London, sir.’

  ‘Why did he think it was from London?’

  ‘Cos it weren’t from round ’ere.’

  ‘Did anyone else notice anything about it?’

  ‘My mate Billy saw it drive past the post office; ’e said there were two men in it, both wearin’ ’ats pulled low so ’e couldn’t see nothin’ clear on their faces.’

  ‘Is the post office coming into the village or going out of it?’

  Tommy blinked. ‘Don’t you know where the post office is?’

  ‘No, why should I?’

  This seemed to confound the lad. ‘But everyone knows that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  He looked at me as though I were an idiot. ‘It depends where you’re startin’ from, sir.’

  ‘London, of course.’

  ‘You think they were from London too?’

  ‘No, I’ve no idea where they were from. You said they went past the post office and the grocer thought they came from London.’

  ‘Ah, but we don’t know for sure they was comin’ from London, do we, sir? Can’t be makin’ assumptions, my Aunty always says: “If you just assume summat it’s no better’n guessin.’’

  I really did need that drink.

  ‘Tommy, in or out?’

  ‘Comin’ in o’ course. You ain’t very observant, sir. You need to be lookin’ about a bit more.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Tommy. Did Billy or the grocer see anything useful – like a number plate?’

  ‘No, sir, an’ nor did no one else. I asked as many as I could, which is most people that matters.’

  I doubted that but tossed Tommy a sixpence anyway; he headed off toward the kitchen with a grin on his face.

  It was no surprise, I reflected, that the grocer thought the car was from London: anything that wasn’t local was instantly assumed to come from the city, and in that regard the assumption was probably correct. Where was the hat? The fat man had worn a hat. The police had searched the grounds and lanes round about but had failed to find anything of note. The man’s money and papers would almost certainly be in a fold inside the hat – it was the habit among poorer people living in big cities where pickpockets were rife. Hat snatchers too – although anyone as big and tall as the dead man would likely have been beyond the reach of most thieves. And besides, this is rural England, we don’t have robbers lurking in the hedgerows. No, the man’s hat was taken by the person who drove him here in the Austin Seven. But why was it more important to take the hat than to help the dying man? I continued staring into the fire until dinner was announced.

  Next morning I had Greggs pack my carpet bag, and Tommy was loading it into the back of my brand new black Bentley 3-Litre when the telephone in the hall rang.

  ‘Doctor Fletcher is awaiting you on the apparatus, sir,’ Greggs announced as he came out onto the flagstones in front of the porch, now mercifully free of corpses but covered with a thin layer of snow. I was under the bonnet, checking the engine, which was ticking over with a distinct hiccup. I returned to the hall.

  ‘Lennox,’ Fletcher’s voice boomed from the receiver. ‘Can you hear me?’

  I held the contraption away from my ear and bellowed into the transmitter cup on the candlestick stand. ‘Yes, loud and clear, over.’

  ‘He had a heart attack.’

  ‘The fat man?’

  ‘Yes, of course, the fat man. How many corpses did you find yesterday!’

  ‘Very amusing, Cyril – what are the police doing? Over.’

  There was a distinct rattle and intake of breath heard by both of us.

  ‘Milly, get off the line,’ Cyril Fletcher shouted at the operator, who was apt to listen in on calls rather than just switching them through as she was supposed to.

  I heard the clunk as she cut herself off.

  ‘Cyril. Are you still there?’ I shouted.

  ‘Certainly I am. The police have little to say in the matter now, but I need to send some samples away for analysis. I’m certain he died of natural causes, unless you poisoned him, haha.’

  ‘No, he was dead when I met him. Thank you for calling, Cyril, I’m pleased to hear the diagnosis – the last thing I need is the police around my neck, over.’

  ‘You don’t have to keep saying “over”, Lennox.’

  ‘Very well. Over.’

  ‘I’
ll inform you when I have more news. Have a nice Christmas!’ Fletcher bellowed.

  ‘And to you too … Over.’

  I handed the device back to Greggs and noticed both the maids hanging over the upstairs banister rail. They ran off giggling when I frowned up at them.

  Well, that was one less botheration. I returned to the Bentley to find Fogg already in the passenger seat, the engine purring and my favourite fishing rod strapped to the side. I jumped in and we set off for Melrose Court in the deeper vales of the Cotswolds. An open-top tourer may seem an eccentric option given the drifting snow, but it was a machine of power and beauty and the next best thing to flying. I wore my old Royal Flying Corps helmet, goggles, silk scarf, leather trench coat and driving gloves. It was freezing cold, but it gave me the chance to open up the engine and give the car a really good blast.

  An hour later, Fogg and I pulled up outside the gatehouse at Melrose Court and waited for the lodge-keeper to open up. The house stood at the end of a long drive lined with snow-laden trees. I pulled the throttle and roared down it making a tremendous noise before coming to a halt at the steps of the portico in front of the old Georgian mansion. Uncle’s redoubtable butler, Cooper, opened the outsize front door to walk out onto the broad top step just as I climbed from the car.

  ‘Cooper! How goes the household?’ I threw the keys to him as I entered, stripped off my driving coat, goggles and external paraphernalia to load onto a footman, and dropped the carpet bag on the chequered floor tiles as Fogg dashed on ahead.

  Cooper was opening his mouth to respond when Uncle called to me from the bottom of the stairs, waving his walking stick. ‘Heathcliff! My dear boy, how delightful to see you.’

  I went over and gave him an affectionate hug and a grin.

  ‘Likewise, Uncle, and don’t call me Heathcliff.’

  Dear Uncle Charles. He seemed to be shrinking with age. His hair had grown white and wispy above his benign phiz, and he looked more like an old monk with a fondness for brandy with every passing year.

  ‘Oh, very well – Lennox, then! Don’t know why you took such a dislike to Heathcliff, your lovely mother was very proud of it, you know. She was a romantic soul, such a dreamer. We all loved her.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle, and we miss her, too. Damned embarrassing name though, she could have used it for a dog if she were that keen.’ I glanced at my dog, who had been rushing around our heels but was now heading upstairs toward the drawing room, where he knew tea and cake were frequently to be found.

  ‘Now, now, my boy. I’m so very pleased you are here with us. What do you think of the decorations – aren’t they splendid?’ Uncle Charles waved his stick toward the lofty walls of the hall, hung with wreaths of glossy green holly and bunches of bright red berries interspersed with swags of ivy woven with golden ribbons. I’d already negotiated the huge Christmas tree and we turned to admire the array of candles, painted wooden figures and winged angels. As always, the tree was placed opposite the roaring log fire and filled the place with the scent of pine. I felt a tug of emotion; it stirred memories of our traditional family Christmases when we were more numerous.

  ‘Wonderful, very festive.’ I sought to change the subject. ‘So you finally installed a telephone line.’

  ‘I did, yes indeed. How did you guess?’ Uncle raised bushy white eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘Because you’ve come down to greet me. If the lodge-keeper hadn’t been able to telephone through to the house, you wouldn’t have known I was here until Cooper informed you.’

  ‘Haha! You always were a clever boy, your father thought so too. Poor Hugh, I do miss him.’ He stopped to peer up at me. ‘Do you know they have machines that make music nowadays? It’s quite dreadful.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. Come upstairs, Uncle.’ I took his arm to lead him on. Despite the enormous fireplace blazing with logs, it was still draughty in the hall, and I didn’t want the old man to catch a chill.

  It was slow going and Uncle was tottering more than usual.

  ‘Have you heard my news, Heathcliff? It is of great importance. I wanted to tell you myself.’

  ‘No, and stop calling me Heathcliff.’

  ‘Very well, very well, my dear boy. But I am aflame with excitement.’

  ‘Really?’ That did make me raise my brows. ‘You’d better spit it out then.’

  ‘I’m engaged!’ Uncle stopped on the stairs, eyes alight with excitement. ‘I have a fiancée. Isn’t it marvellous?’

  I looked at him, seeing him suddenly boyish with enthusiasm. ‘I’m delighted to hear it. Astonished, but delighted. Do I know the lady?’

  ‘I doubt it, she’s fresh from France, we met quite recently, but I fell head over heels. At my age, too! I never imagined anyone would be able to replace my dear Mary, but there you have it. I’ve lost my heart like an old fool.’

  ‘Congratulations, Uncle. Someone to care for you is exactly what you need.’ I was still trying to encourage him up the staircase, but we weren’t making much progress.

  ‘She’s waiting for us in the drawing room. She has been here for over a week already, her niece too – for propriety’s sake, you know. But we’ve had a marvellous time. They are staying over for Christmas and then we shall be wed. I am the most fortunate of men, Heathcliff.’

  ‘Excellent, Uncle.’ I managed to steer him into the first-floor corridor. ‘Who did you say she was?’

  He stopped again and turned to me, his face beaming. ‘Countess Sophia Androvich Zerevki Polyakov,’ he jubilantly replied.

  Chapter 3

  That caught me on the blindside, but I managed to stutter a few light remarks without attracting questions as we reached the drawing-room doors. I readied myself for the encounter, arranging my expression into a sort of frozen amiability. Now was the moment – would the Countess know who I was?

  Cooper, good butler that he was, had rushed up the back stairs and was waiting with gloved hand on handle as we arrived; then with practised ease he swung open the door and we entered unannounced.

  No ladies were present in the room. I retained a sigh of relief while Uncle’s face fell as realisation dawned that his dear Sophia was no longer present. He looked around, mouth slightly agape. ‘Where is she?’ he stuttered at the drawing room’s only inhabitant.

  Sir Peregrine Kingsley rose from the largest sofa, put aside the financial newspaper he’d been reading, and came over to greet us.

  ‘Ah, dear Charles – and you too, Heathcliff, what a pleasure to see you again, old chap.’

  I nodded stiffly to him. Peregrine bloody Kingsley was lawyer and adviser to Uncle and one of the reasons I had been reluctant to accept the Christmas invitation; he was a distant relation of sorts, too smug by half and the cause of many a family tiff over the years.

  ‘But where is Sophia?’ Uncle asked again.

  A smile played across Peregrine Kingsley’s lips. ‘There was a commotion,’ he explained loftily. ‘A dog came in with a footman, jumped up and caused the Countess to spill tea over her dress. The ladies became rather agitated; I tried to help of course, but they felt the need to retreat to the Countess’s rooms to remedy the situation,’ Kingsley expounded, wafting his arm about, a trail of eau de cologne flowing in its wake. ‘The dress, you know. Silk. Quite ruined.’

  ‘Fogg,’ I remarked curtly. ‘He didn’t mean any harm. They’ll have to get used to him.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but I think I should go and see that they are settled,’ Uncle Charles fretted, and grew agitated, and began waving his stick about. ‘Ladies can be highly strung, you know, and they are foreigners in a foreign land. Cooper, be a good fellow and escort me, would you.’

  The old man tottered off, leaning heavily on Cooper’s arm. That left Sir Peregrine bloody Kingsley and me in the room, which incidentally had been spruced up. There were new cushions with flowery covers on the sofas, which I saw had been recently upholstered in pale-yellow satin-type stuff; and the walls had been painted to match. Even the ornate plasterwork had b
een given a new coat of paint, though the old carved marble fireplace had survived sans embellishment. I dislike change, and it made me more antipathetic than usual toward the lawyer, who now turned his smug phiz toward me.

  ‘Surprised to see you here, Heathcliff,’ he pronounced. ‘I understood your presence wasn’t expected. Rather fortuitous, though – we have business to discuss.’

  I eyed him coolly – he had an Alpine tan, swept-back silver hair, and was dressed like a bloody mannequin.

  ‘It’s Christmas, I haven’t come here to talk numbers with you. And don’t call me Heathcliff.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Kingsley replied smoothly. ‘But it isn’t numbers, old man, it’s your Uncle’s will. He’s asked me to rewrite it; it concerns yourself, and cousin Edgar, of course. I’d like to explain the implications to you both.’

  ‘Then Uncle can tell Edgar and me about it himself. After your monumental incompetence, there’s nothing on earth I wish to discuss with you. Take my advice and don’t try to push yourself beyond your limited bounds, Kingsley.’

  I turned around and stalked out, going upstairs to my rooms in the east wing, where I found Cooper hovering in the corridor, fingering his collar. He was probably much the same age as Uncle and also white of hair, but very upright, sprightly of step, and although dressed in much the same rig as Greggs, the get-up was vastly more streamlined.

  ‘Hurrumph, sir.’ Cooper coughed unconvincingly as I reached for the door handle.

  I frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘We have reallocated you, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your rooms have been reallocated, sir, and your personal items have been removed to another part of the house, sir. The Italian suite in the west wing, overlooking the front.’

  I stalled in my tracks, shoved my hands in pockets and stared in surprise and irritation at him.

  ‘These have been my rooms in this house since I was just out of short trousers, Cooper. All my old stuff’s in there and has been for years. What the devil is the meaning of this?’

  ‘Her Ladyship. Urhum. The Countess, that is, sir. She rather took a fancy to these rooms, and she requested the use of them, so His Lordship had your belongings moved to the Italian suite. I’m sure he meant to inform you, sir.’