A Strange Manor of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  A Strange Manor of Death

  R. A. Bentley

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in England 2017

  Copyright © R. A. Bentley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book has been produced for the Amazon Kindle and is distributed by Amazon Direct Publishing

  Chapter One

  It was generally agreed by those privileged to know them that the gardens at Knapperton Manor were among the loveliest in the south of England, perfectly complementing the handsome Tudor mansion in their midst. The linked ponds with their fountains and lilies, the extensive rose collection, and the magnificent "Long Border" unfailingly pleased the horticulturally enlightened, while spouses and children could be banished to the great maze, over half an acre in extent and guaranteed to detain them for an hour or two at least.

  Knapperton was the seat of the Baronets FitzGreville, and it was the first of these, Sir Peregrine, (created 1611) who founded the gardens. An inveterate collector, he travelled widely in the Levant and the Orient, returning with numerous exotic species and cultivars – and several tons of pillaged statuary – to populate his grand design.

  Those that came after him had other interests. The Second Baronet was an alchemist; the Third, a military man; the Forth, a poet; the Sixth, a prince of the church; the Seventh, a philosopher, and the Ninth, an intrepid explorer. The rest were content with their horses and dogs. But whatever their bent or vocation, every one of them nurtured and improved Sir Peregrine's little Eden. Perhaps it was simple loyalty to their ancestor's vision, but perhaps also it was a desire to leave behind them something that was lasting and good. For on the whole the FitzGrevilles were not good, and their endeavours rarely crowned with success. The alchemist destroyed the kitchens (twice), the soldier died with a lance in his back, the poet murdered his mistress and his valet was hanged for it, the bishop was defrocked for licentiousness (they were all rather prone to that), the philosopher drowned himself, and the explorer succumbed to a bear.

  Yet despite these vicissitudes, the gardens grew in size and renown for three hundred years, each generation setting its stamp upon them, until at last the day came when the shears and lawnmowers fell silent, the fountains ceased to play, and the gates, draped with black, remained closed. For on the morrow was the funeral of Sir Jasper FitzGreville, twelfth and last of his line. He, unlike his predecessors, had no son. It was the end of an era.

  Few would have chosen that unhappy September afternoon to attempt Knapperton's fabled labyrinth, but the bent and limping young man with the black malacca cane cared little for convention and deplored indolence. He had an hour to fill before teatime and intended to use it to some purpose. Pausing only to read the warning sign at the neatly clipped entrance, he consulted his watch and plunged boldly in.

  Enduring the numerous dead ends – each terminating in a grinning satyr or faun – he worked his way methodically along the already shadowed alleys, eventually to arrive, in a creditable seventeen minutes and fifty-seven seconds, at the maze's open centre. Here he was enchanted to discover, sitting alone upon a kind of miniature bandstand, a most striking young woman. By chance, the lowering sun had set her reddish hair all aglow and mysteriously enhanced the green of her eyes, so that she resembled at that moment some exotic priestess in her temple. Transfixed, he observed her for a while without speaking.

  'You are a beautiful,' he said at last.

  'I am fat,' she replied.

  'Wonderfully so,' he agreed. 'You are the earth made flesh. Your arms and thighs are the rolling hills and your breasts are mountains. I long to explore that country.'

  The girl smiled, not noticeably offended. 'Are you very drunk?' she asked. 'It's a bit early for it.'

  'If I am, it's with admiration. No alcohol has passed my lips.'

  'Then you may sit down. No, not here — there.' She indicated the opposing bench. 'My name is Charlotte, what's yours?'

  'Egbert John FitzGreville,' said the young man, dropping eagerly to face her. 'My intimates call me Egg. Are you a FitzGreville too?'

  'No, I'm a Beaufort-Smyth.'

  'Excellent! When we are married you'll get a change of name. So dull for you otherwise.'

  'Are we to marry, then?' enquired the girl, raising an eyebrow.

  'Assuredly. Do you object?'

  Putting her head to one side, she critically studied him. 'You're tolerably good-looking, I suppose.'

  'You don't mind the hump?'

  She shrugged. 'It's not your best feature, but one doesn't spend much time looking at people's backs.'

  'I have one leg longer than the other.'

  'Then you'll never get lost. Do you like macaroni cheese?'

  'I cordially detest it.'

  'Jazz?'

  'Adore it.'

  'Ice cream?'

  'Can't get enough of it.'

  'Non-Euclidean geometry?'

  'Bedtime reading.'

  'Proust?'

  'Prétentieux et surfait.'

  'Kipling?'

  'Naturally.'

  'Bathing naked by moonlight?'

  'Divine.'

  'Sex?'

  'With you, I'd be a wild beast.'

  'Hmm. What is the cubed root of five hundred and twelve?'

  'Er, eight.'

  'Then it might work. Did you know Sir Jasper well?'

  'Scarcely at all; I met him only once, at my club. We played chess.'

  Charlotte nodded. 'He offered me snuff and let me drive his Doble. It's a beauty.'

  'You like steam cars?'

  'Yes, or any sort really. I love mechanical things; they're predictable. Is that the tea bell?'

  'It's the half-hour one,' said Egg. 'For people in the garden. Come on, I'll get us out.'

  'No you won't,' said Charlotte. 'I'll get us out.'

  Egg watched captivated as pulling a little wrap around her, she made without hesitation for one of the several exits from the centre. Her extremities, he noted, were small and neat, and she seemed to float through the air like a lovely balloon. 'What is your modus operandi?' he asked, hurrying to keep up with her, 'Shall you follow the left-hand hedge?'

  Charlotte shook her head. 'That only works for a simply-connected maze. This is a multiply-connected one, and is also asymmetric. I expect it's been altered a good deal over the years. I've taken the precaution of memorising the turns.'

  'Which if I recall correctly are: right, second right, left, left, third right, left, left, second left, and right,' said Egg. 'The reverse for going out, of course. And since we've already negotiated the first turn, the next-but-one will be to the right.'

  Charlotte registered gratified surprise. 'Why, yes, that's correct! Do you really want to marry me? Suppose I refuse?'

  'I should bribe you with a traction engine.'

  Charlotte smiled and took his arm. 'How could a girl resist?'

  They dined that night in the manor house's historic great hall. The long table was of ancient oak and the chains of the chandeliers rose into smoke-blackened rafters, many feet above them. There were nine in the company, attended by Sir Jasper's butler, Fudge, and by Doris and Nettie, the live-in maids.

  As was his habit, Egg, had begun to cultivate
the servants. He'd made little progress with the elderly and desiccated Fudge but had done rather better with the maids. Doris appeared permanently disgruntled, probably for want of teeth, but had proved friendly enough, as had the plumply pretty Nettie, though she seemed a little shy. Aged sixteen, she would make, he thought, the perfect first conquest for a young fellow on his school hols. Fortunately, perhaps, there was no-one of that sort in the household, the sole survivor of the deceased Baronet being his unmarried daughter, Joan.

  Egg had yet to set eyes on Joan. Arriving a day early, he had been given into the care of 'Nanny' Matthews, a weary-looking but kindly little woman to whom he had immediately taken a liking. Originally caring for the infant Joan, she now appeared to function both as her lady's maid and housekeeper. Miss Joan, she'd informed him, was "not strong" and was presently confined to her bed. Would he like to see his room? As he was the first to arrive, he had a choice of several, but she recommended number eight on account of its superior furnishings and its proximity to the bathroom. Nanny, he decided, was a "treasure."

  'What do you think of the old place then?' asked Tony FitzGreville, gesturing about him. 'Quite something, eh? You've seen the suits of armour? You wouldn't credit, would you, that a fully grown man could get into them? The fireplace is fifteenth century, you know, as is the linenfold panelling, some of the oldest in the country by all accounts. The hall would have been larger originally – basically the whole house – but they walled off some of it and put in an upper floor. It's grown considerably since then, of course.'

  'The minstrel's gallery is actually part of the first floor landing now,' added Tony's wife Elizabeth, gesturing up at it. 'How these old places get knocked about!'

  'It would still accommodate a band, I daresay,' said Tony. 'Shawms and serpents and bass viols and so on.'

  Making polite comment, Egg noted and filed away these facts, but he was more interested in his fellow diners, to whom he had been quietly listening. Tony he knew fairly well, but the rest of the clan were largely strangers to him, and there was much still to learn about them. That included Elizabeth, who seemed a bad fit for her amiable and unassuming husband. Pinched and fidgety, she bore all the hallmarks of a disappointed woman, though why that should be, he had yet to discover. The usual female frustrations seemed unlikely, since they had two children: a small daughter at home, and nine-year-old Emmett, currently upstairs in the care of Nanny. Probably thwarted ambition, he decided.

  'Discussing the old ruin?' interjected their neighbour. He was a lean, handsome man, whose fashionably slicked-back hair and neatly trimmed moustaches seemed on their own to proclaim his character. 'Place is full of rot and beetle,' he declared. 'Only held up by the chimneys, what?' He smiled inquisitively at Charlotte, revealing perfect teeth.'I don't believe we've been introduced, my dear.'

  'Sorry,' said Tony. 'Charlotte, this is Roger, my disreputable elder brother. Don't allow yourself to be alone with him.'

  'A gross calumny!' protested Roger. 'You see before you, Charlotte, the quintessential gentleman.' He leant confidingly towards her. 'Do you want to hear my definition of a gentleman?'

  'Shut up, Roger,' said Elizabeth.

  'I've probably heard it anyway,' said Charlotte.

  Tony, who seemed to be acting as master of ceremonies, turned to the company at large. 'Perhaps we should all introduce ourselves; it might save some time. Most of you have met me now, but I'm Tony FitzGreville, Sir Jasper's nephew. The lovely lady in the blue dress is my wife, Elizabeth.'

  'I'm Egbert John FitzGreville,' said Egg, taking the baton. 'Most people call me Egg. Nathaniel FitzGreville was my four times great grandfather.'

  'I'm Emily Austen,' said the pretty, fair-haired woman next to him. 'I'm Roger and Tony's little sister. The fine-looking fellah next to Elizabeth is my husband, Bernard.'

  Bernard, a balding older man, bowed solemnly.

  Pedantic and humourless, thought Egg. Probably an accountant.

  'Charlotte May Beaufort-Smyth,' said Charlotte. 'Letitia Beaufort-Smyth was my three times great aunt. I'm engaged to Egg,' she added, with a twinkle.

  'Engaged?' frowned Elizabeth. 'But you said you didn't know anybody.'

  'That was this morning. I didn't then.'

  'It was all rather sudden,' grinned Egg sheepishly.

  'It must have been!'

  'Well what can I say? Congratulations both,' said Tony, looking bemused. He turned towards a heavy-shouldered man in his sixties. 'Colonel?'

  'George Beaufort-Smyth,' boomed the Colonel. 'Call me George. And congratulations, you two. This is my wife, Janet. Lady FitzGreville was my sister.'

  The motherly-looking Janet smiled and nodded. 'Yes, congratulations!'

  'We're unfortunately missing our cousin Joan,' said Tony. 'She's taking it hard, I'm afraid, but I'm sure she'll appear later.'

  Reminded that this was a house in mourning, everyone fell silent for a while.

  'More wine!' demanded Roger. 'We must toast old Jasper. Have you anything suitable, Fudge? That's if it doesn't anticipate some bequest or other, what?'

  'I have no knowledge of Sir Jasper's dispositions, sir,' said Fudge. 'But he once said to me. "When they come to bury me, Fudge, give them some of the nineteen hundred Château Lafite Rothschild." It was always his favourite, sir, and now would seem as good a time as any.'

  'Then bring it along, Fudge, bring it along.'

  Emily turned eagerly to Charlotte. 'Did you really meet and get engaged, all in a day? That must be some sort of record, I should think.'

  'Yes, in the maze,' said Charlotte. 'In the middle of it, actually.'

  'How romantic!' exclaimed Janet. 'So it was love at first sight?'

  'Not really,' said Charlotte. 'I had to think quite hard about it.'

  'Well it couldn't have been for long!'

  'No, but I'm a quick thinker.'

  'What does one think the weather's going to do?' said Elizabeth, who perhaps considered that a fitter subject under the circumstances than betrothals.

  'They give rain for tomorrow,' said Janet. 'It always rains at funerals, doesn't it? It does for us anyway.'

  'I do hope not,' said Emily. 'They're depressing enough without.'

  'Would it be in order to ask how Sir Jasper died?' said Egg. 'I only know it was a motor accident.'

  'It was in Romania,' said Elizabeth. 'They went off the road into a chasm.'

  'He was touring Europe in the Sunbeam,' explained Tony. 'Goodness knows why he wanted to do that at his time of life. Killed instantly, so they say, and so was his mechanic. The car was a write-off.'

  'Oh, the poor mechanic!' said Emily. 'Did we know him? Does he have a family?'

  George shook his head. 'It was some local fellow. He hired him out there.'

  'It must be a thousand miles or more to Romania,' said Egg. 'Quite a tour!'

  'More like thirteen hundred,' said George. 'Cost a packet to bring him back. And as for the bureaucracy . . . '

  'I don't suppose he thought of that when he set off, dear,' said Janet.

  'No, I don't suppose he did. Never thought of anyone but himself — wicked old so-and-so.'

  'George, not now!' whispered Janet. 'The servants!'

  'Humph! Daresay they know the score.'

  'Who told you about bringing him back, Uncle?' said Roger. 'Killigrew?'

  'Yes, he happened to be here. Thought I'd best have a word with him.'

  'Mr Killigrew is the family solicitor,' explained Emily.

  'If it's Killigrew of Killigrew and Walters,' said Bernard, 'we've dealt with him a couple of times. He seems competent enough. Not that I've met him personally.'

  'Just as well he is,' said George. 'Don't suppose he'll get much help from Joan.'

  'The words "Joan" and "help" don't sit very well together, do they?' agreed Elizabeth.

  'Indeed they don't. Creature's neither use nor ornament.'

  'George, really!' said Janet, who seemed to be permanently scandalised by her outspoken husband.
'The poor girl's lost her father!'

  'Doubt she cares,' muttered George. 'Only cares about number one.'

  'Egg, a natural diplomat, drew towards him a tray of wooden blocks. 'What's this thing then? Some sort of puzzle?'

  'Yes it is,' said Tony, smiling gratefully at him, 'Uncle was obsessed with them. Puzzles generally, I mean; anything you have to work out — acrostics, riddles, those cross-word things.'

  'I expect it's just a cube,' said Emily. 'It looks a fairly simple one.'

  'Go on then,' said Roger.

  'You want me to do it?'

  'Yes, if you think it's simple.'

  'All right, I will.'

  They watched her fiddle with it for a while.

  'Trickier than you thought?' suggested Roger unkindly.

  'It is when you're all staring at me! Anyway, it's impossible. There must be some bits missing.'

  'Let's have a look,' said Bernard, taking it from her. 'Yes, you're right — can't be done.'

  'Thank you darling!' said Emily, glaring at her brother.

  'I think you'll find those knobbly bits join the corners,' said Charlotte.

  'Really?' frowned Bernard. 'Oh yes, so they do. Have you got one?

  'No, but it's obvious.'

  'The lady says obvious!' He pushed the tray towards her. 'Go on, then — you do it.'

  'I expect you have to complete one side first, then build it up,' smiled Charlotte, swiftly manipulating the pieces. 'Yes, there you are: a perfect cube. Look, it's got something stamped on it. It says "FitzGreville," Isn't that nice?'

  'I'm most impressed,' said Tony. 'Are you good at that sort of thing, Charlotte? Generally, I mean.'

  Charlotte shrugged. 'I do seem to be. I think I must have a masculine brain.'

  'Well if so, it's the only bit of you that is,' chuckled Roger.

  'A compliment!' said Emily, winking at her.

  'I expect I could have done it if I'd persevered,' grumbled Bernard.

  'Isn't that just like a man?' declared Elizabeth. 'Can't bear to be beaten.'