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

  'There are puzzles in the bedrooms as well,' said Janet. 'There are in ours anyway. Little bits of bent wire that you have to get apart. Or maybe string them together.'

  'Mine too,' said Charlotte. 'It seems to be rather the theme of the place. There's the maze, of course – maybe that's what started it all – and there's a sunken garden with a huge chess set and seats at either end so you can sit and contemplate your moves.'

  'That must be new,' said Elizabeth. 'It was just grass before.'

  'If he'd stuck to that sort of nonsense, he might be alive now,' grumbled George, 'Save us all this trouble.'

  'George, really!'

  The wine having arrived, Roger rose to his feet. 'Raise your glasses, ladies and gentlemen, to the memory of the late Sir Jasper FitzGreville, Baronet.'

  'Sir Jasper!' they dutifully cried.

  Most of the party had long since turned in, and only Sir Jasper's closest kin remained. It had become quite cold, and they'd moved to the fireside in the drawing room.

  Roger prodded the embers meditatively. 'Damned queer business, don't you think, all these obscure people?'

  'It's only Egg and Charlotte,' said Tony. You'd expect George and Janet to be here.'

  'All right, but why those two? He's a cripple and she's about sixteen stone! Not much of an advert for the FitzGreville bloodline, are they?'

  'Didn't stop you looking down her front though, did it?' said Elizabeth waspishly.

  'One can scarcely help that,' grinned Roger. 'It's like moving water — draws you in.'

  'Egg's all right,' said Tony. 'We use the same club.'

  'Humph! That's no recommendation,' said Roger, then held his hands up defensively. 'Only joking!'

  'There is nothing wrong with my club!'

  'Now don't you two start,' said Elizabeth. 'I'm not in the mood for it.'

  'They can't help what they look like, anyway,' said Emily. 'I think it's lovely, the way they've got together; it lightens everything up. In the midst of death we are in life.'

  'Very good, darling,' smiled Bernard.

  'I find it disturbing, frankly,' said Roger. 'I have this image of them, you know, consummating the union. That great whale of a woman, serviced by a hunchback. Ugh!'

  'You are horrid!' cried Emily, laughing. 'We can't all be bodies beautiful.'

  'She could always try eating less,' said Roger. 'Did you see how she packed it away at dinner? And I repeat — why them? Where have they been until now? They never came here.'

  'How would you know?' said Emily. 'You didn't yourself, unless you wanted a sub.'

  'I was here at Christmas if you must know. You weren't.'

  'We usually go to Mother's,' said Bernard gloomily.

  'What you really mean is, are they beneficiaries?' said Elizabeth. 'Or why would you care?'

  'Well you have to wonder,' said Roger. 'Who invited them, do we know?'

  'Joan, I suppose. She's the other executor after all.'

  'You're joking!'

  'Think so. Beggars belief, doesn't it?'

  'Then Killigrew must have put her up to it; she wouldn't have had the gumption otherwise.'

  'Don't worry, Roger,' said Tony cynically. 'You'll still get the house.'

  'I've never doubted it,' said Roger. 'It's you that should be worried. With this lot on board you'll all get smaller slices of the cake.'

  'You must be a little worried,' said Emily, who liked to tease her brothers. 'He might have left the lot to Joan. Have you thought of that?'

  'Fiddlesticks,' said Elizabeth. 'He cared too much for the place for that. She'll get something I daresay, but not that.'

  'But he was peculiar,' persisted Emily. 'There's no knowing what he might do.'

  'Eccentric,' agreed Bernard. 'He wore the most extraordinary waistcoats.'

  'It was a bit more than that, Bernie. He wasn't a very nice man.'

  'Look,' said Roger. 'There's no-one here but us, so why not say it? Uncle Jasper was an evil old reprobate whose principal pleasures were fornication and humiliating people. I doubt we know the half of what he got up to, though I can guess, and he treated Auntie abominably. Uncle George is right.'

  'Doesn't it make you uncomfortable, saying that?' said Tony. 'He used to lend you money.'

  'And got it back, with interest. No, it doesn't.'

  'What about the last lot?'

  'Well I could hardly know he'd drive off a cliff, could I?'

  'Killigrew will want it accounted for.'

  'There's nothing in writing. Anyway, it'll just come back to me when it's settled, so what's the point?'

  'I don't see why you should have it anyway,' said Elizabeth.

  'What, the loan? It was only a thousand.'

  'A thousand!' exclaimed Bernard. 'He lent you a thousand pounds?'

  'It was business. We had an arrangement.'

  'I meant the Manor,' said Elizabeth. 'You've no better claim to it than we have, that I can see.'

  'He's the eldest,' said Tony.

  'What's that got to do with it? You're not his sons. It's not as if its primogeniture or something. And what does he want with it anyway? He's not the country type and couldn't care less about the gardens.' She looked hard at Roger. 'Could you?'

  'How do you know?' said Roger indignantly. 'I might do.'

  'Rubbish! You wouldn't know a rose from a radish. It should go to someone who'll appreciate and care for it.'

  'Like you, I suppose?'

  'Frankly, yes.'

  'And what about the running costs? It must be thousands a year.'

  'Three or four, I should imagine,' said Bernard. 'Maybe more.'

  'There you are, the accountant has spoken. And that, I might remind you, is before death duties. I'm the only one who can afford it, and it'll be a struggle then.'

  'No you're not,' said Elizabeth. 'How do you think your uncle managed? There's money there; bound to be.'

  'Maybe not as much as you think.'

  'Then how could he afford to lend it to you?'

  'Lizzie, I wish you wouldn't —' began Tony.

  'Our cue for bed, I think,' smiled Bernard, standing up.

  'Don't you want a nightcap?' said Roger amiably. 'Stay and defend me against my sister-in-law.' He turned to look behind him. 'I say, Fudge. Oh! Do you know, I could swear he'd just come in.'

  'Probably in bed by now, poor old chap,' said Tony. 'which is where I'm going. Coming Lizzie?'

  'I'll be along in a minute. I'd best see if Emmett's all right first.'

  'It was probably Egg you heard, earwigging,' said Emily. 'Expect a writ for defamation. Then you'll be sorry.'

  'That wouldn't surprise me,' said Roger, glancing suspiciously into the shadows. 'Bit hairy about the heels if you ask me.'

  'Nonsense, he's a FitzGreville right enough. He's got the nose, for one thing.'

  'And the ears,' added Elizabeth.

  'What's wrong with our ears?' demanded Roger.

  'Look in the mirror. Then you'll see.'

  'I'll tell you who he looks like,' said Roger.

  'Who?'

  'Quasimodo!'

  'You are incorrigible!' laughed Emily. 'We're going. Don't murder each other over the Manor, will you? Come on, darling.'

  Left behind, Roger and Elizabeth watched them leave.

  'Happy couple,' smiled Roger.

  'Well?' said Elizabeth, sliding down a little in her chair. 'How about it then?'

  'What, here?'

  'Yes, if we're quick. They won't be back again now.'

  Chapter Two

  Once a centre of rural industry, Knapperton was now a dormitory village for the better off commuter, being no great distance from London. A community of perhaps a thousand souls, its centre comprised a handful of shops, a village green, the pretty parish church of St Mary (founded in fourteen forty-one) and the broadly contemporaneous manor house. As its name implies, the original business of the place was the getting and working of flint, and the church and house were largely constructed of it (q
uoined and interleaved with the local red brick) as was the ancient churchyard wall which separated the one from the other.

  This convenient juxtaposition of the spiritual and temporal would once have made the interment of a FitzGreville a relatively simple matter, the mourners and coffin having only to pass through a private gate and along a gravel path to the church porch, a distance of some three hundred yards. By the summer of nineteen twenty-six, however, the deceased of the family no longer lay in state in the great hall – as within living memory they had done – but in the rather more utilitarian parlour of Alfred Wake & Son, Funeral Directors, three miles away at Cantleford. This was perhaps as well, for the handsomely carved and ornamented Romanian coffin had arrived at their premises not exactly smelling of roses. Indeed, it was with some relief that Mr Josiah Wake closed the tailgate of the hearse, ascended onto the box beside his austere and upright father and set the beautifully matched team of Belgian Blacks (the firm's pride and joy) into elegant motion.

  Unfortunately, the fine weather of the previous week had, as predicted, given way overnight to low, grey cloud, and they had scarcely turned onto the somewhat exposed Knapperton road when there commenced a stinging, wind-driven rain that forced them to stop and scrabble, cursing, for their capes.

  Back at the house, overcoats and umbrellas were the order of the day, while for the convenience of the ladies it was decided to fire up the Doble – a magnificent yellow six-seater – now "in steam" and sitting quietly at the front door. Charlotte, clad in enough black crape to shelter a family of Bedouin, immediately bagged the seat next to Fudge (presently in the role of chauffeur) while the others hurriedly arranged themselves in the rows behind.

  Belatedly arriving – protected from the elements by a footman with an umbrella – was Joan FitzGreville, a chicken-boned little woman with a round, childish face that belied her twenty-eight years. She had about her, thought Egg, that air of smug arrogance often to be found in the dim-witted; an observation not contradicted by her remarks over breakfast. It soon became clear, however, that in the matter of attention-getting she punched above her weight.

  'I'm not going in there!' she declared, refusing the back seat. 'Suppose we crash? I shouldn't be able to get out.'

  'It's a one-minute drive, Joan,' said Roger, dryly. 'You're hardly likely to.'

  'You don't know that,' said Joan. 'What about Fudge? He's old. He might collapse and die and we'd crash like Daddy did and I'd be trapped.'

  'You won't be going fast enough to crash,' said Tony, glancing apologetically at the impassive butler. 'Scarcely more than walking pace, I should imagine.'

  'It's all right, Joan,' said Janet, struggling arthritically out of the centre seat. 'I'll go in the back with Elizabeth and you can take my place. 'How's that?'

  'There! Isn't that nice of Mrs Beaufort-Smyth?' said Nanny. 'In you hop now, or you'll be late.'

  'But you're coming too, aren't you, Nanny?' said Joan. 'I'm not going without you.'

  'No, dear; there isn't room. Mrs Austen will look after you, and I'll see you at the church.'

  'Come on, Joan,' said Emily encouragingly. 'I'll hold your hand if you like, and then you'll be safe.'

  Still looking doubtful, Joan peered inside the car. 'I can't sit there!' she said. 'The seat's dirty.'

  'Where?' frowned Nanny. 'I can't see any dirt.'

  'Well I can. It's dirty and sticky and it'll get on my coat. I'm not sitting on that.'

  They waited while Nanny made some play of wiping the seat with a handkerchief moistened with spit. 'There we are, dear. All gone now.'

  'No it's not.' snapped Joan. 'You're just saying that. And do hold that umbrella properly, you stupid man. I shall end up with pneumonia!'

  'You won't get pneumonia if you get in the car,' said Nanny reasonably. 'Come along now, do.'

  'No!' said Joan. 'Someone must fetch a blanket for me to sit on.'

  'Joan, dear, we haven't time for that,' interposed Janet. 'We're late already.'

  'Well they'll just have to wait. I want a blanket!'

  Taking the umbrella from now-soaked footman, Nanny dispatched him for a blanket. It was a minute or two before he returned with a clean but somewhat threadbare one, tucking it neatly under the seat-back. 'In,' she said. Looking sulky, Joan obeyed.

  Leaving the Doble to crunch sedately away down the drive, the remainder of the party set off at a brisk pace for the churchyard.

  'Is she always like that?' asked Egg.

  Tony nodded. 'Mind of a child, I'm afraid. Not a very nice one either. I'd place her at about fourteen. It's a difficult age.'

  'Arrested development?'

  'I suppose so. Whoever gets the Manor will probably get her too.'

  'How do you feel about that?'

  'Death might be preferable. She's actually chucked us out of the house a couple of times for upsetting her, which it isn't hard to do. It's like handling nitroglycerine. If you don't go when she tells you to, she has hysterics and makes herself sick. Ah, good morning, Wake. Filthy weather, what? Cracking team you've got there. New, are they?'

  Alfred Wake bowed politely, dislodging a trickle of rainwater from the brim of his top hat. 'Thank you, sir. Yes, they are,' He indicated the coffin, now resting in the shelter of the lychgate. 'Have you decided who . . . ?'

  'Just me, I'm afraid,' said Tony. 'My brother claims he's too tall and will unbalance you, and there are no other takers.'

  Hurrying up the aisle, Egg joined the others in the family pew. The little church, he noted, was packed to the doors with villagers and lesser mourners; a general redolence of damp overcoats and mothballs competing with that of the deceased.

  Charlotte made room for him. 'That creature whined all the way round here,' she whispered. 'I could have throttled her.'

  'According to Tony, you have to think of her as fourteen.'

  'That old? You surprise me.'

  'She ought not to be here,' said Janet. 'I don't know what Nanny was thinking of.'

  'Why is Tony helping with the coffin?' asked Charlotte.

  'Perk of a baronetcy,' explained Roger. 'He's entitled to a pall supported by two men, plus a principal mourner and four others. I'm too tall and George refused point blank, so Tony stands for all of us.'

  'How wonderfully quaint. What else do baronets get?'

  'Not much really. They take precedence over your common or garden knight and they're generally considered to be aristocracy, though not actually part of the peerage. Looks good on the notepaper basically.'

  'Pity he's not around to see it, then.'

  'Shush,' said Janet. 'They're starting.'

  The rain having stopped, Charlotte opted to give up her seat to Nanny and walk back with Egg. She had surprised and gratified him during the service by revealing herself to be a mezzo-soprano of positively operatic calibre. What a wonderful find she was! For a moment, his native confidence faltered. What on earth, he wondered, could this paragon see in him?

  'When were you planning to go home?' he asked diffidently.

  'Tomorrow, in theory. Why?'

  'Well, er . . . by train?'

  'Yes.'

  'I could run you up.'

  Charlotte turned to him delightedly. 'Would you? That would be wonderful! I assumed you'd be going back to work.'

  'No, I'm between jobs just now. Not that it matters.'

  Charlotte's face fell a little. 'Oh, really? Are we going to be terribly poor? You mustn't think I mind,' she added hurriedly, 'I just wondered.'

  'No, no, I'm a writer, self-employed. We'll be fine.'

  'A writer! How exciting. What do you write?'

  'I ghost mostly — autobiographies. I've just finished a rather tiresome company chairman and I'm about to start an ancient thespian. There's no fame in it, obviously, but it's steady work and the money's good if you keep at it. I want to be a novelist really.'

  'Do you enjoy it?'

  'It's all right. You learn a lot about people and what makes them tick. Anyway, you know, w
e're bound to have been left something by old Jasper or we shouldn't have been asked here.'

  'It mayn't be very much.'

  'Every little helps.'

  Returning to the house, they found a tall and elegant woman waiting for them. The ladies of the party noted that her mourning ensemble was perfectly tailored and styled, her short, dark hair just discernable beneath a fashionable little hat. Both sexes saw that she beautiful.

  'I'm so sorry I'm late, darlings,' she said. 'Was I missed? Hello, Auntie Janet, hello Uncle George.'

  'Don't suppose it matters,' said George, accepting a kiss. 'He won't know.'

  'I'm sure,' smiled Janet, 'that I don't need to tell anyone who this is?'

  Vanda Beaufort-Smyth was a well-known actress.

  'No indeed!' said Tony. 'Hello Vanda. This is a surprise!'

  'Hello, Tony darling,' said Vanda. 'A nice one I hope. Hello, Elizabeth, how long it's been! And Roger! No kiss for me?'

  'Hello, Vanda,' said Roger, clinically applying one.

  Egg had been interested to note Roger's expression on first seeing her. Some history there, he though. Ex-lover perhaps? He had, however, rallied manfully.

  'Is there anyone you don't know?' said Tony. This is Charlotte, another Beaufort-Smyth.'

  'And this is my husband, Bernard,' said Emily.

  'How do you do?' said Bernard, shaking her hand. 'I'm honoured to make you acquaintance.'

  'I don't think we've met, unless I was very young,' said Charlotte shyly, 'but I saw you in All for Love. I thought you were marvellous!'

  'Thank you, darling,' said Vanda. 'Hello, Egg. I remember you.'

  'You've met?' said Charlotte.

  'Yes, indeed. Egg wants to ghost my autobiography. I told him the come back in ten years. Is he yours?'

  'Yes,' said Charlotte proudly.

  'We ought to go in,' said Tony.

  Mr Killigrew proved to be a dapper, silver-haired little man of fifty or so. Not in the least fusty or forbidding, he swiftly put everyone at their ease, helping to draw up chairs for the ladies and generally making everyone comfortable. He wore, thought Egg, a somewhat enigmatic smile, as if enjoying a private joke.

  'Looks like you'll be getting something, then,' said Tony. 'Charlotte too, I see.'