Empty Nest (7 page)

I whipped my head left and right, sniffing and trying to locate the source—a fusty smoke, not the clean woodsy smell of a fireplace. The lamp at the end of the corridor near my room appeared hazy—I ran toward it but soon broke out of the smoke. I stopped and looked back. There now, against the light at the top of the stairs, I could see the smoke seeping out from under the first door, blooming as it reached fresher air. It was Freddy Peacock's room.

“Freddy!” I called, banging on the door. “Freddy!” I tried the knob—locked—and banged again, but there was no reply. I ran down to the middle landing and screamed
“Fire! Fire! Help!”
over and over. From the south wing, I heard doors banging. I ran back, seized the fire extinguisher from the wall, and began beating the door with it—aiming the canister at the knob in hopes that an old lock could be broken easily. The smoke continued to slither and coil from under the door like a snake—it caught in my throat and choked me. At last, it reached the smoke alarm high on the wall—the piercing wail beating on my eardrums. I was getting nowhere with the door—I drew the extinguisher high over my head to try again and cried out when someone grabbed it from my hands.

“Cecil!”

“Move away, Julia,” he said. I stood against the far wall as he kicked at the door twice before the lock broke and the door swung open.

Linus came running up. “Julia,” he said, taking me by the shoulders, but I tore away and followed Cecil as he sprayed foam from the fire extinguisher.

I could barely see for the smoke, clouds of it like a thick London fog. Ahead of me, Cecil coughed. My eyes burned and watered. I covered my mouth with one arm, but it didn't help—each breath choked me. I waved one arm in a vain attempt to clear the air. It seemed to be heavy, moving languidly—not the smoke of a hot fire. Where were the flames? Then I saw Cecil point the fire extinguisher to the smoldering center—the rug in front of the fireplace—and I saw Freddy Peacock lying facedown next to it.

The scene was one of disarray. The fire screen leaned against a chair as if it had been knocked away, half a sandwich and a broken plate nearby, and Freddy seemed to have fallen on a stack of papers.

“Freddy!”
I screamed, and threw myself on him, but there was no response. I pushed at him and turned him over. He was still dressed, and although his jacket sleeve had been singed, I saw no other effects of the fire. I slapped him—his face appeared puffy, his lips with residue at the corners, as if he'd been sick. High on his cheek was a contusion—a long red mark with beads of blood marking his cheekbone. Linus had run past me to the window and forced it open—I felt a blast of cold air along with rain. He yanked a blanket off the bed, finished the smoking fire at last by suffocating it.

I began to drag Freddy away, but he was too heavy for me. Cecil took Freddy's shoulders and Linus his feet, and they half dragged, half carried him out into the corridor, where Thorne stood breathless, hand against the wall.

“Fire brigade on its way,” he said.

I looked down at Freddy's still form.
Think, Julia
—Vesta, a retired home health care nurse, had insisted I take a Red Cross class. I shook him and tilted his head back, looking and listening.

“I don't think he's breathing,” I said.

“Julia, come away,” Cecil said, hand on my shoulder.

“No,” I said, pulling away. “He's got to breathe.” I put my hands together, palms down, placed them on Freddy's chest, and pushed. Again and again, I pushed. I shut my mind to my surroundings, developed a rhythm, and kept it up until I thought my arms would fall off.
Breathe, Freddy, breathe.
The smoke had dissipated, but I could still taste it. My nose dripped and still I pushed, for I didn't know how long. My peripheral vision caught movement—Cecil and Linus leaving—and when they returned, I looked up to see the fire brigade behind them. One medic rushed forward and dropped to the floor at Freddy's side—only then did I throw myself off and collapse against the wall.

Linus came over to me. Tears ran down my face, and I didn't realize how much I shook until he put his arm around my shoulders and I could feel his stillness. “You must come away from here now, Julia,” he said to me quietly. “There's nothing else you can do for him. We'll take care of things.”

“I couldn't make him breathe,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “I tried, but I couldn't…” We pulled back as the professionals did their work. But after a few minutes, the paramedics stopped. I looked away as one of them took out and unfolded what looked like a large black plastic zipper bag and laid it next to Freddy.

I glanced round and realized what a motley crew we were. Cecil, arms crossed and watching the medics, wore a sweat suit and was barefoot. Linus had on a blue-and-white-striped pajama set. Mrs. Bugg had joined us—the pink lace edge of her nightgown hung below her flannel robe, and her thick brown hair fell in waves to her shoulders.
She should wear her hair down more often,
I thought, my mind seeking something normal to dwell on. Thorne still wore his silk dressing gown.

Commotion had ceased inside the bedroom, too. One of the firefighters came over to Linus, and they both stepped away. I couldn't hear their exchange. Next Linus turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Bugg,” he said, “perhaps you could put the kettle on, and we'll follow you to the kitchen. I'd say we could all do with a cup of tea.”

Like weary soldiers we trooped down the corridor past Freddy's room. One of the fire brigade stood in the doorway while the three others along with the ambulance workers lingered nearby. A few minutes ago I had hoped to see a sign of life in Freddy's face. I glanced down as we passed and saw nothing—only his eyes open to slits as if he could still watch the proceedings. I looked away.

Only a single bulb hanging over the sink lit the kitchen. Mrs. Bugg, Thorne, and I walked in—no one came behind me. The butler switched on the set of overhead lights, and we flinched at their brightness. He switched them off, instead putting on a lamp at the end of the counter. We each washed our hands—some ritual cleansing, I suppose—and began our tasks, relishing the familiar, orderly tasks. I opened a large tin of Nuala's shortbread, my hands shaking as I placed each one on a plate while Mrs. Bugg attended to the tea. The teacups rattled as Thorne set them out—I cut my eyes at him and saw him pause, hands on the table. I moved to help, but he straightened himself and continued until he'd covered the table with waiting receptacles. Too many for the household, but the butler knew what he was doing, for in a moment we heard footsteps and in filed Cecil, followed by three of the fire brigade.

It was good to have something to do—it was orderly, it was sensible, it was life. I set out a pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl. Once we had our cups, I asked the firefighters questions about what happened, but none of them would answer. Instead, they complimented us on the shortbread and replied with questions about the village.

After I'd told them about the Christmas Market, we ran out of polite chitchat. Cecil, who had not joined in the conversation, put his cup down and said, “I'll just go and see about Father,” but he met Linus, dressed now in day clothes, at the door.

“Gentlemen, your chief awaits you,” he said. They each thanked us and walked out. Linus paused a moment, the lines on his face like deep shadows in the lamplight. “The rest of us will need to stay up awhile longer—I hope you don't mind. You've time, Cecil, to dress—you two as well.” He nodded to Mrs. Bugg and Thorne. “Julia and I will make more tea.”

We obeyed as automatons, the others filing out. As I put the kettle on, Linus sank into a chair. All the moisture had been sucked from my body. When I blinked, my lids stuck together, and I still tasted smoke in the back of my throat. I stood at the sink and drank a glass of water straight down. Linus stayed silent, and I searched for something to say while I waited for the kettle to boil.

When I turned, Linus had his head in his hands.

“Is it the fire brigade—do they have questions for us?” I asked.

“Not the fire brigade.” Linus glanced up at me through bloodshot eyes. “The police are here—Freddy's death was no accident; it was murder.”

Police?

The kitchen door opened, held by Thorne, who now wore his usual dark suit as if we always started our day at four-thirty in the morning. A woman and a man walked in—both dressed in navy trousers and jackets, the collar points of blouse and shirt slightly askew—the only indication they may have been dragged from their respective beds for this call.

The woman switched on the overhead light—we blinked and squinted like moles coming aboveground. She reached up and, with one small tug, straightened her collar. She was tall with short gray hair, parted on the right, the sides swept back in a severe way. Premature gray, surely—her skin was smooth and clear, and she couldn't be more than fifty. Even through her jacket I could see muscles. Didn't look as if there was an extra ounce of fat on her anywhere. No eye makeup to speak of—at least not at this time of day—but she wore the barest touch of pink lipstick on her thin lips.

Holding out her warrant card and badge, she said, “Detective Inspector Callow. This is Detective Sergeant Glossop,” she added, nodding to her companion.

DS Glossop looked about my age. His ginger hair had enough wave so that one curl fell onto his forehead, and his green eyes twinkled. He had one of those overall pleasant faces that looked as if he might break out in a smile at any moment. He nodded to us, followed by a scowl, as if to say he knew his pleasant face was a handicap and that really, he was just as serious as his boss.

Linus made the introductions, and then said, “The police would like to talk with us.”

No one moved, no one spoke, no one made eye contact. I couldn't stand it.

“Why? What do you think happened?”

Callow's cool eyes landed on me. “What do you think happened, Ms. Lanchester?”

“I…” My voice caught and I coughed. “An ember fell out on the rug. Freddy was overcome. Don't you think?” But even as I said the words, I knew they didn't sound right. If an ember had spilled out, why didn't Freddy sweep it back in? He would've had plenty of time—it wasn't a conflagration, just some smoke.

“Ms. Lanchester, do you live here at the Hall?” Callow asked.

“No,” I said in a hurry. “Yes, well—temporarily. I live in the village, but my cottage is undergoing some renovations. His Lordship was kind enough to allow me to move in until the work is finished.”

Mrs. Bugg came in next, wearing her pseudo-uniform of black dress and black flats, her hair restored to its untidy twist of a knot atop her head, but with eyes red. She held up in the doorway when she saw Callow and Glossop, but only for a moment. “Would everyone like a cup of tea?” she asked.

Glossop's eyebrows shot up, and he looked at his DI. She nodded once.

We sat—I for one happy to do so, as my legs had started to wobble. Thorne held a chair out for Mrs. Bugg, who poured the tea and passed cups round. Cecil stared at the table, leaving his tea untouched. I set out more shortbread. DS Glossop nabbed the first and bit off half while he got out a small notebook and pencil.

“We'd like to ask you all a few questions about your movements since yesterday afternoon,” DI Callow said.

“Do police always come when someone dies in a fire?” I asked. Linus made to reach a hand out to me, but he sat across the table, too wide a distance to span.

The inspector's answer was cool and measured. “Shall we begin with your movements, Ms. Lanchester?”

I took a calming breath. “I've been away since Sunday, and only returned a couple of hours ago.”

“Where were you?”

“I was visiting a friend in Haverhill,” I said, remembering that Michael had whispered “Stay” in my ear, and wishing with all my heart that I had. “Do you need his name and contact information?” I had nothing to hide.

“We'll let you know. Tell us what happened this evening.”

You tell me
—that's what I wanted to say, but instead I went step by step through every detail I could remember from pulling into the drive to making cocoa. Sergeant Glossop scribbled in his notebook.

Once I finished my meager tale, Inspector Callow went round the table. There had been no formal dinner at the Hall. Linus and Cecil had meant to be away at the Earl of Tarvin's for the day and night, but the earl had come down with something and had canceled. Linus had eaten his evening meal from a tray in his own room, on the other side of the Hall from the north wing. He'd heard nothing.

Cecil had gone out with a friend, but he didn't offer details. Thorne and Mrs. Bugg had eaten a quiet dinner in the kitchen.

“Is there anyone else here at the Hall we should speak with?”

We looked round the table as if trying to count our number.

“What about Addleton?” Cecil asked.

“Geoffrey Addleton,” Linus said, “our estate agent—he's just moved into the old gamekeeper's lodge in the wood beyond the field.”

“I offered dinner to Mr. Addleton, but he told me he was fine on his own,” Mrs. Bugg said.

Freddy also had been away. He'd made a big show about meeting someone, and Thorne thought he might have spent a good part of the evening in a pub.

“Did any of you see him return?” Callow asked.

An awkward silence fell over the table, and I, along with the inspector and sergeant, waited for a reply. At last, Cecil sat up ramrod straight in his chair. “Father and I were in the library when Freddy arrived, about midnight—wouldn't you say?”

“Yes,” Linus replied, and smiled at the police. “I'm afraid Thorne is right about Freddy and the pub—he seemed a bit worse for the drink, and quite argumentative.”

Callow let her dispassionate eyes rest on each person round the table before she asked, “With whom did he argue? What about?”

“I'm sure you know, Inspector,” Linus said, “a person with too much drink in him doesn't really need a reason to pick a fight…”

“With me,” Cecil said, meeting the inspector's cool gaze with one of his own. “It was over a woman.”

A woman? Had Freddy continued to needle Cecil about Louisa?

“It wasn't much,” Linus said, his face pink. “Thorne will tell you that it was only a brief exchange, and after that we all went off to our rooms.”

“And Mrs. Bugg—where were you when Mr. Peacock arrived back?”

Mrs. Bugg jumped as if she'd fallen asleep and been elbowed. “Oh,” she said, “I'd gone to bed ages before that.”

“And you heard no argument?”

“The library is too far from my room,” Mrs. Bugg replied. “Although, if truth be told, a fight could break out at the bottom of my bed and it wouldn't wake me.”

“Was Mr. Peacock a frequent visitor here?” Callow asked. “A friend of the family?”

“Freddy was a friend of mine from London—we arrived on Wednesday.” No one looked at Cecil except for the inspector, and no one spoke. So I did.

“Didn't Freddy die from smoke inhalation? Do you know how the fire started?”

“Wasn't much of a fire, according to the brigade chief,” Sergeant Glossop said, taking another shortbread. His inspector threw him a look, and Glossop closed his mouth and chewed.

“Why wasn't this an accident?” I asked.

“The door, Ms. Lanchester,” Callow replied. “You said it was locked.”

“Yes.”

“And you, Mr. Fotheringill, had to break the lock to enter.”

Cecil nodded.

“We found no key inside the room, and so it's unlikely Mr. Peacock locked himself in. What we have found is a key in the tall vase near the staircase. We will test it against the lock. But tell me, is that where the key is kept?”

“No,” Thorne said. “The room keys are kept here.” He pointed to a small wooden cupboard mounted on the wall in the corner. I'd never even noticed it before, hidden as it was by an enormous kitchen dresser. “We don't use the keys. There's never any need.”

The DI nodded once to Glossop, who pulled on a plastic glove and opened the cupboard door. Inside, two rows of skeleton keys dangled from hooks, each one with a label above. The hook below “Mulberry Room” was empty.

“Have that dusted,” Callow said.

Room keys, a missing key, keys, keys. I rubbed my forehead—my head felt full of cotton wool. There was something else I wanted to say, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

“Ms. Lanchester?” DI Callow asked.

I shook my head. “Sorry, it's just that I don't feel well.”

“We'll need each of you to stop in at the station in Sudbury to have your fingerprints taken,” Callow said, and stood. “Just routine. Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch. I'm afraid Mr. Peacock's room will be off-limits for a day or two. I hope that won't disrupt your lives too much.”

“Those're lovely biscuits,” Glossop said, standing and brushing a few crumbs from his chest.

I offered him another, which he took with a smile, followed by a scowl.

“Nuala Darke makes them,” I said. “She runs the tea room in the village and the café here.” I shot out of my chair with sudden realization. “Today's an open day. We open the Hall to the public three afternoons a week. We can still do that, can't we?”

Callow didn't answer, but stepped out of the kitchen and called, “James?” A short man in blue paper coveralls appeared. They spoke for a moment, and she turned to us. “You may open, but we'll have a PC upstairs and the north wing will be closed off.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Thorne was ahead of me. “Ms. Lanchester's room is in the north wing—should we find her other accommodations?”

“We've nothing ready at the moment,” Mrs. Bugg said. “But you could come in with me until we sort something out—I've a spare bed.”

I was homeless again.

“No,” Callow said. “You may remain where you are, Ms. Lanchester, as long as you avoid Mr. Peacock's room.”

What did she think I would do—go in and dust?

Cecil led the police out. Thorne made a move for the door, too, to see the guests out, but Linus put up a hand to stop him. “I'll see to them, Thorne. Julia, ring Vesta in a while and tell her you won't be in. She can well manage on her own with your intern.”

“No, Linus,” I said, my heart racing at the thought of being cooped up at the Hall for the entire day. “I can't—health and safety is coming for an inspection of the church hall. I'll be all right if I'm busy.”

He nodded. “If you insist. But do try to get some sleep.”

We three that remained sank back in our chairs. I had questions that seemed to be multiplying by the second, but no energy to ask them. Thorne picked up his teacup and looked at the dregs.

“Shall I do us a fresh pot?” Mrs. Bugg asked.

“Not for me,” I said, reaching for another shortbread.

“Ms. Lanchester, I don't think you should sleep in your own room tonight,” she said. “Come in with me, and tomorrow in the daylight you can go back.”

I flashed on my room, which at that moment seemed impossibly far away. I considered the daybed in Mrs. Bugg's quarters—her guest accommodations, she once had told me with a laugh. It was no contest. “Yes, thank you, perhaps I will. And, Mrs. Bugg,” I said, “won't you please call me Julia? You, too, Thorne.”

“I doubt if you'll get this one to budge,” she said, nodding at Thorne, “but I'm happy to comply—as long as you return the favor. From now on, it's Sheila. Now”—she gave a weary smile—“I'll be along in just a moment to see to you.”

“Nonsense,” I said, standing, “I can find the bed quite easily.” I walked to the door and turned to ask about the morning and saw Sheila's chin tremble and Thorne put a hand over hers. I decided to leave it.