Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (9 page)

  I wanted to burst through the door and accuse the woman of lying, but she wasn’t so much lying as pontificating. These were her version of the facts.

  I was startled when the door behind me jolted, but did not open. The next instant, a little slip of paper was pushed under the door. I heard Lucy’s voice telling the cook, “No, I just dropped my pad. Thank you.”

   I skimmed her note, quickly. The old butler was fired after he made an unsavory comment about Phyllis, something about she wouldn’t have taken a misstep if she wasn’t always sneaking through the house.

  Henderson, who had come with Randolph and Joan as a footman, took the position. He had done well to befriend Phyllis.

   Most scandalous, though, was this bit of gossip: it was generally suspected that, before the accident, some sort of relationship existed between the chauffeur and Phyllis. His feelings for her waned after it became clear she would not recover. This information was a compilation of the maids’ knowledge.

  I thought to myself,
Why else would Phyllis suggest a spurned lover? She had been one.

  The sound of Joan’s ugly, barking laughter caught my ear, and I moved back to the other side of the butler’s pantry.
  “Miss Wallace? My husband told me he recognized her from Xavier's funeral. She looked a vagabond at the time. Now look at her, decked out in H and K’s spring wardrobe. I suspect she knows what that American did to Xavier and is blackmailing her.”

   The inspector said with a muffled voice, “You’ve been most helpful.” It sounded as if he’d placed a cigarette between his lips while he spoke.

   “It is a pity that people don’t hang in public anymore. I’d like to see that girl dangling from a noose.”

   The inspector ignored Joan’s mean-spirited comment and asked, “I left a box of matches here last night; you didn’t happen to find it?”

   “Unless it was floating in a bottle of gin, I wouldn’t have been looking for it.” 

  The chairs were shoved about, and then Joan’s heels struck the floor relentlessly as she made her dramatic exit.

  I heard the inspector sit back down. He began to tap his fingers on the table. Was he thinking what I was: how did I not know that my husband’s father and the man’s cousins had been petty war profiteers?

  I was sure that Mother Stayton had no idea, or she wouldn’t have let me travel to Pearce Manor. Xavier hadn’t known. When I asked him where his family money came from, he’d been rather stumped by the question. He listed a slew of investments and shrugged, not all that concerned as to how the coffers were filled.

   There was a sound at the door, and it seemed that Lucy had promptly returned with more information. Then Henderson appeared; the man smiled at me and handed me a plate of lunch.

   Blushing, I took the dish. He gracefully stepped back and closed the pantry door, not making a sound.

  I nibbled away at a cold piece of chicken while the inspector gathered his thoughts. I was just licking my greasy fingers when the voice of the junior officer startled me. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the room.

  “Yes, that’s what the vicar’s wife said.”

  “How odd. Fetch me the older brother.”

  I listened to the inspector pace until Randolph entered the room. “Garish, isn’t it?”

  “How’s that?”

   Randolph scooted a chair from the table. “This room, absolutely garish.”

  “I thought it was rather fancy.”

  Randolph gave a harrumph and said, “That’s what Nicky was hoping people would think.”

  “Are you implying something, Mr. Stayton?”

  “What do you think happened to the tapestries, the oil paintings, the crystal chandeliers that used to be in these rooms?”

  “I hadn’t concerned myself with the décor,” replied the inspector.

  “Nicky sold it all—this French look, it is cheap stuff, nothing of value. No, he had a broker in London, all hush-hush, sell off the good stuff.”

   “And why did your brother do that?”

  Randolph grunted, sounding like his younger brother. “You’re the detective, you tell me?”

  “Your brother’s financial affairs are not what I am investigating. The murder of Miss Masterson is my concern.”

   “And you make to pin it on me, because I’m the failure. Well, look around, Inspector Fowler, Nicky isn’t so well off either.”

  “Are you telling me that Nicholas murdered Miss Masterson for financial gain?”

   “No, of course not. I’m just telling you, we all have our secrets.”

  “Such as Canadian rifles.”

  “I knew he’d point a finger at me…”

  “Your wife was the one pointing fingers, Mr. Stayton, not your brother.”

  I heard the creak of a chair, as if someone had shifted their weight. “Ah, good old Joan. Did she tell you how she left me? Moved in with her mother and stepfather.”

   “While you were in the war?”

  Randolph grunted. “It was convenient for her. When it was all over, and I hadn’t anywhere to turn, she didn’t ask her mother to take me in. Do you know why?”

    The inspector made no reply that I could hear.

  “She said, ʻGo live with your brother, I have better prospects.ʼ And she did, the little monster was trying to seduce her stepfather. Sickening, isn’t it?”

   No reply this time either.

  “Her attempt failed, and she was packed up and put out on the street like the filth she was. Still, the little flat I had wasn’t good enough for us. She told me she’d come back to me if I debased myself, crawled to my brother and got us set up here.”

  “And you complied.”

  Sounding very sorry for himself, Randolph responded, “Of course I did. I would do anything for her.”

   “Would you murder for her?”

   Randolph gave a little laugh. “She hasn’t asked me to, yet.”

   “Your wife went through many moods, after a bad patch, you and she returned from holiday. She was warm and gracious, for a time, then Phyllis had her accident.”

   “Yes, we had a row; I was mad enough that I threatened to divorce her. I lost my temper and struck her. That had never happened before. I thought she’d hit me back. She didn’t; something inside her changed. She started acting the way she used to, for a time.”

   “You came back, and then Phyllis had her accident?”

   “Just a few weeks later, yes. Of course, we were away when she took her fall, the poor dear. Talk about changed. She was never the same,” Randolph said compassionately.

   “Tell me how?”

  “I don’t know, she’d been sweet, always smiling. She adored Ruth and treated Nicky like he was some sort of hero.”

   The inspector asked, “After the accident, she treated them differently?”

   “She and Ruth, no, the same, but now on equal footing, no longer the secretary but as a dear friend. Phyllis treated Nicky as if he wasn’t so grand in her eyes anymore. She seemed jaded.”

   “Why do think that is?”

   “I can’t say; she was in pain, but she was hopeful to make a full recovery. It was an emotional time. My insight is also hindsight. At the time, I wouldn’t have thought what I think now.”

  The inspector asked, “And what do you think now?”

  Randolph lowered his voice. “I am not so sure her fall down the stairs was an accident.”

   “An attempt to harm her?”

   Sounding more like himself, he grunted and said, “Harm her? Have you looked at those stairs? More like an attempt to murder her.”

  “Do you have a culprit in mind?”

   “No,” Randolph replied with little conviction.

   “Mr. Stayton, your wife was on her best behavior for a time; when did that change?”

   Randolph seemed to think about the question for some time before he answered, “A month or so later, about the time of Nicky’s accident.”

   “His motorcar accident?”

   “That’s what he calls it. He was in town, and a drunk ran over his foot when he was leaving the pub. The fool drove off and left him there in the road.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “No. I was away at a reunion, or I would have been with him.”

  “Where was his wife?” asked the inspector.

  “She’d taken Phyllis to see a specialist in London,” replied Randolph.

  The inspector did not ask my question,
Where was Joan?
Instead, he said, “What about Mrs. Xavier, do you think she has anything to do with this?”

  “Oh no, a daffy creature, but sweet enough. Have you put your eyes on that Miss Lucy? Beautiful girl.”

  The inspector ignored his comment. “Care for a cigarette?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  There was a pause, and the inspector asked, “You haven’t come across a box of matches I left last night, have you? It’s from the Hotel Cote d’ Azur?”

   “Oh, yes,
Monty
. No, I can’t say that I have,” Randolph replied.

  “Thank you; you have been quite helpful,” said the inspector. I rather disagreed. Randolph had spouted out all sorts of random information, but nothing seemed clearer to me.

Chapter Ten

The cook and the chauffeur were both interviewed by the inspector, but neither had much information that was new to me. The chauffeur had indeed been in a secret but short-lived love affair with Phyllis, but according to him, she had ended the relationship, not him.

   Both servants spoke freely in regards to Randolph and Joan, but were reserved when asked questions about Nicholas and Ruth.

  After speaking to these two, the other policeman joined the inspector. I could not hear what the junior man said, only the inspector’s response. “Yes, that is rather strange. Send in the butler.”

   A few minutes later, I heard Henderson’s voice, “Good day, sir.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

   “Thank you, Inspector Fowler.”

   “At the time of Miss Masterson’s death, where were you?”

  “I was quite nearby. As you know, we were acting out Mrs. Xavier’s manuscript.”

  “Have you any opinion on who might have struck the victim?”

  There was a long pause before Henderson replied, “I’m afraid I am of no help to you.”

   “How long have you been with the Stayton family?”

  “A number of years, sir. I started with Mr. Randolph and Mrs. Joan; I was their butler. They let go of their staff shortly before the war. I was fortunate enough to be hired on by Mrs. Joan’s stepfather. He took me on as a footman. It was a reduction, but I was happy for the job. As I’m sure you have already found out, there was some ugliness, and Mrs. Joan moved out of the house. I tendered my resignation, and shortly, I came here in the same capacity.”

   “How long have you been the butler here?” asked the inspector.

  “Let’s see. The previous butler was terminated…”

  “For something he said about Miss Masterson.”

   “Indeed,” Henderson responded.

  “Was his comment true?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Henderson replied in a way that said his predecessor had misspoken, but had not lied.

  “You are very much the eyes and ears of the house. Is there anything that you would like to share with me?”

  “Only that there is much tension in the house. Miss Masterson’s health was a great concern. What you are seeing of the Stayton family is not typical. They are a quiet and kind family, sensible people.”

   “Indeed,” the inspector replied, and then asked, “Do you have a light?”

   “Of course, sir.”

  “Thanks. I left my box of matches here last night. I can’t remember where.”

   “Yes, Mr. Nicholas mentioned that to me. I looked for them, but I haven’t found them.”

   After a moment, the inspector replied, “Yes, thank you. That will be all.”

   Carefully, Henderson pushed back his chair and then came the soft, dignified sound of his footfalls.

   The maids would be brought in next, and I wondered what gossip they might know. However, before they were called in, the door to the butler’s pantry opened, and the inspector asked me, “Well, have you figured out who killed Phyllis?”

   I shrugged and said, “Apparently, I must have committed the crime.”

  The handsome man stood back and gestured for me to take a seat at the table. I could tell that he was amused rather than irritated by my eavesdropping.

   He sat down after I did, and his eyes lingered on me for a moment before inquiring, “Were you privy to the dealings of your father-in-law and his cousins?”

  “No, Mother Stayton mentioned that Randolph had narrowly avoided some scandal after the war. That’s the most that was ever said in that regard. I knew they disliked her; now I know why.”

   “Right. And your husband never discussed this with you either?”

  “Never. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d talk about,” I responded.

  “There seems to be some mystery shadowing your husband’s death, as I’m sure you overheard. Would you please explain the circumstances that have been kept from his family?”     

   I felt my soft, warm face turn into a cold ceramic mask, and I replied, “My husband was an explorer. A very brave, adventurous type, you know the sort. He went off to Ecuador, and sailing down the Amazon River, he was captured by headhunters. Need I tell you more?” I closed my eyes and put my hand to my chin before uttering, “To this day, even just the sight of a man with a small head sends me into hysterics.”

   The inspector began to laugh until my icy stare silenced him. Hesitantly, the inspector asked, “You are joking, are you not, Mrs. Stayton?”

  “Shouldn’t you be asking me about Phyllis’s death rather than my poor Xavier’s horrible demise?”

   Not sure if he should be ashamed of himself, or furious with me, he asked, “This play you wrote, who had read it? Who knew when the lights were to be turned off?”

  “Phyllis, Henderson, the maids, the cook, the gardener, and the chauffeur,” I told him curtly.

  “Did they memorize their lines?” he asked.

  “No, well, almost, but they still had typed notes.”

  “They had typed sheets of paper?” he asked quizzically.

   “Yes,” I responded.

   “Then where are they?”

  I thought about the question and had no answer. “I don’t know.”

  He nodded slowly. Before he could say anything, there was a knock on the door. “Yes?” he called.

  Henderson opened the door and said quite formally, “A car has arrived for Mrs. Xavier and Miss Lucy.”

  I responded quickly, “Thank you, Henderson; will you see to it that our things are brought down?”

     His eyes went to the inspector, who gave him a quick nod. He then replied, “Of course, Mrs. Xavier.”

  Once the door was closed, the inspector said rather sternly, “I haven’t dismissed you.”

   “Then you shouldn’t have nodded your consent to Henderson,” I retorted.

   “Why the rush to leave?”

  Had I been the type to bark out a bit of fake laughter, his question would have been ripe for that sort of response. “I’m not welcome here, and there is a murder afoot. You can reach me and Lucy in London, but I’ve told you all I know.” 

  “You haven’t told me everything you know. I find it strange that a young woman tells lies about her husband’s death…no, not just strange, but suspicious.”

   “My husband’s death has no bearing on this case…”

   “A woman keeping the details of one untimely death a secret was one of only two people who didn’t know that Miss Masterson was dying at the time she was killed. My superiors would question my sanity after they read such a report, such a report that stated I let her leave the county.”

   “Extortion is it? I tell you my tragedy and you let me leave?” I asked, my tone laced with venom.

  He only nodded and then lit another cigarette.

  “I told you that my husband was an explorer…”

  “So you told me, the vicar’s wife, and that nice couple on the train.”

  I was impressed that his minion had found out about those two occurrences. “Indeed. However, he only made his way so far as Saint Louis, Missouri. We met, fell in love, and he brought me to his home, to his family. Everything was perfect. Our marriage was a success. We were very much in love, but he had kept a secret from me.”

   The inspector flicked his ash into a little dish that I had thought was silver, but, on closer inspection, I saw that it was tin.

   “Less than a year after we were married, I discovered his secret. Xavier found me reading in our room, and he told me he was going to take a bath. How he luxuriated in his baths, or so I thought. I gave him a kiss and told him I might take a nap.

   “More than an hour passed, and I woke. The sound of running water from the bathroom concerned me. I knocked at the door, and there was no reply.

  “The butler broke down the door, Mother Stayton and I standing behind him. Xavier was in his dressing robe, crumpled on the floor, blood drying at his forehead.”

  The inspector made as if he was going to fish out a cigarette for me from his pocket. I stopped, gathered myself, and went on.

  “Mother Stayton went into hysterics, calling out her pet name for Xavier,
my towheaded boy,
but you see, he wasn’t.”

  The inspector’s eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled. “He wasn’t?”

   “No, I saw a little glass bowl and a comb in the sink, and there was an unfamiliar paste that had splattered on the vanity and the sink as well; it smelled so strongly that my eyes burned.”

  “I don’t understand,” admitted the inspector.

  “After Xavier’s toddler years, his pale blonde hair started to darken. Mother Stayton began washing his hair herself, with what she called a special shampoo, and then, when he was too old for that, she made him part of the secret. He was a brunette.”

  The inspector blew out a puff of smoke and looked at me as if I were a raving lunatic.

  I explained, “There had been a chill in the air, so Xavier didn’t open the window when he went into the bathroom to secretly bleach his roots. He was overcome by the ghastly vapors of the concoction; he passed out and struck his head on the marble bath.”

   The inspector started to smile, then frowned. “Another lie…”

   “No, Inspector, the ugly, sad truth.” I said this in a way that convinced him. “It had mattered so much to his mother, his pale, angelic hair, and then it mattered to him, because he prized his mother’s pride.” 

  “I am sorry,” said the inspector, slowly, hesitantly.

  “As am I. It was not a death befitting him. Xavier should have seen the world, as he wanted to, and if he fell off Mount Vesuvius, or was eaten by an alligator, or sailed into a waterfall, at least he would have made it to that exotic place and died the death of an adventurer.”

   I felt the first tear welling up in my eye.

   “I didn’t mean to upset you,” said the inspector, apparently not immune to the tears of a young widow.

   “Are you charging me with the murder of Phyllis Masterson, or am I free to go?” My voice cracked as I asked the question.

   “If you leave, I may not solve this case,” he told me.

   I stood and said, “You’re a better detective than that. Good day, Inspector Fowler.”

   Once outside of the dining room, I rubbed the tears from my face. Lucy and Henderson were waiting for me by the door. My friend handed me my purse. As I reached inside the bag for a handkerchief, Henderson kindly pulled his from a pocket of his jacket and gave it to me.

  “Thank you, Henderson,” I managed to say, and whisked past him, never so happy to see Mother Stayton’s dark blue sedan waiting outside.

   Our driver opened the door, and I found Mother Stayton waiting inside the car. Lucy gracefully followed me, and the door was closed.

   My mother-in-law took one look at me and started to reach for the flask she kept in her purse.

   “No, no, I’m fine,” I assured her. This was, of course, a lie.

   “You look very upset. I take it you liked that Miss Masterson very much,” she remarked, not having the faintest idea of what had made me cry.

  The car lurched forward as I nodded; it was easier to agree.

   Mother Stayton could plainly see that I was a world away, so she began asking Lucy about the murder. I watched Pearce Manor from the rear window, growing smaller and smaller as we sped down the drive. Rounding onto the road, the row of tall trees obscured my view, but not my uncertainties.

   The two continued to speak, but it was just noise to me, like ducks quacking in a pond.

   I had to stop myself from thinking about Xavier, lifeless on the cold tile floor; that ghastly paste dried about his cowlick.

   My thoughts could only be shifted to Phyllis, and her crumpled form. I spoke out loud, not in full possession of my wits, “Lucy, what happened to the sheets of typed paper that the servants held with their lines?”

  Her pretty face froze, and she thought about my question. “I don’t know?”

   Mother Stayton asked, “This play, it was your novel?”

  I didn’t respond quickly enough, so Lucy said, “Yes.”

   “How far into the play did you get?”

   Lucy answered, “Not far at all; the actual murder happened before the fictional attempted murder…”

  Lucy’s words caught my attention. “Yes, the attempted murder was to be acted out for them to see, for them to ponder.”

   My dear friend then said, “They’ll never know the story. Well, unless they buy your book.”

   That was the point of killing Phyllis. The plot had been her idea, and the performance had been her idea. She and my story had been silenced. Whatever reaction would have taken place to my story would have caused repercussions; this was why Phyllis had written me the letter. Perhaps we would have been expelled from the house, and she would have handed me the note in the chaos of our things being collected.