Stone Barrington 36 - Scandalous Behavior (5 page)

S
tone was halfway through the potato chips on the bar by the time Susan walked in. He offered her a peck on the cheek, which was accepted, then sat her down at a table.

“I hope it wasn’t inconvenient for us to meet here,” he said, after he had ordered her a martini and himself a Knob Creek.

“Not in the least,” she said. “I live in Farm Street, which is a stone’s throw away and is reached from here by a very convenient footpath. How was your day?”

“Very good. I got quite a lot done.”

“And what did you get done?”

“I lunched with my solicitor, then visited two tailors and my shirtmakers and made them all very happy, then I set about cheering up two automobile salesmen.”

She laughed. “All these things for the new house, I assume.”

“I’m starting from scratch.”

“When do you complete the sale of the house?”

“Tomorrow morning at nine, here, in my suite.”

“Which suite?”

He told her.

“I designed it.”

“I rather thought you might have. It looks like you—cool, but with concealed warmth, and elegant. By the way, I have a question for you.”

“Ask away.”

“The two paintings—the middling Constable and the good Turner: Charles wants two hundred thousand pounds for them. Do you think that reasonable?”

“I would have thought it reasonable yesterday, when I described them to you in those terms, but this afternoon they were delivered to my office, and now, having been cleaned and reframed, the Constable is a very good example, and the Turner is spectacular. I should think they’d bring at least half again, perhaps twice that at auction.”

“Then I will accept his offer.”

“I will have two van loads of things going down to the house tomorrow, and I’ll include the pictures, plus some others.”

“Why don’t you drive down with me tomorrow, if you’re willing to put yourself in a car with a driver who is accustomed to driving on the right, not to say, the correct side of the road, and stay for a few days. You can even work, if you feel so inclined.”

“Is that a business proposition or a personal one?”

“A little of both, but you may choose your sleeping quarters from the available stock. I think every designer should sleep in the room or rooms she has designed. How else can you know if you got it right?”

“A very good point. I’ll think it over and give you an answer later in the evening. Where are we dining?”

“At Harry’s Bar.”

“Yum.”

—

A
fter the pasta course she assented to his invitation.

“What made you accept?” he asked.

“One martini and one glass of wine,” she replied. “Also, I know something that you won’t learn about until tomorrow morning.”

“And what might that be?”

“Sir Charles, after having requested permission from the new owner of Windward, intends to throw a bash in the house on Sunday evening for forty or fifty of his most intimate friends, and he expects me to have the public rooms ready to receive them. So I will work while I’m there, along with the crews I’m sending down tomorrow, and I’ll return to London on Monday morning.”

“Perfect. And I will take off for New York on that day, too.”

“How very convenient for us both.”

Their osso buco arrived, and they returned their attentions to their food.

After dinner, Stone walked Susan to her house, in Farm Street.
She did not invite him in. “It’s rather a mess at the moment,” she said, “and the cleaners won’t be in until tomorrow.”

“Then I will collect you a little after ten in the morning,” Stone said. He kissed her on the lips, and she went inside, closing the door firmly behind her.

—

S
ir Charles, his solicitor, and Julian Whately arrived together shortly after nine the following morning and were given coffee and pastries before the briefcases were unpacked and the paperwork for the closing on the sale of the house was stacked high on Stone’s dining table, awaiting signatures.

“First,” Stone said, handing Sir Charles a check, “I accept your offer of the two pictures, and Julian will give you the signed agreement.”

“You are very welcome,” Charles replied.

They began signing documents, and that took nearly forty-five minutes. “Congratulations,” Sir Charles said, finally, “you are now the legal owner and lord of the manor of Windward Hall.”

“Thank you,” Stone replied, and the two men shook hands.

“Now, I have a request,” Charles said. “On Sunday evening, may I host a party celebrating my eightieth birthday in the house?”

“Certainly, you may.”

“Don’t worry, I shall make all the arrangements and bear the cost.”

“As you wish.”

The two men shook hands, and they all traveled to the
ground floor together, where Stone’s new Porsche awaited, his luggage already aboard. They all shook hands again, and he drove around to Farm Street to collect Susan.

She had brought two large bags, and when he opened the boot, up front, he found it filled with his own things, and the space behind the front seats was taken up by the package Joan had sent him from New York and the things he had bought at Turnbull & Asser. “Don’t worry,” he said, placing Susan’s two bags in her lap. “I have a solution.”

He drove into Berkeley Square and around to the Bentley dealer. He got out of the Porsche, rapped on the window, and beckoned the salesman outside, then he unloaded the two cases from Susan’s lap onto the sidewalk. “Will you kindly put these into the boot of the Bentley?” he asked.

“Of course, Mr. Barrington.” He looked at his watch. “And I can have the car there by two o’clock.”

“Perfect,” Stone said. He got back into the Porsche. “When you’re traveling in this car,” he said to Susan, “you need a Bentley following you with the luggage.”

“An excellent solution to our problem,” she said. “And I can already feel the blood returning to my legs.”

And so they set off for Windward Hall.

—

O
n the way out of London, clouds began to quickly gather, and by the time they were on the motorway, the downpour was so heavy that visibility was affected.

They arrived at Windward Hall—the first time Stone had entered the estate by the front gate—and as they approached the house in the still-steady rain they had to drive past a good-sized tent pitched on the lawn some twenty or thirty yards from the entrance to the house. Parked alongside the tent were two police cars, one unmarked, and an ambulance.

“What on earth is that?” Susan asked as they drove past.

“It appears to be a crime scene,” Stone replied, “very likely a homicide.”

7

S
tone drove around the house to the courtyard at the rear, which contained the stables and garages, and drove into an open bay. As they got out of the Porsche, the butler, Geoffrey, in his daytime apron and shirtsleeves, came out of the house and picked up as many of Stone’s bags as he could carry, while Stone collected the rest. Geoffrey led them into the house through the mudroom, which Stone figured would get plenty of use today.

“What’s happened out front of the house?” he asked the butler, once they were inside.

“A neighbor has been found, deceased, in the meadow, and the police have questioned all of the staff, one by one.”

“Who is the neighbor?”

“Sir Richard Curtis, who lives at the adjoining property to
the south,” Geoffrey replied. “He was a very close friend of Sir Charles.”

“Has Sir Charles returned from London yet?”

“No, but he’s expected in the early afternoon.”

“Have you spoken with him about what’s happened?”

“No, his mobile doesn’t answer. Shall I put your things in the master suite?”

“Yes, please, in the dressing room—the old one, not the new one. Another car will be delivered this afternoon, and please see that it’s parked in the garage and that Ms. Blackburn’s bags are collected from the boot.”

“Please put them in the Lilac Room,” Susan said quickly, before Geoffrey could ask.

“Yes, madam,” Geoffrey replied. “Would you and Ms. Blackburn like lunch?” he asked. “We’ve some hot soup and sandwiches.”

“Yes, thank you. Perhaps in the library? Susan, is it fit for lunching?”

“I believe so,” she said.

Geoffrey put Stone’s things in the elevator and went upstairs.

“Do you know Sir Richard Curtis?” Stone asked Susan.

“No, I’ve never met him—never heard of him, for that matter. It was inconsiderate of him, though, to die on your front lawn.”

“From what we’re hearing, it sounds as if he had help.”

They went into the library, which seemed in good order, but dark. Susan opened the curtains on both sides of the fireplace
and let in the gray light. “The room is missing only the Constable and the Turner, and those will be among the first items unloaded.”

A woman came in with a tray and set a mahogany card table for lunch.

“Thank you, Elsie,” Susan said. She lit the fire that had been laid, and in a moment a cheerful blaze was going. “It’s nice to have a fire on a cold, rainy day,” she said, backing up to it.

Stone came and warmed his hands. A moment later Elsie returned with a tray bearing a tureen and china and set the table further. “Luncheon is served, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Would you like wine?”

“A bottle of white burgundy would be good,” Stone said, holding a chair for Susan, and Elsie disappeared.

He sat down and tried the soup. “Perfect,” he said.

“Oh, Mrs. Whittle, Geoffrey’s wife, has a reputation as the best cook in the county,” Susan said. “Have you met her?”

“No, I have some catching up to do, in that regard.” They finished their soup, and Elsie returned with their sandwiches and the wine. She uncorked it and gave Stone some to taste. “Excellent,” he said, looking at the label. “A Batard-Montrachet,” he said.

“Charles has an excellent cellar. Was it on the list of items conveyed with the house?”

“There was an item saying, ‘the contents of the wine cellar, save two dozen bottles to be chosen by Sir Charles.’ I thought that fair enough.”

“I’ve noticed,” Susan said, “that you speak English with an American accent, but with English phrasing. Is that deliberate?”

“No, I have an imitative ear, so I tend to speak my own language as the locals do, wherever I am. I came away from a week in Germany once, speaking broken English.”

“That’s a handy gift. It will make the locals here more comfortable with you. The British upper class tends to view Americans as noisy people with cameras, until they are shown something different. They will like you for your phraseology, because they will understand you the first time you say something.”

“I draw the line at ‘shedule’ instead of ‘skedule.’”

They were having coffee on a sofa before the fireplace when there was a sharp knock on the door. Stone turned to see a small man in a tweed suit, who was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

“Filthy weather,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrington?”

Stone rose. “Yes.”

“I am Deputy Chief Inspector Holmes,” he said, “as in Sherlock.”

“I hope that is not your Christian name,” Stone said.

“Fortunately not, but I’m often called that anyway, by those who are out of reach of my authority.”

“This is Ms. Susan Blackburn, who is the designer in charge of redoing the interior of the house.”

“I would like to ask you a few questions, perhaps both of you.”

“Of course, please sit.”

Holmes took an armchair next to the sofa. “Damned good idea, a mudroom,” he said, inspecting his shoes. “Saves tracking in the weather.”

“We ran into the weather on the motorway,” Stone said. “When did the rain start here?”

“Sometime last evening, according to the staff. I’d like very much to know more precisely. It is my understanding that you are buying this property from Sir Charles Bourne.”

“I bought it from him this morning, in London.”

“He was there for the completion?”

“Yes.”

“When did he come up to London?”

“I think yesterday sometime, but I’m not certain. It appears that we have a homicide on my front lawn.”

Holmes looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“You’ve pitched a tent over the corpse to preserve the crime scene,” Stone said. “And there are the vehicles.”

“You’re very observant,” Holmes said.

“It was hard to miss, and I was once a homicide detective, in New York City.”

“You were?” Susan asked, surprised.

“You were?” Holmes echoed.

“I was. Fourteen years on the NYPD, twelve of them in Homicide.”

“You made detective in two years?”

“It was easier then. We had more than four thousand homicides in the city the year I was promoted, as compared to a little
over three hundred last year. Somebody had to investigate them, and there weren’t enough seasoned men per corpse.”

“Quite,” Holmes said.

Stone made a mental note not to say “quite” when speaking to Englishmen; they would think he was trying too hard, something the British abhorred.