Page 8 of Murder at the Dinner Party
“But Miss Fox will find out,” Davey said brightly. “I have a feeling she’s very thorough.” He winked at me.
“According to Mr. Hardy, someone entered his room on the day of his death,” I went on. “Did any of you go into his room and move his things?”
They all shook their heads. Mrs. Cook and Mrs. Turner protested vehemently. “It wasn’t any of the staff,” Mrs. Turner said. “None have permission to enter Mr. Hardy’s room. He cleans it himself.”
I refrained from telling them that not having permission wouldn’t stop anyone. Not even locked doors could. “Did any of you see someone else that day who shouldn’t be in the house?”
They all shook their heads.
I closed my notebook and slipped it back into my bag. “Thank you. Mrs. Turner, I’d like to see the dining room before Sir Ian and Lady Campbell return, then I’d like to look around Mr. Hardy’s office and bedchamber, please.”
She marched toward the door. “Follow me, Miss Fox.”
The dining room was a sumptuous statement of the Campbells’ wealth. Masterful artwork in gilded frames decorated the deep red walls, and tall silver candlesticks stood proudly on the black marble mantelpiece. The large table and sideboard were polished to a sheen, and the velvet-covered chairs looked comfortable for a long evening chatting with friends. The only thing missing from the scene was the rug, which Mrs. Turner informed me had been thrown away since it couldn’t be cleaned. They were waiting for a new one, which Lady Campbell was yet to purchase.
There was nothing more to see, so we headed up the stairs to the servants’ quarters, housed on the top floor. The butler’s bedroom contained a single bed, dresser, wardrobe, and a chair positioned by the window.
“It’s as he left it, except for the seltzer bottle,” Mrs. Turner said. “He was a neat and tidy man, with never so much as a loose button.” She pointed to the bedside table with the lamp and a copy of an old Sherlock Holmes mystery. “That’s where the seltzer salts bottle was kept.”
I ran my hands over the bedspread then checked under the mattress, inside the pillow slip and other places for hidden objects, all under the frowning gaze of Mrs. Turner. She remained by the door, however, and didn’t say a word as I moved to the dresser. Finding nothing of note, I opened the cupboard door. To see the highest shelf, I stood on the chair. Tucked into the corner was a sturdy metal box, the sort used to keep money or valuables. The padlock was still in place, locked, but the lid had been pried open. Whatever tool had forced it had scratched and dented the metal. I lifted the lid. The box was empty.
I showed it to Mrs. Turner. “Do you know what he stored in here?”
She shook her head.
I returned the box and checked the rest of the cupboard. Mr. Hardy kept a selection of neatly pressed suits, two pairs of polished shoes and a woolen coat. Other items were conspicuous by their absence. “Where are his underthings?”
“When my sister told me you were a young unwed lady, I removed them. Your virtue must be protected.”
My virtue wouldn’t be lost by seeing a man’s underclothes, but I bit my tongue. I checked the jacket and coat pockets, then inside the shoes. My fingers touched cool metal near the toe.
I removed a fine silver watch. It was very shiny and there wasn’t a scratch on it. I held it up by its chain to show Mrs. Turner. Like me, she knew immediately it was a quality timepiece of the sort a wealthy gentleman would wear, not a butler.
“Where did he get that?” she murmured.
I checked the case, inside and out, but there were no initials or other way of telling whether Mr. Hardy owned it or had stolen it. “You’ve never seen him wear it?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t belong to Sir Ian?”
“No! Mr. Hardy wasn’t a thief, Miss Fox. I hadn’t known him long, but he struck me as a fine fellow of good moral fiber.”
I didn’t point out that if he’d come by it using legitimate means, he wouldn’t have kept it in his shoe. The question was, why in his shoe and not the metal box? Unable to think of a good reason, I placed it back into the shoe only to discover another object tucked into the toe.
I removed it and laid it flat on my palm. It was a gold gentleman’s tiepin shaped like a sword with small diamonds inlaid into the pommel and a sapphire the size of my smallest fingernail in the center. I didn’t bother to ask Mrs. Turner if she’d seen it before. I knew by the shocked look on her face that she hadn’t, and that she was as confused as me as to why Mr. Hardy had it and why he kept it in his shoe. I returned it along with the watch to its hiding place.
“Did he have family?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t find any correspondence when I came in here after he died. Lady Campbell will have his details in her writing bureau listing his next of kin.”
“The day of his death, when he told you his things had been moved, did he mention which things?”
“The bottle, his pillow, some items in the top drawer of the bedside table. His bedcovers were wrinkled, too. He couldn’t abide wrinkles.”
I smoothed my hand over the bedcover when searching. If the intruder had left wrinkles, it would seem they’d been searching for something, too. The question was, what? And had they found it in the metal box?
“I’d like to see his office next, please, Mrs. Turner.”
