Page 30 of Murder at the Dinner Party
His lips curved with his slow, easy smile.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
“Because my office isn’t on your way to the Whitchurches. So why are you really here, Cleo?”
“To thank you, Harry, that’s all. Don’t read something into it that isn’t there.”
He set the cup on the desk and began to roll down his sleeves. “Harmony told me how the Campbells treated you yesterday. It sounds like it was an unpleasant encounter.”
“Thoroughly. I don’t think I handled them very well. I’m sure you would have done it differently and achieved a different result.”
“I was available.”
“I know.”
“I’m also available now.”
I knew precisely how the rest of the meeting was going to unfold, so I simply skipped the part in the middle where he tried to talk me into letting him come and I resisted at first, but eventually gave in. “You may as well join me. I’m sure the Whitchurches will be just as prickly as the Campbells, if not more so. If the encounter goes as badly as it did yesterday, at least I’ll have someone to commiserate with.”
“I’m happy to commiserate with you, Cleo.” He rolled down his second sleeve as he stood. It occurred to me that he’d expected me to ask him ever since I entered. Surely, he wasn’t that intuitive. Perhaps I was simply that obvious.
I peeked at the open file on his desk. The client wanted him to spy on her neighbor whom she suspected was operating a brothel out of the house. “You don’t have work of your own that requires your attention here?”
He closed the file and placed it in the top drawer. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Very true. Brothels are busier in the evenings.”
He shot me a withering glare.
* * *
Fortunately,it was a short walk to the Whitchurches’ townhouse, so we had no opportunity to discuss anything other than the case. We decided to tackle the master and mistress first, but if they weren’t home, or weren’t very forthcoming, we’d speak to the servants.
We gave our names to the young footman who answered our knock, but not the reason for our visit. He led us through to the drawing room, where the butler waited with us while the footman fetched his employers. Under the guise of making idle chatter to pass the time, Harry asked the butler how long he and the other staff had been employed there. The longest serving member was the housekeeper, at seven years, well short of the twenty-two since the maid died.
While Harry questioned the butler, I took a turn around the room. The paneled walls were painted soft green, which was rather calming against the high white ceiling and pink-and-green rug. There were no signs of wear and tear like I’d witnessed at the Campbells’ residence. The sumptuous furniture and furnishings were in good condition, even though most pieces were over a hundred years old, going by the Grecian aesthetic, the ormolu mounts and acanthus leaf motifs. I glanced at the framed photographs scattered across various tables. Most were taken in the countryside, at shooting parties, hunting parties, and picnics. One photograph struck me as odd. It wasn’t the subject matter—a middle-aged man standing beside a horse—that had me taking a closer look. It was the position of the photograph within its silver frame. The horse was up against the edge of the photograph, butting up to the frame. Neither horse nor man were centered. Stables could be seen in the distance, but they didn’t add anything of interest to the photograph. The size was also odd. It didn’t fill the frame and a gap was left at its edge.
Something or someone on the horse’s other side had been cut off.
The man and woman who entered the drawing room introduced themselves as Lord and Lady Whitchurch. They were both aged in their forties, with lines fanning from the corners of their eyes and plump waistlines thanks to decades of comfortable living. Lady Whitchurch didn’t attempt to hide the gray in her hair, as some ladies did with hats. She wore it plaited and arranged high on her head with a center part at the front, a style that went out of fashion years ago. Her dress was more modern, but quite plain, with no color to lighten the dark gray and black trim. Her husband sported a full gray beard and a moustache that was still ginger. I recognized him from several of the photographs. He wasn’t the man in the photo with the horse, although they looked similar.
They studied Harry and me with curiosity, but not wariness. That all changed when we mentioned we were private investigators. Their open countenances closed and their backs stiffened. While they didn’t order us to leave, I sensed answers wouldn’t come easily.
“I’ve been tasked with looking into the death of Mr. Hardy, the butler at the Campbell residence,” I began.
“By whom?” Lord Whitchurch asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I don’t understand. He died of natural causes. What is there to look into?”
“There is doubt in some minds as to whether the verdict was accurate.”
Lord Whitchurch looked surprised. Lady Whitchurch looked confused. “If it wasn’t natural causes, how did he die?”
Her husband, standing beside his seated wife, placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. Reassure your client that the coroner doesn’t come to these verdicts lightly. He and the police are competent and thorough.”
“Sometimes they make mistakes, particularly if the poison used can mimic death by natural causes.”
