“No,” Addie said too quickly.

  “What kind of relationship did she have with her ex-husband?”

  “Sir David wouldn’t have killed her! If you could have seen how upset he was when I told him she was dead, so worried for his children. I believe he and Kathleen tried to be civil because of the boys. I know she came to visit the boys when she…” Addie trailed off.

  “When she?”

  “Had time in her social schedule. She was not, if I might say so, the most devoted of mothers.”

  Both men were busy scribbling. Addie wished she could read upside-down.

  “I see. Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  “I don’t think so. If I think of anything, I will of course let you know.”

  There. They were done, and it hadn’t been too painful. Why should it be? Addie really didn’t know anything. If she’d wanted to murder Kathleen Grant, she certainly would not have done it in her own tithe barn, and Addie would have made sure the woman was still dressed up to her chin like a nun when her body was found.

  The inspector looked up from his notes. His eyes were nearly black, and Addie had the sensation of being spelled by a cobra. “You didn’t like her.”

  “I—I wouldn’t say that,” she stuttered. “There are just some people you know who aren’t meant to be bosom-bows. She was one of them.”

  “I see.”

  Ugh. It sounded like he really did. She would have to be careful showing her antipathy to Kathleen, and Rupert’s responsibility for it.

  He turned to his sergeant. “Bob, I’ll leave the servants to you. Thank you for your time, Lady Adelaide. If you’ll conduct me to the drawing room, I’ll see how swiftly I can leave your guests in peace for today. You don’t mind if I use this room to question them one by one, do you?”

  “Not at all. Come this way.”

  Her drawing room was large enough so that a dozen people in its confines did not make it feel crowded, but she noted the couples had chosen to sit as far away from each other as possible. Wariness had set in. Sir David Grant had returned, and Addie gave him a quick hug.

  “This is Inspector Hunter, Sir David. I imagine you’d like to go first. Oh, am I overstepping? Perhaps the police have their own routine. Alphabetical order or something.”

  “No, you’re right, Lady Adelaide. Your intuition serves you. There might be a spot on the force for you yet. Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Devenand Hunter of New Scotland Yard, and this is my sergeant, Robert Wells. I am truly sorry to disturb your Sunday afternoon, and even sorrier you had the unpleasantness of last night. I will be speaking to Constable Yardley at my earliest opportunity. If you can be patient and bear with me, I’d like to begin the interviews now. We’ll stop at dinnertime, and finish up tomorrow morning if necessary. Lady Adelaide has graciously offered to extend her hospitality to you another day.”

  There was a quiet ripple of response, and just one outburst.

  “Outrageous! I am Ernest Shipman of the Shipman Bank. I’m needed in the city tomorrow. Angela and I didn’t even know the dead person. She has nothing to do with us and we had nothing to do with her…unfortunate circumstances.”

  Shipman was almost portly, his cheeks ruddy from too much good living, but Addie considered him to be relatively attractive for his type: a middle-aged man of considerable importance, who knew it. His temples were silver, and he looked every inch the successful banker—bespoke suit, heavy gold watch chain and fobs, handmade shoes. He was dressed for the boardroom, no touch of relaxing country tweeds.

  He wasn’t apt to relax now.

  “I appreciate your irritation, sir. I shall see you directly after Sir David. But if there are any further developments after I’ve spoken to everyone, I shall need your presence on Monday to clarify matters.”

  “There are such things as telephones, Inspector,” Shipman blustered. He’d wanted to leave last night, but Yardley had forbidden it and had practically arrested him on the spot for perverting the course of justice, which, Yardley sneered, carried a life sentence. Addie liked Angela, but her husband thought altogether too much of himself sometimes. But rumor was he had the King’s ear and some of his children’s loans.

  The inspector had better watch his step.

  Hunter shook his head. “Until they invent a talking device where one may see the communicator’s face, I’d just as soon ask questions in person and gauge a subject’s reactions.”

  Gosh, that would be interesting. Addie wondered if she’d live to see such a thing. One might never answer one’s phone again.

  “I’m almost certain they can manage a day without you, Ernest,” Angela said, trying to soothe her husband. “We can go on another lovely long drive after. The countryside is so chocolate-box, don’t you agree, Inspector?”

  “Indeed.” From his tone, Addie thought he’d probably appreciate it more if there were dead bodies sticking out of the hedgerows.

  Chapter Seven

  Sir David Grant looked wrecked, but Dev had seen plenty of guilty husbands put on a good show. Of course, he was an ex-husband. But a judge’s decree absolute didn’t necessarily mitigate years of misery. One could still harbor violence and reprisal years after the dissolution of a marriage.

  “When was the last time you saw your wife alive, Sir David?”

  “Three, no, almost four weeks ago. She came down to see the boys in the middle of the week for two nights. I stayed at my club in London, but was there when she arrived. I could look up the exact dates.”

  “Did you know she was coming to the area this weekend?”

  “No. We usually communicate by letter, so I can make arrangements to leave. She would have written, unless the letter went astray. We put up a good front for the boys, but try to avoid spending time under the same roof.”

  “Why was that?”

  Sir David gave him a sour smile. “Why do you think? We don’t—didn’t get along. Kathleen could be cruel. She had a great many admirers, before and after the divorce, and often compared me most unfavorably. I suppose I’d be as good a candidate as any to want her dead.”

  Well. “Was your wife—ex-wife—a drug user?”

  Sir David looked at him blankly. “What? Why would you ask that?”

  “The test results are preliminary, but we have reason to believe she died of a drug overdose. There are indications on the body.” Dev watched closely to see Grant’s reaction.

  Shock. The man was a good actor, or truly surprised. “No! Her physical beauty was everything to her. Her currency, I suppose you could say. And Dr. Bergman would have said something.”

  “He might not have noticed. There were fresh needle marks between the victim’s toes. No obvious places to attract attention.”

  “She never would have—my wife was squeamish, Inspector Hunter. She could barely insert a brooch on a collar without being afraid to prick herself. Fainted when the boys brought her a cigar box filled with pinned butterflies. I can’t imagine her injecting herself with such poison. I never saw her take anything stronger than two aspirin for a hangover!”

  “Did she drink?”

  “No more than any of us. She liked a gay life, and found things here in the country boring. Found me boring. It won’t take much digging to discover she was unfaithful. Repeatedly.” The man met his eyes, daring Dev to say something. He felt an unwelcome sympathy for Grant, and that wouldn’t do.

  “Did you notice any change in her behavior once your marriage ended?”

  Grant expelled a breath. “She was much happier. More…”

  “More what?”

  “Just more. Alive. Free. Excitable.”

  All of which could be attributed to cocaine.

  “Where were you yesterday between four and seven?”

  “Here. In my room. I played tennis for a couple of hours, then came up to take a long bath. It was so blo—blasted hot. Around seven I called home to say good-night to the children from the telephone in the upstairs hall. Then I dressed and came down for cocktails.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t know. A tea tray was delivered while I was in my bath, but I never spoke to anyone. Maybe the maid heard me splashing.” He gave an approximation of a laugh. “I have no alibi, and all the motive in the world. Kathleen was a nuisance, blowing in and out of our boys’ lives at her whim. Always wanting more money too. I won’t lie, Inspector. I’m…I’m almost glad she’s dead. I hope she didn’t suffer, but I understand she was not wearing any clothing when she was found. I imagine she met a lover here. An odd place for an assignation, but then she always did like to take risks. If you can find the man—or woman—you might have your answer.”

  Dev stopped writing. “Woman?”

  Grant shrugged. “Kathleen considered herself to be beyond rules. She had, in my opinion, an over-developed libido.”

  The psychological jargon was unexpected. “So, you are saying she took female lovers too?”

  “I don’t know it for a fact, never saw it with my own eyes, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised from the way she spoke when she was taunting me.”

  Spreading the blame around, then. “Thank you for your help, Sir David. We’ll be in touch.”

  “I can go home, can’t I? I’m quite nearby and will come back if I have to.”

  “Yes, of course. How are your children taking the loss of their mother?”

  “Well, they’ve lost her before. I’m not sure they understand this time she’s never coming back. When do you think we can hold the funeral?”

  “I’ll let you know when the body can be released. Does Lady Grant have other family?”

  “Just her grandfather. Her parents were on the Lusitania, and her brother was killed in the Second Boer War when she was just a very little girl. I’m glad they won’t know how Kathleen’s life ended. Her grandfather’s in a retirement home in Yorkshire, quite dotty, as I understand it. I’ll let him know, but I don’t expect him to attend the funeral. There’s a cousin somewhere, but the family was estranged and Kathleen didn’t know them.”

  It did seem especially sordid to be found naked in a barn and pumped full of cocaine. Dev was glad he wouldn’t have to explain it to a confused elderly gentleman.

  Grant stood. “So, are you saying it could have been an accident? An…an overdose?”

  “Could have been.” Unlikely. There was no drug paraphernalia found near the body or in Kathleen Grant’s purse. Her clothes had been neatly folded, her silk stockings rolled into expensive shoes. The body had been laid out on a faded hand-pieced quilt, a bundle of straw between her folded hands.

  Someone had an odd sense of humor.

  “Shall I send Shipman in?”

  “Give me five minutes, please. And I’d appreciate it if you said nothing about the circumstances of her death to anyone else.”

  “Of course not. I can hardly believe it myself.”

  Dev checked what he’d written and added a few details. Grant seemed legitimately upset. Honest to a fault. He tried to appear that way, at any rate—he must know he was the prime suspect. He might have lived the most blameless of lives, but being known as a cuckold was apt to bring out the worst in anyone.

  The extraordinary window next to the card table where Dev sat overlooked the drive, a well-manicured lawn, and an ornamental lake. A family of ducks was paddling aimlessly. The property was beautiful, and must be a burden to keep up. If they had been lucky enough not to be blown to bits in the war, most young people today had no interest in going into service. Dev wondered how Lady Adelaide was managing.

  Shipman entered without knocking. His color was high with temper and the heat. A break in the weather would be a relief, or Dev would consider stripping down and joining those ducks himself.

  “Mr. Shipman, please make yourself comfortable.”

  “I’ll be comfortable when I’m back on Mount Street! As I’ve told you, I never met Katherine Grant, or if I did, I don’t remember—we go to so many functions. Wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her on the street. Didn’t meet her husband until yesterday. I’m sorry I let my wife talk me into this weekend. Lady Adelaide is a neighbor in Town, so she felt we had to accept. The poor thing’s been shut up here since her husband killed himself. No good deed goes unpunished, and here I am, talking to a policeman.” Shipman made the word sound equivalent to cockroach.

  Dev ignored the insult. “Killed himself? You mean he committed suicide?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Car crash. Died instantly and his mis—um, his passenger with him. Shocking business. Fellow was a flyer in the war and loved his speed, I guess. Angela and Lady Adelaide have grown close over the years when Lady Adelaide was in Town. It was our duty to come and cheer her up.”

  Not if he was hollering to go home. “As best as you can recollect, tell me about what you did yesterday.”

  “We arrived before noon. Made a very early start. I drove myself, and the trip west was uneventful. We had lunch outdoors with the other guests, although in my opinion it was much too warm for the lobster mayonnaise. It didn’t sit right with my digestion, but my wife insisted on tootling around the area for an hour or two to see the sights. Sheep and more sheep, I ask you. A total waste of time. I cut the drive short as I wasn’t feeling up to par. When we got back, I locked myself in and had a lie-down and so forth. Took a bath and dressed for dinner. Knocked on Angela’s door at about quarter past seven and helped her with her zipper. Made myself useful.”

  “Did you have tea sent to your room?”

  “No. As I said, I hung that ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on my door handle. Didn’t want to be bothered when I had a gyppy tummy. Caught at a disadvantage, you know.”

  Dev blocked the thought of a naked Ernest Shipman on the toilet. “I trust you’re feeling more the thing today, Mr. Shipman.”

  “I’m all right. Look, I have half a dozen appointments tomorrow I really can’t miss, and then a business trip scheduled.” He put his hand inside his jacket pocket, drew out a thin diary and a thick billfold, and laid them on the table between them. His plump fingers tapped them lightly. “Don’t you think you can see yourself clear to letting us go back to London? I can make myself available for anything else you need to ask at the drop of a hat.”

  Dev stiffened. “I’m sorry. No.”

  “I can make it worth your while.” He said it as if Dev were too stupid to understand the significance of the wallet.

  “Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. Would you ask your wife to step in?”

  “Goddammit! Do I need to make another call to my friend Sir William Horwood?” The police commissioner was a Brigadier-General, recipient of a GBE, KCB, and DSO. He would be most unimpressed with Dev if he’d agreed to a bribe, although there already were plenty of newspaper stories about corruption and misconduct within the ranks that Horwood was accused of ignoring.

  “You may call whomever you please. I suggest phoning your secretary to cancel tomorrow’s appointments,” Dev said evenly.

  “Your superiors will hear about this!”

  “My report will be thorough as well. Thank you for your time, Mr. Shipman.”

  The banker stormed off, and Dev sighed. It never did one any good to poke the society bear in the eye, but it couldn’t be helped. For a man like Shipman, everything was solved with money and connections, with little work involved. For a man like Dev, it was usually just the opposite.

  Chapter Eight

  A substantial tea had been laid in the drawing room, but no one had much appetite, waiting to be grilled like the tiny cheese puff sandwiches that were Cook’s specialty. As people cycled in and out of the Great Hall, Addie found herself alone in a corner with Barbara, who lit Lucky Strike after Lucky Strike, making Addie somewhat nauseous. She opened another window, but the air was as dead outside as in.

  Barbara leaned forward. “So, tell me, were you handled with kid gloves by the glorious inspector? Gloves or not, I’m looking forward to being handled by the man. So attractive, don’t you think? In a sub-continental way.”

  “Barbara!” Really, at this point nothing Barbara said should surprise her. There seemed to be no filter between what she thought and what she said. Addie had known her all her life—her mother and Barbara’s had been childhood friends—and she’d only gotten worse with age.

  “Admit it. He’s almost as divine as Rupert. One can picture him in a turban with a ruby. And only that.”

  “One cannot. Honestly, Babs, get your mind out of the gutter. The man is a policeman.”

  “But a pretty policeman. I wouldn’t mind being arrested by him. Handcuffed to his bed.”

  Addie set her teacup down. “Speaking of bed. I’m such a rotten hostess, but I must go upstairs for a little while. One of my headaches is coming on again.” It would if she had to listen to Barbara’s nonsense any longer. “You can manage on your own, can’t you?”

  “Certainly. Gerald is about somewhere. If I must, I’ll talk to Pansy or your mother or Cee. But not Eloise. She’s such a bore. Why do you always invite her?”

  “She’s Lucas’ cousin. They live in the same house. It would be very odd if I didn’t.”

  “There’s something odd there, all right. I don’t see how he can bear breakfasting with her day after day. If anyone needs murdering, it’s Eloise.”

  “Barbara! How can you say such a thing? Look what she did during the war. She was at a field hospital in France for three whole years. While you and I were rolling clean bandages in London gossiping, she was up to her eyelashes in blood and amputated limbs.” Addie grimaced at the image. Her mind had taken a gruesome turn lately; dead husbands were surely responsible.

  “Poor little orphan. Such a goody-goody. We did our bit, and more.” Barbara never talked about the men she’d lost, but she must still be suffering.

 

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