A Death by Any Other Name Read online

  Still smiling, she turned away from the trestle table to find that she was no longer alone in the conservatory. A man was standing in the shadow of the doorway watching her as she had inspected the roses. She was so taken by surprise that she jumped.

  Chapter Seven

  “Do roses usually inspire laughter, or is it just these unfortunate specimens?” The figure in the doorway walked into the light of the conservatory.

  “Not usually, but I think I can tell which of the Hyde amateur rose breeders was responsible for producing each of these, just by the names.”

  “Yes, I am sure you can. What artificial things they are.” Mr. Stafford’s face was disapproving.

  “The roses or the people who bred them?”

  “I don’t know the individuals, but their roses are quite ugly. You know, hybrid tea roses only thrive with masses of well-rotted manure. Hopefully most of them will contract one of the many rose diseases that inflict grafted roses and disappear altogether. The only decent specimen here is Golden Girl and this other white rose next to it.” He walked over to the white rose that had the look of an old English double Damask. “The color is a pure, dense milk white. So hard to achieve.” He bent to inhale. “There is a subtlety to its scent—almost like apple blossom.” His expression was so serious it made her nervous.

  “Mr. Bartholomew’s new rose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like him, then?” she asked, smiling.

  “Never met him.” He walked back along the table of roses toward her and now he was smiling, too. “Yes, actually I did see him once from a distance. He was overweight, his hair was too long, and he looked like a bit of a softy. How are you, Mrs. Jackson?” The last time they had met he had called her Edith.

  “I am very well. Thank you for recommending our services to Mrs. Armitage.” She had meant to sound sarcastic; but she found herself far too pleased to be talking to him to be bothered with the irritation she had felt when Mrs. Armitage had mentioned him as the reason for her visit.

  “I thought an interesting accidental death in the house of a neighbor might appeal to you. It seemed to be the only way to see you again, after I was dropped from your list of correspondents.” She glanced up at him to see if he was annoyed with her, but he didn’t appear to be. And she wasn’t sure herself why she had stopped writing to him.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Stafford, it was rude of me not to reply to your last letter. There was so much to plan for Christmas and we were late getting back to Iyntwood. I couldn’t believe how behind I was with preparations for the season.” He would have no idea how demanding her job was; how long her working day was when there was a grand occasion to celebrate at Iyntwood.

  Both of us depend on pleasing those we serve, she thought. He surely understands how demanding my job is.

  “So Lady Montfort does not think that Mr. Bartholomew was a victim of accidental food poisoning?”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted Mr. Stafford to know too much about this rather unsavory part of her job, but now it seemed she had no choice.

  “I think her ladyship is more interested in helping Mrs. Armitage clear her name. So this is what we are here to do—to find out a little bit more about that day. Luckily Mrs. Armitage’s friend Mr. Evans is prepared to help us.”

  “Ah yes, Evans. He’s a bit of a rum cove, don’t you think?” She caught the flash of his smile in the gathering dusk of the conservatory.

  She laughed at the “rum cove.”

  “I have never quite understood what that meant,” she said.

  “It means that he is a bit of a rogue,” came his quick reply, and his smile widened.

  “Oh, not to be trusted then?”

  “I think you must think very carefully about what he is up to. I am sure what he says is quite believable; there just might be a bit of a gap between what he says and then what he thinks. And I have nothing to base this on except my sense of the type of man he is. You don’t think he is just a little theatrical?” He was laughing now and he lifted his right hand and ran it back across his head from forehead to crown in a parody of the butler smoothing his sleek, well-barbered hair. His invitation to laugh at the florid manners of the butler dispelled the last of her apprehension about their meeting.

  “I don’t know if he is a rogue, but he is a very strange man. And he, evidently,” she lowered her voice, “dislikes his employer.”

  Mr. Stafford nodded. “Yes, Mr. Haldane is a bit of a domestic tyrant but underneath I think he is quite a decent sort. He has been very fair in his dealings with me, and he certainly wants to give his wife what she wants. Mrs. Haldane is a kind woman and she loves her gardens.”

  The thought of Mrs. Haldane’s winsome and girlish manner to her unpleasant husband came into Mrs. Jackson’s head. It was sometimes difficult for her to ask questions directly about the behavior of others, so she waited, hoping that Mr. Stafford would reveal more. He laughed as if he knew what she was thinking and obliged her.

  “She is his second wife; she was the governess to Mr. Haldane’s only child, his daughter. Then the first Mrs. Haldane died during her confinement with their second child. The present Mrs. Haldane was barely twenty when she married Mr. Haldane, about fifteen years ago now.”

  She still thinks she is just a young woman, thought Mrs. Jackson, recalling the pale pastel frilly afternoon dress. “They seem to be rather an odd pair,” she said, gently pushing for more information.

  The doors into the salon opened to admit Mrs. Haldane and her guests. Miss Jekyll noticed them in the conservatory and came straight in to greet her old student, Mr. Stafford.

  “Ernest,” she said with evident pleasure. “How very nice to see you here. I have to leave tomorrow after luncheon, but I want to see what you are doing for the Haldanes. Your preliminary sketches looked most promising and I like your idea for limbing the trees at the south end of the lake to open up a view to distant hills.”

  She nodded to Mrs. Jackson and kept her face turned away from the garish display of roses on the trestle table behind her. Mrs. Jackson suspected that Miss Jekyll did not approve of hybrid tea roses any more than Mr. Stafford did. She was amused at how deferential he was toward his old teacher. He looked almost ridiculously pleased at her approval of his design for Mrs. Haldane’s lake and it was clear he wanted to show her his work here at Hyde Castle.

  “I am surprised to find you here, Miss Jekyll,” he said, acknowledging her exulted status as one of the country’s most sought-after garden designers.

  “Lady Montfort was invited to come here for the symposium and she asked me to accompany her. She is such a generous woman to her neighbors.” Mrs. Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. Well, here, at last, was someone who did not know the real reason for their visit.

  They were interrupted by the exuberant chatter of the Hyde Rose Society as they accepted glasses of port and sat themselves down in their chairs, all eyes turned expectantly toward the conservatory, willing Miss Jekyll to come in and pay attention to them.

  “Ernest, I am going talk to Mrs. Haldane’s friends about color harmony. It is something that I am hoping will be useful to these nice, diligent people in helping them produce less-strident specimens.” She half glanced at the offensive crowd of blooms on the table as she turned and walked back into the Salon Vert.

  * * *

  As the rosarians gathered for Miss Jekyll’s talk, Clementine found herself spirited away from the core of the group by Mr. Urquhart. She willingly allowed herself to be led to three chairs grouped together toward the back of the room. She wanted information from Mr. Urquhart, and to make sure they were not joined by anyone else, she beckoned her housekeeper over to sit on her other side. And then, as Miss Jekyll finished her talk on the importance of subtle colors that exist in harmony with one another in the design of any garden, she laid a detaining hand on his forearm.

  “I have heard so much about your charming roses Maiden’s Blush and Cupid. I can’t wait for tomorrow’s competition. Do you have o
ne every year?” The elderly man quivered with happiness at her compliment and assured her that his offerings, although pretty, were prey to many afflictions. He listed them all with enthusiasm as he sipped a small glass of oloroso and nibbled a ratafia biscuit.

  “Oh, my dear Leddy Montfort, the powdery mildew can wreak havoc with Maiden’s Blush—all my fault I assure you. And as to leaf wilt…” He shuddered and sipped his sherry.

  Clementine decided that she liked this courteous man with his fastidious manners and his passion for hypochondria, which seemed extended even to his beloved roses, and exclaimed in sympathy for his afflicted progenies.

  “So you see, Maiden’s Blush is perhaps not destined to remain in the world very long, poor girl, and as for the dear Cupid, it is quite an astonishment to me that she has not already expired.” He dolefully shook his head as if he were mourning members of his close family. Clementine imagined delicate spinster sisters with gentle dispositions languishing in quiet rooms fed on a diet of tea cakes and weak milky tea to coax them to cling to life.

  Mr. Urquhart produced three small ornamental pillboxes and took samples from each one, carefully sipping them down with sherry.

  “I do hope you are not unwell, Mr. Urquhart,” she said, hoping to draw him away from his invalid roses and into the world of humankind.

  “My dear Leddy Montfort, the trials of dyspepsia, I am simply never free from them. I was silly enough to eat some of the soup at dinner tonight, and I immediately knew it was a mistake. The broth was more than likely made with onions … ruinous, quite ruinous to the nervous system.” He patted the corner of his mouth with a napkin and slipped his pillboxes into the pockets of his buff velvet waistcoat, which was intricately embroidered in shades of blue.

  “Ah yes, dyspepsia, such a trial to the constitution,” she commiserated.

  “Indeed it is, and Mrs. Haldane’s new cook lacks all refinement. It’s meat, meat, and meat in this house. I have to bring my own little supplies of biscuits and shortbread when I visit just to keep me going throughout the day. The only meal I can really trust myself to enjoy is at tea time. Of course”—he glanced around—“you know that Mr. Haldane was once a butcher, which explains all the great haunches of beef and mutton we must struggle through. And they unfortunately sacked their last cook, a wonderful woman with the lightest touch, who produced such deliciously delicate food.”

  “Sacked her?” Clementine pretended horror. “Why sack a good cook? A good cook is so terribly hard to come by.”

  “They say she poisoned a guest here earlier this year. Absolute twaddle, if you don’t mind my saying so. The woman was an artist, the man who died a glutton. Roger was embarrassed that his friend ate himself to death in his house, and made poor Maud get rid of her cook.” Mr. Urquhart’s outrage was clearly expressed in his need for another pill. With trembling fingers he produced a chased silver box.

  “A compound of slippery elm and mustard powder,” he informed her as he swallowed two tiny pale-yellow tablets and took another sip of sherry. “Balances acid in the system,” he further explained.

  “I must remember that,” Clementine said. “Lord Montfort suffers tremendously from an unbalanced system.” She didn’t feel the slightest guilt at denigrating her husband’s robust health, but she felt Mrs. Jackson stir at her side.

  “But tell me about this terrible thing that happened here in the spring. How upsetting it must have been for you all,” she coaxed, her eyes wide in invitation, an addicted gossip.

  “It was indeed quite terrible.” Finley closed his eyes at the memory. “If I tell you it was a catastrophe, Leddy Montfort, it would be no exaggeration. Poor Rupert came down early one morning and ate his usual more-than-ample breakfast. I am afraid he overate shamelessly, but then all Rupert’s appetites were abundant. Well, after his breakfast he went out for a walk and died most horribly in an outhouse somewhere in the grounds. And most likely from a gastric eruption; his terrible gluttony had killed him.” Clementine looked regretful and shook her head. But Mr. Urquhart was not quite finished. He gave her a knowing look, and Mrs. Jackson leaned farther in as he lowered his voice.

  “Poor Rupert was addicted to all the earthly pleasures.” Clementine shook her head as she heard of these mortal excesses. “Yes, I am afraid he was rather weak where life’s human passions are concerned. All of the dear leddies here”—he looked in turn to the motherly Mrs. Lovell in conversation with Miss Jekyll, the bobbing curls of the pretty Mrs. Wickham as she chattered away to Mr. Stafford, and the submissively bowed head of Mrs. Haldane nodding politely as Mr. Wickham irritably discoursed on improper procedures in root grafting to her and the elegant Mrs. Bartholomew—“were quite obsessed with him and he had them all in such a tizzy. And poor Maud had to replace all her young and pretty housemaids with staid, solid country women of more mature years. Yes, Albertine was a saint—a complete saint where her husband’s self-indulgence was concerned.”

  “It is not unusual for some gentlemen to feel they have to cast their net wide,” Clementine offered from her worldly perspective. Her smile was that of a woman who understood these things, and it was all the elderly man needed to rush in with more information.

  “I would not have been at all surprised if Clive or Roger had taken Rupert out to the woodshed and horsewhipped him—that was how much he upset the husbands in this house,” he said, and at Clementine’s look of surprise at such eighteenth-century methods of dealing with affronts to masculine dignity, he continued. “However much Amelia loves her dear friend Maud, at one time there was such jealousy between them that we none of us could concentrate on our work. Every time we gathered together it was the same exhausting repertoire: tears, interminable moody silences, and sulking in corners. And naughty Rupert behaving as if he was oblivious to all of it. It was then that he enticed Dorothy into some indiscretion or other. Clive, of course, put a stop to that one very quickly, but he never forgave Rupert.”

  “And Mr. Haldane, how did Mr. Haldane react?”

  Mr. Urquhart tutted and waved the footman over to fill his empty glass. And in the short silence that followed, he polished his spectacles and fitted them more firmly on the bridge of his nose so that he could better judge how far to go with his gossip by the expression on the faces of both “leddies” to his left.

  “Roger Haldane,” he announced in a conspiratorial whisper as he took a sip of sherry, his eyes fixed on Clementine’s face for emphasis, “is quite besotted with his wife. He has been ever since the day she came to work here as governess to his daughter, what was it now?—sixteen years ago.” He turned to Mrs. Jackson to make sure she was included. “Maud was little more than a girl herself then, of course. Then the first Mrs. Haldane died and Roger married Maud within the year.” He sipped and became thoughtful.

  Clementine gently prodded with her customary tact: “He evidently cares for his wife very much.” She did not catch Mrs. Jackson’s eye as she said this. “It is hard when a husband cares so much for a faithless wife,” she suggested.

  “Oh dear me, no, Leddy Montfort, absolutely not. Maud was not faithless with Rupert; it is not in her nature, she is a most constant wife. But Maud and Rupert were the greatest of friends and no doubt she was very fond of him. But, you see, Rupert was interested in her and sought her out. They spent hours planning the genetics of her new roses, though as I am sure you must have realized, Maud is a dabbler and not a breeder in any sense of the word, really.” He paused and sipped, searching perhaps for the right word, but it evidently eluded him. “Of course, Roger became aware that Maud was always with Rupert—off in the greenhouses trying to find the perfect growing medium for his seeds. And Roger was quite beside himself with jealousy, poor man. Everyone thinks that Roger and Rupert were the greatest of friends, but they were not. They were silent enemies.” He hastily looked around and his voice sank into the deepest whisper. “They were business competitors first of all, d’ye see? Roger made his money the hard way, but Rupert inherited a very successful busin
ess from his uncle and held a government contract that Roger coveted. Then when handsome Rupert paid attention to Roger’s wife it was really the last straw. They fought most terribly just before Christmas—most terribly. All of us expected Roger to drag Rupert from the house and shoot him at dawn. It was quite awful.” And Mr. Urquhart, exhausted from recounting this piece of history, fell back against the cushions of his chair and took solace in the glass. “It was the most terrible scene I have ever witnessed in my life and it was only Albertine who saved the day.”

  “Mrs. Bartholomew?” Mrs. Jackson leaned forward to peer around Clementine at the elderly Scotsman.

  “Yes, my dear Edith, Mrs. Bartholomew.” Mr. Urquhart craned his neck so that he could see her face. “She told Roger that he was behaving like a schoolboy. That Rupert liked and admired Maud but did not seek to … seek to … that there was nothing improper. Of course Roger backed down somewhat, but he has never forgotten or forgiven. Poor Maud, she is so adored by Roger. I don’t know if you have noticed that he has rather an overshadowing effect on her, though. Of course it comes from his being her senior in so many years and she is one of the most obliging and sweet-natured of women. Her time spent with Rupert was simply a pleasant alternative to all of that…” he groped for the right word and Mrs. Jackson quickly supplied it.

  “Bullying?”

  “Yes, I suppose that is true about Roger. He is so very masterful.”

  “And Mrs. Bartholomew?” Clementine asked as she watched a very serious discussion taking place on the other side of the room among Mrs. Bartholomew, Mrs. Lovell, and Miss Jekyll. “How did she feel about her husband’s enjoyment in the company of her women friends?”

  “Ah, Albertine, what a wonder she is. She always managed Rupert perfectly. He was lost without her. It was only when she went off on her long planting trips with her brother that Rupert got himself into a pickle. But she certainly soothed Roger’s jealous heart, albeit temporarily. Every man needs an Albertine in his life,” he ended, smiling wistfully as if his own behavior where women were concerned, if left unguarded, could be as divisive and unscrupulous as that of Mr. Bartholomew.