“You mean…”
He nodded. “I do. The details are sketchy but be on your guard. I have a very bad feeling.” He patted her hand and was gone.
Beckett was waiting for her in her room, a white cut-lace dress laid out on the four-poster bed. “I’ll run you a bath. You look a fright, Lady A,” she said, which was only the truth. The afternoon had been hot and she’d run her feet off.
“Never allow me to play tennis again with Lord Waring. Unless it’s mixed doubles and he’s my partner and can do all the work.” Addie flopped down in a chair and unlaced her canvas tennis shoes, kicking them aside. “I want to go home.” She suspected she was a last-minute replacement and wished Pamela had flipped past the C page in her address book.
The last thing Addie needed was to be mixed up in another murder.
Beckett scooped up the shoes and wrinkled her nose. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you haven’t been yourself lately. You used to enjoy a good house party.”
The good old days, when guests were kissing instead of killing each other.
“Aren’t the people nice?” Beckett continued.
“Oh, they’re all right.” But someone definitely wasn’t, and someone wasn’t going to be.
After a quick bath, Beckett helped Addie dress. The maid insisted on piling on the rouge, as Addie was nearly as pale as Rupert. Worry did tend to rob her of color, but worry alone wouldn’t solve the murder. She needed to go downstairs, as disinclined as she felt. She was experienced now, knew correct procedures thanks to her acquaintance with Mr. Hunter. If she couldn’t stop the murder, she might still help.
Addie was halfway down the grand Tudor oak staircase when she heard the first of the screams.
Then shouting and more screams.
Here it comes.
She headed for the conservatory, nearly slipping on an ancient rug on the flagstone hallway in her haste. Where was bloody Rupert to catch her?
The conservatory was a late Victorian addition to the house, its elaborate lace ironwork famous and noted in several architecture books. Its glass doors were open, and Pamela’s fancy orchids were everywhere.
The scent and heat of the room hit Addie at once. An impressive array of treats had been laid out on a horseshoe-shaped table in front of the central fountain, with small linen-draped wicker tables and chairs dotted about. But no one was eating; a group of guests and servants were all at the rear of the room. A woman was sobbing, and efforts to make her stop were ineffective.
“What’s happened?” she asked a young maid at the edge of the cluster, white as Addie’s dress.
“It’s Lady Fernald,” the girl whispered. “I think she’s dead.”
Evelyn or Pamela? She really didn’t know how the staff kept them straight. Addie tried to see over shoulders or under feet to no avail. She tapped a gentleman’s arm, and Owen Bradbury turned, his face drained of color.
“Who is it?”
“Pam. I don’t know what Hugh’s going to do.”
Oh, no. Addie’s heart seized. She’d known Pamela since they were in their teens, and while they weren’t true bosom bows, it was a great loss, nevertheless. Poor Hugh. Poor John. Bradbury’s face blurred in front of her.
“Has he been here?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Hugh’s always late, y’know. Has a lot to deal with to get out and about. My God, we even joked about it last night.”
Hugh will deal with even more, Addie thought, wiping her tears away. “You should find him. Tell him. He mustn’t come down to this.”
“You’re right. Denny, come with me. Someone has to tell Hugh.”
Captain Clifford stepped back, rumpling his fair hair. “Christ. What a cock-up.”
Not the reaction Addie would expect after the discovery of a body, and she filed it away. The two men left to find Hugh. His suite of rooms was on the other side of the house, and presumably they’d catch him before he made it this far.
Addie wriggled her way through and identified the housekeeper Mrs. Lewis as the sobbing woman. She knelt over Pamela, who looked for all the world as if she was taking a nap on the herringbone brick floor, if one napped in public in pink floral chiffon. A broken glazed flowerpot lay nearby, its contents spilled, the orchid’s roots exposed. There was no sign of blood, just the earthy odor of damp soil and something less pleasant.
Addie raised her voice over the crying. “Someone should call a doctor.”
“Too late to do any good,” Patrick Cassidy said in his soft Irish accent, “but you’ll be right, Lady Adelaide. Trim, where’s the nearest phone?”
“I’ll take care of it, sir.” He left to do so.
“Who found her?” Addie asked.
Mrs. Lewis looked up, her tears streaking through a light dusting of powder. “I did. The maids and I brought the tea things in at ten minutes to four, just as my lady asked. I don’t know what made me check back here when we finished setting up the tables.” The woman shuddered. “She was lying dead all the time we were working.”
“Did you move her?”
“Of course not! But Mr. Cassidy came in and heard me—I was—I am—so upset. He checked her pulse. And then the other gentlemen came in with the Misses Jordan. One of them fetched Trim.”
Addie turned to the two maids. “Don’t let anyone else into the conservatory. Close the door and explain there’s been an accident. One of you tell Trim to call the police too.”
Margie Jordan grabbed her sister’s hand. “The police! But why?”
“Lady Fernald was young and in excellent health. There might be foul play.” She couldn’t very well tell them it was Rupert’s idea.
Mandy Jordan giggled nervously. “Foul play! What, are you some sort of female Sherlock Holmes now?”
Along with my late husband, the next best thing, Addie wanted to say. At least she tried to secure the scene and keep the rest of the guests out.
But she failed. A crashing noise heralded Evelyn Fernald, who swept into the room in umbrage. One of the maids came running after her, looking apologetic. “What’s this about an accident? Is it my Hugh?”
Addie took the woman’s arm and gave it a gentle stroke. “No, Evelyn. It’s Pamela. She’s—she’s passed away.”
“Passed away? Pamela? Don’t be ridiculous!” Then she spotted Mrs. Lewis, still crouched on the floor. “Ruth, get up this instant! We have a houseful of company that must be attended to! Why—” The rest of her question went unasked as she herself slid to the ground.