Dinner Most Deadly Read online

  “Yes sir, but—I hardly know where to start.”

  “Start at the beginning. Who arrived first, and at what time?”

  Dulcie smiled. “Oh, that’s easy! Her ladyship the Viscountess Fieldhurst arrived at half past seven, a full thirty minutes before dinner was to start at eight. I guess she was that eager to meet the gentlemen vying for her favors, to be here so early.”

  “Hmph,” Pickett grunted, not deeming this observation worthy of a response. “Who came next?”

  “Sir Reginald Montague. Lord Dernham and Lord Edwin Braunton arrived just a few minutes after.”

  “They came together?”

  Her forehead creased in concentration as she considered the question. “I don’t believe they travelled together. It’s just that they arrived at the same time, so I announced them together.”

  “I see,” said Pickett, making a note of it. “And then?”

  “Lord Rupert Latham.” She blushed rosily. “He’s quite the gentleman, that Lord Rupert. I took his hat, gloves, and greatcoat, only one of the gloves fell on the floor. Lord Rupert bent down and picked it up for me, and said I was much too pretty to be a beast of burden!”

  “He would,” muttered Pickett, scribbling in his book.

  “And then came Captain Sir Charles Ormond and Mr. Martin Kenney. And I know they didn’t come together, for the captain rode, and had just given his horse over to the groom to take to the mews when Mr. Kenney came walking up on foot. So I announced the two of them together.”

  “I understand the dinner ended rather abruptly,” Pickett remarked.

  “Yes sir, it did. I had gone down to the kitchen to help prepare for the staff’s dinner, thinking it would be at least a couple of hours before the gentlemen would be leaving. But it was scarcely an hour later when Lady Dunnington rang for me. It seems all the gentlemen were ready to leave at once. All except Sir Reginald, that is. Her ladyship never rang for me, so I daresay he meant to show himself out. Except that he never got out, did he? Not alive, anyway.”

  “No, not alive,” said Pickett, disappointed. If all the gentlemen had left at once (all except Sir Reginald, in any case), it would have been extremely difficult for any one of them to lie in wait for him. He wondered how much time would have passed between the time the other gentlemen left and Sir Reginald followed; perhaps there had been a sufficient interval for one of them to return to Lady Dunnington’s house after making the others believe him to have gone. Dulcie would hardly know, since she had not been summoned, but Lady Fieldhurst might, and so might Lady Dunnington. He made a notation in the margin to remind himself to ask.

  “Tell me, Miss Monroe,” he continued, “did you hear anything at dinner that would suggest why all the gentlemen would wish to leave so soon?”

  “Why, Mr. Pickett!” she cried, scandalized by the very suggestion. “I would never eavesdrop!”

  “No, no, of course not,” Pickett said hastily. “But one can’t help overhearing things, and, well, sometimes they talk in front of the servants as if we were no more human than the furniture,” he added, thankful for the brief experience as a footman that allowed him to talk to the household staff as if he were one of them.

  “That’s true,” Dulcie conceded, “but most of the time I was downstairs in the servants’ hall. I couldn’t have heard the conversation in the dining room even if I’d tried.”

  Pickett closed his notebook and returned it to his coat pocket. “Thank you, Miss Monroe. You’ve been most helpful. Now, if you could send the lady’s maid to me, I would be most appreciative.”

  “Mrs. Winters? But she couldn’t have been anywhere near Sir Reginald at the time! She came running down the stairs when the shot was fired. I remember seeing her and Jack Footman leaning over the banister.”

  “I don’t suspect Mrs.—Winters, did you say?—of having a hand in Sir Reginald’s death,” Pickett assured her. “I merely want to follow up on something her ladyship said.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes sir, I’ll send her down at once.”

  She hurried from the room, and a very short time later a stately looking woman of late middle age entered the room. From his brief stint in the servants’ hall, Pickett knew she was one of the highest ranking of the servants, second only to the housekeeper amongst the female staff. He noticed that she looked down her nose at him, most likely offended at being questioned by a man no older than Jack the footman.

  “I believe you wanted to see me?” she asked.

  “You are Mrs. Winters, personal maid to Lady Dunnington?”

  “I am.”

  “I believe there was some mention of her ladyship spilling soup on her gown at dinner tonight. As her lady’s maid, you would have been called on to clean up the stain, would you not?”

  Mrs. Winters looked mildly surprised. “I know of no such spill, nor stain neither.”

  “I see.” Pickett, unsurprised, made a note of it.

  “Of course, if the spill were a very minor one, she may have simply dabbed at it with her napkin.”

  “No, it was said that she left the table to attend to the matter.”

  “Perhaps she went down to the kitchen for water,” suggested Winters. “It is true that some stains must be treated at once if they are to be completely removed.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Winters, I will look into it,” promised Pickett, and dismissed her.

  Pickett descended the stairs to the servants’ hall, where he was made privy to the utterly unsurprising information that her ladyship had not been below stairs since quite early in the evening, when she had descended to the kitchen to review the dinner arrangements with Cook. He was about to go back upstairs to take his leave of her ladyship when Dulcie fell into step behind him.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but what will you do now?” she asked, climbing the stairs in his wake.

  “I’ll spend tomorrow interviewing all the gentlemen you announced tonight.”

  She followed him into the hall and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Oh, Mr. Pickett—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m—I’m frightened,” she said, looking up at him with great doe eyes. “What if he comes back? The man who shot Sir Reginald, I mean.”

  Rather distractedly, he patted the hand resting on his arm. “I don’t think you have anything to fear, Miss Monroe. I think whoever shot Sir Reginald knew exactly what he was doing and will have no reason to return. If you’re frightened, lock your door when you go to bed tonight.”

  She nodded and allowed her hand to fall back to her side. “I will, sir. And thank you.”

  It was doubtful whether he ever heard her thanks, for he was already out the door and heading down Audley Street. Dulcie gave a little sigh and closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 6

  Which Introduces the Dead Man’s Widow

  For the next quarter-hour, Pickett made a nuisance of himself by knocking on the door of every house on the opposite side of the street, where he inquired of the inhabitants if anyone had been seen leaving the Dunnington town house, particularly anyone whose exit appeared to be furtive or hurried. His inquiries could not be said to have been productive, for although the tone of the various responses ranged from annoyed to indifferent to luridly eager, the essence remained the same: No one had seen anything that might be considered a promising lead. In fact, most of the households were, like the Fanshaws’, reduced to a skeleton staff, and of those remaining in residence, most had already retired for the night (hence their annoyance at being roused from their beds) and had been in no position to see anything at all.

  As a result of these fruitless efforts, it was quite late by the time Pickett arrived at Sir Reginald Montague’s house in Grosvenor Square, and he feared Lady Montague might already have sought her bed, all unknowing of her newly widowed status. But upon his giving his name to her ladyship’s butler, he was promptly ushered into the drawing room with no greater show of perturbation on the butler’s bland countenance than a brief widening of the man’s eyes upon
hearing the words “Bow Street.”

  “Mr. John Pickett of Bow Street, my lady,” the butler announced woodenly and then withdrew, leaving Pickett alone to face a faded woman in her early forties. Her puce-colored evening gown with its short demi-train and modest décolletage was obviously expensive, yet somehow she looked frumpy (at least when compared with Lady Fieldhurst, who somehow managed to look elegant even in the unrelieved black of mourning), and the discarded opera glasses lying beside her on the brocade sofa testified to an evening spent in cultural pursuits. Standing near the fireplace with their heads close together were a young woman and a gentleman, also in evening attire; this, clearly, was the pair whose approaching nuptials in St. George’s, Hanover Square were about to be disrupted.

  “Please forgive me for calling at so late an hour,” Pickett began. “I would not have done so had it not been necessary.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pickett, what is it?” Lady Montague asked wearily. “Something to do with my husband, I daresay. What has happened to him?”

  Pickett’s gaze sharpened. “Why should you think so?”

  She sighed. “I have been married to him for almost a quarter of a century. I assure you, there is very little you could tell me about my husband that might surprise me.”

  Privately, Pickett thought Lady Montague’s assertion was about to be put to the test. “Yes, your ladyship, it does have to do with Sir Reginald. I am sorry to inform you that he is dead, ma’am.”

  The girl gave a little shriek and buried her face in her fiancé’s shoulder, but the widow merely heaved a sigh.

  “I cannot say I am surprised, Mr. Pickett. But how did it happen? A driving accident, I daresay? I fear he has always been reckless with a whip in his hands.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m afraid Sir Reginald was shot.”

  She nodded. “A duel, then.”

  Pickett shook his head. “No ma’am, no duel. It appears that your husband was murdered.”

  A quick intake of breath greeted this pronouncement but, aside from withdrawing a handkerchief from her beaded reticule, Lady Montague betrayed no other reaction to the news of her husband’s violent end. Even the handkerchief, Pickett noted, was not raised to her eyes to dry tears, but was twisted in her ladyship’s remarkably steady hands. The young woman, on the other hand, burst into tears, which the gentleman at her side did his best to quiet.

  “Very well, Mr. Pickett, if you will tell me where my husband is—was—I shall send a couple of footmen to bring his body home.”

  Here was a delicate subject that Pickett had not previously considered. “He was at the home of Lady Dunnington, in Audley Street, when he died.”

  The widow nodded in resignation and gave the bell pull a tug. “I daresay he and she were lovers. Were they—” She glanced back at her daughter, still sobbing in the gentleman’s arms, and lowered her voice. “Were they in bed together when he was shot?”

  On this head, at least, Pickett could reassure her. “No, ma’am, it was not like that at all. Your husband was one of some half-dozen guests at a dinner party. In fact, he had just taken his leave of her ladyship and was in the hall when he died.” It was not the whole truth, of course, but anything more would only cause Lady Montague unnecessary suffering.

  “I see,” she said, and Pickett had the feeling she saw a great deal more than he had told her. A pair of footmen entered the room in answer to Lady Montague’s summons, and the conversation was suspended while she gave them instructions for bearing Sir Reginald’s body back home.

  “I am sorry to press you with questions at such a time,” Pickett said after the footmen had departed on their grim task, “but I must ask you if you know of anyone who might wish your husband dead.”

  At these words, the young woman emerged from her affianced husband’s embrace, her eyes sparkling with tears and indignation. “How dare you, Mr. Pickett!”

  “Let him alone, Eliza, the man is only doing his job,” said her mother wearily.

  Pickett, seeing the young lady’s face for the first time, was struck by the realization that she reminded him of someone, although he could not immediately place whom. Her hair was pale, but more flaxen than gold, and her blue eyes were so light as to appear almost colorless. She had a pleasingly heart-shaped face, and her figure was trim. Attractive without being beautiful, she was, he realized, a pale imitation of Lady Fieldhurst. And yet, that wasn’t it either. Banishing the irrelevant train of thought, he bent himself to the task of smoothing the girl’s ruffled feathers.

  “I am sorry, Miss Montague,” he said as gently as possible, “but I’m sure you want your father’s killer to be brought to justice.”

  “I daresay my husband’s killer thought he was dispensing justice,” said his widow with resignation in her voice. “I fear there were many people who wished my husband ill, Mr. Pickett, and I suspect more than a few of them had good reasons for doing so. Gerald,” she said over her shoulder to her daughter’s intended, “pray take Eliza into the morning room, so that I may speak privately with Mr. Pickett.”

  “Of course, ma’am. Come along, my dear,” the gentleman urged.

  Eliza Montague made no protest, but allowed him to lead her from the room.

  “Now then, Mr. Pickett, where shall I begin? My husband has had numerous affairs, many of them with married women whose husbands might well object, perhaps violently. He has twice killed his man in a duel, and I believe there was once a very unsavory incident connected with his military career, although I never knew all the particulars.”

  Pickett thought at once of Captain Sir Charles Ormond. “But surely that was long ago, was it not? Whatever Sir Reginald might have done in the past, why would someone choose to seek revenge now?”

  The widow shrugged her thin, puce-covered shoulders. “Who can say how the human heart works, Mr. Pickett? Perhaps some long-ago injustice preyed upon someone’s mind until he felt compelled to take action.”

  Pickett withdrew his occurrence book. “I wonder if you can tell me if any of these men might have reason to do your husband harm.” He flipped a few pages until he came to the list of Lady Dunnington’s guests. “Lord Rupert Latham?”

  She shook her head. “They were members of the same club, but there was no ill will between them, at least none that I am aware of.”

  Conscious of a pang of disappointment, Pickett read further down the list. “Lord Dernham?”

  “There was a carriage accident some three years ago in which Lady Dernham was killed, along with several members of her family. Although such things are not discussed in the presence of women, I suspect Lord Dernham may have challenged my husband to a duel, but Reginald was injured in the accident himself—a broken arm, in fact—and was unable to meet him.”

  Pickett made a note of it. “Mr. Martin Kenney?”

  Lady Montague shook her head. “I am unfamiliar with the name. If my husband knew Mr. Kenney, he never mentioned the acquaintance.”

  “Captain Sir Charles Ormond?”

  “There was an Ormond in my husband’s old regiment, but I believe he held the rank of lieutenant, at least at that time.”

  Pickett made another notation. “Lord Edwin Braunton?”

  Something flickered in the widow’s eyes. “Lord Edwin’s daughter Catherine was a friend of my daughter’s.”

  “Was?” Pickett noted her use of the past tense. “Are the two no longer friends?”

  Lady Montague waved her hand, and her handkerchief fluttered. “They were school friends, and both were presented at Court this past spring, but the demands of the Season soon pulled them in different directions.”

  “I understand your daughter is to be married soon,” Pickett said. “I trust Miss Braunton’s Season was equally successful.”

  “Now that you mention it, I have heard no word of a betrothal,” said Lady Montague. “In fact, I believe Miss Braunton left London scarcely halfway through the Season. It can be very draining on young girls, Mr. Pickett, with social engagements every night, oft
en lasting into the wee hours. If you are thinking a quarrel between my husband and Lord Edwin was somehow responsible for her abrupt departure, I can assure you there was no such thing.”

  Having reached the end of his list no more enlightened than he was when he first began, Pickett once again expressed his condolences, along with his apologies for having disturbed her ladyship at so late an hour, and took his leave. As far as he was concerned, at least two of the gentlemen—Lord Dernham and Captain Sir Charles Ormond—had valid reasons to wish Sir Reginald dead, but both gentlemen’s reasons seemed to lie in the past. Why should they wait until years after the fact to seek their revenge? And if Lady Fieldhurst were to be believed, further investigation might well reveal that the other gentlemen had their own grudges against Sir Reginald.

  Pickett sighed. How was he to determine the killer of a man whom everyone apparently wanted dead?

  CHAPTER 7

  This Is the Army, Mr. Pickett

  “And you say you found it where, Mr. Pickett?” asked Mr. Colquhoun, turning the pistol over in his hands.

  “I didn’t find it at all.” Pickett leaned against the wooden railing that fronted the magistrate’s bench. “A footman from one of the neighboring houses did. He was at the bottom of the stairs leading down to the servants’ entrance, sparking with one of Lady Dunnington’s kitchen maids, when the shot was fired and the gun thrown down the stairwell.”

  Mr. Colquhoun chuckled. “I’ll wager that gave the lovebirds a rare turn.”

  “I daresay it did, sir.”

  “You are persuaded the young man is telling the truth, then?”

  “I would swear to it. Let alone that he seemed thoroughly discomposed by the incident, I can’t imagine what reason he would have to lie about it. If he was truly fearful of his employer finding out about him and the kitchen maid, he would have done better to have kept quiet and done nothing to call attention to his presence in a place where he had no business being.”