Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Ah, the fire is lit. Delightful.”
Lady Blanders ushers us into what she calls “the morning room” but which looks like a place where you’d be informed your land is under siege.
Beneath a cathedral ceiling supported by exposed beams, the room is paneled with intricately carved dark wood with one wall nearly completely covered by a tapestry of cavorting animals.
The hearth, tall enough to stand inside, makes the wood burning within look as small as Lincoln Logs.
On either side of the fireplace are tall windows with wavy leaded glass.
Above the mantel is an oil painting of a white bird with a vast wingspan swooping down toward what appears to be a pregnant mouse.
The furniture is too small for the room: a gray velvet couch, two matching armchairs, and side tables, each with a few photographs in silver frames. I take pictures of everything.
“The morning room, is this where you do your correspondence?” Amity asks, apparently not registering the lack of a desk.
“Oh, certainly.” Lady Blanders gestures for us to sit.
“And from where I inform the head housekeeper which sauce to serve with the veal.” She peers at us so imperiously that I wiggle farther away from her on the sofa.
“Don’t be silly. My laptop is on the second floor of the north wing, in my office.
” She looks toward the door. “Ah, yes, here we are. Thank you, Mrs. Crone.”
A pale, angular woman in a white cotton blouse and a black skirt the same color as her sleek bun comes in carrying a tray with a porcelain tea set and a tiered dish of shortbread cookies.
She walks stiffly, bowlegged, and bends over slowly to set down the tray.
As she straightens up, she glares at me with a look that seems like both enticement and warning, like she’s going to bring me upstairs to brush her employer’s negligee on my cheek and then hiss at me to flee and never return.
“Milk? Sugar?” Lady Blanders makes a grand show of holding the teapot up and slowly pouring each cup from a great height, either to show off her dexterity with liquids or her jewelry, both of which are impressive.
As the teapot rises and falls, the sun catches her rings, one a sparkling diamond, the other platinum with an emerald the size of a domino, and her shiny gold bracelet with three letter charms, A, B , and C .
“What a lovely bracelet,” Amity says. “Is there a significance to the letters?”
“It’s not apparent?” Lady Blanders says, holding out her wrist.
“The alphabet?” Amity says.
“Obviously, but Ingeborge Svenska,” Lady Blanders says.
“The Swedish alphabet?” Wyatt says.
Lady Blanders gives him an icy look. “The Swedish jewelry designer.”
“Oh,” Amity says.
I turn to Wyatt to see if he has a clue. He shrugs.
Lady Blanders finishes serving us all tea and then, with a cold smile, says, “On to murder. I am at your service.”
It’s hard not to laugh. She’s obviously acting, and I remind myself to play along.
Wyatt flips through the pages of his notebook. “You are believed to be Tracy Penny’s last client yesterday, and the last person known to have seen her alive,” he says.
“Golly.” Lady Blanders brings a hand to her chest. “Does that make me a suspect?” She clears her throat. “Hold on, let me try that again. Golly! Are you suggesting I’m a suspect ?”
I can’t tell if Lady Blanders has been scripted to act snobby one moment and “we’re all in on the joke” the next or if she can’t help breaking character. It’s confusing and also funny.
“At this point, everyone is a suspect,” Wyatt says, his voice deeper than usual, his manner suggesting he is fully committed to his role as detective. “If you would, Lady Blanders, what brought you to Tracy Penny’s establishment yesterday?”
“Bad luck, I suppose.” Lady Blanders crosses one leg over the other.
“I had a photographer coming to take my portrait for an upcoming gala at which I’m to be honored for my great integrity.
Such a lovely gesture for little old me.
I just am what I am, what you see is what you get.
Where was I? Oh, yes, my personal hairdresser was detained in London.
Something about Camilla, apparently. She’s really gotten to be too much since all the brouhaha. ”
“Since the coronation, you mean?” Amity asks. Her posture is exemplary, like a young lady taught by a governess never to let her spine touch the back of her seat.
“Call it what you will.” Lady Blanders waves a hand dismissively. “It was terribly inconvenient. Was I to dry my hair myself? Fortunately, or I suppose unfortunately , my maid suggested I go to that little place in town with the silly name, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.
“Hairs Looking at You,” I say.
“And you.” She lifts her teacup and winks. I take a photo, and Wyatt continues jotting down notes.
“So you arrived and left at what time?” he asks.
“I got there at four o’clock and I left at four forty-five.
I remember because I was already in my car when I got a call from my gardener, who was leaving for the day.
He was inquiring if I’d come up with a name for a new rose.
It’s become such a challenge. We’ve gone through the whole family, including some of the lesser relatives and the pets.
The Rocky Graziano Rose is absolutely stunning. ”
“Named for the boxer?” I ask.
“Heavens no, our Rocky is a French bulldog. Purebred, of course. Lord Blanders wouldn’t have it otherwise. He wouldn’t tolerate a pet with imperfections.”
“Back to your hair,” Wyatt says.
“Anything unusual about your experience at the salon?” Amity asks.
“The result was a little frizzier than I like. More tea?” Her bracelet glitters as she picks up the pot.
“Did you and Tracy talk while she was doing your hair?” Wyatt asks.
“She talked. She’s quite the chatterbox.
She went on and on about her soon-to-be ex-husband, who sounds rather a bore.
Although my maid tells me that Tracy Penny herself wasn’t a paragon of fidelity and that she hasn’t precisely been on hiatus, carnally speaking, but you didn’t hear that from me.
” She runs her thumb and forefinger over her lips as if to zip them closed.
“Tracy Penny also complained about her landlord. How after years of telling her she was the model tenant, he’d taken to badgering her about all sorts of things, as if she was not only being negligent but ruining the building, which, if you ask me, looked like a crime scene even before the murder. ”
“Did Tracy say he complained about the condition of her flat too?” Wyatt asks.
“I don’t believe so,” Lady Blanders says.
Amity asks if she knows if Tracy Penny had any enemies.
“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea. We don’t spend much time here.
Digby, I mean Lord Blanders, prefers one of our other homes, Claddington Castle.
I come here from time to time to oversee renovations.
This place has been in my husband’s family for centuries, but it’s been quite neglected.
I plan to bring it back to life. A legacy for the children. ”
“How old are your children?” Amity asks.
“I have two sons. Charles and Benedict. Seven and eight years old. At boarding school, of course.”
“I’ve also got only boys,” says Amity. “Did you wish for a daughter too?”
Lady Blanders stares coldly. “Why ever would you say that?”
Amity looks deflated. I want to remind her this is all an act, that she shouldn’t let herself feel dismissed by someone who isn’t real.
I point to one of the framed photographs on the table. It’s Lady Blanders, standing in front of another grand home, not as old as Hadley Hall and considerably more inviting. “Is that Claddington Castle?”
“Goodness, no,” Lady Blanders says. “That’s Sproton House. It belonged to my husband’s uncle, Thorton Thorton-Graham, but the poor fellow had a run of bad luck, blackjack in Monte, I believe, and had to pawn it off. Now, it’s a luxury spa with a renowned hair salon. Quite an improvement.”
“Is it nearby? I’d love to get a massage,” Amity says.
“Not too far. In Whitby, a few hours’ drive. If you go, you must try their frangipani body wrap. It’s brilliant.”
“Do you go there often?” I ask.
“I’ve been going once a month for years.”
She stands up. “Will that be all?”
Wyatt and Amity seem as surprised as I am with the abrupt end to the interview. As we stand and start for the door, Wyatt turns and says, “Oh, one more thing.” He sounds like a real detective, casually asking an important question on the way out. “Mind telling us where you were Saturday night?”
“Not at all. I was dining with my dear friend Demetra Sissington, at the King George. Eight o’clock reservation.
I drove myself there and back, was home at ten fifteen.
I’d say you could check with Dissy but she’s gone to Mustique.
I suppose you could call the ma?tre d’. He seated us himself.
I had the snails. Divine. Went right to bed, isn’t that right, Mrs. Crone? ” She looks to the hall. “Mrs. Crone?”
The maid walks in, wincing with each step. “Yes, Your Ladyship?”
“When was I home from dinner Saturday night?”
“Ten fifteen, Your Ladyship.”
“And what did I do?”
“The usual, Your Ladyship. Green juice with cardamom extract, face mask, bed.”
“And where were you between eight and ten p.m. that night?” Wyatt asks the maid.
“Here, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?” Wyatt says.
“The green juice doesn’t make itself,” she says.
Lady Blanders turns toward us, waving a hand to dismiss her servant.
“Ask any of the other staff, they’ll vouch for her.
Gladys Crone is absolutely trustworthy. She’s been with me forever, since before I was married.
Knows me like a favorite book—though, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her reading. ”
She watches the maid move slowly out of the room. “Do something about that walk of yours, Mrs. Crone. Hot soak or something. It won’t do.”
Lady Blanders turns back toward us. “So, you see, I have an airtight alibi. And even if I didn’t, what could my motive be? Why would I possibly want to murder Tracy Penny, a common hairdresser? What is she to me? An utter insignificance.”
And with that, Lady Blanders bids us good day and stares at us until there’s nothing to do but turn and leave.