With a Little Bit of Blood Read online

Clara gulped her tea, then shakily poured herself another cup. “Madame Evangeline was so young. And ten minutes after she had that fit, she sat in the parlor drinking brandy with us. She seemed perfectly fine. How can she be dead?”

  “The Turk did her in,” Sir Anthony growled. “He had that knife, after all.”

  “That depends on how she was killed.” Higgins tugged at the sling supporting his casted arm. “Madame Evangeline had never met any of us before her arrival, except for the Ashmores. She didn’t have time to make enemies. Of course, she didn’t endear herself to anyone either.”

  “Except for Monsieur Corbet,” Lady Annabel reminded him.

  “I meant that her trances exposed several secrets,” Higgins said. “She may have investigated everyone’s past, pretending the details came from her so-called spirit guide. It’s possible someone here felt threatened and decided to silence her.”

  “I say, how dare you accuse one of us of murder,” Sir Anthony shot back. “Just for revealing a secret or two? Preposterous.”

  Eliza waved her riding crop. “Madame Evangeline knew things from the Great Beyond. Secrets. Maybe more than one person here feared Evangeline might expose them next in one of her trances.”

  Lily laughed. “What bunk. Freddy has no secrets. Nor do I.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard. It appears that games are sometimes played at house parties after everyone is in bed. Occasionally those games are witnessed by servants. Like a housemaid.” Eliza paused. “Or a footman.”

  “Is that an accusation?” Lily asked, her cheeks growing flushed.

  Freddy jumped up. “How dare you accuse Lily of anything! You’re to blame for everything that’s happened here. You bring death wherever you go. Look at the debacle in the maze at Clara’s wedding. And don’t forget how it all started with the murdered Hungarian last spring. Clara and I had the bad luck to be with you then. My sister still has nightmares.”

  “I do not,” Clara objected. “I’m not a child, after all.”

  He put up a hand to silence her. “Or how about the dead man at the Henley Regatta, Eliza? Bloody horrible that was. I’m not even including the other dead bodies you keep stumbling across. You and Professor Higgins. I swear, the pair of you are ghouls.”

  Eliza gasped. “How can you say that? We’ve helped the police.”

  “Your idiocy knows no bounds, Freddy,” Higgins said with contempt.

  But Freddy had gotten himself all worked up, like an excited terrier. “You’re a dark cloud, Eliza. You spoil everything you touch. And here’s the proof. You’ve spoiled my sister’s first house party.”

  “That’s unfair. I had nothing to do with the deaths of Mr. Pentwater and Madame Evangeline.”

  Higgins wanted to smack the fellow. Eliza was far too superstitious and didn’t need accusations that she brought bad luck to people.

  Clara stamped her foot. “How dare you say such things to Eliza? Apologize now.”

  Freddy sat down again and grabbed Lily’s hand. “After she apologizes to us for these latest dead bodies.”

  Eliza burst into tears and ran out of the room. Eliza rarely cried. Damn and blast that blighter Freddy!

  Higgins got to his feet, intent on punching him in the nose. But Clara got there first. She marched over to where Freddy sat and dumped the contents of her teacup over her brother’s head. Then she ran after Eliza.

  “What the devil,” Freddy spluttered as tea dripped from his clothes and face. Beside him, Lily looked stunned.

  “You selfish, ignorant blackguard.” Higgins was glad to see how his harsh words cut the young man, who recoiled in surprise. “I’d thrash you if my arm wasn’t broken. But the devil take you for being such an ungrateful ass. Eliza was your friend. And your sweetheart. Was, I say, because I doubt if she’ll ever speak to you again.”

  Freddy seemed close to tears. Lily got up and poured herself a cup of tea as a diversion.

  Brakefield entered the drawing room before Higgins could rain more abuse on Freddy’s sorry head. Richard trailed the policeman. He assumed Zoltan Batur was under guard upstairs.

  The chief constable rubbed his hands together. “Things are coming along nicely.”

  “What does that mean?” Sir Anthony asked, still petulant.

  “We believe the dead woman was smothered,” Brakefield said. “With a pillow.”

  “How can you tell?” Higgins asked.

  “Her face was bluish-red. We noticed a bit of froth at her mouth, too.” The chief constable shrugged. “Seen it before in another case. An old woman, whose grandson wanted her money quicker than waiting around for her to go natural. Some feathers from the pillow were in the throat, too, but the victim didn’t appear to struggle. Too sleepy from her evening cuppa.”

  “Bedtime tea wouldn’t keep her from fighting for her life,” Higgins said.

  “We believe her bodyguard slipped a drug in it. According to the maid, he always prepared her ‘ti-zahn’, a tea with bark and herbs. We’ll search his things next. I’m sure we’ll find something.” Brakefield scanned the room. “First we need to question that Frenchman again. Where has he gotten off to now?”

  “We thought he was upstairs with you,” Higgins glanced at Richard, who shook his head. “He must be somewhere. You have every door and window guarded.”

  Brakefield cursed under his breath. “If he’s slipped out from under our noses for the second time, I’ll have someone’s head.”

  “I’m all right.” Eliza pocketed her damp handkerchief and leaned against the carved staircase post. “It’s not your fault, Clara.”

  “But I feel horrible. How could Freddy act like such a beast?”

  “It was a terrible shock to hear him speak to me like that,” Eliza admitted. “I guess Lily has made him lose every last drop of sense.”

  “And he never had much sense to begin with.”

  “Only he acted as though he hated me. Why? I’ve done nothing to him.”

  “He feels guilty about throwing you over.” Clara patted Eliza’s hand. “I know my brother. Whenever he behaves badly, the first thing he does is blame someone else. He’s also frightened by this latest death.” She sighed. “We’re all frightened.”

  “But to accuse me of bringing bad luck and death! He knows that’s not true. Why, I thought he loved me. He told me many times. Too often.”

  Her voice trailed off as the drawing room doors banged open. Chief Constable Brakefield stormed into the hall. “Where’s Philippe Corbet?” he barked at a junior policeman guarding the far end. “And why isn’t Stevens at the front door?”

  “He’s upstairs, sir, with Mr. Batur,” the young man replied.

  “Corbet must be in the house,” Higgins said, hot on Brakefield’s heels. “It’s impossible for him to escape with every door guarded.”

  “I know where he is.” Clara rose to her feet. “When everyone came down to the drawing room, Philippe asked if he could place a telephone call to France. I sent him to the telephone room down the hall. A small cubby to the left.”

  “Moore, go and make certain he’s there. Stay with him if he is.” Brakefield snapped his fingers at a second policeman standing near the door to the servants’ staircase, who came running. “Bring Batur downstairs to his room and hop to it. I don’t want him complaining to my superior that we planted evidence, in case we do find anything.”

  “I will accompany you,” Clara announced, despite Brakefield’s obvious displeasure. “Richard, would you please check on our guest in the telephone room? I don’t want Philippe to feel threatened.”

  “Of course, darling,” he said, squeezing her shoulder before he left.

  “We’ll go with you, too.” Higgins held out his good hand to Eliza, who quickly rose and joined him. She assumed her eyes were red and puffy, but she had recovered.

  “Better to have as many witnesses as possible during the search,” she said.

  Brakefield frowned, but held his tongue.

  “I can also tell you wha
t I’ve learned about Mr. Batur.” Eliza repeated what Charlie Kenton told her. “The maid took the tisane to Madame Evangeline’s room every night. But Zoltan Batur always made it.”

  “Then he’d find it easy to add a drug without her knowing it. And no one else would have had the chance.” Brakefield led the way to the door that opened into the baize-lined servant’s passage.

  “Why is there green cloth on the walls?” Eliza murmured to Higgins.

  “Muffles the sound, like on a billiards table,” he said before they descended a narrow staircase. “Wouldn’t do for all the servants’ footsteps to be heard. Or their voices.”

  A string of foreign words rang out behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a grief stricken and furious Zoltan Batur being hauled down the stairs after them.

  Eliza had been curious to see how Charlie and the other servants lived in comparison to the lush surroundings above stairs. Everything seemed neat as a pin, but stark; a long wooden table and chairs in the servants’ hall, a common parlor with worn chairs grouped near a fireplace, narrow passages between the kitchen and pantries plus other rooms. She also saw supplies for cleaning lamps or knives, pressing and mending clothes, plus rooms devoted to storing luggage and guns. Living quarters for the butler, cook, and housekeeper must be here, too.

  Mrs. Stewart bustled towards them. “May I help you with something, madam?” The housekeeper looked at Clara.

  “The police have questions,” she said in her newly acquired lady of the manor voice. “I’m sure you will cooperate fully.”

  “Are these the footmen’s bedrooms?” Brakefield asked Mrs. Stewart, who nodded. “What about Zoltan Batur? Where did you put him up?”

  “We had to move Charlie in with Albert for the week,” the housekeeper said.

  Brakefield waited for Mrs. Stewart to unlock the door, then brushed her aside. A narrow bed, covered with a brown wool blanket, took up half the windowless room no bigger than a broom cupboard. A leather valise sat beneath it.

  “What about the maids?” Eliza hissed at Higgins. “Where do they sleep?”

  “Most likely in the attic rooms.”

  She raised an eyebrow at that. Probably as tiny, too. Hot and stuffy in summer, but freezing cold in winter. Just like every place she had ever called home until Wimpole Street.

  Brakefield drew out the valise and unfastened the straps. Inside, beneath a change of clothing, lay a narrow case which held various bottles of dried herbs. The chief constable triumphantly held up a small bottle with a worn label.

  “Aha—”

  “That is mine,” Zoltan Batur cried out, struggling against Constable Stevens’s hold. His black coat looked wrinkled and worse for wear under the policemen’s rough handling. One sleeve was ripped at the seam. “Do not touch it.”

  “You added this to her tea,” Brakefield said. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Last night. It is valerian root mixed with passionflower, and steeped in a cup of chamomile. I brew it for Madame when she cannot sleep.”

  “So she wouldn’t wake when you smothered her—”

  “You lie! Bu bar yalan,” Batur yelled. “I am innocent! There was nothing bad in the tisane. She trusted me to brew it, and no one else. After all, she is my wife!”

  Eliza was stunned. His wife? It didn’t seem possible. Everyone except Higgins stepped back in shock, especially the policemen. Batur shook off Constable Stevens.

  “Madame would never have been invited to all these grand houses if they knew the truth,” he said, his voice rife with grief. “My darker skin kept me from being accepted by the lords and ladies who want her services. You aristocrats look down on the people I come from, Turks and Egyptians. We could not even live openly as man and wife, for fear of being rejected by them. It is your bigotry that is to blame for her death. Otherwise I would have been beside her in bed last night. I would have kept her from harm.”

  “Let’s not forget you were jealous of Philippe Corbet,” Brakefield reminded him. “The other servants claim you were extremely possessive.”

  “Why not? She was my wife and I had to protect her! She was vulnerable because of the Frenchman.”

  “But Philippe has a fiancée,” Eliza said gently.

  “It did not matter,” Batur sobbed aloud. “Evangeline never forgot her first love.”

  “All the more reason to take your revenge. To maintain your hold on her and prevent her from taking up with another Frenchman.” Brakefield took a deep breath. “Zoltan Batur, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder.”

  Batur dropped to the floor, wailing in his native tongue. Eliza felt sorry for him, but sorrier for Madame Evangeline. Why didn’t Madame’s spirit guide warn her at the séance? Instead, a murderer had outwitted a woman who spoke with ghosts.

  If Madame Evangeline could be taken unawares, no one else was safe either.

  17

  “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t! But I’d like put a knife in both of you!”

  Higgins watched as two constables pushed Zoltan Batur into their motorcar. The count and countess stood beside Higgins on the front steps.

  “I knew the man was a beast!” the count exclaimed. “But I find the dead woman even worse. Married to her Turkish servant. Part Egyptian, too. Beschämend!”

  “Shameful indeed.” The countess shuddered. “To think we have Clara and my brother to blame for their presence here.”

  Richard, who was conversing with Chief Constable Brakefield near a second police motorcar, overheard them. “I blame both of you for inviting that despicable American. And I’ll hear no more accusations directed against my wife or me.” His normally benign expression turned stormy. “Or you may leave my house. Immediately.”

  The count looked away. His wife pretended she hadn’t heard and instead turned to Higgins. “I must apologize for what has been a most unseemly house party. Such things never happened at Banfield Manor when my parents were baron and baroness. I am only glad my mother chose to spend the autumn in Baden-Baden, rather than attend Richard’s first attempt at a hunting party. She will be most aggrieved when I write her.” The countess raised a scornful eyebrow. “But not surprised.”

  “It has differed from country house parties I’ve been subjected to in the past,” Higgins agreed. “At those I was merely bored to death. Here, two guests have actually met their death.”

  Ignoring the displeased faces of the count and countess, Higgins made his way over to Brakefield and Richard. The men watched as Detective Constable Stevens energetically turned the crank on the police motorcar. When the engine started, he straightened up, visibly relieved. It had taken over thirty tries. Petrol fumes filled the air.

  “I’m glad we can put this latest death behind us,” Richard said as Higgins joined them. “It’s clear the man killed his wife in a fit of jealousy.”

  “Exactly.” Brakefield nodded. “An open and shut case of—”

  “I disagree,” Higgins broke in. “Why would the fellow kill a woman whom he claimed to love obsessively?”

  “Because he was obsessed with her,” Brakefield replied. “I’ve dealt with jealous husbands before. The wife gives an innocent look at another chap, and an unhinged possessive spouse beats her senseless. Or puts her in the grave. I’m guessing Mr. Batur would have killed the Frenchman, too, had be been around when that rage came upon him.”

  “Professor, you heard Madame Evangeline talk about her lost love,” Richard added. “A Frenchman, no less. One who resembled Philippe. And Batur claimed she had never loved any man as much as this Aristide, not even her own husband. Little did we know Batur was talking about himself.”

  “But he seemed sad when he said that, not angry,” Higgins said.

  “Did he seem sad when he threatened me with a dagger yesterday? Or when he swore he’d love to put a knife in the police just now?” Brakefield scowled. “Batur is a brute.”

  “A brute obsessed with a pretty young wife, who dare not acknowledge him as her husband.” Richard threw
Higgins a pitying look. “That pretty wife then tries to protect a handsome Frenchman who reminds her of a former lover. I’m not prone to jealousy, but such a circumstance might put even me in a contrary state.”

  “A contrary state is far different than a murderous one,” Higgins insisted. “I do not believe there is sufficient evidence to arrest Mr. Batur.”

  “The sleeping drops—”

  “Only show that Madame Evangeline required a tisane to help her sleep. My own mother takes a nightly tisane of valerian, honey and oatstraw.”

  Brakefield seemed unperturbed by Higgins’s interruption. “Such a tisane not only brings on sleep, it deepens it. Just what a murderer would require if he planned to smother his victim. After all, the less noise and struggle, the better.”

  “Herr Professor, why do you not believe the Turk killed his wife?” Count von Weisinger commented from his vantage point on the stairs. “It is obvious to everyone but you.”

  “Mr. Batur proved he has a violent temper and a jealous nature,” Richard said.

  “Motive. Opportunity.” Brakefield turned to Stevens, who was busy pulling on driving gloves. “Wouldn’t you agree, Stevens?”

  “That I would, sir. And the sooner he gets properly charged, the sooner we can clap him behind bars. Good riddance.” Stevens got behind the wheel.

  “But what about Dwight Pentwater’s death?” Higgins grew more frustrated by the second. “We’ve had two dead bodies this week. How do you explain that one?”

  “Hunting accident,” Richard and his sister said at the same time.

  “I agree,” Brakefield said. “I thought so from the beginning. It was only the discovery of Pentwater’s criminal activities in America that made me hesitate.”

  “And so it should,” Higgins said. “Too many people in the house party had reason to hate Pentwater.”

  Brakefield clapped Higgins on the shoulder. “You’re a professor, aren’t you? Used to London streets and city life. I’m a country man, the son of farmers. Tracked hares and birds while growing up. People who shoot game sometimes end up getting hit themselves. Nothing murderous about it though. Bad aim, unlucky shot. And in this instance, a fog thick as treacle.” He winked. “Count yourself fortunate you left Pentwater’s side when you did. Otherwise, you might have been the one with a bullet through the chest.”