off the hallway was of the kind where stacks of books and furnishings upholstered in a riot of chintz patterns seemed to proliferate of their own accord. Green and red dominated the color scheme-in the plaid at the windows and in assorted garden prints on chairs and sofa. It was, apparently, Christmas every day at Mrs. Butter’s house.
The ceiling was painted a deep goldenrod that reflected back an Aubusson carpet on the flagstone floor. The bright colors in such a small room should have been unsettling but, once the eye adjusted, were oddly restful, with flames from the Tudor-style fireplace casting flickering light and shadow against the ceiling. Two brass sconces, one on either side of the hearth, provided further soft illumination.
A lovely blue-point Siamese dozed atop a copy of
Presumably there had once been a Mr. Butter, but he was nowhere in evidence.
She bustled about a bit, offering tea and an assortment of little cakes and sandwiches that Albert was certain had been purchased specially for his visit. Mrs. Butter, despite the implications of her name, was neither large nor particularly plump. Age had followed its tradition of redistributing her weight a bit more around her waist, making her even more sparrow-like in appearance- rounded and brownish gray with black-button eyes that missed nothing. He imagined she kept herself fit with brisk, healthful walks at water’s edge.
Albert hoped she could afford the lavish little spread for tea, and was torn between consuming everything offered to show his appreciation for her effort and eating sparingly so there would be something left for her the next day. In the end, ravenous hunger won out-he had had nothing to eat all day but the dry crust and cheese sandwich wrapped in plastic on offer from British Rail.
After awhile she finished fussing. Sitting back and fixing him with those shiny dark eyes, she asked:
“So, what was the old devil up to, then?”
Taking the signal that they were now getting down to business, Albert looked around for a place to set aside his plate.
“Oh, put it on top of Mathew Arnold. Do him good to be used as a tray,” she said. “Tedious man.”
Albert placed the remains of his fish paste sandwich on top of the
“As I mentioned when I rang you,” he said, “I’ve what appears to be a partial manuscript written by my father. It was something he was working on when he… died.”
“Yes, of course, I’ve seen the newspaper accounts. Even allowing for the usual sensationalism, it does seem to me quite a… well, quite a sensational occurrence. Terribly sordid. And extraordinarily strange. I suppose one can’t blame the press for taking a quite unhealthy interest. To be killed by an
“Knife, actually.”
The newspapers had been particularly excited by the choice of weapons used in the murders, which had been the occasion for a sidebar on medieval armaments. Malenfant not having been forthcoming with precise details, the papers had decided Ruthven and Sir Adrian had both met death by battleaxe.
“But, yes,” continued Albert. “I couldn’t agree more, really. Only natural on their part-it’s like putting a sizzling steak in front of a cage full of starving tigers. But the problem it creates for the family-”
“Oh, yes, I quite see that. It puts all of you in a horrid position, doesn’t it? Not just you, but the others staying at the house. Simply horrid.”
She gave a little shudder to demonstrate the horridness of it all, but in general, Albert thought, she was having a hard time concealing her rabid interest. Only natural, as well. Not only did the story have elements of irony-two members of a family whose name was synonymous with bloody murder being done in by foul play-but there was the added frisson of the opportunity for the press to drag Violet’s historic old crime-alleged crime-across the front pages yet again. And in Mrs. Butter’s case there was an added thrill: She knew two of the victims at first hand, and one of those quite well.
She seemed to be following his train of thought, as her next words revealed:
“Of course, knowing Sir Adrian as well as I did does make a difference.”
“Of course.”
She turned, stretching her hands toward the fire. After a long pause, she said musingly:
“Ruthven and Sir Adrian.” Albert noticed it was not the conventional “poor” Ruthven or “poor” Sir Adrian.
“Both,” she continued. “It’s very strange, that.”
“The whole thing is strange,” said Albert.
“No. No, what I meant was-and I hope I’m not being too indelicate, but-what I meant was, Ruthven’s death was a surprise, in a way. Sir Adrian’s was not. I can’t begin to tell you why I feel that way about it, but I do.”
Albert, who felt it was a case of six of one, half a dozen of the other, held his tongue.
“I used to blame you children. At first, you know. I hope you’ll forgive me. But I was astonished at the lack of family feeling. Few visits, fewer letters. I thought his isolation sad, inexplicable. Then later, of course, I came to understand.”
“You were there some time, weren’t you?”
“Five years, to the day.”
“Remarkable.”
“Yes, wasn’t it? I wanted to leave after three months. But Sir Adrian had promised me-in writing, thank heaven-quite a generous pension for which I would qualify after five years. With Mr. Butter gone-well, you won’t want to hear all of that. But I rather desperately needed that pension. Of course, he tried to renege on the agreement when I left-I knew he would. Which is why I had quite a vicious solicitor lined up before I gave notice. My nephew,” she added, smiling.
Albert laughed.
“You must be one of the few people who worked for my father who have a success story to tell.”
“I imagine. I survived by avoiding him as much as possible. As I came to realize all of you children did, as well.”
It was a sad but true commentary on the family dynamic, thought Albert.
She had resumed her study of the flames in the fireplace.
Into the pause, Albert said, “Why did you say earlier you were surprised? About Ruthven?”
She turned to him.
“Hmm? Oh, just because, it’s rather obvious, don’t you think? I can quite see why he might be killed by even a casual acquaintance- forgive me, I know I’m being blunt-but to kill him during a family gathering, when the suspicion would quite naturally fall on the family… It’s so risky, don’t you see?”
“You think a more public setting, something designed to look like an accident, perhaps…”
“Something like that, yes. Someone pushing him under the Bakerloo Line, perhaps. Something that would point the suspicion a bit away from the family, not right toward it. I must say, none of you children ever struck me as stupid-even George, if you will forgive me, has a certain animal cunning. You were all bright and talented, in your different ways, in spite of it all.”
Albert did not quite know what to say. On the one hand, she was complimenting him-all of them-on being too bright to commit murder, at least in an obvious way. “Thank you” didn’t quite meet the situation.
“Perhaps the manuscript will shed some light?”
“Oh, yes. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Dreadful things. I never needed reading glasses until I worked for your father. Part of the problem, of course, was that he could barely see what he wrote, having writ, so to speak. Let’s take a look.”
She pulled out of a knitting basket at her side a pair of thick spectacles on narrow gold frames and proceeded to attach them to her ears. She reached to accept the pages Albert had pulled from his rucksack.
“Good heavens,” she said, riffling through the pages. “Worse than ever. This will take awhile.”
“I am quite willing to pay for your time. I realize this is a huge imposition on you.”
She laughed, a little chirping sound that rippled through the room and (nearly) woke the cat.
“This is quite the most exciting thing to come my way in an age. You did say when you rang this was not, perhaps, his usual run of manuscript.”
Albert wondered how much he could take her into his confidence, but felt he had little choice.
