The Butler Didn't Do It Read online

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Originally published in Chesapeake Crimes.

  Copyright © 2004 by Maria Lima.

  THE BUTLER DIDN’T DO IT

  AUNT DEAD STOP BUTLER DID IT STOP FLY SOONEST STOP

  —GERALD

  *

  It took a few minutes for it to sink in. My aunt Clara was dead, and evidently her butler was the culprit.

  Of course, news of her death didn’t exactly come as a surprise. Not that she was old, by any means, but at sixty-eight, Clara hadn’t changed much from her wild childhood. The sixties had been very good to her. I’d expected to hear that she’d died in some sort of mountain-climbing accident, or jumping out of a plane, not to get some ten-word message that said everything and explained nothing.

  I tried to call my cousin but got his voice mail. As usual, he was avoiding the situation. Really, who uses telegrams anymore? Not answering the phone meant he wouldn’t have to talk to me, and that meant there’d be no ride waiting when I arrived at the airport. I hoped my credit card would stretch to cover a trans-Atlantic trip.

  My fulltime “real world” job and nearly fulltime writing schedule left little time or money for expensive vacations in the English countryside. I write mystery novels starring werewolves, vampires, and ghouls in contemporary America. Although I hadn’t been to Clara’s in nearly three years, I’d sent her both of my published books, and several of my short stories. She’d always been extremely supportive, sure that one day I’d break out and become wildly popular. From her mouth to the book-buying public’s ears.

  I rented a car in London, choosing possible death by bad driving over my other choices--an interminable trip by bus, an equally unbearable local train, or an astronomically expensive limousine. Gerald could have at least sent the estate Rolls for me. Oh, yeah, well maybe not. Jamison, the erstwhile butler, was also the chauffeur. I guess that was out of the question if he were really being considered as a suspect.

  Chalfont is an Edwardian monstrosity that could have used a heck of a lot more maintenance from my oblivious aunt. On several hundred acres of meadows and forest, the estate had been the happy hunting lodge for several generations of idle-rich sons until the last one had lost the entire estate to Clara’s great-uncle Albert in an unfettered night of gambling, whoring and drinking. He’d died utterly unrepentant, having celebrated his ill-gotten gains every day of his miserably long life. Because he’d had no children, Clara inherited the whole package, including, surprisingly enough, a decent income with which to maintain the estate and to allow her to live the life of the cheerily and unapologetically unemployed. She’d also inherited Jamison, a paragon of butlers and the fourth generation of Jamison men to serve at Chalfont.

  I parked in the back courtyard and went in through the kitchen door, opening it onto the scene of Mrs. Cooper, the cook, and Dina, the housemaid, sitting at the staff dining table.

  They both looked up, startled. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they’d both been enjoying a joke.

  “Miss Lindsay,” exclaimed the cook. “Let me get you some tea.” She helped me pull my heavy bag over the threshold.

  “T’aint much,” she continued, “but I baked this morning.” She pulled out a platter with scones and tea biscuits and poured me a cup of steaming tea.

  “Thank you,” I said, warming my hands around the cup. I was still a little shaky from the drive and didn’t really want to go into the main part of the house. It was a dismal monstrosity that belonged in a suspense movie and not in real life. All the rooms were damp and dark with the gloom of antique windows and heavy draperies. I’d always felt uncomfortable there, even though I adored Aunt Clara.

  “Mrs. C, can you tell me what happened?” Knowing Gerald’s taste for melodrama, I didn’t for a minute believe that Jamison had anything to do with her death.

  “Exsanguination,” proclaimed Dina in a funereal tone. She was a small, quiet girl, not normally given to strange pronouncements.

  “What?” I exclaimed, not sure I’d heard her right.

  “Now, Dina,” said Mrs. Cooper, frowning and shooting Dina a sharp glance, “don’t be telling tales out of school. You know Doctor Waldron said it were probably summat else what caused it.”

  “What do you mean?” I was puzzled.

  The cook and Dina looked at each other fixedly, as if each were daring the other to speak. Mrs. Cooper was the first to talk.

  “He found her in her bed, Miss. She were right pale,” explained the cook. “But the doctor thought it were natural. Like a blood disease or summat. She were kind enough to come out directly, even though she were at church and all.”

  “Doctor been out here lots these days, with your aunt feeling sickly,” said Dina, “but Mr. Gerald insisted on ringing up the Constable, Miss. He blamed Jamison. Constable Macdonald come and took Jamison with him. Said they’d keep ’im awhile, to help him in his inquiries.” She nodded her head, as if remembering something. “Mr. Gerald said that’d be just fine. That’d be long enough.”

  I was getting a little confused. My aunt had been sick, had apparently died of a disease, but my cousin had blamed the butler? I knew Gerald had always disliked Jamison, but mostly because the butler had never allowed him to pull the whiny brat routine, not even when Gerald was a boy.

  “Where is my cousin now?” I asked. I planned on having a long, if distasteful, talk with him.

  “He left an hour ago,” said Dina. She looked at me with a smirk. “He took the Rolls.”

  That figured. My aunt was dead less than forty-eight hours and Gerald had already appropriated her Rolls Royce. Well, he’d soon have another think coming. I knew what was in Clara’s will, since she’d e-mailed me a copy earlier in the year. I chuckled at the thought of what Gerald would say when he realized that Clara had left everything to the servants.

  I sat bolt upright, spilling my tea. My aunt had left the bulk of the estate in a trust for Jamison and the rest of the staff. I wasn’t sure of the amount of money, but I knew it wasn’t small potatoes. A house the size of Chalfont required a fortune for upkeep and taxes, and Clara had never pinched pennies. The money had been well invested and had grown quite handsomely over the years. Could someone as loyal, kind and trustworthy as Jamison really have killed my aunt for her money?

  “I think it’d be best if you went upstairs and took a rest, Miss,” said Mrs. Cooper, wiping up my mess. “Dina, let’s get Miss Lindsay settled.”

  Dina jumped up from her chair, eager to help. “Yes, Ma’am,” she said, and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. “I’ve cleaned up one of the guest rooms for her.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Gerald you’re resting when he returns, Miss Lindsay,” said Mrs. Cooper. “That way you’ll not be disturbed.”

  “Thank you, Dina,” I said. If I could get my computer hooked up, I could access a copy of the will on my laptop.

  “Where is my cousin staying?” I asked Dina, as we entered the hallway next to the bedrooms.

  “In the master suite,” she replied, snickering. “We told him it weren’t fit, but he made me.” I chuckled. That suite of rooms hadn’t been lived in since Great-Uncle Albert’s days. Clara had preferred a smaller suite on the other side of the house. I hoped Gerald liked sleeping with spiders.

  My cousin’s actions were too transparent--commandeering the Rolls, setting himself up in the master suite--as if he thought that would establish him as the master of Chalfont. He was in for a surprise.

  I quickly found the file I was looking for. I was right. All of Clara’s assets, less a few token personal bequests, were to be held in a trust administered by her solicitor and benefiting all the persons living in the house at the time that she was declared dead.

 
; According to the specifics of the will, no one person would benefit from any of the money. The staff was to continue at Chalfont and care for the house and grounds, as if Clara were still there. Each would get a small bequest plus continue their current salary, with appropriate annual increases in pay. As trustee, Jamison would be in charge of household expenses, including pay raises and spending for the upkeep of the house and grounds. In fact, he’d basically be doing the same job he was doing now, and the job would be his until he died. On his death, the job of trustee would be turned over to his nearest relative or designee, with the same caveats, and so on.

  I couldn’t see any motive for killing my aunt. The staff had a good deal whether or not Clara was dead or alive, unless Jamison had figured out some way to bleed the trust dry. But that was unlikely. To what end? He’d always struck me as a career butler. To my layman’s eye, the provisions of the trust looked pretty straightforward. There was even a clause that made the whole thing invalid if Clara’s death was found to have been caused by any or all of the persons named as benefiting from the will.

  I sat staring at my screen wondering what I wasn’t seeing here. Why would Gerald think that Jamison had killed my aunt? What motive would he have had?

  “What’re you doing?” my cousin’s voice startled me out of my thoughts. I quickly glanced up at the screen, relieved to find that my screensaver had kicked in.

  I closed the laptop and turned towards him. “So, where were you?” I asked. “Taking a joy ride in Auntie’s Rolls?” My voice was sarcastic.

  He frowned at me, getting that silly pompous look. It meant that he thought he was being responsible. “I was making arrangements,” he said, puffing up his chest.

  “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “So what are they?”

  “What are what?” he asked.

  “The arrangements. What are they?” I looked at him. He hadn’t been taking care of himself. I’m not one to talk, working full time and writing until all hours doesn’t exactly make me a candidate for a Wheaties box, but Gerald looked as if he’d been up all night. Maybe he had.

  “The funeral will be tomorrow,” he said. “Montmorency and Sons will take care of things.

  “We’ll have the viewing tonight.” He looked down and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch. It almost sounded as if he’d said “if she cooperates”.

  I frowned. “What did you say, Gerald?”

  “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Would you like to pay your respects?”

  Oh, God, it suddenly hit me. “She’s here?” I asked. I had assumed my aunt’s body had been taken to the funeral home. I should have remembered my cousin’s obsession with the whole “lord of the manor” thing.

  “Of course she is,” he said. “She’s in the chapel. It wouldn’t do to have the neighboring gentry go to a mortuary.”

  I could picture it now. Gerald would be dressed in his best shiny black suit, holding court in the drawing room while visitors traipsed out to the chapel to do whatever it is one does when one comes to view the recently deceased.

  “Do you want to go pay your respects?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” I stated. “I think I will go see her.” I wasn’t too happy with the idea, but figured I should do something as a family member.

  “Would you like me to escort you?” he asked, holding out his hand. He may have been trying to be kind, but I could see his hand shaking a little. It was probably damp, too.

  “No, thanks, I’ll go on my own. It’s only Aunt Clara.” I sounded a lot more sure of myself than I was. It was a little weird having the dead body of your possibly murdered aunt in the same house, but the chapel was off one wing and not really in the main section. It’s not as if it was next door to my bedroom or anything. And after all, she was dead.

  * * * *

  I wiped my hands on my jeans. This wing was darker and much colder, too, as if neither light nor heat could reach this far. The hallway boasted beautiful stained glass panels that, gorgeous as they were, let in precious little ambient light. Clara had never shown much interest in the chapel and the lighting hadn’t been updated. A few flickering bulbs threw off a pale yellow light that made the passageway seem even darker by comparison.

  I was hoping the main overhead lights in the chapel still worked, or I was hightailing it out of there. I fully admit to being a bit of a chicken. Maybe it’s the novels I write but I have way too active of an imagination.

  I reached the door and pushed it open slowly. A soft flickering light came from inside, up by the altar in front. My mouth was dry and I was breathing too fast. Clara’s body was laid out on a bier, surrounded by candles, dozens of them in tall holders, like something out of a “B”-movie. What had Gerald been thinking? I halfway expected to hear Count Dracula’s seductive “Gut Eve-ning” as I walked in.

  The candles made it worse than having no light at all. I suppose shuttering the chapel windows had been done out of respect, but I didn’t like it.

  I made my way around the outside edge of the chapel and towards the back, where the main switchbox was, staying as far as possible from Clara. I knew I was being silly, but I just couldn’t go any closer. Not in this dark. From here, she looked as if she were sleeping. It didn’t look like her really, especially not in that high-neck, demure white nightgown. She’d been more likely to sleep in lurid purple sweats or in the nude.

  I reached the back wall and found the array of light switches. Pressing one after the other, I realized that either a fuse had blown or that the electricity had been shut off to the chapel. That was enough. There was no way I’d stay here in this Hammer-film set.

  “May I help you?”

  I shrieked and jumped back against the wall.

  “Jamison?” My voice shook, the word emerging in a small squeal.

  “Yes, miss,” he replied, his voice as calm and soothing as ever. I’d always admired his beautiful voice. Always peaceful and quiet, he’d easily handled my volatile aunt.

  “I thought...” I began, fumbling for words. How on earth was I going to say this?

  “Thought that I’d been incarcerated, Miss Lindsay?” He seemed to be amused.

  “Yes.”

  “Constable Macdonald finished with his inquiries, Miss. So I came back.” He turned and gestured for me to walk ahead of him, effectively turning me toward the door. “I’m sure you wish to return to the main house. I’ll send for someone to see to the electricity. I’m sure there’s only a minor problem.” He deftly turned me in the direction of the door.

  “Yes, thank you, Jamison.” I mumbled, and hurried out of the chapel. Funny, I really was sure he hadn’t killed Aunt Clara, but his being there in the dark chapel had really unnerved me. I’d almost gotten the feeling that he hadn’t wanted me to approach my aunt too closely. Not that I’d particularly wanted to, but still...

  * * * *

  I settled in for a short nap and by the time I woke up, it was already getting close to dark. The first of the neighbors would probably start arriving soon, in time for a quick pop into the chapel and then out for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. It wouldn’t do to arrive too early and miss the refreshments.

  I wanted to go back to the chapel before anyone else got there. Not only did I want to make sure that the electricity was working, but I really thought I should at least make some semblance of prayer or something. I wasn’t much for religion or anything, but my aunt had been a fun and unusual relative, often the source of much of the material in my novels. No one could make up some of the stuff she’d done. She deserved more than a perfunctory visit.

  My heart sank when I saw that Gerald was in the hallway outside the chapel. So much for a little privacy. He was standing still, staring at the closed doors.

  “Going in, cuz?” I asked, a little sarcastically.

  He whirled, eyes wide and mouth opening & shutting like a fish gasping for air. I’d never noticed how much Gerald reminded me of a guppy until now.

  “Wha--?” he gasped, stumbling a li
ttle as he stepped away from me.

  I grinned, enjoying this. “What’s wrong, Gerald? Scared to go in?” I wasn’t above mocking him for the same fears I had. At least I’d actually gone in before. Okay, so I hadn’t actually stayed very long.

  He grimaced and tried to compose himself, straightening his jacket and smoothing what was left of his hair.

  “I was just taking a moment of silence before entering,” he said, his voice icy and almost mean. “Aunt Clara deserves our utmost respect.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said, and moved to step around him so I could reach the door handle. “Did Jamison get the lights working yet?”

  “Jamison?” His voice became a mousy squeak.

  I was getting impatient. He was blocking my way and I wanted to go in and make sure everything was ready for the viewing. Funny, now that Gerald was here, my earlier nervousness was gone and all I wanted to do was to get this over with.

  “Yes, Jamison,” I said, pushing him out of the way and opened the door. “He told me he’d get someone to check on the electricity. It wasn’t working when I was here a little while ago.”

  “Jamison can’t be here,” he said, gulping hard, his voice still shaky.

  I stopped and turned to face him, briefly noting that the electric wall sconces were glowing with a soft light. Good.

  “Gerald, what is your problem? Jamison was released after talking to the police. He’s back on duty here. Evidently, he’s no longer a suspect.” I stared at Gerald’s face, which seemed to be much paler than normal. Hard to tell, since his normal complexion is that of a mushroom.

  “He...” My cousin couldn’t seem to get the words out.

  “He what?”

  Gerald stammered again and then stopped to take a breath. As he opened his mouth to speak, I saw him glance over my shoulder. His face froze and instead of words, he let out a long wail and pointed behind me.

  I spun around, my brain slowly processing the words my cousin was shrieking, as I took in the sight in front of me.

  “She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone.” Gerald’s voice got higher with each word.