Page 18 of Murder at the Dinner Party
Before I could think of an innocent reason, Flossy turned to her mother’s friends. “Cleo wants to know about the Campbells and Whitchurches. Is anyone familiar with them?”
Fortunately, they weren’t as curious as to my reason for asking, but were quite keen to impart their knowledge.
“The Whitchurches keep to themselves,” Mrs. Digby said. “There was a scandal many years ago, but I don’t recall anything about it now.” She looked at her friends. While Aunt Lilian shrugged, Mrs. Druitt-Poore picked up the explanation.
“It had something to do with the current Lord Whitchurch’s older brother. He went missing. This was when their father was still alive, so the eldest was the heir at the time.”
I leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Missing?”
“The eldest of the two brothers was quite unsuitable to be a viscount anyway, so I heard. He was a notorious troublemaker, and a drinker and gambler. The younger brother was the opposite—serious, quiet, and generally thought to be a good egg. He inherited the title when his father died, since the elder brother had been declared dead by the authorities by then, despite his body never being discovered.”
It must be the younger son and his wife who were friends with the Campbells.
Aunt Lilian made a sudden and surprising announcement. “Lady Campbell is here now.”
Everyone glanced around until she hissed at us not to.
“She’s seated with three others by the potted palm near the library. She’s the one dressed in black with the large amethyst brooch edged with diamonds and pearls. She used to come to afternoon tea here regularly, although I haven’t seen her in some time.”
I subtly glanced in Lady Campbell’s direction. She was about the same age as my aunt, with gray hair that she tried to cover with a large, feathered hat. She was dressed elegantly, albeit entirely in black. Her clothes were a little out of date, too, although not unacceptably so. Women her age didn’t always follow the latest fashion like Flossy and her friends.
“What do you know about her, Aunt?” I asked.
“We’ve never been properly introduced, so we’ve never spoken.” She picked up her teacup. Noticing it tremble in her shaking hand, she used her other hand to steady it. “She keeps to herself and her small group of friends. They rarely attend social gatherings.”
“The Whitchurches are the same,” Mrs. Digby said. “I never see them out.”
My aunt abruptly changed the conversation to a different topic, not giving her friends the opportunity to ask me why I was making inquiries about the Campbells and Whitchurches. She probably suspected I was investigating them and so made sure I didn’t have to face questions I couldn’t answer. She wanted to keep my detecting a secret just as much as my uncle did, even from her closest friends.
The rest of the afternoon continued slowly, until our guests departed along with most of the other ladies in the sitting room. Flossy and I waited as Aunt Lilian thanked Richard for his service to our table. Near the door, Mr. Chapman was attempting to get Lady Campbell’s attention, but she hurried off without acknowledging him.
Mr. Chapman asked to have a word with my aunt as we left the sitting room. We couldn’t overhear him, so Flossy asked what he wanted when Aunt Lilian rejoined us.
“Nothing that concerns you,” she said.
“But wasn’t it do with Lady Campbell, who Cleo was just asking about?”
“That doesn’t give her, or you, the right to poke your nose into other people’s affairs. Nobody likes a busybody, Florence.”
Flossy stopped and stared at her mother’s back as she strode off toward the lift. I clasped her hand and squeezed.
“Her tonic wore off some time ago,” I said. “She must have a dreadful headache.”
To prove my point, Aunt Lilian pressed her fingertips to her temple as she waited for the lift.
“I know,” Flossy said heavily. “But it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.” She glanced over her shoulder to Mr. Chapman, farewelling a pair of guests. “If you think it might be important, you should ask him why he wanted to speak to Lady Campbell.”
“I doubt he’ll tell me. He might be a busybody himself, but he doesn’t like me and will be disinclined to help. Besides, it’s unlikely to have any bearing on my investigation.” I squeezed her hand again. “Come on, let’s go for a walk. I could do with some fresh air.”
* * *
Several conversationsfrom the previous day still weighed on my mind when I met Harry the following morning in the café below his office. The one that weighed heaviest, however, was the one I’d had with Mrs. Short about Harmony. As we sat drinking coffee at the table by the window, I couldn’t help bringing it up. Of all my friends, Harry would give the wisest and most honest answer.
“Should I stop having breakfast with Harmony each morning?”
He watched me over the rim of his cup, then set it down on the table without taking a sip. “Who suggested you should stop?”
I told him what Mrs. Short had said, including her comment that she’d refrain from forbidding Harmony, as a reward of sorts for investigating Mr. Hardy’s death. “Is she right? Am I being cruel by giving Harmony false hope? The thing is,” I went on before he could answer, “Harmony doesn’t want my help, so she gains no advantage from our friendship. Mrs. Short is wrong about that.” I felt pleased with my argument and looked expectantly at Harry.
