Page 31 of Murder at the Dinner Party
Lady Whitchurch clutched her throat. “Poison?”
“I’m not sure what this fellow’s death has to do with us,” Lord Whitchurch said. “You’re better off speaking to the Campbells.”
“I have,” I said. “The household staff were most helpful, and it’s their responses that bring me here.” If they noticed I spoke of the household and not the Campbells specifically, neither commented. “Apparently, Mr. Hardy recognized you when you dined there a few nights before his death.”
Lord Whitchurch swallowed heavily. “Did he say something to another member of staff about us?”
“No. His reaction was noticed. As was yours. You recognized him, too.”
“I didn’t. Did you, my dear?” The hand that still clasped her shoulder squeezed.
She shook her head. “I’d never seen him before. He was new to the Campbells, I believe. That dinner was the first time we’d seen him.”
“He has never worked for you?”
“No,” they both said.
Pursuing that line of questioning wouldn’t get me any further. It was time to use a different one. This time, as discussed with Harry on the walk over, I left the questions to him. We were heading into dangerous territory, and he was better at navigating than me.
“My father used to work for Scotland Yard.” His manner was amiable, chatty, as if he were simply engaging in idle conversation. “When Miss Fox was telling me about her case, my father overheard her refer to Lord and Lady Whitchurch. The name was familiar to him. He told us about a dreadful incident that occurred here years ago. Your maid was stabbed, and your older brother was accused of her murder.”
Lady Whitchurch gasped. She covered her mouth with her hand and visibly paled.
Her husband’s fingers flexed on her shoulder again. I expected him to order us to leave, but he did not. “Your father has a good memory. I’m afraid I don’t recall any policemen named Armitage, but it was such a chaotic time and there were so many police involved.”
Harry didn’t correct him on the name. “It must have been upsetting for the family.”
“It was. But we’ve put it behind us.” Lord Whitchurch’s answer held a note of caution in his tone. He was wondering where Harry was heading with his questions.
Harry addressed Lady Whitchurch. “It must have been just as upsetting for you, ma’am, even though you weren’t married yet. You were engaged to Rupert, weren’t you?”
Lady Whitchurch blinked rapidly. “I, uh…” She glanced at her husband. “It was a long time ago.”
“Indeed it was,” Lord Whitchurch said tightly. “We would appreciate it if you let sleeping dogs lie. As you can see, dredging up old business is very upsetting for my wife. Are there any more questions?”
A thin yet authoritative voice came from the doorway. “There will be no more questions.” An elderly woman approached with the aid of a walking stick, all her wrinkles—of which there were many—drawn into a fierce frown. Her pale face was tinged yellow and as she drew closer, I could see that the whites of her eyes were yellowed, too. Her black silk dress hung from her frame and her back was so rounded that she was probably shorter than her fully erect height by several inches.
Lord Whitchurch rushed to her side to assist her to a chair, but she clicked her tongue at him and he hesitated, uncertain.
She eased herself onto a chair unaided and pointed the walking stick at Harry. “You are impertinent, young man. Who are you and what do you want?”
Harry gave a shallow bow. “Do I have the honor of speaking to the Dowager Lady Whitchurch?”
“You do, and I am too old to fall for your charm, so don’t bother. Just answer the question.”
Harry gave a light laugh as if he respected being caught out by her sharp observation. Her scowl deepened, but it held a hint of acknowledgement. With that simple exchange, he’d earned a modicum of respect. Whether it would help or not remained to be seen.
He introduced us. “Miss Fox has been tasked with looking into the death of a fellow named Hardy. It’s come to her attention that he may have known your son and daughter-in-law.”
“If Miss Fox has been hired, then what is your purpose here, Mr. Armitage?”
“Moral support.”
“Poppycock. You’ve been asking the difficult questions while Miss Fox asked the easy ones.”
Harry’s gaze wandered to the doorway. She must have been standing there eavesdropping for some time. There was certainly nothing wrong with her hearing.
“Yes, I listen at doors,” she said. “What of it? It’s my house.”
