Page 53 of Murder at the Dinner Party
“I’d rather the fresh air,” I told them.
No one pointed out that the air in London was never fresh, and they piled inside the cabin.
I accepted Cobbit’s hand and climbed up to his perch. “Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” I asked him as he flicked the reins.
“Pleasant enough, Miss Fox. You?”
“Yes and no.” I didn’t want to go into the mixed feelings I often felt when I went to the zoo. I was fascinated by all the exotic animals and the distant lands they came from, yet seeing them cooped up so far from home saddened me. “How is the mood in the stables and coach house nowadays?”
“Well enough, although I hear another of those bloody contraptions will be stabled with the horses next week when one of the country toffs comes to stay.”
“An automobile?”
“Aye. Smelly, dirty machines.”
I didn’t point out that horses were smelly, too. Cobbit most likely wouldn’t agree, and I didn’t want to spend the journey listening to him extol the virtues of the animal while denigrating the machine.
“At least not all the toffs think the same,” he went on. “Many still like the traditional ways and don’t want to see horses retired along with us old coachmen. Some even sought me out to tell me they support my plight.”
“It’s good of them to go out of their way to reassure you.”
“They came to talk to the horses, not me.” His fingers adjusted their grip on the reins and the two horses responded, veering right. It never ceased to amaze me that such strong creatures reacted to such light touches. Carriage driving truly was an art form.
“Do you mean they actually talk to them?” I asked.
“Some. They like to feed ‘em, too, and groom ‘em. For gen’lemen who grew up on country estates, horses are in their blood, and when they come to the city, they want to connect with that part of themselves again. It’s like a longing deep inside, I s’pose.”
We picked up the pace as we traveled along Albany Street, and I held on to the brim of my hat to stop it flapping in the breeze. “You are quite the philosopher, Cobbit.”
He chuckled. “I get a lot of time to think up here.” A swiftly traveling hansom cab cut in front of us. Cobbit shouted at the other driver to be more careful then resumed his philosophizing without missing a beat. “I find that a man who’s good with horses is a good man, overall. He treats the staff with respect, even friendship, sometimes. Well, the outdoor staff, that is. No one respects indoor staff much. Too soft, that’s their problem. Not the maids, mind. They work harder than anyone, I reckon.”
I tuned out his prattling for the rest of the journey. It had just occurred to me that the list of witnesses in my bag didn’t include any of the Whitchurches’ outdoor staff. For some reason, the police never questioned them after Charlotte’s murder. They only spoke to the indoor staff. I’d also forgotten about the grooms and coachman, a fact I wasn’t proud of. I knew Rupert liked horses. Mr. Gannon had even told me as much. It was very likely Rupert had spent a great deal of time in the stables on their country estate and got to know the grooms rather well. It was also likely that the coachman and at least one of the grooms had traveled to London with Lord and Lady Whitchurch.
Sir Ian and Lady Campbell had dismissed all their outdoor staff and sold off their equipage as a cost-cutting measure, but the Whitchurches still kept them. Hopefully, they were the same ones that had worked for the family twenty-two years ago and would be willing to talk. With some of the suspects now deceased, they might not be as afraid to come forward as they perhaps were then, and hopefully they would be willing to share any secrets they might have been keeping. A little bribery might help sway them.
I checked the contents of my purse, but wasn’t sure if I had enough. I wished I’d asked Harry how much he’d paid the doorman at White’s.
One of Flossy’s friends lived close to the Whitchurches, so instead of traveling back to the hotel, I alighted with her and told Flossy I wanted to walk the rest of the way.
As with the last time, the staff were a little reluctant to speak to me at first, but after I explained that I simply wanted to ask questions about the Whitchurches’ outdoor staff, the housekeeper invited me in. She directed me to the parlor where a maid and a footman sat with their mending, cups of tea close to hand. The kitchen staff didn’t join us, but I could see them working.
“How can our grooms help with your investigation into the death of the Campbells’ butler?” the housekeeper asked.
“We believe it all hinges on the butler’s death being linked to the murder of Charlotte twenty-two years ago, right here in that very kitchen.”
The footman and maid stopped their mending to glance toward the kitchen then at each other.
“Mind yourself, Miss Fox,” the housekeeper warned. “I won’t have you frightening everyone.”
“There’s nothing to be frightened of, I assure you. You see, Rupert liked horses and was most likely on good terms with the grooms. However, the police never interviewed them at the time of the murder. I’d like to rectify that and ask them some questions.”
She glanced over my shoulder at something behind me. “You think one of them helped Master Rupert escape?”
I wanted to tell her the truth, but instead, I assured her they weren’t under suspicion. She might not speak openly if she was worried about incriminating them. “They may have seen something, but not know it could be a clue.”
Again, she glanced past my shoulder. “I’m afraid I only know where one of them is now.” She addressed the footman while pointing at the wall. “Take down that photograph, the one dated 1877.”
I’d been so intent on my mission that I’d not taken note of my surroundings. There were several framed photographs on the wall of the parlor, all showing staff lined up in what appeared to be a courtyard. The maids were dressed in their black uniforms with white aprons, while the footmen and butler wore formal attire, and the grooms wore clothes more suited for working in the stables. In the bottom right corner of each picture, someone had written the address of the townhouse with a date. The footman handed me the one dated 1877.
