Page 69 of Murder at the Dinner Party
Sir Ian’s jowls wobbled with indignation, but his wife’s reaction interested me more. Lady Campbell’s gaze slid to her writing bureau where the other employee files were kept.
“You don’t know a thing,” Sir Ian spat.
“Protecting your friends is a commendable trait, sir. You shouldn’t feel ashamed.”
“I don’t,” he bit off.
Again, his wife put out her hand to silence him. “I’m sure the references are here somewhere, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to look. What does any of this have to do with your investigation into Hardy’s death?”
“From natural causes,” her husband felt compelled to remind me.
I ignored his comment and answered her question. “Lord Whitchurch told you, Sir Ian, that he recognized Hardy. He used to be known as Harding, a groom at their country estate who’d gone missing while in London, on the night their maid, Charlotte, was murdered.”
None of that seemed to be news to either of them, so I assumed Sir Ian had informed his wife about it after Lord Whitchurch approached him.
“Charlotte was murdered by Rupert, who fled London that night. His escape was aided by Harding, but at the time he spoke to you, Lord Whitchurch didn’t know that for certain. He hadn’t seen Harding or Rupert in twenty-two years, and he wanted answers. Then Mr. Hardy died, and I came here asking to see his references after learning of a connection between Hardy and the Whitchurches. Is that when you decided to destroy his file?”
Sir Ian grunted. “We don’t have to answer your questions.”
I pushed on. “You believed you were protecting the Whitchurches, yet Mr. Hardy’s references never mentioned that he worked there as their groom years ago under a different name. So why bother?”
Sir Ian wagged a finger at me. “Now see here, you are upsetting my wife.”
Lady Campbell’s jaw hardened. She’d given me an icy glare, but the one that now bored into her husband was positively venomous.
I suddenly realized I’d get more from her than him if I played my cards right. It meant placing pressure on what mattered to her. In this case, her friendship with the Whitchurches—and their money and influence—mattered more than her husband’s pride.
“Did you destroy the references with or without the Whitchurches’ knowledge?” I asked.
Sir Ian clicked his fingers at Davey. “Escort Miss Fox out.”
Davey hesitated.
“Lady Campbell?” I pressed. “You can see how this looks for them.”
Sir Ian clicked his fingers again. “Get out, Miss Fox!”
“Stop it,” his wife hissed. “You’re making it worse.”
He fell silent and signaled for Davey to leave. The footman exited and closed the door behind him.
Lady Campbell drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Destroying the references was a mistake.” She said it more to her husband than to me. “It makes them look guilty, when they’re not. After Arthur—Lord Whitchurch—told Sir Ian about our butler’s connection to the murder of the maid, I had luncheon with Lady Whitchurch. She told me everything. How Rupert killed the maid and his father had it covered up, how the girl was carrying Rupert’s child and had tried to blackmail him into marrying her. He wasn’t yet married at the time so it was possible, although it was never an option as far as the Whitchurches were concerned.” She stretched out her neck and pursed her lips. It was obviously distasteful to her to even discuss it. “The upshot is, Rupert stabbed her in a moment of drunken rampage, not only taking her life and his baby’s, but ruining his own life, too. It’s horribly tragic. And all because of a pretty face who lifted her skirts for any man with deep pockets. Stupid,stupidman,” she spat.
“Men,” I said. “Charlotte was with the late Lord Whitchurch, too.”
Sir Ian reached out to the nearest chair and sat down heavily. Lady Campbell clutched her throat. Perhaps I shouldn’t have confided that information to them, but I was in no mood to be discreet anymore. Discretion didn’t lead to clues. It seemed this discussion wasn’t giving me new clues either. It had been worth trying, but it was time to bow out as gracefully as possible.
Lady Campbell pressed a hand to her narrow waist and drew in another breath. “Once she told me the story, I realized she and her husband were quite innocent in the entire affair, and that destroying Hardy’s references after you came here asking for them was unnecessary, as they revealed nothing. When we spoke to you, Miss Fox, we didn’t know the story. We thought we were protecting our friends.”
Sir Ian got to his feet. “My wife’s telling the truth. The Whitchurches have been kind to us. We thought we were repaying that kindness, but as it turns out, we needn’t have bothered.” He opened the door, taking Davey by surprise.
“One more question.” I addressed Lady Campbell. “Do you, or did you, own a silver watch?”
She looked at her husband.
He removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Both it and the chain were gold, the case engraved with a crest. “This is mine. Why?”
“I came across one with Mr. Hardy’s belongings. The case was plain, not engraved. It’s not yours?”
