Page 39 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"No need," Ivo shook his head—he wanted to confront Allen unawares, "Just point me in the right direction."
And so, Ivo soon found himself outside the door of Mr Allen's office, in the dark east-wing of the house.
"My lord," the butler's expression did not change one iota, as he answered the door to Ivo's knock, "What can I do for you?"
Allen ushered Ivo inside to a small, painfully neat, room. Its contents consisted of an old table, with a chair in front of it—in which, no doubt, many an errant staff member had been upbraided—and a standing set of drawers. There was no drinks cabinet, so the butler did not offer him a drink, but he did ask if he would like to take a seat.
"No," Ivo replied brusquely, before adding a reluctant, "Thank you."
"Is it something urgent?" Allen pressed, picking up on Ivo's agitation.
"Yes," Ivo gave him a cool look, "As a matter of fact, it is. I wish to know why you murdered Lord Crabb?"
Ivo rarely saw well-worn sayings come to life, but one could have knocked Allen over with a feather, such was his shock.
"Why did I murder him?" the butler hissed angrily, as he finally found his voice, "It was you who murdered Lord Crabb; do not try and pin the blame on me."
"You hold the key for the still room," Ivo countered, nonplussed by his accusation, "You knew that Lord Crabb took that tonic every night before bed—it would have been simple for you to slip something into it. Moreover, you were heard arguing with Lord Crabb in the days before he died, no doubt about the missing paintings—which I am certain you sold for profit."
Mr Allen was speechless, which did not augur well for Ivo's hopes that he would be shocked into a confession. Determined to have the truth, Ivo continued on.
"Not only that," he said, "Lord Crabb was heard to say that he wanted to cut you off from your pension. On the night that he died, you were supposed to ask Mr Just to stay so that he could finalise it in his will, but you pretended you forgot. You only had one night to act, so you stole into the still room and slipped some nightshade into his tonic."
"I did no such thing," Mr Allen refuted, his face purple with rage, "His lordship was not going to write me out of his will, he was going to write Miss Hughes into it. Did you know that the house is not entailed? The lands of the estate are but the house itself is not. Lord Crabb was determined to leave it to Miss Hughes, he wanted her to remain in the Hall for as long as she wished, and I could not stand by and watch her paper the drawing room with kittens."
"So you killed Lord Crabb," Ivo prompted, holding his breath as he waited for an answer.
"No," Mr Allen was belligerent, "I simply pretended to forget and I intended to keep forgetting, until Lord Crabb himself forgot his foolish plan—his memory was not what it once was, you know."
"Then why did you kill him?" Ivo refused to be distracted by tangents.
The butler sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes near popping from his head.
"I did not kill him," he cried, wild with anger, "You did! Do you know how much I regret writing to you? I thought your arrival would halt Lord Crabb's foolish mission to beget an heir and marry that silly chit. I thought you would save him from ruining the ancestral home, but you killed him. You fiend, you killed him."
Ivo did not have much time to dwell on the revelation that it was Allen who had forged the letter from Lord Crabb, for the butler dissolved into floods of un-butler-like tears before him. Anguished sobs filled the room, akin to that of a wounded animal. Grief was something Ivo knew and understood, and the depth of grief that Mr Allen felt at Lord Crabb's death appeared genuine—though there was always the possibility that the old man was acting.
"What did you fight over, eh?" Ivo prompted, his tone much softer than before. "The missing paintings? Did you secret them away and sell them for a profit?"
Mr Allen stilled at Ivo's words, his posture returning to its usual rigid form. He drew himself up to his full height and glanced at Ivo with utter contempt.
"You, my lord," Allen said, pompously, "Are a philistine. Follow me."
Allen turned and made his way through a doorway on the far side of the room, with Ivo following, hot on his heels. The room was, Ivo guessed, the butler's drawing room. It was decorated in dark, masculine colours, with a few tasteful pieces of furniture dotted here and there.
And upon the walls?
"The Fifth Viscountess Plumpton," Allen said reverently, pointing at the largest of the portraits, surrounded by a gilded frame, "Commissioned by her husband just after their marriage. Beside her, you see the Sixth Viscountess and to her right, their offspring. On the other wall, you can see some members of the minor branches of the family; General Crabb is my particular favourite. He was killed at Pembroke Castle during the Second Civil War when an explosive device he had set in an attempt to breach the walls went off too soon."
"Hoist by his own petard," Ivo commented.
"Yes," Allen looked pleased, "Quite literally."
"I don't understand why you're showing me these," Ivo continued, as the butler gazed up at the portraits, "You have merely proved to me that you did steal the paintings."
"I did not steal them," Allen twirled around to face him, "I saved them. I have worked in Plumpton Hall my entire life, my lord. You are the fourth viscount that I have served, and it is my fervent hope that I shall die in service to the line. I am showing you these so you understand that my first loyalty is to the Crabb family and preserving the history and traditions of this house. I will not stand by and allow you to accuse me of murdering a man I loved as much as a brother."
Ivo remained silent as he assessed the butler; his tufts of white hair, his angular nose, even the way he held himself was reminiscent of the late Lord Crabb.
