The Butler Didn't Do It - Maria Lima [0]
Originally published in Chesapeake Crimes.
Copyright © 2004 by Maria Lima.
THE BUTLER DIDN’T DO IT
AUNT DEAD STOP BUTLER DID IT STOP FLY SOONEST STOP
—GERALD
*
It took a few minutes for it to sink in. My aunt Clara was dead, and evidently her butler was the culprit.
Of course, news of her death didn’t exactly come as a surprise. Not that she was old, by any means, but at sixty-eight, Clara hadn’t changed much from her wild childhood. The sixties had been very good to her. I’d expected to hear that she’d died in some sort of mountain-climbing accident, or jumping out of a plane, not to get some ten-word message that said everything and explained nothing.
I tried to call my cousin but got his voice mail. As usual, he was avoiding the situation. Really, who uses telegrams anymore? Not answering the phone meant he wouldn’t have to talk to me, and that meant there’d be no ride waiting when I arrived at the airport. I hoped my credit card would stretch to cover a trans-Atlantic trip.
My fulltime “real world” job and nearly fulltime writing schedule left little time or money for expensive vacations in the English countryside. I write mystery novels starring werewolves, vampires, and ghouls in contemporary America. Although I hadn’t been to Clara’s in nearly three years, I’d sent her both of my published books, and several of my short stories. She’d always been extremely supportive, sure that one day I’d break out and become wildly popular. From her mouth to the book-buying public’s ears.
I rented a car in London, choosing possible death by bad driving over my other choices--an interminable trip by bus, an equally unbearable local train, or an astronomically expensive limousine. Gerald could have at least sent the estate Rolls for me. Oh, yeah, well maybe not. Jamison, the erstwhile butler, was also the chauffeur. I guess that was out of the question if he were really being considered as a suspect.
Chalfont is an Edwardian monstrosity that could have used a heck of a lot more maintenance from my oblivious aunt. On several hundred acres of meadows and forest, the estate had been the happy hunting lodge for several generations of idle-rich sons until the last one had lost the entire estate to Clara’s great-uncle Albert in an unfettered night of gambling, whoring and drinking. He’d died utterly unrepentant, having celebrated his ill-gotten gains every day of his miserably long life. Because he’d had no children, Clara inherited the whole package, including, surprisingly enough, a decent income with which to maintain the estate and to allow her to live the life of the cheerily and unapologetically unemployed. She’d also inherited Jamison, a paragon of butlers and the fourth generation of Jamison men to serve at Chalfont.
I parked in the back courtyard and went in through the kitchen door, opening it onto the scene of Mrs. Cooper, the cook, and Dina, the housemaid, sitting at the staff dining table.
They both looked up, startled. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they’d both been enjoying a joke.
“Miss Lindsay,” exclaimed the cook. “Let me get you some tea.” She helped me pull my heavy bag over the threshold.
“T’aint much,” she continued, “but I baked this morning.” She pulled out a platter with scones and tea biscuits and poured me a cup of steaming tea.
“Thank you,” I said, warming my hands around the cup. I was still a little shaky from the drive and didn’t really want to go into the main part of the house. It was a dismal monstrosity that belonged in a suspense movie and not in real life. All the rooms were damp and dark with the gloom of antique windows and heavy draperies. I’d always felt uncomfortable there, even though I adored Aunt Clara.
“Mrs. C, can you tell me what happened?” Knowing Gerald’s taste for melodrama, I didn’t for a minute believe that Jamison had anything to do with her death.
“Exsanguination,” proclaimed Dina in a funereal tone. She was a small, quiet girl, not normally given to strange pronouncements.
“What?” I exclaimed, not sure I’d heard her right.