A woman came in with a tray and set a mahogany card table for lunch.
“Thank you, Elsie,” Susan said. She lit the fire that had been laid, and in a moment a cheerful blaze was going. “It’s nice to have a fire on a cold, rainy day,” she said, backing up to it.
Stone came and warmed his hands. A moment later Elsie returned with a tray bearing a tureen and china and set the table further. “Luncheon is served, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Would you like wine?”
“A bottle of white burgundy would be good,” Stone said, holding a chair for Susan, and Elsie disappeared.
He sat down and tried the soup. “Perfect,” he said.
“Oh, Mrs. Whittle, Geoffrey’s wife, has a reputation as the best cook in the county,” Susan said. “Have you met her?”
“No, I have some catching up to do, in that regard.” They finished their soup, and Elsie returned with their sandwiches and the wine. She uncorked it and gave Stone some to taste. “Excellent,” he said, looking at the label. “A Batard-Montrachet,” he said.
“Charles has an excellent cellar. Was it on the list of items conveyed with the house?”
“There was an item saying, ‘the contents of the wine cellar, save two dozen bottles to be chosen by Sir Charles.’ I thought that fair enough.”
“I’ve noticed,” Susan said, “that you speak English with an American accent, but with English phrasing. Is that deliberate?”
“No, I have an imitative ear, so I tend to speak my own language as the locals do, wherever I am. I came away from a week in Germany once, speaking broken English.”
“That’s a handy gift. It will make the locals here more comfortable with you. The British upper class tends to view Americans as noisy people with cameras, until they are shown something different. They will like you for your phraseology, because they will understand you the first time you say something.”
“I draw the line at ‘shedule’ instead of ‘skedule.’”
They were having coffee on a sofa before the fireplace when there was a sharp knock on the door. Stone turned to see a small man in a tweed suit, who was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.
“Filthy weather,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrington?”
Stone rose. “Yes.”
“I am Deputy Chief Inspector Holmes,” he said, “as in Sherlock.”
“I hope that is not your Christian name,” Stone said.
“Fortunately not, but I’m often called that anyway, by those who are out of reach of my authority.”
“This is Ms. Susan Blackburn, who is the designer in charge of redoing the interior of the house.”
“I would like to ask you a few questions, perhaps both of you.”
“Of course, please sit.”
Holmes took an armchair next to the sofa. “Damned good idea, a mudroom,” he said, inspecting his shoes. “Saves tracking in the weather.”
“We ran into the weather on the motorway,” Stone said. “When did the rain start here?”
“Sometime last evening, according to the staff. I’d like very much to know more precisely. It is my understanding that you are buying this property from Sir Charles Bourne.”
“I bought it from him this morning, in London.”
“He was there for the completion?”
“Yes.”
“When did he come up to London?”
“I think yesterday sometime, but I’m not certain. It appears that we have a homicide on my front lawn.”
Holmes looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“You’ve pitched a tent over the corpse to preserve the crime scene,” Stone said. “And there are the vehicles.”
“You’re very observant,” Holmes said.
“It was hard to miss, and I was once a homicide detective, in New York City.”
“You were?” Susan asked, surprised.
“You were?” Holmes echoed.
“I was. Fourteen years on the NYPD, twelve of them in Homicide.”
“You made detective in two years?”
“It was easier then. We had more than four thousand homicides in the city the year I was promoted, as compared to a little over three hundred last year. Somebody had to investigate them, and there weren’t enough seasoned men per corpse.”
“Quite,” Holmes said.
Stone made a mental note not to say “quite” when speaking to Englishmen; they would think he was trying too hard, something the British abhorred.
“Had you visited this house before the closing?” Holmes asked, taking out a notebook and pen.
“Yes, I arrived in England three days ago, and I was staying with a friend across the river.”
“And who might he be?”
“She. Dame Felicity Devonshire.”
Holmes nodded. “Quite.”
“She showed me the house and introduced me to Ms. Blackburn, on my first day here.”
“And when did you meet Sir Charles for the first time?”
“At dinner that evening.”
“Dinner here?”
“No, in Cowes.”
“Where in Cowes?”
“At the Royal Yacht Squadron.”
“Just the two of you?”
“No, in the company of Dame Felicity. It was at that dinner that I offered to buy this property.”
“Having seen it only once?”
“I had two very good guides earlier that day.”
“Did you come to England specifically to buy the property?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know it until after I arrived.”
Holmes looked at him sharply. “Explain, please.”
“I was in Rome. Dame Felicity called and insisted I come to England, saying she had a surprise for me. The surprise turned out to be this house. I wrote a check for it that evening.”
“Then you must be a very wealthy man, Mr. Barrington.”
Stone smiled. “You are a detective, aren’t you?”
Holmes permitted himself a small smile. “Quite. And when did you depart London to return here?”
“About half past ten, from Berkeley Square.”
“And you were driving the German sports car?”
“I was.”
“Pick that up in London, did you?”
“I did. And another car, as well.”
“Didn’t see that one.”
“Ms. Blackburn had so much luggage it required another car. It should be here early this afternoon.”
“That is a calumny,” Susan said. She pointed at Stone. “He is the one with all the luggage.”
“I won’t get in the middle of that argument,” Holmes said. “Ms. Blackburn, do you believe that Mr. Barrington murdered Sir Richard Curtis?”
Susan thought about it for a moment. “Probably not.”
Holmes closed his notebook and stood up. “That’s good enough for me,” he said, “but Mr. Barrington, don’t leave town.”
Stone laughed. “I’m flying to New York on Monday morning,” he said, “unless you arrest me first.”
“I’m sorry,” Holmes said, “I made myself sound like Bulldog Drummond there for a moment, didn’t I?”
“Just a bit.”
“Let’s leave it at this: if you think of anything else that might help me with my inquiries, please call.” He handed Stone a card. “Is that better?”
“Much,” Stone replied.
“Good day, then.”
“Good day,” Stone said, and the man started for the door, but his journey was interrupted by Sir Charles Bourne entering the room, red-faced.
“Filthy weather!” he nearly shouted.
“Sir Charles,” Stone said, “may I present Deputy Inspector Holmes? Not Sherlock.” Then he turned to Susan. “Probably not? That was a ringing endorsement of my character.”
“Oh, well,” she said.
8