Free Death of a Cozy Writer: A St. Just Mystery by G.M. Malliet Page B

inquest on a litter. I haven’t been in Fleet Street all these years without knowing how these things go.”
    Albert, now holding his temples, made a “speed-it-up” gesture with his index fingers.
    “Very well,” said Ruthven. “On the night of November 10, the Winthrop household—it was Sir Winthrop’s estate near Edinburgh— was awakened by a crash of glass and furniture from the direction of the old man’s study. This according to the testimony of one Mrs. Grant—Agnes, the head cook. Much of what she actually said was summarized—the reporter, I gather, having trouble rendering her brogue into received English. But the substance was that she herself was already awake, having been unable to sleep and having taken herself to the kitchen for a cuppa, probably laced with Scotch, again reading between the lines. But she testified plainly enough that she heard scuffling sounds and shouts. When asked if she went to investigate she replied”—and here Ruthven adopted a passable Scottish accent—“ ‘It ware jest th’ ghostie so no a reason fare me to stir.’ This produced some laughter, according to the reporter, at which Agnes took umbrage. ‘I seen him meself many a time, I have. Headless, he is. ’Tis the fairst Laird Botwin, we think, him as were kilt by the Catlicks. He main us no harm so I let him gae on aboot his business, like mare folk should do.’”
    “Anyway,” Ruthven went on in a normal voice, “more in this vein, but then she testified she heard a loud crash, followed by the sound of someone running.”
    “‘He ne’er doon that afore,’ she said. ‘It scairt me, like, so I thought I’d best go have a look, me in me robe an’ all, but I dinna like the soond of it.’”
    “The ghost didn’t scare her but a ghost acting out of character did. Good for Agnes,” said Albert.
    “Wait for it. Apparently the coroner also was caught up in the ghost-as-suspect possibility.” Ruthven read again from the newspaper account: “Asked what it was the ghost had never done before— caused a loud crash or run away—Mrs. Grant replied, ‘A ghost dunna run in high heels.’”
    “A headless Lord in high heels,” mused Albert. “Not impossible, granted a public school education. Still, I don’t see where Lady Winthrop comes into it. Unless she was the only woman in the house who owned a pair of heels. Not likely.”
    “Agnes gets to that. All the women visiting the house—it was one of those ‘play cards and shoot whatever moves’ weekend parties such as Violet described yesterday—were lodged in the West wing that night. Agnes Grant was adamant she heard the high heels clicking their way toward the family quarters on the East side of the house, where Lord and Lady Winthrop resided in solitary splendor. Agnes gives it as her further opinion that only Violet of all those present would caper about at three AM in high-heeled slippers, ‘her bein’ a real clues-hearse as she is,’ but the coroner ignored that, of course, and rightly so.”
    “What makes me think Agnes would soon find herself out of a job?” said Albert.
    “She gave her opinion on that, as well: ‘I’ll not stay another night ’neath that roof to be mairdered in me sleep, even by her ladyship, who has always traited me fair.”
    “So much for the fealty—not to say the discretion—of old retainers. Well, if that’s all the coroner had to go on I’m not surprised at the hazy verdict.”
    “Oh, there was more. What is evident from the testimony, wrenched as it had to be from the guests, who had clearly decided it was an occasion for all titled hands to the pumps, was that Lord and Lady Winthrop were not getting along.”
    “Well, how very rare an occurrence amongst married couples. I’m surprised they didn’t clap her in irons on the spot.”
    “Wait for it, will you? Agnes wasn’t the most sensational witness, not by a long shot. That came later, a witness who testified that Violet Winthrop was with him—