The Dowager

Professor Lyme watched, arms clasped behind his back as rain splashed against the mullioned window of Highbury Hall’s drawing room. It was a persistent, low drizzle, with no sense for the drama of the occasion.

Highbury Hall was the Gandion family seat. But since Lord Gandion had been found dead – murdered – the previous week, without child and with questions hanging over the legitimacy of his will, exactly which noble backside was going to land in that seat was something of an open question.

And that was why Professor Lyme had been called in. It was far from the first time the police had asked for his assistance. Despite his protests, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last. He had to do something to stay occupied now Trinity College had shuffled him into retirement.

The rain was heavy enough that he couldn’t see more than a few yards across the lawn, and the great expanse of the estate was lost to view. He was watching for headlamps which would herald the arrival of the inspector and then he could get started. Everyone else was already present, having answered the summons Lyme had put out that afternoon. He could see them all reflected faintly in the window.

There were the Le Havre twins, side by side on the chaise longue. Identical, immaculate. Cherub faces which allowed them to get away with terrible deeds. That and their vast wealth. As Lord Gandion’s nephews, they were the obvious beneficiaries of his death. On the surface, at least.

Then there was Perkins, the gardener, standing near the doorway, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. His ingrained sense of manners and propriety prevented him from taking a seat.

And beside him, Manfield the butler, standing ramrod straight. His expressionless face somehow still conveyed his disdain at being brought here on Lyme’s orders. As far as Manfield was concerned, orders were for the upper crust to issue, and only the upper crust.

And, of course, there was Irene, the dowager countess. Sat in the straight-back chair closest to the warmth of the crackling fire, playing up her advanced age and her frailty. Her customary sherry lay on an oak side table next to her, as yet untouched.

Suddenly the drawing room door was flung open and they all turned. The inspector stood in the doorway, dripping-wet. He was fighting, in his usual clumsy manner, to fold up an umbrella. That umbrella had, somehow, remained dry when the inspector hadn’t. Eventually, Manfield wordlessly took the umbrella from the inspector, folded it with a crisp snap and placed it in the holder beside the door.

“Inspector Bay,” said Lyme. “You’re here at last.”

“Sorry,” the inspector muttered. “I couldn’t remember where I parked the blasted car. Had to walk from the village. Damned nuisance.”

He padded across the room, leaving damp footprints on the carpet as he did so, and took a seat beside the dowager. He looked up at Lyme with watery blue eyes. “I gather you have something to report. Do you know who killed Lord Gandion?”

“I have a good idea, yes,” Lyme said.

He left a deliberate pause. The only sounds were the rain outside and the logs splitting in the fire. He waited until he was sure he had everyone’s undivided attention.

“Well, do enlighten us, Professor,” Bay prompted.

“Certainly.” Lyme paced the room, looking at each of the assembly in turn. “Let us first ask the obvious question: who gains from Lord Gandion’s death?”

Inspector Bay glanced uncomfortably around the room. “Well, the twins—” he began.

But Lyme cut him off. “Already written out of the will, after the incident with the Bentley and the Women’s Institute. I tracked down Lord Gandion’s solicitor in Rhodesia. The new will was legitimate.”

The inspector blinked a couple of times and continued. “Then… Perkins and Manfield—”

Lyme interrupted again before the inspector could say anything indiscreet. “Lord Gandion was already aware of their… situation. He thought it was of no importance.”

The two staff members looked from one to the other, then sheepishly to the floor.

Meanwhile, the inspector’s gaze drifted over to the chair next to him. “Surely, you can’t mean the dowager?”

Irene’s wrinkled face remained motionless as all eyes turned to her, but the flicker of the fire gave a strange illusion of movement.

“With her son-in-law dead, the house and the estate become hers,” Lyme said. He fixed his gaze on Irene as he spoke. She met it unblinkingly. “No more being confined to the dowager house, hm?”

“Professor Lyme,” Irene said, drawing herself up. “Surely you can’t be serious? The killer needed to climb two storeys on a vine of ivy in order to gain access to the window. Are you honestly suggesting I’d be capable of such a feat?”

“There are other ways into Lord Gandion’s bedchamber,” Lyme said. “The door, for instance, would be the simplest way.”

Inspector Bay cleared his throat. “Professor,” he said quietly. “If you recall the door was locked from the inside when the body was discovered. Manfield had to break it down.”

The butler inclined his head, acknowledging the veracity of the statement.

“Assuming the murderer wasn’t already in the room,” Lyme said. “Hiding, perhaps, in the large wardrobe which the dowager custom ordered from Sotheby’s last month?”

“That wardrobe was packed to bursting with suits,” the inspector said. “I did check.”

“My son-in-law was fond of his suits,” Irene added. “And, besides, I was a quarter of a mile away in the dowager house all night. My staff will vouch for that.”

“Staff who came inexplicably into some good fortune recently,” Lyme shot back.

Irene scoffed. “If I’ve been generous recently it’s because I know I don’t have long left. You can’t take it with you, you know.”

“Or because you knew you were going to come into an even larger fortune,” Lyme said, meeting her gaze.

The inspector wasn’t bothering to hide his irritation now. “Professor, you saw the state of the body. Do you really think the dowager would have been capable of… of that?”

The old policeman suppressed a shudder, recalling the horrendous state of the corpse. Lord Gandion’s head had been staved in. Apparently by a blood-smeared piece of lead piping, found next to the body.

The inspector went on, “Lead piping hardly seems a plausible weapon for any woman. Especially one of Lady Irene’s…”

He trailed off.

The dowager finished the sentence for him. “Of my advanced years.”

The inspector gave a polite cough. “Well, quite. Lead piping, indeed, Professor? Poison is more of a woman’s weapon, in my experience.”

Lyme was deflating. Normally, at this juncture, when he cast the accusing finger at them, he found that suspects would become panicked and offer up a confession. Or, if not panicked, then overcome with the need to show off how cleverly they’d executed their scheme. He looked hopefully at the dowager. Even a smirk would have been something. An opening to work with. But she remained as impassive as the portraits hanging above her.

Eventually one of the twins broke the silence – Lyme wasn’t sure which one.

“Well, Lyme,” he said, sounding bored. “Do you know who killed our uncle or not?”

Lyme allowed his shoulders to sag. “No,” he said.

***

Everyone made to leave – all except the dowager, who remained seated beside the fire, wrapped in her voluminous furs, looking for all the world like a nesting hen. It appeared she’d already made herself at home in the big house once more.

As they were trailing from the room, her voice rang out. “Professor, stay a moment or two, will you? And keep an old lady company?”

With a tiny gesture, she indicated the chair next to her, which Inspector Bay had vacated. Feeling like a scolded school boy, Lyme made his way over and sat down. The seat was damp.

Manfield left, closing the door behind him with a smart click, leaving the two of them alone in the drawing room.

“Have a drink,” Irene said, pouring out a sherry. “You look like you need it.”

Lyme accepted the drink wordlessly and drained a large slug. It did little to lift his spirits.

“Hiding in wardrobes? What nonsense,” Irene said. She tutted. “Maybe in my younger days.”

“I’ve heard all about your younger days,” Lyme said. “But, dash it all, I had to try something, didn’t I? The inspector… he’s an incompetent buffoon if I ever saw one.”

“Maybe so,” Irene agreed. “But you do overlook the obvious, my dear. Why hide in the wardrobe? Simply waiting behind the door is a time-honoured classic for a reason, you know? When everyone comes bursting in to investigate, you simply pick your moment, slide out to join the back of the party, and everyone assumes you just came in.”

Lyme’s mouth opened a fraction in surprise, but found himself unable to speak.

The dowager went on. “And why would I need to wield a lead pipe, when I could balance it on top of the extra-large wardrobe with a bit of string attached and just give it a little tug? If my son-in-law was lying on the floor, looking, say, for an earring I might have lost, then that’s plenty of height for the pipe to pick up fatal speed.”

Lyme went to stand, but the shock must have made him dizzy. All of a sudden the room was reeling. His hand slipped on the armrest, and he remained where he was.

“Why are you telling me this?” he rasped.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d have figured it out eventually,” Irene said. “You always do, don’t you? The great gentleman detective, Professor Lyme.”

“I can get the inspector back, I can—”

Irene silenced him with an imperious wave of her hand. “Now now,” she said. “Never mind the inspector. Buffoon he may be, but he was right about one thing, you know?”

“What… what was that?” Lyme asked. His voice was parched and the words came with difficulty.

Irene leaned in and smiled sweetly. She took the glass of sherry from his unresisting hand and placed it back on the side table.

“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” she said.