“Do you know why?” he pressed.
“Of course not.” She gave a delicate snort. “It’s not the sort of question one asks in polite society.”
“If it is considered an intrusive question, Mrs. Bickleton, how did you become aware that it was Arlette Banfield who insisted her husband come home?” he asked. “Those were your words, Mrs. Bickleton.”
A flush climbed her cheeks and she looked away for a moment before turning back to face him. “I overheard them arguing when I came down to luncheon. Lewis was angry at her for dragging him away from his business, but she kept saying she’d not sent for him in the first place. Apparently he’d received a message from her, asking him to come home immediately, but she maintained she’d done no such thing and that she wasn’t some silly upper-class, empty-headed social—” She broke off and clamped her lips together.
“Go on,” he urged. “Exactly what did she say?”
Margaret took a deep breath, as though it actually pained her to say the words. “She made it perfectly clear that she thought the women of his class were empty-headed fools and that she wasn’t one of them and she certainly wouldn’t call him all the way across town because of a case of supposed nerves.”
“Where were you when they were having this argument?” He wasn’t trying to get her to admit she’d been eavesdropping, but he did want to understand where the argument had taken place and who, besides Mrs. Bickleton, might have heard it. He wondered why Lewis Banfield hadn’t told him this last night. At one point, he’d specifically asked the man if anything unusual had happened in the household that day.
“I was in the dining room waiting for the others; Lewis and Arlette were in the hallway. Arlette didn’t mind if people overheard her words—she had no proper sense of decorum, but then, she wouldn’t, would she?”
“And why would that be?” Witherspoon pressed. He sensed that Mrs. Bickleton’s dislike of Arlette was more than just general snobbery on her part.
“Because of the way she was brought up, Inspector. She was raised to do and say exactly as she feels with no regard for what is right and proper,” Margaret snapped. “And just because the Montroses are well-known artists, that doesn’t mean they know how to behave in a civilized household, either! Why, two weeks ago, Arlette and her mother were screaming at each other like fishwives. The way they carried on was dreadful. Geraldine was so embarrassed, she shooed me out before we finished our plans for my visit here.”
“What were they arguing about?” Witherspoon asked.
“How should I know?” she replied irritably. “All I heard was shouting. As I said, poor Geraldine was so humiliated by the incident she ushered me into a hansom cab. Which was decidedly inconvenient, as we’d not finished discussing my visit so I’d no idea what social events I was expected to attend. I had to bring an extra trunk, Inspector.”
“An extra trunk?” he repeated. “Whatever for?”
“For my wardrobe.” She stared at him as if he were a half-wit. “There are dozens of social events in London this time of year. If I don’t know which ones I’m expected to attend with my hostess, I have to bring enough clothing to ensure I’m properly attired for any of them. As I said, Inspector, we hadn’t finished our planning before Arlette and her mother’s horrid behavior drove me out of the house. I’m sorry someone murdered her, but nonetheless, it doesn’t change the fact that she had no sense of her proper role in society.”
“And you’ve no idea why Mrs. Montrose and Mrs. Banfield were arguing?” he asked.
“No.”
Witherspoon changed tactics. “Was anyone else in the dining room with you yesterday when you heard Mr. and Mrs. Banfield arguing?”
“Mrs. Kimball was there as well. She heard the argument, but she’s slightly deaf so she kept asking me what they were saying,” Margaret explained. “It was rather embarrassing; I kept having to shush her. People who can’t hear don’t realize how loud they speak and I didn’t want Arlette or Lewis to think I was eavesdropping.”
“I won’t keep you long, Mrs. Peyton,” Barnes said. “I understand you’re very busy.”
Mrs. Peyton gave him a wan smile. She was a small, slender woman with red hair and light blue eyes. “Thank you, Constable, I appreciate your consideration. There is much to do. We’ve still to clean up from the ball last night and we’ve also to prepare the house for mourning.”
“I take it you were on duty during the ball?” He paused and went on when she nodded assent. “Can you tell me who was in charge of the pantry? Namely, who would have had access to Mrs. Banfield’s food or drink.”
“Michaels was supervising the wine and champagne. I was in charge of the food, but, of course, the food was never served. But both of us were back and forth between the pantry and the kitchen.”
“Who was doing the serving?” He began writing.
“Everyone, Constable.” She sighed. “We had over two hundred guests, and Mrs. Banfield the elder had two houseguests staying here for the week. So everyone was pressed into service. We brought in some additional help from a domestic agency. But all they did was serve the guests.”
Barnes glanced up from his notebook. “How many outside people were here?”
“Three young men were employed as waiters.”
“Do you have their names and addresses?” he asked.
She seemed surprised by the question. “No, I don’t. The arrangements were made through a domestic agency. We use Stannard’s on Winslow Road when we need additional help. When Mrs. Banfield the younger died and it became apparent the ball was over, I sent them away.”
“Was this before the police arrived?”
She thought for a moment. “Oh dear, I think it must have been. But when the tragedy first happened, we’d no idea that she’d been murdered. Those of us in the pantry and the kitchen only knew that she’d died. I told them they could go. I’m terribly sorry, Constable.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Not to worry, Mrs. Peyton. As you said, you’d no idea a murder had been committed. I’m sure the agency will have their names and addresses.” He wondered how often people dropped dead at Banfield social occasions. Then he realized that because of his work, he saw homicide everywhere. But to the average person, a death in the house usually meant natural causes.
“I’m sure they had nothing to do with it,” she said. “We only decided we were going to need more help yesterday morning. When the footman came back from taking the message to Stannard’s, he said they weren’t even sure they could find anyone to send to us on such short notice. So those young men wouldn’t have known they were going to be here until the very last minute.”
He nodded in understanding. “Why did you wait so late to decide you needed extra help?”
“That wasn’t how we usually do things around here, Constable.” She sighed. “I kept trying to tell Mrs. Banfield we needed more people to do the serving—”
He interrupted. “Which Mrs. Banfield?”
“Geraldine Banfield,” she replied. “The younger Mrs. Banfield had left the planning of the ball to her, except, of course, for the additions that she’d made to the guest list. She’d invited a few of her own friends. I suspect that’s why Mrs. Banfield the elder was so stubborn about bringing in more help—she was annoyed because there were so many additional guests.”
“She was annoyed at Arlette Banfield?”
“She was more annoyed at Mr. Banfield.” Mrs. Peyton laughed and then caught herself. “Mrs. Banfield the younger only added a few names, while Mr. Banfield added over a dozen of his business acquaintances and their wives. Mrs. Banfield the elder was furious. I overheard her telling Mrs. Bickleton that she was disgusted with how the ball was deteriorating into a social occasion for art and commerce.”
“But she gave in and let you hire more waiters,” he commented.
“No, not really. I had a quiet word with Mrs. Banfield the younger—” She broke off and looked away, but not before Barnes saw her eyes fill with tears.
“So it was Arlette Banfield who came to the staff’s aid?”
She swiped at her cheeks and turned back to him. “Yes, I didn’t want to involve her, but I had no choice. It wasn’t fair to expect our staff to try to serve over two hundred guests on their own. So I asked her to intervene. She asked Mr. Banfield to have a word with his aunt.”
“Why didn’t she do it herself?” he asked. “From what I’ve heard of Arlette Banfield, she wasn’t in the least intimidated by anyone.”
“She wasn’t. But we were running out of time and I think she thought there would be less chance of an argument or a delay if the order came from Mr. Banfield.”
“I see. So, let’s get back to the ball itself. While the drink was being served, the food was being prepared and put out on the buffet table. Is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Was any of the food in the butler’s pantry?”
“No, all the dishes came straight up from the kitchen to the buffet table. Michaels was overseeing the alcohol and that was coming out of the butler’s pantry.”
“Who would have had access to the butler’s pantry?”
“Everyone in the household.” Mrs. Peyton shrugged slightly. “The whole exercise is organized chaos and, frankly, I spent most of my time in the kitchen making certain the food was put into the proper serving dishes. Mrs. Geraldine Banfield is always very particular about that. God help us if a fish sauce is served in a gravy boat.”
“But your food was never served,” Barnes mused. “Only the drink. We’ve been given to understand that Mrs. Banfield only drank champagne, is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Mrs. Peyton replied. “Wine or spirits gave her terrible headaches.”
“And the drink was supervised from the butler’s pantry, is that right?” The constable considered this a very important piece of information and he wanted to be certain that it was absolutely the truth.
“Michaels uncorked the wine and supervised the waiters,” she agreed.
“How was the drink served?”
“Once the bottles were opened, the servers went from table to table, pouring either red or white. We had both.”
Barnes frowned and cocked his head to one side. “I’m no expert on etiquette, Mrs. Peyton, but I was always given to understand that wine was generally served in accordance with the kind of food being served.”
“That is correct, Constable,” she agreed. “But this was a buffet and therefore a bit more casual than the usual dinner party. Besides, there wasn’t a fish dish on the menu, and that is generally the only dish that requires a white wine.”
“What will you do with all the food from last night?” he asked curiously.
“We’ll eat up as much as we can and save the hams for Mrs. Banfield’s funeral reception.” She sighed heavily. “Everyone liked Mrs. Banfield the younger. She was very solicitous and courteous to the staff. Personally, I’m going to miss her very much. She brought a breath of fresh air and laughter to this house. She loved champagne and she adored using that champagne set her mother had made for her. It was one of the few things she insisted upon: she was always to have her glass at the ready during any social occasion”—Mrs. Peyton leaned toward him and lowered her voice—“and she didn’t give a toss that Mrs. Banfield the elder thought the set ostentatious. I think that’s why she always insisted they be out; she liked irritating the woman.”
Barnes wanted to make sure he understood. “Arlette Banfield only insisted her glass be used to upset her husband’s aunt? Is that what you’re saying?”
Mrs. Peyton laughed. “That’s precisely what I’m saying. I overheard her telling one of her friends that she loved watching Mrs. Banfield the elder’s face pucker up with disapproval every time they had a dinner party and the set was brought to the table.”
“Who was the friend?”
“Mr. Julian Hammond. He’s a sculptor. He came for luncheon last week.”
“Did you notice anyone from the household, other than the servants, coming from or going into the kitchen or the butler’s pantry?”
“I don’t recall anyone but the servants coming into the kitchen and I can’t comment on the butler’s pantry. I wasn’t there. You’ll need to speak with Michaels about that.”
He nodded. “You’ve said that Mrs. Banfield the younger was liked by all the servants—”
She interrupted. “Very much so.”
“She hadn’t had anyone dismissed? None of them had any sort of grudge against her?”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Peyton said. “Take my word for it, Constable, if anyone in this household was going to be murdered by a servant, it wouldn’t have been Arlette Banfield.”
Betsy held her basket in front of her as she stepped into the grocer’s. She’d come to the shops nearest Wallington Square and she hoped the Banfield household didn’t do their shopping elsewhere. She’d gone up and down the street twice, peeking in through the windows and deciding which of them was most likely to be a good source of information. The grocer’s shop had won: the clerk was homely, young, and male. The first time she passed by, she’d seen him laughing with his customers.
Holding her basket at an angle that she hoped both looked natural and hid her gently rounded tummy, she smiled and walked toward the counter.
“May I help you, ma’am?” he said politely.
“Yes, thank you, I need a packet of corn flour, a tin of Bird’s custard powder, a bottle of vinegar, and some allspice.” Betsy actually needed these items.
“Very good, ma’am.” He turned to the row of shelves behind him and paced down to the end. He pulled a small bottle off the middle shelf and started back toward her.
“I was wondering if you knew of a family called Banfield that lives around here.” She held her breath. This was always the moment of truth for her. From the expressions on their faces, she could always tell whether they were going to talk or shut up tighter than a bank vault.
“I do, ma’am.” He smiled broadly and stopped again, reaching up and pulling off a tin from the top. “The Banfields are well known in the neighborhood. They live in the huge house just around the corner on Wallington Square.”