Mr. Sackville did not own Curry House. It belonged to a widow named Mrs. Curry, who, upon remarrying and becoming Mrs. Struthers, moved to her husband’s home in Norwich and put up the house for let.
Seven years had passed since Mr. Sackville took over the lease of Curry House. No nearby squires, however, could claim anything beyond a nodding acquaintance—Mr. Sackville had been a recluse. That said, he’d enjoyed a gentlemanly reputation in the area: He might not have cultivated close ties with anyone, but he was never too proud to acknowledge the villagers he came across on his walks, be they vicars or simple farm wives.
And though he had not participated in the civic life of the village, he could be counted upon to give generously to any and all causes, whether it was for a new altarpiece in the old Norman church, coal and windows for the village school, or funds to purchase titles for the circulating library.
He was, in other words, not beloved, but respected and admired. No one thought it particularly odd that he chose to keep to himself; the great families of the land were well-known to produce eccentric sons.
Not that the villagers knew which great family had produced Mr. Sackville—they had no copy of Debrett’s to consult. It was simply their instinctive conclusion that his origins lay not with the gentry, but the nobility.
Curry House, too, added to that impression.
The Devon Coast was a lovely place. The cliffs that met the sea were high and dramatic—an almost startling reminder that Britain was but an island. The headlands along this stretch of the coast were a green patchwork of fields and sheep-dotted pastures. Curry House stood one and three-quarter miles outside the village of Stanwell Moot and was reached by a narrow path, hemmed in on both sides by hedges of hawthorn and field maple.
The house was relatively recent, built at the beginning of the century, with a slender, almost delicate silhouette, its stucco exterior bright white under the sun—and impossibly clean against a backdrop of limitless blue skies. The two policemen were more accustomed to the soot and grime of London, where it was easier to find a unicorn than a set of such immaculate walls. Sergeant MacDonald whistled softly.
Inside, the house was no less immaculate: clear, white-framed windows, pastel blue walls, and thick oriental rugs adding a welcome splash of color and texture. The woman who received them could not be said to be as elegant as her surroundings: Mrs. Cornish, the housekeeper, had a ruddy complexion and a somewhat lumpy build. But her black dress had been skillfully pressed and her large, white cap perfectly starched.
Not as elegant, but certainly as spotless.
After politely inquiring into their trip, she offered them tea. Inspector Treadles accepted, but asked to see the house first, particularly the bedroom in which Mr. Sackville had drawn his last breath.
The airy refinement of the house extended to the upper story. Mr. Sackville’s bedroom commanded a spectacular panorama of the coast—the house was less than half a mile from the sea and boasted one of the highest vantage points in the surrounding countryside.
“A most favorable view,” murmured Treadles.
Sergeant MacDonald nodded. “Probably why the house was set here in the first place.”
Treadles turned his attention to the room itself. “Are these the same sheets on which Mr. Sackville died?”
“No, Inspector. The sheets have been changed. But they haven’t been sent out to launder yet.”
“I will need to see them. And the rest of the room has been cleaned too, I suppose?”
“Yes, Inspector. Top to bottom, on the day itself.”
Had Mr. Sackville died of natural causes, he might have been allowed to remain undisturbed on his deathbed for a while—or transported no further than the dining room table and laid out. But such had not been the circumstances and a conscientious housekeeper, faced with an unexpected death, had no doubt wished to return the house to its usual state of order and orderliness.
Treadles could not argue with the caretaker of a fine property duly discharging her duties, no matter how much he wished the room had been better preserved.
He and Sergeant MacDonald examined the windows and asked Mrs. Cornish about the various ways one could enter the house. She was certain that Mr. Sackville’s windows had been closed that night, as after dinner there had been a thunderstorm. The exterior of the house, smoothly plastered, would have been difficult, if not impossible, to climb up.
“Were the windows firmly latched?”
“Yes, Inspector. I unlatched them to air the room after Mr. Sackville was taken away.”
“And where does he keep his supply of chloral?”
Mrs. Cornish opened a nightstand drawer to reveal a small vial with two white grains inside.
“This was the quantity of chloral left the day of Mr. Sackville’s death?”
“Yes, Inspector. Dr. Birch asked to see it and I remember this was how much was left inside then.”
On top of the nightstand were several very recent periodicals—everything from literary weeklies to penny dreadfuls—Mr. Sackville had a catholic taste. “Did these come by post?”