Georgette Heyer - Why Shoot a Butler?

Copyright 1933 Georgette Rougier

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Heyer, Georgette.

Why shoot a butler? / Georgette Heyer.

p. cm.

1. Country homesEnglandFiction. 2. EnglandFiction. I. Title.

PR6015.E795W49 2009

823.912dc22

2008037831

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

One

The signpost was unhelpful. Some faint characters on one of its blistered arms informed the seeker after knowledge that Lumsden lay to the west, reached, presumably, at the end of a dubious-looking lane. The other arm indicated the direction of Pittingly, a place Mr Amberley had never heard of. However, if Lumsden lay to the west, Upper Nettlefold ought to be found somewhere in the direction of the obscure Pittingly. Mr Amberley switched off his spot-lamp, and swung the car round, reflecting savagely that he should have known better than to have trusted to his cousin Felicitys enthusiastic but incomplete directions. If he had had the sense to follow the usual road he would have been at Greythorne by now. As it was, Felicitys short way had already made him late for dinner.

He drove on rather cautiously down a bumpy lane flanked by quickset hedges. Wreaths of autumn mist curled across the road and further exasperated him. He passed a road winding off to the left, but it looked unpromising, and he bore on towards Pittingly.

The lane twisted and turned its way through the Weald. There were apparently no houses on it, nor did Pittingly a place towards which Mr Amberley was fast developing an acute dislike materialise. He glanced at his watch and swore gently. It was already some minutes after eight. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and the long powerful Bentley shot forward, bounding over the rough surface in a way that was very bad for Mr Amberleys temper.

Pittingly seemed to be destined to remain a mystery; no sign of any village greeted Mr Amberleys rather hard grey eyes, but round a sharp bend in the lane a red tail-light came into view.

As the Bentley drew closer its headlights, piercing the mist, picked out a motionless figure standing in the road beside the stationary car. The car, Mr Amberley observed, was a closed Austin Seven. It was drawn up to the side of the road, its engine switched off, and only its side and tail-lights burning. He slackened speed and saw that the still figure in the road was not that of a man, as he had at first supposed, but of a female, dressed in a belted raincoat with a felt hat pulled low over her forehead.

Mr Amberley brought his Bentley to a standstill alongside the little Austin and leaned across the vacant seat beside him. Is anything wrong? he said, not without a touch of impatience. Really, if on the top of having lost his way he was going to have to change a wheel or peer into the bowels of the Austins engine, it would be the crowning annoyance.

The girl he guessed rather than saw that she was quite young did not move. She was standing by the off door of the Austin with her hands thrust into the pockets of her raincoat. No, nothing, she said. Her voice was deep. He got the impression that something was wrong, but he had not the smallest desire to discover the cause of the underlying agitation in her curt words.

Then can you tell me if Im on the right road for Greythorne? he asked.

I dont know, she said ungraciously.

A somewhat sardonic gleam shot into Mr Amberleys eyes. A stranger to these parts yourself, no doubt?

She moved her head and he saw her face for a moment, a pale oval with a mouth he thought sulky. Yes, I am. Practically. Anyway, Ive never heard of Greythorne. Good night.

This was pointed enough, but Mr Amberley ignored it. His own manners were, his family informed him, abrupt to the point of rudeness, and the girls surliness rather pleased him. Tax your brain a little further, he requested. Do you know the way to Upper Nettlefold?

The brim of her hat threw a shadow over her eyes, but he was sure that she glowered at him. You ought to have taken a turning to the left about a mile back, she informed him.

Damn! said Mr Amberley. Thanks. He sat back in his seat and took out the clutch.

To turn the car in this narrow lane was not easy. He drove on till he was clear of the Austin and began his manoeuvres. After considerable trouble he got the Bentley round, its head-lamps illuminating the girl and the Austin in two brilliant shafts of light. As the car swung round she flinched, as though the sudden blaze of light startled her. Mr Amberley saw her face, chalk-white, for a moment before she averted it.

Instead of straightening up the car he kept it stationary, his foot hard on the clutch, his hand mechanically grasping the gear-lever. The headlights were directed full into the smaller car and showed Mr Amberley something queer. There was a small hole in the windscreen, with splinters radiating out from it in a star shape. He leaned forward over the wheel, staring. Whos in that car? he said sharply.

The girl moved quickly, shutting the interior of the Austin from Mr Amberleys keen scrutiny. What has it got to do with you? she said breathlessly. Ive told you the way to Upper Nettlefold. Why dont you go?

Mr Amberley pushed the gear-lever into neutral and put on his brake. He got out of the car and strode towards the girl. Now that he was close to her he saw that she was good-looking, a fact that did not interest him, and exceedingly nervous, a fact that aroused all his suspicions.

Very silent, your companion? he said grimly. Get away from that door.

She stood her ground, but she was obviously frightened. Will you please go? You have no business to molest me in this fashion!

His hand shot out and grasped her wrist. He jerked her somewhat roughly away from the door and peered in. A man was sitting in the drivers seat, curiously immobile. His head was sunk on his chest. He did not look up or speak.

The girls hand shook in Mr Amberleys hold, which had slowly tightened on it. The figure at the wheel did not move.

Oh! said Mr Amberley. I see.

Let me go! she said fiercely. I it I didnt do it.

He retained his grasp on her wrist, but he was looking at the dead man. The clothing, a dark lounge suit, was disarranged, as though someone had rifled the pockets; the striped shirt was stained with red, and a dark stain ran down the front of the waistcoat.

Mr Amberley put out his free hand to touch the slack one inside the car. He did not appear to feel any repulsion. Not cold, he said. Well?

If you think I did it youre wrong, she said. I found him like it. I tell you I wasnt even here!