The Butler Didn't Do It (short story)

by
Maria Lima
Originally published 2004; Chesapeake Crimes

Agatha Award nominee
Best Short Story 2004

------

 The telegram said it all.

AUNT DEAD STOP BUTLER DID IT STOP FLY SOONEST STOP
--GERALD

It took a few minutes for it to sink in. My aunt Clara was dead, and evidently her butler was the culprit.

Of course, news of her death didn’t exactly come as a surprise. Not that she was old, by any means, but at sixty-eight, Clara hadn’t changed much from her wild childhood. The sixties had been very good to her. I’d expected to hear that she’d died in some sort of mountain-climbing accident, or jumping out of a plane, not to get some ten-word message that said everything and explained nothing.

I tried to call my cousin but got his voice mail. As usual, he was avoiding the situation. Really, who uses telegrams anymore? Not answering the phone meant he wouldn't have to talk to me, and that meant there'd be no ride waiting when I arrived at the airport. I hoped my credit card would stretch to cover a trans-Atlantic trip.

My fulltime "real world" job and nearly fulltime writing schedule left little time or money for expensive vacations in the English countryside. I write mystery novels starring werewolves, vampires, and ghouls in contemporary America. Although I hadn’t been to Clara’s in nearly three years, I’d sent her both of my published books, and several of my short stories. She’d always been extremely supportive, sure that one day I’d break out and become wildly popular. From her mouth to the book-buying public’s ears.

I rented a car in London, choosing possible death by bad driving over my other choices -- an interminable trip by bus, an equally unbearable local train, or an astronomically expensive limousine. Gerald could have at least sent the estate Rolls for me. Oh, yeah, well maybe not. Jamison, the erstwhile butler, was also the chauffeur. I guess that was out of the question if he were really being considered as a suspect.

Chalfont is an Edwardian monstrosity that could have used a heck of a lot more maintenance from my oblivious aunt. On several hundred acres of meadows and forest, the estate had been the happy hunting lodge for several generations of idle-rich sons until the last one had lost the entire estate to Clara’s great-uncle Albert in an unfettered night of gambling, whoring and drinking. He'd died utterly unrepentant, having celebrated his ill-gotten gains every day of his miserably long life. Because he’d had no children, Clara inherited the whole package, including, surprisingly enough, a decent income with which to maintain the estate and to allow her to live the life of the cheerily and unapologetically unemployed. She’d also inherited Jamison, a paragon of butlers and the fourth generation of Jamison men to serve at Chalfont.

I parked in the back courtyard and went in through the kitchen door, opening it onto the scene of Mrs. Cooper, the cook, and Dina, the housemaid, sitting at the staff dining table.

They both looked up, startled. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they’d both been enjoying a joke.

"Miss Lindsay," exclaimed the cook. "Let me get you some tea." She helped me pull my heavy bag over the threshold.

"T’aint much," she continued, "but I baked this morning." She pulled out a platter with scones and tea biscuits and poured me a cup of steaming tea.

"Thank you," I said, warming my hands around the cup. I was still a little shaky from the drive and didn’t really want to go into the main part of the house. It was a dismal monstrosity that belonged in a suspense movie and not in real life. All the rooms were damp and dark with the gloom of antique windows and heavy draperies. I’d always felt uncomfortable there, even though I adored Aunt Clara.

 "Mrs. C, can you tell me what happened?" Knowing Gerald's taste for melodrama, I didn’t for a minute believe that Jamison had anything to do with her death.

"Exsanguination," proclaimed Dina in a funereal tone. She was a small, quiet girl, not normally given to strange pronouncements.

"What?" I exclaimed, not sure I’d heard her right.

"Now, Dina," said Mrs. Cooper, frowning and shooting Dina a sharp glance, "don’t be telling tales out of school. You know Doctor Waldron said it were probably summat else what caused it."

"What do you mean?" I was puzzled.

The cook and Dina looked at each other fixedly, as if each were daring the other to speak. Mrs. Cooper was the first to talk.

"He found her in her bed, Miss. She were right pale," explained the cook. "But the doctor thought it were natural. Like a blood disease or summat. She were kind enough to come out directly, even though she were at church and all."

"Doctor been out here lots these days, with your aunt feeling sickly," said Dina, "but Mr. Gerald insisted on ringing up the Constable, Miss. He blamed Jamison. Constable Macdonald come and took Jamison with him. Said they’d keep ‘im awhile, to help him in his inquiries." She nodded her head, as if remembering something. "Mr. Gerald said that’d be just fine. That’d be long enough."

I was getting a little confused. My aunt had been sick, had apparently died of a disease, but my cousin had blamed the butler? I knew Gerald had always disliked Jamison, but mostly because the butler had never allowed him to pull the whiny brat routine, not even when Gerald was a boy.
"Where is my cousin now?" I asked. I planned on having a long, if distasteful, talk with him.

 "He left an hour ago," said Dina. She looked at me with a smirk. "He took the Rolls."

That figured. My aunt was dead less than forty-eight hours and Gerald had already appropriated her Rolls Royce. Well, he’d soon have another think coming. I knew what was in Clara’s will, since she’d e-mailed me a copy earlier in the year. I chuckled at the thought of what Gerald would say when he realized that Clara had left everything to the servants.

I sat bolt upright, spilling my tea. My aunt had left the bulk of the estate in a trust for Jamison and the rest of the staff. I wasn’t sure of the amount of money, but I knew it wasn’t small potatoes. A house the size of Chalfont required a fortune for upkeep and taxes, and Clara had never pinched pennies. The money had been well invested and had grown quite handsomely over the years. Could someone as loyal, kind and trustworthy as Jamison really have killed my aunt for her money?

"I think it’d be best if you went upstairs and took a rest, Miss," said Mrs. Cooper, wiping up my mess. "Dina, let’s get Miss Lindsay settled."
Dina jumped up from her chair, eager to help. "Yes, Ma’am," she said, and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. "I’ve cleaned up one of the guest rooms for her."

"I’ll tell Mr. Gerald you’re resting when he returns, Miss Lindsay," said Mrs. Cooper. "That way you’ll not be disturbed."

"Thank you, Dina," I said. If I could get my computer hooked up, I could access a copy of the will on my laptop.

"Where is my cousin staying?" I asked Dina, as we entered the hallway next to the bedrooms.

"In the master suite," she replied, snickering. "We told him it weren’t fit, but he made me." I chuckled. That suite of rooms hadn’t been lived in since Great-Uncle Albert's days. Clara had preferred a smaller suite on the other side of the house. I hoped Gerald liked sleeping with spiders.
My cousin's actions were too transparent -- commandeering the Rolls, setting himself up in the master suite -- as if he thought that would establish him as the master of Chalfont. He was in for a surprise.

I quickly found the file I was looking for. I was right. All of Clara’s assets, less a few token personal bequests, were to be held in a trust administered by her solicitor and benefiting all the persons living in the house at the time that she was declared dead.

According to the specifics of the will, no one person would benefit from any of the money. The staff was to continue at Chalfont and care for the house and grounds, as if Clara were still there. Each would get a small bequest plus continue their current salary, with appropriate annual increases in pay. As trustee, Jamison would be in charge of household expenses, including pay raises and spending for the upkeep of the house and grounds. In fact, he’d basically be doing the same job he was doing now, and the job would be his until he died. On his death, the job of trustee would be turned over to his nearest relative or designee, with the same caveats, and so on.

I couldn’t see any motive for killing my aunt. The staff had a good deal whether or not Clara was dead or alive, unless Jamison had figured out some way to bleed the trust dry. But that was unlikely. To what end? He’d always struck me as a career butler. To my layman’s eye, the provisions of the trust looked pretty straightforward. There was even a clause that made the whole thing invalid if Clara’s death was found to have been caused by any or all of the persons named as benefiting from the will.

I sat staring at my screen wondering what I wasn’t seeing here. Why would Gerald think that Jamison had killed my aunt? What motive would he have had?

"What’re you doing?" my cousin’s voice startled me out of my thoughts. I quickly glanced up at the screen, relieved to find that my screensaver had kicked in.

I closed the laptop and turned towards him. "So, where were you?" I asked. "Taking a joy ride in Auntie’s Rolls?" My voice was sarcastic.
He frowned at me, getting that silly pompous look. It meant that he thought he was being responsible. "I was making arrangements," he said, puffing up his chest.

"Fine," I said, crossing my arms. "So what are they?"

"What are what?" he asked.

"The arrangements. What are they?" I looked at him. He hadn’t been taking care of himself. I’m not one to talk, working full time and writing until all hours doesn’t exactly make me a candidate for a Wheaties box, but Gerald looked as if he’d been up all night. Maybe he had.

"The funeral will be tomorrow," he said. "Montmorency and Sons will take care of things.

"We’ll have the viewing tonight." He looked down and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch. It almost sounded as if he’d said "if she cooperates".

I frowned. "What did you say, Gerald?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Would you like to pay your respects?"

Oh, God, it suddenly hit me. "She’s here?" I asked. I had assumed my aunt’s body had been taken to the funeral home. I should have remembered my cousin’s obsession with the whole "lord of the manor" thing.

"Of course she is," he said. "She’s in the chapel. It wouldn’t do to have the neighboring gentry go to a mortuary."

I could picture it now. Gerald would be dressed in his best shiny black suit, holding court in the drawing room while visitors traipsed out to the chapel to do whatever it is one does when one comes to view the recently deceased.

"Do you want to go pay your respects?" he repeated.

"Yes," I stated. "I think I will go see her." I wasn’t too happy with the idea, but figured I should do something as a family member.

"Would you like me to escort you?" he asked, holding out his hand. He may have been trying to be kind, but I could see his hand shaking a little. It was probably damp, too.

"No, thanks, I’ll go on my own. It's only Aunt Clara." I sounded a lot more sure of myself than I was. It was a little weird having the dead body of your possibly murdered aunt in the same house, but the chapel was off one wing and not really in the main section. It’s not as if it was next door to my bedroom or anything. And after all, she was dead.



I wiped my hands on my jeans. This wing was darker and much colder, too, as if neither light nor heat could reach this far. The hallway boasted beautiful stained glass panels that, gorgeous as they were, let in precious little ambient light. Clara had never shown much interest in the chapel and the lighting hadn't been updated. A few flickering bulbs threw off a pale yellow light that made the passageway seem even darker by comparison.

I was hoping the main overhead lights in the chapel still worked, or I was hightailing it out of there. I fully admit to being a bit of a chicken. Maybe it’s the novels I write but I have way too active of an imagination.

I reached the door and pushed it open slowly. A soft flickering light came from inside, up by the altar in front. My mouth was dry and I was breathing too fast. Clara’s body was laid out on a bier, surrounded by candles, dozens of them in tall holders, like something out of a "B"-movie. What had Gerald been thinking? I halfway expected to hear Count Dracula’s seductive "Gut Eve-ning" as I walked in.

The candles made it worse than having no light at all. I suppose shuttering the chapel windows had been done out of respect, but I didn’t like it.
I made my way around the outside edge of the chapel and towards the back, where the main switchbox was, staying as far as possible from Clara. I knew I was being silly, but I just couldn’t go any closer. Not in this dark. From here, she looked as if she were sleeping. It didn’t look like her really, especially not in that high-neck, demure white nightgown. She’d been more likely to sleep in lurid purple sweats or in the nude.

I reached the back wall and found the array of light switches. Pressing one after the other, I realized that either a fuse had blown or that the electricity had been shut off to the chapel. That was enough. There was no way I’d stay here in this Hammer-film set.

"May I help you?"

I shrieked and jumped back against the wall.

"Jamison?" My voice shook, the word emerging in a small squeal.

"Yes, miss," he replied, his voice as calm and soothing as ever. I’d always admired his beautiful voice. Always peaceful and quiet, he'd easily handled my volatile aunt.

"I thought..." I began, fumbling for words. How on earth was I going to say this?

"Thought that I’d been incarcerated, Miss Lindsay?" He seemed to be amused.

"Yes."

"Constable Macdonald finished with his inquiries, Miss. So I came back." He turned and gestured for me to walk ahead of him, effectively turning me toward the door. "I’m sure you wish to return to the main house. I’ll send for someone to see to the electricity. I’m sure there’s only a minor problem." He deftly turned me in the direction of the door.

"Yes, thank you, Jamison." I mumbled, and hurried out of the chapel. Funny, I really was sure he hadn’t killed Aunt Clara, but his being there in the dark chapel had really unnerved me. I’d almost gotten the feeling that he hadn’t wanted me to approach my aunt too closely. Not that I’d particularly wanted to, but still...



I settled in for a short nap and by the time I woke up, it was already getting close to dark. The first of the neighbors would probably start arriving soon, in time for a quick pop into the chapel and then out for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. It wouldn’t do to arrive too early and miss the refreshments.

I wanted to go back to the chapel before anyone else got there. Not only did I want to make sure that the electricity was working, but I really thought I should at least make some semblance of prayer or something. I wasn’t much for religion or anything, but my aunt had been a fun and unusual relative, often the source of much of the material in my novels. No one could make up some of the stuff she’d done. She deserved more than a perfunctory visit.

My heart sank when I saw that Gerald was in the hallway outside the chapel. So much for a little privacy. He was standing still, staring at the closed doors.

"Going in, cuz?" I asked, a little sarcastically.

He whirled, eyes wide and mouth opening & shutting like a fish gasping for air. I’d never noticed how much Gerald reminded me of a guppy until now.

"Wha--?" he gasped, stumbling a little as he stepped away from me.

I grinned, enjoying this. "What’s wrong, Gerald? Scared to go in?" I wasn’t above mocking him for the same fears I had. At least I’d actually gone in before. Okay, so I hadn’t actually stayed very long.

He grimaced and tried to compose himself, straightening his jacket and smoothing what was left of his hair.

"I was just taking a moment of silence before entering," he said, his voice icy and almost mean. "Aunt Clara deserves our utmost respect."

"Yeah, whatever," I said, and moved to step around him so I could reach the door handle. "Did Jamison get the lights working yet?"

"Jamison?" His voice became a mousy squeak.

I was getting impatient. He was blocking my way and I wanted to go in and make sure everything was ready for the viewing. Funny, now that Gerald was here, my earlier nervousness was gone and all I wanted to do was to get this over with.

"Yes, Jamison," I said, pushing him out of the way and opened the door. "He told me he’d get someone to check on the electricity. It wasn’t working when I was here a little while ago."

"Jamison can’t be here," he said, gulping hard, his voice still shaky.

I stopped and turned to face him, briefly noting that the electric wall sconces were glowing with a soft light. Good.

"Gerald, what is your problem? Jamison was released after talking to the police. He’s back on duty here. Evidently, he’s no longer a suspect." I stared at Gerald’s face, which seemed to be much paler than normal. Hard to tell, since his normal complexion is that of a mushroom.

"He..." My cousin couldn’t seem to get the words out.

"He what?"

Gerald stammered again and then stopped to take a breath. As he opened his mouth to speak, I saw him glance over my shoulder. His face froze and instead of words, he let out a long wail and pointed behind me.

I spun around, my brain slowly processing the words my cousin was shrieking, as I took in the sight in front of me.

"She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone." Gerald’s voice got higher with each word.

Although the sconces were on, the area around the altar remained dark. The candles were still the only source of light up there, illuminated nothing more than the empty bier. My aunt’s body had vanished.

I swallowed hard and started to move when Gerald grabbed me.

"No!" he said, hoarsely. "Don’t."

I pulled my arm and forced it out of his grasp. I needed to get closer to see. My brain raced. I knew we needed to call the Constable, Jamison, anybody. I didn’t want to be alone here. Gerald, in his current state, didn’t count.

Maybe the funeral home had mistakenly come early. I walked up the aisle, my steps slow, barely aware of Gerald behind me. Moving closer, I halfway expected to see a business card from Montmorency & Sons on the bier. Like when a realtor leaves a card behind to let you know she’s shown your house while you were out. My mind was practically babbling.

Of course, there was nothing there but a satin pillow. In fact, it still had the impression of Clara’s head on it and one lone gray hair. As I started to head for the main switch panel to turn on the rest of the lights, I realized what Gerald was saying.

"She’s going to come back. She knows it was me." He blubbered around the words, crying and covering his face with his hands.
"Gerald?" I said, not wanting to understand what I was hearing. Was he trying to tell me that Aunt Clara had been murdered? And that he’d done it?

He looked up, his face tear-stained. "She’s coming back for me."

"Coming back?" I realized what he was saying. "Gerald, get a grip. Aunt Clara is dead."

He nodded, still blubbering. "I saw them. They didn’t know."

He glanced towards the empty bier. "And now she’s walking the night. The other night, I came to ask her for some money. My business..." He looked at me with an apologetic glance.

"But I couldn’t find her," he continued. "So I went up to see the butler. To see if he knew where she was. His door was open. They were there together. It was horrible."

I was appalled, bemused, and more than a little confused. So my aunt had been having an affair with her butler. It wasn’t exactly "the thing" in the local circles, but Clara had always marched to her own beat.

"Blood," whispered Gerald.

He finally looked at me, his eyes shiny and round. "He was drinking her blood, and then, she did the same to him. So, I had to do it."

I stared at him, not believing what I heard. Was my aunt into some sort of Goth weirdness? At her age? She’d always been a little strange, but this was too much to believe.

"I had it all worked out," he continued, his voice stronger now, as he gained confidence in his actions.

"I’d report her dead. Then blame Jamison. I was coming to the chapel to make sure it was permanent with her, too. But it’s too late. She’s already risen." He started to walk towards the bier, his movements jerky and unnatural. "Now she’ll come for me. With him." He turned back to face me. "It’s like your books, but it’s real."

"Gerald," I started walking toward him. My only thought was to get him to a doctor, and soon. He’d really flipped. A low keening sound came out of his throat as he stared past me toward the chapel door we’d just come in.

My legs gave out when I heard a low, yet, cheerful voice behind me, and I fell into the front pew with a thud.

"Darling, child, it’s all true, you know."

I didn’t want to look at the source of those words. I knew it was Clara’s voice. Clara -– the same person that had been lying dead on that bier just a few hours ago.

She continued speaking, a definite hint of amusement in her tone, "I’m afraid Gerald discovered our little secret."

"You see," said Clara, sitting down in the pew behind me. "I found out a few months ago that I had a fatal blood disorder. That’s when Jamison did what he’s always done. Take care of me and of Chalfont. After all, I didn’t want to die. I wanted to stay at Chalfont and enjoy my life. Besides, who would take care of Mrs. Cooper, and young Dina?"

I turned, half afraid to look directly at her. Gerald was making incoherent moaning sounds behind me. This could not be happening. Part of me wanted to believe her, the other part wondered if I’d fallen into some bizarre nightmarish plot from one of my own novels. I avoided the cliché of pinching myself –- I definitely knew I was awake.

Still dressed in the incongruous white nightie, my aunt looked healthier than she had any right to be, a self-satisfied smile on her face. She grinned and showed off some rather pointed incisors, and then reached over and patted my hand. Her skin felt cool, as if she’d been out in the night air. Come to think of it, she probably had.

I pulled back my hand. I wasn’t sure about any of this.

"Clara," I said, finding that I could still speak. "You can’t mean what I think do."

Clara laughed; a delighted sound that bounced around the echoing chapel walls. She motioned for Jamison to come closer. He’d been standing in the shadows behind her.

"Yes, dearest, it is true, although hard to believe. Jamison only told me when he realized I was dying. He gallantly offered and I accepted." She turned to him and smiled.

Jamison bowed slightly and said in his best butler’s voice, "Anything for Miss Clara."

My aunt reached over and patted my hand again, continuing her story. "So I rewrote my will. I figured I’d falsify my death at some point and then come back as a distant cousin or something when it was necessary to keep up appearances."

She looked at her undead butler and smiled. "I set up the trust with Jamison’s great-great-grandson. He's my solicitor as it turns out. Young Jamey will administer the trust and Jamison will run the house. When it’s necessary, he’ll "retire", and then his "cousin" will come into service here. It’s perfect! You do realize that he’s been here for a very long time?" She looked concerned, as if she wanted to be sure I fully understood.

I managed a sickly smile. I’d always heard of the four generations of Jamison men. Could she be implying that it was this Jamison all along?

Her smile grew wider into a Cheshire Cat grin as she saw the comprehension in my eyes. Now I could really see the sharp points of her new teeth gleaming. I was beginning to believe her. She’d never looked like that before. She was positively glowing.

"But why the bier," I stammered, finally accepting that Clara was serious. "Why the whole death thing? Couldn’t you have just kept on for a while?"
At this, Gerald broke into loud sobs and fell into a crumpling heap on the floor.

Clara frowned at the sight of my cousin weeping like a toddler. "It was Gerald’s fault," she replied. "We weren’t going to set up my death for at least twenty more years, but your cousin forced the issue. He wasn’t supposed to have been here last weekend. After he saw us, he reported my "death" to the authorities, making me play out this silly charade." She tugged on the neck of the nightgown and frowned.

Clara’s voice grew hard as she turned her gaze on Gerald. "Is that why you told them, Gerald? And had Jamison arrested? To punish me? What were you planning to do?"

Gerald moaned again. "I’d seen part of your will when I came up that weekend. I went upstairs to confront you."

His voice became as whiny as a child’s as he continued. "I was your nephew and needed the money more than those servants of yours.
"And when I saw the two of you, I knew I had to do something. I figured that the police would keep him until daylight and then it would be all over for him. After that, I could come back and move you out into the sun. Then you’d really be dead. And you wouldn’t be an abomination and I’d get the money since he’d be gone, too."

His voice was still shaking but he stood up and thrust out his chest. "I had it all figured out. I sent a telegram to Lindsay, and then called the constable."

I groaned, realizing that that was what Mrs. Cooper and Dina had meant about the doctor. I’d gotten the telegram early Saturday afternoon. When I’d arrived, today, Monday morning, they’d implied that Clara had "died" just yesterday. Gerald had found her "dead" on Sunday and reported it then. As usual, Gerald had messed up and done it in the wrong order. Eventually, he would have been found out. I was pretty sure that both Mrs. C and Dina were aware of this whole set-up.

"So, what now?" I asked with more than a little bravado. I wasn’t too sure I wanted to hear the answer. If this were one of my novels, or a TV show, the "bad guys" would be getting rid of the witnesses. That would be Gerald...and me.

Clara laughed again, obviously enjoying herself. "Dearest Lindsay, you don’t really think I would let anything happen to you?" She folded her hand around mine, giving it a small squeeze. This time, I didn’t draw it back.

"Besides, I’m sure that you wouldn’t mind a few anecdotes from the real world?" She winked at me broadly.

I began to see the possibilities. I could always use more grist for my writing mill. It wasn’t easy to come up with fresh angles for my books. Modern audiences were rather jaded these days. I suppose it was overexposure, but new books were getting harder to write. I’d even resorted to borrowing heavily from classic Greek and Roman tales. An infusion of new blood, so to speak, might be just what I needed. After all, who would ever believe it was real?

Clara stood up abruptly and motioned with her hand. In one swift movement, Jamison was past me and had grabbed Gerald by the arm. He’d been trying to sneak out the back.

He stood there cowering under Clara’s gaze, as Jamison held him immobile. Clara smiled and delicately licked her lips. "I think we can work something out." She looked at Jamison and laughed, "For the both of you."


That was three years ago. For some bizarre reason (maybe it was the latest crop of vampire TV shows?) my books were selling like the latest fancy coffee drink at Starbucks. Not that I was complaining. I’d been able to quit my day job and write fulltime now.

I still kept in touch with everyone via e-mail, especially Mrs. Cooper and Dina, who’d bought new computers once my aunt’s will was probated. Clara had been duly "buried" and mourned and her butler had taken over the running of the house.

As for Gerald, Mrs. C reported that everyone in town agreed how very lucky he’d been to be able to obtain a position at Chalfont after his business failed. How kind of Mr. Jamison to think of his late employer’s relation and to offer him the job of valet. And Mr. Gerald with no training, either.

The latest rumor was that a distant cousin of Aunt Clara’s had written to Mr. Jamison. It seems her people had immigrated to New Zealand some time ago, and she’d recently found out about her relatives in England. In fact, she might be coming for a visit soon...

fin

(c) 2004 Maria Lima All Rights Reserved