‘No. Her brother was awful strict about it. Her not going into his room, I mean. And, what with her being the sort of woman she is, she didn’t like doing anything to upset him. That fond of him, she was.’ Miss Calder gave a sniff. ‘Not that I think he deserved it, of course, but I’m not one for gossiping.’
‘Why did you show me into that room?’
‘Well, there’s no harm in it now, is there? Mr Dewhurst’s not here to give me a talking to, and besides,’ the lady’s maid added, colouring slightly, ‘it’s not as if I could show you into the mistress’ sitting room, not with you just being one of the hotel staff, if you’ll forgive me for saying. What was your name? I’d better tell my mistress, and I don’t think as how you told me?’ She looked at the girl enquiringly.
Rose knew that it was only a matter of minutes before her identity was revealed, by the Duchess of Grismere if not by herself. It would surely spell the end to Miss Calder gossiping to her in that easy, unguarded fashion of hers. With this thought uppermost in her mind, she answered Miss Calder’s question with one of her own.
‘Was it your afternoon off yesterday, or do you live out?’
Taken by surprise, the servant raised one eyebrow and eyed her suspiciously.
‘It was just that I was wondering,’ said Rose quickly, ‘why you let yourself in with a key. I took that to mean you lived out.’ Her words were met with a frosty silence. ‘I was a little surprised, that’s all, that you didn’t live in. I mean, on account of Miss Dewhurst being an invalid.’
There was something of an awkward silence. Rose was painfully aware that she had appeared too inquisitive. If only she had let Miss Calder talk in her own longwinded, gossipy way, she would not have aroused the woman’s suspicions, and no doubt would eventually have obtained the information she sought. But she reminded herself that time was of the essence. She must use whatever means were in her power to detain Miss Calder, and ascertain all the woman knew, before the servant learned the true nature of Alec Dewhurst’s death, and that Rose was in fact not a hotel employee but an amateur sleuth and married to a member of the British aristocracy.
‘If I had not taken a liking to you, I might well ask what business it is of yours if I live in or out,’ said the lady’s maid, a trifle indignant. ‘But seeing as you ask, and I believe you to have my mistress’ best interests at heart, I don’t see why I may not tell you.’ She drew herself up to her full height. ‘I live out in the servants’ quarters of the hotel, though why a bed couldn’t have been set up for me in the mistress’ dressing room, I don’t know. Why, I even said as much to Miss Dewhurst as –’
The lady’s maid halted abruptly in midsentence. Both women had caught the sound of a door being opened and, taken somewhat unawares, they had turned around rather guiltily to stare at the door in question. It is quite possible that they had momentarily forgotten that the woman calling herself Miss Dewhurst was situated not twelve feet from where they were standing. Or else they had been too engrossed in their conversation to consider that she might be disturbed by the sound of their voices in the echoey hall.
Chapter Eighteen
The duchess emerged from her room wearing a white silk negligée, over which had been thrown, somewhat hastily, a satin lace dressing gown which trailed on the floor behind her like a wedding train. Had it not been for the fact that her hair was the colour of dark ebony, she would have given every appearance of being a ghost. For the odd, deathly pallor of her face matched the whiteness of her attire, and she uttered not a word, as she took in the scene before her, standing with her back to the door, her hands behind her clutching at the door knob tightly, as if without its support she would fall.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ exclaimed Miss Calder, rushing forward in a clear state of agitation, worried in case her mistress had overheard her gossiping in the hall. ‘Won’t you sit down? I’ll get a chair for you, for I’m that afraid you’ll fall.’ She was rather reminiscent of a little black beetle scurrying about in search of a feast. ‘Oh, ma’am, I hardly dare tell you, but you’re in for an awful shock, so you are,’ she continued putting an arm around her mistress’ shoulders. ‘The sitting room, I think. You there,’ she said addressing Rose, ‘open the door, there’s a dear.’ She returned her attention to the duchess. ‘I’ll bring you a nice cup of sugared tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer a little brandy. As you know, I don’t hold with spirits as a rule, but they do say they’re awful good for shock.’
The Duchess of Grismere permitted herself to be steered towards the sitting room. Her maid was obliged to leave her for a moment, propped up against the wall, while she hurried into the room to throw open the wooden shutters to allow the sunlight to seep in. Her mistress, still looking a little dazed, took the opportunity to peer more closely at the stranger, who stood awkwardly in the hall.
‘You!’ she said, as recognition dawned on her. There was no warmth in her voice. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t send for you.’
‘There, there,’ said Miss Calder, returning to her position in the hall. ‘This young lady’s been ever so kind. She works for the hotel, she does. I’m afraid I didn’t catch her name, but –’
‘Lady Belvedere,’ supplied the duchess, putting a hand up to her head, almost as if she thought she were in some strange dream.
‘Lady …? No, I don’t think that can be right …’ began the lady’s maid, looking from one to the other of them, a look of growing consternation on her face.
‘This is the Countess of Belvedere,’ said the duchess wearily, walking into the sitting room.
‘Yes,’ agreed Rose hurriedly, fearing an awkward silence. ‘I am here at the request of the hotel proprietor, Mr Kettering. I am afraid, your … Miss Dewhurst, you must prepare yourself to receive some very distressing news.’
‘Oh?’ A note of fear appeared in the duchess’ voice. She glanced nervously at her lady’s maid. ‘That will do, Calder. You may see to my room.’
If the lady’s maid was minded to protest, the look on her mistress’ face persuaded her otherwise. Instead, she scurried away leaving Rose and the duchess to face one another in the sitting room. The duchess closed the door and waited for a moment, as if she feared her maid might be tempted to sneak back and listen at the door. Satisfied that this was not the case, she turned and addressed her visitor.
‘Well, what have you to tell me?’ she said, a touch of contempt in her voice. ‘Has Lord Belvedere seen fit to write to my husband after all?’
Rose, slightly taken aback by the woman’s tone, took a moment or two to answer.
She glanced around at her surroundings, as if looking for inspiration on how best to break the awful news to the duchess of her lover’s death. The sitting room was a very pleasant room, though sparsely furnished, with newly distempered walls and pale painted floorboards, over which had been strewn some rugs. The walls were bare save for a couple of framed watercolours of the island. The room boasted only two sofas, which were upholstered in a pale gold brocade. The simplicity of the interior inclined Rose to speak plainly and dispense with pleasantries.
‘I’m afraid there has been an accident. Mr Dewhurst … Mr Dewhurst is dead.’
On entering the room, both women had remained standing. The duchess had crossed the floor and taken up a position in front of the marble fireplace. Rose, left to stand awkwardly beside one of the sofas, had felt herself to be at a disadvantage. Having spoken, however, her words, in their abruptness, had the effect of seeming to reverse the positions. Everything that followed afterwards seemed to occur very slowly so that, after the event, Rose could remember each individual movement. First, the duchess took a step backwards and collided with the mantelpiece. Then she put out a hand to steady herself and in the process inadvertently caught the corner of a pale blue glass candlestick. The object fell to the floor and smashed in to a hundred tiny pieces. The woman stared at them, as if oddly fascinated by the damage she had caused. With legs that seemed to be made of heavy stone, Rose moved forward and, taking
the woman awkwardly by the elbow, steered her towards one of the brocade sofas. The duchess, her legs seeming to buckle beneath her, sat down heavily, dragging Rose down with her so that the two women found themselves unintentionally sitting side by side. It was a moment before either of them spoke.
‘Alec … dead?’ The duchess uttered the words as if she were in a daze. ‘No … no, he’s in his room. That’s where he is. He’s still asleep.’ A strange optimistic note had entered her voice, which sounded strained and hollow. ‘I shall ring for Calder and ask her to wake him. You will see.’
Before Rose could stop her, the duchess had leapt to her feet and was stumbling towards the bell-pull, an old-fashioned affair consisting of woven glass beads. She began pulling on it for all she was worth, almost as if her very life depended upon it. The lady’s maid appeared at the door looking flustered and a trifle out of breath, not to say put out.
‘Wake Mr Dewhurst,’ the duchess commanded, without preamble.
Miss Calder, a look of horror on her face, looked desperately from one to the other of the women, uncertain what to do. For Rose’s tragic news was still ringing in her ears like the peals emitted by the bell-pull.
It was clear to Rose that the duchess was in no mood to be argued with.
‘Do as your mistress says,’ she said quietly. ‘Go to his room.’
Only with the knowledge that Alec Dewhurst was not in the building was there any hope that the duchess would begin to listen to reason. As it was, it was a fretful wait, though, in actual fact, it was merely a matter of a few seconds before the servant had returned from the task and was informing them that Alec Dewhurst was not in his room.
‘And that’s not all, ma’am,’ she added. ‘His bed’s not been slept in, neither. And he’s not in his study, if you was thinking of asking me to look for him in there. Me and her ladyship are just after going in that room, and such a state it’s in as I never did see.’ Noting the pained expression that her words had produced on her mistress’ face, she added: ‘Now, you sit down here and take the weight off your feet. That’s right. If you lean back, I’ll put these cushions here, like this, and you can rest your head on them. I’d close my eyes, if I were you, and take a couple of deep breaths. You’ll feel better for it. You’ve had an awful shock, so you have.’
It was a few minutes before the lady’s maid had completed her ministrations to her satisfaction and could be persuaded to depart the room and leave her mistress to her visitor’s care. Though she refrained from commenting, it was obvious from the odd glances she bestowed on Rose, and the way in which she fussed over the duchess in such an exaggerated manner, that the servant was of the view that the girl had handled the situation badly. As it happened, Rose was of a similar opinion and inwardly cursed herself for her lack of tact. She felt no better in the knowledge that the duchess’ inherent haughtiness had influenced the way in which she had informed her of Alec Dewhurst’s death. Two wrongs did not make a right. She had been too abrupt and had lacked empathy, two failings of which Rose was not usually guilty.
The girl turned and stared rather miserably at the marble fireplace, which in the summer heat seemed remarkably redundant. She had heard tell that in the winter months it was cold on the island; indeed, some years there was even snow. Her gaze dropped to the floor and dwelt for a moment on the broken candlestick. She was thankful that Miss Calder had not spotted this particular mishap; she could only imagine the reproachful glances that would have been cast in her direction if she had. She sighed, thinking that the worst was yet to come. For she had still to inform the duchess of the nature of her lover’s death.
Rose looked up and discovered, rather belatedly, that the duchess had been watching her closely. A suspicious gleam had crept into the other woman’s tearful eyes, which were now focused unblinkingly upon her. Besides sorrow, Rose was conscious of another emotion emanating from the duchess. It took her a few seconds to identify it as fear. But whether the duchess was afraid for herself, or for what she was about to hear, Rose found it impossible to determine.
‘He is dead,’ the duchess said in a dull voice.
She uttered the sentence as if it were a statement of fact, rather than a question. Certainly, she did not require an answer. The combination of her servant’s well-meant but slightly over bearing ministrations and the knowledge that Alec Dewhurst had not spent the night in his room forced her to accept that what she was being told was indeed the truth.
‘Yes,’ Rose said. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to speak so abruptly. It was frightfully unkind of me.’ The duchess made no comment on this observation, and Rose hurried on. ‘Mr Kettering, the hotel proprietor, asked me to call on you and break the news. He didn’t want you to hear it from the servants.’ Still the duchess did not speak, though her eyes did not leave Rose’s face. With nothing but the prospect of a continuing silence, Rose found herself rambling on. ‘It was Mr Kettering who found Mr Dewhurst.’
Still no words escaped the other woman’s lips. At mention of the hotel proprietor she had given a little start, and her gaze had left Rose’s face to stare down at the floor, as if the painted floorboards held for her an awful fascination. Only her hands showed any real movement. They had been folded neatly in her lap, but they had become restless and started to clench and unclench, the knuckles showing white under the pale skin. On occasion, the duchess took the odd deep breath, giving the impression that she was making efforts to compose herself. Once or twice she lifted her head, as if she were on the verge of speaking, but thought better of it.
‘Mr Kettering found him on the beach. Apparently he is in the habit of going for an early morning swim. He found Mr Dewhurst’s … body a little way from the bottom of the cliff.’
The duchess stared at her: ‘Alec fell over the edge of the cliff? Is that what you are telling me?’ She sounded incredulous and for a moment it appeared she was struggling for breath. A few seconds later, however, and the words came tumbling out of her mouth in a torrent. She did not wait for Rose to answer her question. Instead, she seemed intent on answering it herself. ‘I suppose he must have lost his footing.’ She got up from the sofa and began to pace the room, her hands still clenching and unclenching by her side. ‘If his bed’s not been slept in, as Calder says, it must have happened last night.’ She gasped and put a hand up to her face. ‘He always goes … went for a walk before turning in for the night. He couldn’t sleep otherwise. Of course, I told him how dangerous it was. Wandering over to the cliff edge, I mean. I warned him it wasn’t safe. But of course, he wouldn’t listen,’ she said rather bitterly. ‘Men seldom listen to what women have to say.’ She produced a silk handkerchief from her pocket and began to dab rather ineffectually at her eyes. ‘I can’t … I can’t believe he’s dead,’ she said. ‘It seems so awfully futile. It was … it was all for nothing.’
Surmising correctly that the woman was referring to the abandonment of her husband, Rose waited a few moments for the duchess to compose herself and sit down. While she did so, she took the opportunity to steal a sideways glance at her companion, noting the dark smudges under her eyes and the fine lines around them, which looked more pronounced in the raw morning light without a layer of powder to conceal them.
It is possible that the duchess became conscious that she was being studied, for she looked up and for one unguarded moment her eyes met Rose’s. Behind the tears Rose detected a look of anguish and some other emotion she could not put her finger on. The next minute and the duchess had averted her gaze, her fingers pulling at the fine satin lace of her dressing gown. ‘Must you tell my husband?’ she said.
The duchess’ head was bowed, the expression on her face hidden from view, her restive fingers still playing with the fabric of her dressing gown. Rose stared at her. Despite this show of seeming indifference, she had the odd impression that the woman was waiting on her answer with bated breath.
When no answer appeared forthcoming, the duchess said: ‘I should like to keep it from him. It w
on’t do any good his knowing the truth.’ She gave Rose an imploring look. ‘It would be as much for his sake, as for mine. Why, you told me yourself that he was ill and had aged dreadfully. Don’t you see? It would be a kindness to him if he never found out about … about Alec… if you didn’t tell him –’
‘What would you do?’ asked Rose rather sharply, though she knew the answer.
‘Well, I’d return to England, of course,’ said the duchess. ‘There would be no reason for me not to take up my old life. I could think up an excuse as to why I had to leave when I did.’
Rose stared at her. ‘You mean you would never tell your husband the truth?’
‘No. I daresay you will think it awfully wrong of me,’ continued the duchess. ‘But you, yourself, suggested that I write to my husband. You were quite right when you said that I was miserable. I have been quite wretched. I didn’t know quite what to do. I loved him, you see, Mr Dewhurst. But I never for one moment stopped loving my husband.’ She sighed. ‘I was not aware of the type of man Alec was until … and then, you see, it was far too late to do anything about it.’
Rose was struck by the woman’s candour which, whilst rather splendid in its way, was also frightening. There was a ruthlessness about the woman that she found somewhat chilling. She also experienced a pang of conscience. She had permitted the duchess to prattle on, ignorant of the true nature of her lover’s death. In so doing, the woman had inadvertently provided her with a motive for why she might have wished Alec Dewhurst out of the way.
‘I’m afraid you should prepare yourself to receive another shock. Mr Dewhurst’s death was not an accident.’
The duchess started. A look of puzzlement crossed her face. ‘What do you mean?’ Enlightenment of some sort slowly dawned on her. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting it was … it was suicide?’
‘No,’ Rose said. There was a long pause. She looked at the duchess, wondering if she would supply the word that was on the tip of her own tongue. The woman, however, looked bewildered. Certainly, she gave every impression of not having grasped what was being conveyed to her. ‘The doctor who examined Mr Dewhurst’s body,’ continued Rose, deliberately speaking slowly, ‘is of the opinion that Mr Dewhurst was murdered.’
Murder on Skiathos Page 17
