Murder on Skiathos

by Margaret Addison

  Was it Rose’s imagination, or had a note of fear entered the duchess’ voice? Certainly she no longer appeared bored with the line the questions were taking.

  ‘Mr Dewhurst’s real name was Goodfellow.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the duchess said quickly. ‘I knew that his name was Goodfellow.’ She sounded oddly relieved, as if she had feared some other revelation. ‘We travelled under assumed names. We thought it would be less … conspicuous. My husband …’ She faltered, unable, or unwilling, to continue her sentence.

  ‘His name,’ continued Rose, ‘was Alec Goodfellow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you also know that he was a petty criminal?’

  ‘I … I don’t believe you,’ said the duchess, though the expression on her face suggested otherwise.

  Rose had the odd feeling that the duchess was playing a part. She wondered if it was for the benefit of the hotel proprietor, who looked decidedly uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken. It is quite possible that he felt an obligation to contribute to the colloquy to prevent it from deteriorating any further.

  ‘It really is most unfortunate,’ he ventured, somewhat apologetically, ‘but I am afraid Lady Belvedere is quite right. That’s to say, we have it on good authority that the deceased was a thief who had served a period of time in prison.’

  ‘I see.’ The words were spoken wearily, without emotion.

  Rose had the odd impression that the duchess had either long ago resigned herself to the fact that Alec Dewhurst was a thoroughly bad lot, or else she was being told a fact which she already knew. She sat in a resigned fashion waiting for one of her visitors to elaborate on Mr Kettering’s statement. Remembering the way in which the duchess had vehemently defended her lover’s character the previous evening, Rose found herself riled. It had not been her intention to be unkind yet, before she could stop herself, she said: ‘He was in the habit of preying on women of wealth. He stole from them.’

  Two bright spots of colour appeared on the duchess’ cheeks and she swallowed hard. While there was something rather pathetic about her, there was also a flash of defiant anger in her eyes, which was rather magnificent. She said: ‘Well, he did not steal from me, if that is what you are inferring.’

  ‘You were in the habit of making him gifts?’

  ‘Well, what of it? I don’t see what business it is of yours what I did,’ said the duchess, sounding indignant.

  ‘Mr Dewhurst produced a pocket watch at dinner last night. Quite an elaborate affair. Did you by any chance give it to him?’

  The duchess hesitated a moment before answering, almost as if she suspected Rose of laying a trap.

  ‘What if I did?’ she said finally. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘For no reason other than that it appears to be missing.’ The duchess gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘We believe that it may have been stolen,’ continued Rose, watching her closely. ‘Unless, of course, it is in your possession?’

  ‘No,’ said the duchess abruptly. ‘I don’t have it. Stolen, you say? Isn’t it among Alec’s things?’

  ‘That is what we shall need to find out.’

  Rose was quite sure a look of relief fleetingly crossed the duchess’ face, replaced hastily by one resembling concern at the potential loss of a valuable piece of jewellery. For some reason that she could not yet fathom, the duchess appeared pleased by the theft of the pocket watch. For, not for one minute, did Rose believe that it was lying in Alec Dewhurst’s rooms among his possessions. It was quite ludicrous to suppose it might be there. Alec Dewhurst would not have laden himself down with numerous trinkets only to leave behind the most valuable one of them all. Though the duchess’ reaction to the theft puzzled her, she did not have time to reflect on it further. For there came suddenly into her mind a feeling of absolute certainty that something was amiss. She had allowed herself to become distracted. Even now, as she sat and parleyed with the duchess, events were occurring around her which might adversely affect her investigation.

  She had a moment of clarity concerning what these might be and sprung up from the sofa. ‘Where is Miss Calder?’ she demanded. ‘What is she doing? What was she doing before we arrived?’

  She did not wait for the duchess to answer, but instead fled from the room, pushing past the hotel proprietor, mumbling: ‘I must search Mr Dewhurst’s rooms.’ She did not need to see the half smile that curled up the corners of the duchess’ mouth. Neither did she need to witness the lady’s maid appear at the door, rubbing her hands clean on her apron, declaring to anyone who would listen that it was all finished. For she knew only too well that she was too late. The damage had already been done.

  With a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, Rose strode into the hall and threw open the door to the room that Alec Dewhurst had used as a study. The sight that greeted her eyes confirmed her worst fears. Last time she had been in this room it had been in a state of considerable disarray with the drawers of the desk pulled out and rifled, their contents strewn across the floor. The chair and the wicker waste paper basket had been upturned, and the books on the bookshelves had been pulled out, their spines broken and their pages torn.

  The ransacked room was no longer chaotic. It had been restored to an order that in all likelihood exceeded its original condition. To Rose, it looked immaculate. There was no scrap of stray paper on the floor. The chair and the waste paper basket had been righted; the books returned to their original positions in the bookcase; and the contents of the desk either disposed of or put back in the drawers. However, it was not this that Rose found particularly vexing. It was the fact that the room had evidently been cleaned within an inch of its life. Every wooden surface had been vigorously polished so that it shone and the floor had been most effectively swept. It was quite possible, if Miss Calder had found the time, that the lady’s maid had also seen fit to peg out the rugs on a clothes’ line and beat them.

  It would be futile now to examine the room for fingerprints. Rose walked over to the fireplace with heavy steps. There was no sign of the scorched fragments of paper. They had been got rid of as effectively as the grate had been swept and cleaned, in common with the rest of the room. At least, she consoled herself, she remembered the incomplete word that had been written on the scrap of paper. ‘Ober’, she murmured. ‘Ober.’

  She was still repeating the word to herself when she marched back into the sitting room. There was no sign of Miss Calder who, having completed her task had evidently disappeared. The hotel proprietor was still standing awkwardly where she had left him, just inside the door.

  ‘Ober?’ queried Mr Kettering raising his eyebrows above the frames of his horn-rimmed spectacles, as was his way. ‘Ober, your ladyship? I believe,’ he supplied helpfully, ‘it is short for the German word Oberkellner, used to describe a head waiter.’

  ‘I don’t think the word I read was referring to a waiter,’ Rose replied rather curtly.

  There was a long pause as she looked pointedly at the duchess. The woman returned her gaze steadily, but the two bright spots of colour had disappeared from her cheeks, making her face seem very pale. Aware that she was allowing her anger to get the better of her, Rose said:

  ‘Why did you deliberately disobey my instructions? I asked that the study be left as it was, that nothing be touched. I told you it would need to be examined for fingerprints.’

  Rose was conscious that her voice had risen as she spoke. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the hotel proprietor fidgeting with his spectacles, consumed with embarrassment on her behalf. It was quite possible that he thought there would be a scene and she again had the feeling that she was handling the situation badly.

  The Duchess of Grismere blinked and raised herself into a sitting position with the aid of the arm of the sofa. She discarded the blanket that had been covering her legs and let it fall, unheeded, on to the floor. It seemed to Rose’s impatient mind that the duchess’ movements were purposefully slow and laboured, as if she was p
laying for time. Indeed, she imagined the woman’s mind working frantically, considering how best to answer her question. Both women, Rose realised, were preparing for the inevitable confrontation, which seemed to have had its origins in their conversation, among the shadows, the night before.

  ‘I was not aware that the room had been tidied,’ the duchess said. She spoke both quietly and slowly, though there was a cold note to her voice, which was not lost on Rose. ‘In fact, it is the first I have heard of it. I have been asleep and have only just wakened. Miss Calder must have taken the task upon herself to do. Shall I ring for her so that she might explain to you her actions?’ The duchess leaned forward. ‘I trust you did inform her that nothing should be touched?’

  Rose stared at her. There was nothing she could say. If the duchess was complicit in Alec Dewhurst’s death, and there was a connection with his death and the ransacked condition of the study, then she had played her hand very cleverly. The girl admonished herself severely, for really, she had only herself to blame. She had told the lady’s maid that Alec Dewhurst was dead but had refrained from mentioning that he had been murdered. Miss Calder had commented on the state of the study in her presence, but Rose remembered that she had said nothing about leaving the room as it was. She had left the duchess sleeping, not even sure if the woman had heeded her words. She should have waited for the lady’s maid to return from her errand. If only she had thought about it, she would have realised that a woman of Miss Calder’s character would have seen it as an act of kindness to her mistress to don an apron and undertake a task normally assigned to a housemaid. There was nothing that could be done about it now, and it was all her own fault. A smile played over the duchess’ lips and Rose, aware that her own cheeks were burning and that she was allowing her anger to get the better of her again, said:

  ‘I believe the word on the scrap of paper that I found in the grate referred not to Oberkellner but to a person’s name.’ There was a long pause and she regarded the duchess closely, curious as to how the woman would react to such an assertion. ‘You were in the habit of calling Alec Dewhurst ‘Oberon’, weren’t you?’

  If Rose had announced that she had killed Alec Dewhurst herself, the effect on her listener could not have been more shattering. The duchess gasped and put a hand up to her mouth, as if to stifle the words she was afraid she might utter. Her face now had a deathly pallor, the dark smudges under her eyes more pronounced than ever. Had she not been seated, she would surely have fainted. Certainly, that was the view of Mr Kettering, who in one swift movement had leapt forward and grabbed at the bell-pull, with its woven glass beads, and pulled at it as if his very life depended upon it.

  ‘I?’ spluttered the duchess. ‘You are surely mistaken.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Rose firmly. ‘On several occasions in my presence you have referred to Alec Dewhurst as Oberon, before hastily correcting yourself and saying Alec. I think Oberon was the name that you were used to calling him.’

  ‘Very well, said the duchess slowly, knitting her hands together in the odd gesture that was peculiar to her in times of anguish. ‘When I first made Mr Dewhurst’s acquaintance he did tell me his name was Oberon … Oberon Goodfellow. I … I believed him. I had no reason to doubt that what he told me was true. It was not until much later that he informed me he was not particularly fond of the name and asked if I would call him Alec instead, which I did.’

  ‘Why should he tell you that his Christian name was Oberon if it wasn’t?’ asked Rose sharply.

  The duchess blushed. ‘He … he must have discovered somehow that I had a particular liking for the name. You see, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ has always been a favourite play of mine and …’

  She did not finish her sentence, but instead allowed it to falter, burying her face in her hands. It was in this position that her lady’s maid found her, hurrying into the room rather belatedly in summons to the bell-pull. Taking in the scene, she proceeded to tell Rose and the hotel proprietor, in no uncertain terms, that they should be ashamed of themselves for upsetting her mistress like that. Awful wicked, it was, and her brother not even cold in his grave.

  They were ushered unceremoniously out of the door, Mr Kettering uttering a spate of apologies, while Rose reflected on the importance of the name ‘Oberon’ and wondered why the duchess had deemed it necessary to lie.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Mr Kettering was very quiet as they made their way back to his office. Rose was of the opinion that he had found the interview with the Duchess of Grismere particularly trying and distasteful. Possibly it was only now dawning on him that they would be required to ask questions that were, by nature, prying and intrusive. It was an inevitable part of a murder investigation, as was the fact that those interviewed were frequently nervous or reluctant to be questioned, often supplying evasive answers.

  ‘If you will forgive me for saying, your ladyship, I had the impression that her grace was not being entirely truthful,’ volunteered the hotel proprietor, almost as if he had been reading Rose’s thoughts. ‘That is to say, I do not believe she has told us everything.’

  ‘In a case such as murder, people very rarely do,’ Rose said, with the voice of experience. ‘Often they are afraid it will put them in a bad light, or else they do not think the piece of information in their possession is relevant to the investigation.’ She paused a moment before adding: ‘I agree that the duchess did appear rather reluctant to answer our questions.’

  ‘Do you believe that story of hers about the Shakespeare play?’

  ‘No, but I do believe she was telling the truth when she said Alec Dewhurst told her his name was Oberon. The question is, why did he tell her that when it wasn’t his real name? Oberon. It seems rather an odd sort of name to choose.’

  ‘There’s something significant about that name, all right,’ said Mr Kettering, gaining a little in confidence on discovering that Rose was a receptive listener. ‘One had only to look at the duchess’ face when you mentioned the moniker Oberon to know that.’ He glanced down at the notes he had made in his pocketbook. ‘Who would you like to interview next? The Misses Trimble? Would you like to see them together or one at a time?’

  ‘Together, I think. I am not certain Miss Peony ventures anywhere without Miss Hyacinth in attendance.’

  Rose might also have mentioned that she was curious to see whether, when questioned, Miss Hyacinth would look towards her sister for reassurance, as she had done in the dining room. She was equally interested to know whether Miss Peony would resume her quite remarkable air of indifference.

  Mr Kettering coughed and looked a little uncomfortable. ‘The … the brooch. Do you intend to confront the Misses Trimble on the matter of the theft?’

  ‘No,’ said Rose meditatively. ‘I am not certain the theft is connected with Mr Dewhurst’s death. I would not wish it to muddy the waters.’ Rose held up her hand as the hotel proprietor made to protest. ‘I agree that there may be some connection or other, but we must focus on the murder, not on the theft. Besides, I would prefer to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness. Of course, I should like to know for my own peace of mind which one of the sisters is a thief, but I believe I can find that out without the need for a confrontation.’

  Mr Kettering appeared somewhat perplexed, but he did not consider it worthwhile to argue the point. Instead, he looked with a degree of curiosity as Rose produced the little silver brooch from her pocket and proceeded to fasten it on to the front of her dress. She took a silk scarf from her bag and draped it rather carelessly about her shoulders, thus concealing the brooch. A smiled played across Mr Kettering’s lips, for he had an inkling as to what she intended to do.

  The Trimble sisters entered the room with a degree of nervousness, which was hardly surprising given the circumstances. Miss Hyacinth’s timorousness showed itself clearly by the expression on her face, while Miss Peony’s anxiety was wrapped up in a mask of apathy. The addition of the Bakelite ear trumpet clutched tightly in Miss P
eony’s hand, and which rested in her lap for the duration of the interview, did little to dispel the feeling that the woman was purposefully preventing herself from taking an active part in the proceedings. Due to the cumbersome nature of the instrument, she was stating, as clearly as if she had said it aloud, that it would not be put to any use. Indeed, it was an effective barrier, reminding those present that Miss Peony was deaf, lest they be inclined to forget the fact. It was almost as if the ear trumpet was a weapon that could be called upon at will to be wielded like a shield to deflect any awkward questions. Certainly, it’s very presence removed the necessity for its owner to answer them.

  To Rose, the very fact that Miss Peony had seen fit to bring the despised object with her, coupled with her quite bizarre expression of indifference, was an indication that the woman had something to hide. Miss Hyacinth’s anxious little glances towards her sister only sought to reinforce this feeling. Both women were on guard, though whether their fear arose from the same source, it was difficult to tell. They had every reason to be concerned. One of them, at least, was a thief and the person they had stolen from was sitting in front of them questioning them about a murder.

  Miss Hyacinth gave a nervous little smile. Had the circumstances been different, she might well have accompanied it with a nervous little laugh. As it was, she said: ‘Oh dear’, ‘a most shocking affair’ and ‘quite dreadful’ a number of times.

  Rose sought to put the two women at their ease by asking them a few questions about their various travels. Miss Peony, as always, remained resolutely silent, while Miss Hyacinth answered readily enough for both of them. Yes, they had been to Greece before. They had stayed at the Acropole Palace in Athens. Was her ladyship familiar with that particular hotel? Two hundred rooms and one hundred and sixty bathrooms! Every room had running hot and cold water and a telephone; had her ladyship ever heard of such a thing? Yes, indeed, they almost considered themselves seasoned travellers. Why, only in March they had undertaken a twenty-one day pleasure cruise to the Mediterranean departing from Southampton. It really had been a most remarkable adventure. They had visited Greece, Italy and North Africa, not that they would want Lady Belvedere to consider them unduly extravagant. Why, it was only after the death of their dear father that they had ever travelled at all. Before that, their holidays had been confined to the British seaside resorts of Sidmouth, Torquay, Brighton, Weymouth and Falmouth. There was a slight pause because Miss Hyacinth thought she might have forgotten one. Oh, yes, she remembered it now. Bournemouth. Now, what had she been saying? Oh, yes, they had decided to visit the Greek islands because they had read somewhere in the travel literature that the islands were popular for sunbathing and yachting. Of course that was not to say they had been yachting, but it really was very pleasant to sit on the beach and soak up the sun though, had they realised it would be so very hot at this time of year … Anyway, they had read in the same travel brochure that Grecian people were friendly and hospitable, and that most understood English, which really was a most important consideration, didn’t her ladyship agree?