‘My son,’ cried the duchess. ‘Alec Dewhurst was my son!’
Chapter Thirty-two
‘Alec Dewhurst was my son,’ repeated the duchess, though this time when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, as if the sentence had escaped her lips unwillingly.
Her revelation had been met with a shocked silence. Rose looked quickly about her. The faces of the other hotel guests, without exception, bore signs of having been violently startled; one or two of them looked as if they could hardly comprehend what they were being told. They were vaguely aware that the whole complexion of the investigation had changed.
Having delivered her devastating piece of news, the duchess appeared quite spent. She leaned back heavily in her chair and closed her eyes.
‘Begging your pardon, your grace,’ said Mr Kettering apologetically, ‘I hope I am not speaking out of turn, but I’m afraid that I don’t quite understand. By that I mean why the need for secrecy and … and deception, if I may be so bold? I do not understand, not if the deceased was your son.’
‘Only a fool would ask a question like that,’ snapped the duchess, rather nastily. There was a long pause. She sat up sharply in her chair, opened her eyes and said rather grudgingly: ‘It was a youthful infatuation. I was young and foolish. It was before I had made the duke’s acquaintance.’ She stared at her audience, her eyes bright. She appeared to be willing them to comprehend her, while challenging them to condemn her if they dare. The vicar, Rose noted, looked suitably appalled, as did Miss Hyacinth. ‘Was I expected to have my life ruined by one foolish mistake?’ asked the duchess. ‘A man can have many indiscretions and his reputation remains untarnished, a woman has only one and her character is ruined.’
‘It’s awfully unfair,’ agreed Cedric, from the far corner of the room.
‘My son was well provided for,’ said the duchess, ‘I made certain of that. And of course I exchanged letters with his guardian, though I was careful never to see him, or him me.’ It seemed that, now she had spoken on a subject that for so long she had kept hidden, she could not stop. ‘Having given him up as a baby, barely a week after his birth, I did not think I would pine for him. But in that I was wrong. I missed him dreadfully. Perhaps if I had been blessed with other children …’ The duchess paused a moment to compose herself. ‘I did not intend that he should ever discover the details of his parentage, but I suppose he must have found out somehow. But when he came to me for assistance after a piece of bad luck, I … I couldn’t turn him away.’
Rose cast a furtive glance at Mr Kettering. The hotel proprietor looked thoroughly taken aback by the duchess’ remarkably candid answer to what he had considered was a perfectly innocent question. It occurred to Rose that, in all probability, he heartily regretted having spoken.
The duchess leaned back in her chair again. If Rose thought the woman’s mind was elsewhere, she was to find herself mistaken. Barely a minute elapsed before the duchess said, in a voice that was both sharp and clear:
‘I don’t suppose even you, Lady Belvedere, will accuse me of having murdered my own son?’
‘No,’ said Rose, ‘I should not accuse you of that.’
‘Look here,’ interjected Mr Vickers, sounding aggrieved. ‘This is all very well, to be sure, not that I know how you’re going to put it to the duke, if you don’t mind me saying? Not that it’s any of my business. But what about this ’ere inquiry of yours?’ he said, glaring at Rose. ‘You said as how you had finished your investigation. I took that to mean as how you knew who the murderer was.’
‘I do know who the murderer is,’ said Rose quietly.
‘Well, if you do, you’ve got a funny way of going about telling it,’ Mr Vickers replied quickly, still in his objectionable tone, though his eyes looked alert. ‘Why you were wanting to go around the houses like that, I don’t know. Telling everyone as how they had a motive for murdering the fellow, to say nothing of the poor lady, and telling everyone all of our secrets we’d rather keep hidden.’
‘You are quite right, Mr Vickers,’ Rose said. She held up her hand to Mr Kettering, who looked about to give Mr Vickers a piece of his mind. ‘The problem is that I don’t quite know where to begin. In the ordinary course of things, I would of course commence at the beginning. But today I think I will start in the middle. You see, if it had not been for Miss Peony, I should not have known with absolute certainty who the murderer was. It seemed to me that it could quite easily have been one of two people.’
‘Start with Miss Peony, before you lose me,’ said Mr Vickers, looking perplexed.
‘Very well. I have here,’ Rose paused to retrieve from her pocket Miss Peony’s letter, ‘the draft of a letter written by Miss Peony, the original of which I believe she gave to the murderer. Before I say anything more, I should like you all to read this letter.’
There ensued a lull in the proceedings as the document was duly circulated and read by the hotel guests amid a number of gasps and shrieks.
‘You will have noticed that Miss Peony took the precaution of not signing the document with her own name. Instead, she had written “A Well-wisher”. In light of the contents of this letter, one may be forgiven for assuming that Miss Peony had been spotted delivering her letter and had been killed by the murderer to prevent her from revealing his identity. This, however, was not the case.’
‘You’re surely not suggesting there were two murderers?’ cried Mabel, clutching at her father’s arm in alarm.
‘No,’ said Rose. ‘There was only one murderer. What I meant was Miss Peony was not spotted delivering the letter.’
‘Then how did our murderer know it was her that wrote it?’ asked Mr Vickers.
‘Because she told him,’ Rose said abruptly, ‘though really I should say her.’
‘Her?’ said Mabel, glaring at Lavinia in a most unfriendly fashion, as if she suspected the girl of being the murderer.
‘Yes. You see, the murderer was you,’ she said, pausing to address the killer, her finger pointing towards the Duchess of Grismere.
‘What utter nonsense!’ retorted the duchess.
‘And yet, I ask that you hear me out,’ Rose said firmly. ‘Miss Peony’s conduct in the dining room on the night of her murder was very odd. That is to say, it was out of character. As a rule, Miss Peony was quiet and withdrawn. Yesterday, she was willing to step forward and speak in the loud, rather hoarse voice that she usually reserved for when she and Miss Hyacinth were alone.’
‘Why?’ piped up Lavinia, who thought she had been unusually quiet, and really ought to say something, if only one word.
‘Because she was afraid the murderer would think her sister was the author of the letter.’ Miss Hyacinth gasped and burst into a fresh flood of tears.
‘Miss Peony had been faced with the problem of how to give her letter to the murderer without being seen,’ Rose continued. ‘She believed she had arrived at the ideal solution. Miss Hyacinth and Lady Lavinia had decided to present the duchess with a basket of sweetmeats on behalf of the hotel guests. Miss Peony offered to tie the bow to the handle of the basket. This provided her with the perfect opportunity to hide the letter at the bottom of the basket.’
‘I still don’t see how you could possibly have known Miss Peony had written that letter,’ said Lavinia. Her remark was directed to the duchess who, after her initial outburst, had maintained a steadfast silence.
‘She didn’t,’ said Rose. ‘Not at first. It had not occurred to Miss Peony that, on receiving the letter, the duchess would decide to have her dinner in the dining room. She needed to find out who had prepared the basket of sweetmeats, you see. If you remember,’ she added, glancing at Lavinia, ‘she mentioned to us that she had received them and that was why she was there.’
‘I say,’ exclaimed Lavinia, ‘I told her that we thought she should like them and she asked me whether it had been my idea. I thought at the time she looked at me curiously.’
‘You told her it had been Miss Hyacinth’s idea,’
said Rose.
‘Well it had been.’
‘I told her we had wanted to do something for her on behalf of all the hotel guests,’ Miss Hyacinth said in a very small voice. ‘Oh, if only I had kept quiet, my sister might still be alive!’
‘Miss Peony made a point of telling the duchess that it had been she who had decorated the handle of the basket with a bow and she who had arranged the sweetmeats in the basket,’ Rose said. ‘She wanted to let the duchess know, beyond any doubt, that she was the author of the letter, not Miss Hyacinth.’
‘You have no proof that is what happened,’ said a voice. The Duchess of Grismere had got to her feet and was moving across the floor. ‘It’s conjecture, that’s all. There is nothing to say this woman did put that letter in my basket of sweetmeats. She could just as easily have slipped it under the murderer’s door or quite possibly, and in my opinion quite probably, never delivered such a letter at all.’ The duchess advanced towards Rose. ‘Besides, you said yourself that you would hardly accuse me of murdering my own son.’
‘And I stand by my word,’ Rose said. ‘I should not accuse you of murdering your own son. But I would accuse you of murdering the man who pretended he was your son.’
‘What … what do you mean?’ cried the duchess.
She had halted abruptly and her hand pulled at the fabric of her dress. Rose was vaguely aware of a mixture of reactions from the other hotel guests. A moment later, and there was a deathly silence, where Rose was quite certain she could have heard a pin drop.
‘Alec Dewhurst was not your son Oberon. It was not until the night of his murder that you realised you had been deceived. When Mr Vickers was being escorted from the dining room, after his altercation with Mr Dewhurst, he remarked that the deceased’s real name was Goodfellow, not Dewhurst, and hinted that he knew him to be a man of low morals.’
‘Ay, that’s right,’ affirmed the man in question.
‘Later that same evening, I had a conversation with you in the grounds of the hotel,’ continued Rose. ‘If you remember, Lord Belvedere came to fetch me and you slipped into the shadows. He happened to remark to me that Mr Vickers insisted Alec Dewhurst was in fact a petty thief who went by the name of Goodfellow. Knowing what I do now, I don’t doubt you overheard our conversation.’
‘I believe you returned to your rooms to seek out the truth among Mr Dewhurst’s papers and belongings. It was you, your grace, who ransacked the room that Alec Dewhurst used as his study. You were in search of evidence that the man you had believed to be your son was nothing more than a cheap imposter.’
‘And the pocket watch?’ enquired the hotel proprietor. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, Lady Belvedere, you always seemed most curious about the initials on Mr Dewhurst’s pocket watch.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kettering, I had quite forgotten the pocket watch,’ Rose said. She addressed the duchess. ‘You gave Mr Dewhurst a gold full hunter pocket watch, which had his initials engraved on it. He produced it at dinner on the night of his death.’
‘Well?’
‘You told Mr Kettering that the initials were “O”, “E”, “G”; all in upper case. He made a particular note of it in his pocketbook.’
‘What of it?’ demanded the duchess, though there was a note of fear in her voice.
‘You were lying.’ Rose produced from her pocket Mr Dewhurst’s pocket watch.
‘You told me it was missing,’ cried the duchess.
‘It was, but it has since been found,’ said Rose. She deliberately did not look at Miss Hyacinth. ‘The initials you had engraved on Mr Dewhurst’s watch were your son’s initials. “O”, “E”, “W”. There is no “G” among them. You did not know then that the man who purported to be your son went by the name of Goodfellow. I’ll wager your son’s surname begins with a “W”. When I first interviewed you, you told me that you had always been aware that Mr Dewhurst’s real name was Goodfellow. But you could not possibly have known that on the date that you gave Alec Dewhurst this pocket watch; the presence of this letter “W” proves otherwise. Alec Dewhurst also happened to mention to Mr Thurlow that you did not know his real name. As I have already said, it was not until the night of his murder that you discovered Alec Dewhurst’s surname was actually Goodfellow. At the time of his death you knew full well that Alec Dewhurst was not your son, though you may pretend otherwise.’
‘And suppose I did,’ said the duchess. ‘You have no evidence to show that it was me who murdered Mr Dewhurst. All you have against me is that I might possibly have lied to you concerning his identity. That is to say, that I pretended that he was my son rather than a petty criminal who preyed on wealthy women. It is perfectly possible that I felt ashamed for having been taken for a fool.’
‘I should like you to make a full confession of your guilt,’ said Rose bluntly. ‘If nothing else, you owe it to Miss Peony.’
The duchess laughed. It was not a very pleasant sound.
‘You beast!’ cried Miss Hyacinth, making as if she meant to tear the duchess to pieces, which it was quite possible she might have done, had she not been prevented from doing so by the intervention of Father Adler and Cedric.
‘Before you give me your final answer,’ said Rose slowly. ‘I should like you first to read what I have written in this letter.’ With that, she took the last object from her pocket and handed it to the duchess, who tore open the envelope with a degree of curiosity.
No one stirred as the duchess read its contents. It was merely a few scribbled lines but it obviously intrigued her, for she read it again and again, as if she were finding it hard to digest its contents.
‘Is it true?’ she murmured, her eyes widening. ‘Is what you have written true?’
Rose nodded slowly. The duchess took a deep breath. ‘Very well,’ she said solemnly, in a loud voice. ‘Then I confess to the murders of Alec Dewhurst and Miss Peony Trimble. Where would you have me sign? Here?’ Rose handed her a pen and she scribbled her signature and made hastily for the door. No one tried to detain her. At the doorway she turned and said again: ‘Do you promise?’ Rose nodded. The duchess turned to Miss Hyacinth and said: ‘I’m sorry. It was never my intention to harm your sister.’
With that, she was gone. The others sat in a stupefied silence, not quite certain what they had just heard or witnessed. Only Rose was running across the floor and between the tables until she drew level with Ron Thurlow. Bending forward she said in an urgent whisper:
‘Quick. You must go to the duchess. There really is very little time.’ Ron turned and regarded her with a dazed, uncomprehending look. ‘Quick,’ repeated Rose, taking the man by his shoulders and shaking him gently. ‘You must go to the duchess and tell her the truth. You must go to her and tell her you are Oberon!’
Chapter Thirty-three
‘I should very much like to know how you guessed I was Oberon,’ said Ron Thurlow, who had taken up a position in front of the fireplace.
‘Yes, do tell us, Lady Belvedere,’ said Mr Kettering, turning in his chair to regard Rose, who was seated beside him. ‘I have been wondering myself how you arrived at that conclusion.’
They were in the hotel proprietor’s study. Three weeks had elapsed since the duchess had confessed to the murders of Alec Dewhurst and Miss Peony, and the dark atmosphere that had hung over Hotel Hemera like a creeping miasma was beginning to dissipate.
‘I suppose it was a number of things really which, if viewed individually, did not appear very odd, but when looked at collectively raised a number of questions in my mind.’ Rose smiled at Ron’s bemused face. ‘I’m afraid I am explaining myself very badly, Mr Thurlow. It is rather difficult to know exactly where to begin. Perhaps I should mention them in the order that they occur to me now?’
Ron nodded. He left his position by the fireplace and seated himself in one of the chairs that faced the desk.
‘When we undertook a search of the guests’ rooms,’ Rose began, ‘it struck me that your personal effects were of an unusually good q
uality for a man in your profession.’
‘I say, did it really?’ said Ron, with a note of surprise in his voice.
‘Then there was the matter of Alec Dewhurst’s pocket watch. When it slipped out of Miss Adler’s hand and rolled on to the floor, I could not help noticing how very quick you were to get out of your chair to retrieve it. At the time, I supposed you were just curious to determine, like the rest of us, whether it had been damaged or broken in the fall. But later I wondered if you had seized the opportunity to examine the initials engraved on the case.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Ron. ‘It gave me a bit of a turn, I can tell you, when I saw my own initials.’ He smiled. ‘Oberon Edwin Winslow at your service, my lady; quite a mouthful, I’m sure you’ll agree?’
‘You’d had your suspicions concerning Alec Dewhurst, hadn’t you?’ Rose said astutely. ‘That he might be pretending to be you, I mean?’
‘Well, it seemed a bit too much of a coincidence that a man whose brief acquaintance I had made in prison should take it upon himself to run away with a woman who just happened to be my relation,’ Ron said. ‘Besides, just before that incident with the pocket watch, my … my mother,’ he paused for a moment and blushed, ‘called him Oberon. I can’t tell you what a start it gave me, hearing her say my name like that. And then when I saw the look Dewhurst gave her, well, I suppose I realised the truth. The game had rather been given away.’
Murder on Skiathos Page 31
