‘Ursula!’ cried Cordelia, quite beside herself. ‘What are you doing? Are you intentionally ruining this scene?’
‘Miss Quail,’ Rose said, aware of the note of urgency in her own voice. ‘I do believe Mrs Stapleton really is ill.’
‘Nonsense,’ cried Cordelia, almost sobbing. ‘She is trying to spoil the rehearsal, that is all. She’s a …’
But she did not finish her sentence. Instead, the words faltered on her lips; for Ursula had stopped shaking and for a minute, after the frantic, wild movements of her body, looked strangely tranquil and composed. But before the watchers could take a collective sigh of relief, Ursula fell forward abruptly in her seat. It was then that gravity seemed to pull at her, tearing her from her stately throne. With a sickening crack, her head hit the stone floor, and the rest of her body came tumbling down after her, until it lay collapsed in a heap on the ground.
For several seconds, no one moved or made a sound. It was as if all those present were trying to comprehend and digest inwardly what they had just witnessed. Was it a remarkable piece of acting? Or was it something else, something sinister and altogether more appalling? For there had appeared nothing feigned or pretend about the performance. Utterly confused, they felt compelled now only to stare helplessly at Ursula’s sprawled body, not quite knowing what to do.
It was the man playing Laertes who was the first to gather his wits. He threw down his foil and ran to the body, crouching down beside it and feeling for a pulse. Ursula’s limp wrist did not oblige. He stared into the glazed eyes that did not blink, hung his head for a moment and then looked up, searching out his wife’s face on the lawn below.
‘Cedric …’ Rose began, but she was immediately interrupted by a shriek from Cordelia, something more akin to an animal cry than a noise made by a woman in distress. A strange gurgling sound came from her throat, and Rose turned and looked at the director in alarm. But the woman was merely sobbing, huge tears of anguish pouring down her rouged cheeks. Her turban had become dishevelled and was perched at an unbecoming angle on her head, her hair escaping from its folds.
Before Rose could decide how best to comfort her, her mother had stepped forward and was busy putting an arm around the woman’s shaking shoulders, drawing her away. Rose tore her gaze from Cordelia and looked back at her husband, who remained kneeling beside the actress. He shook his head, his face ashen. Slowly he got to his feet and with emotion in his voice spoke the words they had all been dreading: ‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’
Chapter Three
For a few unbearable seconds, there was nothing but silence; quickly on the heels of which followed a series of horrified gasps. Cordelia herself wailed and flailed her arms about in a wild and undignified manner, seemingly oblivious to all else. Whether her distress was due to the fate of her leading actress or the impact of the woman’s unfortunate death on her production, was not quite clear. Whatever the cause, she allowed herself to be taken firmly by the arm and led whimpering from the scene. She was only vaguely aware that it was Mrs Simpson who guided her steps and spoke to her in soothing and encouraging tones, much as she would have ministered to a distressed child.
Half walking, half stumbling, Cordelia went, her black silk kimono, on which was embroidered a tangle of cream leaves, flapping about her in the light summer breeze very like the sail on a rudderless boat. It was only when she reached the very edge of the lake that she faltered. Indeed, to those who looked on, there was a fear that she might slump to the ground. However, instead, with considerable effort, the director seemed to gather herself, turning her head to take one last, agonising look at the still figure in the distance, lying spread-eagled on the cold stone stage.
The Earl of Belvedere, after some deliberation, got slowly, and rather shakily, to his feet and addressed the man who had been playing Horatio.
‘Kettering, would you mind awfully running back to the house and telling Manning what has happened, there’s a good chap?’ While there was a forced lightness to the earl’s words, his voice shook.
Giles Kettering, looking solemn and ashen, nodded and mumbled: ‘Of course not, my lord.’
‘Ask him to ring for the doctor,’ continued Cedric, ‘though heaven knows there’s nothing he can do for the poor woman now, more’s the pity.’
‘Ursula told me she had a dicky heart,’ volunteered Algernon, a forlorn look upon his face. ‘I suppose it was that –’
‘And tell him to telephone for the police,’ continued Cedric curtly, as if the thespian had not spoken.
‘The police?’ queried Algernon, paling significantly. ‘I say, do you think it absolutely necessary to involve them?’
It was not lost on any of those present that he sounded anxious. Indeed, almost without exception, each and every one of them exchanged worried and furtive looks as if the death had taken on a more sinister air. Certainly, the man who had played Horatio looked surprised.
‘Surely,’ said Giles Kettering, ‘you don’t think, my lord, that –’
‘No, of course not, Kettering,’ said Cedric hurriedly, aware of the growing tension and cursing himself inwardly for contributing to it by his choice of words. ‘It’s just routine. An unexplained death and all that.’
‘I see,’ said Giles, though he sounded far from convinced, ‘Well, if you say so.’
‘I do.’ There was a certain finality to the words that could not be ignored.
Giles glanced briefly at Algernon Cuff, and then set off down the lawn at a brisk trot. The others gazed after him, as if they were half minded to follow, anything but stay on the stage and stare down at the lifeless body that had once been Ursula Stapleton.
‘Poor old Ursula,’ muttered Algernon, shaking his head slowly, all the while putting a hand to his head to steady his faux gold crown, which looked hideously gaudy in the circumstances. He lifted his head abruptly as if a sudden thought had just occurred to him. ‘I say, my lord, oughtn’t we to cover her face with a cloak or –’
‘No,’ said Cedric, rather brusquely, and perhaps a little louder than was strictly necessary. ‘We shouldn’t touch anything, that’s to say not until after the police have arrived.’
Algernon made to protest, but obviously thought better of it. Meanwhile, the earl caught his wife’s eye. Rose had initially run a few steps forward when Ursula had collapsed, but then she had halted transfixed, watching the scene play out before her on the stage. It had not been idle curiosity that had stayed her steps but a growing realisation that what happened next might be of the utmost importance and should be observed closely. For, unlike the others, Rose had not missed the expression on her husband’s face as he had risen from examining Ursula Stapleton, nor had she overlooked his obvious unwillingness to disturb the body after Algernon’s quite reasonable suggestion to do so. A certain look passed between husband and wife but, before either could do or say anything, they were interrupted by another Sedgwick Player.
‘I say, I feel … I feel rather sick,’ said Henry, his complexion going a ghastly shade of grey, which oddly complemented his funereal attire. ‘I think I had better sit down.’ He looked about him for a suitable seat on the stage and, much to his dismay, discovered there was none, other than the throne. For one awful moment, the image of Ursula’s last few minutes of life seated on the golden chair was conjured up vividly before his eyes. He recollected all too well how she had clutched at its arms and then slipped slowly down its cushioned velvet seat, until she had fallen to her final resting place on the floor with a sickening thud. Henry shuddered violently, rejecting the throne. He might conceivably have retreated to the circular room beyond the temple, which boasted several hard-backed chairs, but instead he made do with remaining where he was and sitting cross-legged upon the floor, leaning his back against one of the grand stone columns. With a heartfelt sigh, he closed his eyes and took great gulps of air in an attempt to steady his breathing.
Ophelia, no doubt, under such circumstances, would have attended to Hamlet with gentle comp
assion; Miriam Belmore, however, frowned at the ailing Henry with a look of ill-concealed disdain and sniffed. ‘Well, speaking for myself, I never much liked the poor old biddy,’ she said, her words uttered with remarkably little feeling. ‘But even I wouldn’t have wished the poor old thing dead. And fancy her dying on stage like that. How very melodramatic of her. Trust Ursula to do something like that.’
There was a sharp intake of breath, and Rose realised it was her own.
‘Oh, do be quiet, Miriam,’ said Walter Drury, with barely concealed fury, who, until this outburst, had been standing a little way off from the others with his head bowed, his large felt, courtier hat, with its ridiculous feather, clutched tightly in his hand. ‘Don’t try and be flippant, it doesn’t become you. If you cannot say anything appropriate, I suggest you say nothing at all.’
‘That’s put you in your place, Miriam, darling,’ said Freddie with a sneer. ‘Haven’t you heard the saying that it is better to keep quiet and be thought stupid than to open your mouth and remove all doubt? And there you were pretending you didn’t care a jot when all the time –’
‘Oh, do shut up, Freddie,’ cried his brother, giving him a sharp poke in the ribs. In contrast to his twin, he, like Walter, was visibly shaken by what had occurred and looked very close to tears.
‘I think,’ Rose said quickly, fearing the situation was about to deteriorate further into bitter recriminations, ‘that everyone should wait in the drawing room until the doctor and the police arrive. They will no doubt wish to speak to everyone who was present when Mrs Stapleton was … was taken ill.’
‘Jolly good idea,’ Cedric said, rallying a little and nodding enthusiastically. There were various mutterings among the cast, though none appeared inclined to object. ‘We’ve all had the most dreadful shock,’ he continued. ‘Hot, sweet tea with a dash of brandy in it; that’s what’s called for.’ He turned to face the actors and the sole actress, who were now standing around rather awkwardly on the stage, not quite knowing where to look, or what to do with their hands. ‘If everyone wouldn’t mind going back to the house,’ said the earl. ‘No, not you, darling,’ he added quietly, looking pointedly at his wife. ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming here for a moment …’ He stopped in mid-sentence for he had caught sight of the twins, who were now staring down at the corpse with a morbid fascination. ‘Hurry up boys. Off you go, and don’t touch anything.’
As the others departed with the odd backward glance, Rose hastened to the stage to join her husband. Together, they watched the Sedgwick Players scurrying away in their odd assortment of brightly-coloured Elizabethan costumes, rather like frightened rabbits in fancy dress. By common accord, Lord and Lady Belvedere did not speak until the cast was out of earshot. Though the troupe made good progress across the lawn, it seemed to the earl and countess an age before they could speak openly, confident in the knowledge that their words would not be overheard. All the while, as she waited, Rose studied her husband closely; to her well-trained eye, he appeared preoccupied, and every so often she noticed that he looked down at the body, stretched out before him, and shook his head. When at last she deemed it safe to do so, she said: ‘What is it, darling? Is something wrong? Other than poor Mrs Stapleton being dead, I mean.’
‘I don’t know.’ Cedric crouched down beside the body again and, somewhat to his wife’s surprise, gingerly leant forward until his head was not far from Ursula’s face. He sniffed. ‘It was an impression I had. I daresay I was wrong but I thought I detected … but perhaps it was only my imagination.’ He looked up and hesitated a moment before proceeding. ‘Darling, I hardly dare ask you to do this; it seems so ghastly, but can you tell me if you can smell anything?’
‘On Mrs Stapleton’s lips, do you mean?’ Rose asked, rather shocked.
‘Yes.’
With some great effort, Rose willed herself to kneel down beside the dead actress’ body and placed her own head near Ursula’s. Despite having had considerable experience of violent death, she had never squatted on the ground in such a manner beside a corpse. She tried not to look at the terrible vacant eyes or the contorted expression on the dead woman’s face. Taking a deep breath, she focused her attention instead on sniffing tentatively, as she had been instructed, half afraid that some dreadful stench would reach her nostrils.
‘Can you smell anything, anything at all, however faint?’ asked Cedric, crouching down beside her, a note of urgency in his voice, as if much depended on her answer.
Rose shook her head. For a moment, she had all but forgotten that he was there, so engrossed had she been in her task. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and sniffed again. While thus engaged, she tried desperately not to recall to mind the living, breathing Ursula Stapleton, whose very presence had commanded the stage. Much as she tried, however, she could not rid her mind of the thought of decay which seemed to muddle her senses. She opened her eyes and was greeted by an eager expression on her husband’s face. It was, therefore, with a sense of frustration that she said, ‘No … no, I don’t think so.’
Cedric stifled a frown while Rose, relieved that her ordeal was now over, scrambled to her feet. To her annoyance, she discovered that she was shaking. Noting his wife’s condition, her husband quickly put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards him. Despite the intimate gesture, she knew he was disappointed with her answer, though he was attempting to hide the fact.
‘Not at all? Not a very faint smell of anything?’ Cedric persisted gently after a few seconds had elapsed. Rose sighed and leant her head against her husband’s shoulder. The warmth from his body was beginning to revive her.
‘No. I’m sorry. I couldn’t smell a thing.’
‘Not to worry. I should be grateful and yet …’ Cedric left his sentence unfinished and for a moment looked thoughtful. Then he shrugged, looked down at his wife and gave a half smile. Had she answered him with a similar expression, it is quite possible that they would have abandoned their investigation into the cause of Ursula’s death and returned to the house with the others to await the arrival of the local police. Rose, however, found herself oddly reluctant to depart the scene until Cedric had voiced his concerns regarding the actress’ death. She was familiar enough with her husband’s moods to know that he was greatly agitated, an occurrence that was far from frequent. Something had undoubtedly aroused his suspicions.
‘You are convinced you smelt something, aren’t you?’ Rose said. Though she put it as a question, in truth, she spoke aloud to herself in an attempt to gather her own thoughts. ‘You think something is not quite right ...’ The words had hardly escaped her lips before she was filled with apprehension. She knew then that had Cedric made as if to set off for the house, she would have detained him. But instead, he met her gaze and said quietly: ‘I thought I did, yes. But of course, it’s quite possible I was mistaken.’ He gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘After all, we have had more than our fair share of suspicious deaths. Perhaps it clouds the mind and makes one see crimes where there are none.’
‘I see,’ Rose said, not returning his smile. Instead, a look of dawning astonishment appeared on her face. ‘You believe Mrs Stapleton was poisoned, don’t you?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ Cedric admitted rather sheepishly, ‘though when one puts it into words like that it sounds dreadfully far-fetched.’ He laughed. ‘There’s probably a far more reasonable explanation for her death. I daresay we’ll discover it was some trouble or other with her heart. Didn’t Algernon Cuffe mention something to that effect? I’m probably making the most terrible fuss about nothing.’
‘No,’ said Rose slowly, ‘I don’t think you are. The more I think about it, the more I think you may be right. Tell me, what made you think of poison? Was it the wine glass? If I recall correctly, she died only a few minutes after drinking from it.’
‘It wasn’t the wine glass, no,’ answered her husband. ‘What actually put me in mind of poison was the faint smell of bitter almonds.’
‘Bitte
r almonds?’
‘Yes. It’s a sign of cyanide poisoning, don’t you know.’ Cedric uttered a sharp cry and struck his head with the palm of his hand. ‘I say, what a damned fool I’ve been. All this time we should have been looking for the wine glass, not bending over the body. Where is it? It would serve me jolly well right if it had disappeared.’
‘I didn’t happen to see any of the cast taking it away with them,’ said Rose, looking about her. ‘Though,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘I suppose they might have stuffed it into a pocket or hidden it under a cloak without my noticing.’
‘Yes, or carried it inside one of those blasted hats with a feather. I say, confound those costumes!’ At a raised eyebrow from his wife, Cedric added hastily: ‘Nothing against your mother’s sewing, of course. They’re jolly fine costumes and all that. It’s just a pity that each garment comprises yards and yards of material in which to hide things … Oh, I say, there it is!’
In one stride, Cedric was beside the table, which had been placed at the back of the stage, a little distance from the throne. On the top of it was the silver tray, and on that a Victorian cranberry-coloured wine glass.
‘It was here all the time,’ said Cedric, sounding relieved. ‘Well, I –’
‘Wait,’ said Rose. ‘There should be two glasses, not one.’ She picked up the wine glass and studied it carefully. ‘Yes, I was right. This glass has not had any liquid in it; it’s quite clean. Ursula Stapleton didn’t drink from this glass; she must have drunk from the other one.’
‘I say, are you quite sure?’ enquired her husband, peering over her shoulder at the offending glass.
‘Yes. I was there when the footman brought the tray and I remember quite distinctly that there were two wine glasses on it, not one. There was quite a to do about it, as it happens, because Cordelia had forgotten to arrange for Ursula’s glass to be filled with water.’
Murder in the Folly Page 3
