Murder in the Folly

by Margaret Addison

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Cedric, ‘she did make a fuss now I come to think of it. I was in the circular room at the time and didn’t pay it much attention, though I do remember Cordelia hurrying into the room with the tray.’ He took the glass from his wife and stared at it. ‘Ursula was always most insistent during rehearsals that her glass be filled with water. She said that it helped her to immerse herself in the part, though why she didn’t just pretend to drink from the glass as anyone else would have done, I really don’t know.’

  ‘I wish I could remember what Ursula did with her wine glass after she had drunk from it,’ said Rose. ‘She was sitting on the throne as I remember.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed her husband. ‘And Miriam handed her the glass, which now I come to think of it was rather odd in itself. Walter Drury usually hands it to her, you see.’

  ‘Ursula Stapleton takes the glass from Miriam and drinks from it,’ Rose said, miming the action. ‘Now, what did she do with it then, I wonder?’

  ‘It seems to me quite reasonable to suppose that she handed it back to Miriam,’ said her husband. ‘That’s what I would have done, and Miriam would no doubt have put it back on the table. But, for some reason, it isn’t there now.’

  ‘Ursula might have dropped the glass,’ suggested Rose. ‘She became ill almost immediately after drinking from it.’ She looked about her. ‘In which case, it would most probably have rolled under the throne.’

  ‘Well, it’s not there now,’ said Cedric, lifting up the curtain of velvet that was draped over the seat of the throne, and which fell to the ground concealing the chair legs. He got down on his hands and knees and peered under the chair to make quite sure.

  ‘I suppose it might have rolled off the stage completely,’ suggested Rose. ‘Or possibly someone might inadvertently have kicked it on to the grass while it was lying on the floor. Why, you might have done so yourself, darling, while you were fighting your duel.’

  ‘If it was rolling about on the floor, I’m somewhat surprised poor old Henry didn’t trip over it. It is the sort of thing he’d do, poor chap. However, if that had been the case there would undoubtedly have been some pieces of broken glass on the floor.’

  To be quite sure, they undertook a thorough search of both the stage and the area of lawn directly beneath the folly, on the off chance that the wine glass had rolled off the stage and was lying concealed somewhere in the grass. As Rose crouched down and studied the floor for shards of broken glass, Cedric busied himself with exploring the lawn. All the while, Rose found her eyes involuntarily drawn to Ursula’s remains. She tiptoed quietly around the body, careful not to disturb it, conscious of the irrational feeling that she was trespassing, and aware that she felt a certain sympathy with Algernon’s view that the body be covered.

  Ten minutes elapsed during which there was frantic activity on the part of the two searchers; every inch of the stage floor was carefully explored and every blade of grass in the immediate vicinity of the folly closely examined. Yet, despite their efforts, no trace was found of the missing wine glass. It was almost as if it had vanished into thin air. Not to be discouraged, however, they turned their attention next to an extensive study of the circular room, behind the stage, picking up props as they went and rummaging through the piles of discarded costumes and everyday attire, looking for some hiding place or other where a wine glass might successfully be concealed.

  ‘Well, it isn’t here,’ remarked Cedric, abandoning the search. ‘We’ve looked everywhere and it’s nowhere to be found.’ He looked despondent, as if he felt they had wasted a great deal of time in their fruitless search of the scene. It was obvious, however, to the most casual observer that this emotion was not shared by his wife.

  ‘You do realise what this means, don’t you, darling?’ she said. The note of uneasiness in his wife’s voice caused the earl to glance at her sharply. ‘If Mrs Stapleton’s death was from natural causes,’ Rose continued, conscious that she had his full attention, ‘the wine glass, or at the very least the remains of it, should be here. The fact it is not means that someone quite deliberately and intentionally removed it from the scene.’

  ‘And the only reason for anyone to do that,’ said her husband, continuing on from his wife’s line of reasoning, ‘was that it contained incriminating evidence relating to Ursula’s death.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rose. ‘I am awfully afraid there is very little doubt that Ursula Stapleton was murdered.’

  Chapter Four

  The word ‘murdered’ hung in the air, its ghastly echo seeming to reverberate within the confines of the stone folly itself, resounding across the lawn to the lake below. They had spoken readily enough of poison as some theoretical thing, but it was the first time since Ursula Stapleton’s death that either of them had alluded to the wilful and premeditated act of murder. Rose gave an involuntary shudder. Cedric, meanwhile, his face ashen and his head bowed, leaned against one of the stone pillars and gave a heartfelt sigh. Though he did not give voice to his thoughts, Rose guessed he was wondering how it was possible that another murder had occurred in the grounds of Sedgwick Court. The thought overwhelmed them both, rendering each temporarily speechless.

  In the end, it was Cedric who broke the silence. ‘First the maze,’ he said, speaking barely above a whisper, though loud enough for his wife to catch the note of bitterness in his voice, ‘and then here.’ He swung his arm about him in a desperate, sweeping gesture, which encompassed the Greek temple, the circular room beyond and the lake below.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose, nodding sadly, though the word seemed inadequate even to her own ears. She moved forward and took her husband’s hand in hers. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking of, and yet,’ she said tentatively, ‘I suppose we must.’

  ‘But another murder here at Sedgwick Court; our home,’ exclaimed her husband, shaking his head in disbelief. He looked up at her despairingly. Then his mood seemed to alter for the better and his manner became more cheerful. ‘I say, do you think it possible we’ve got it all wrong?’ His face relaxed a little, as if he saw the first glimmers of hope beyond the gloom. ‘Perhaps there is a perfectly logical explanation for why we can’t find that wine glass.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rose slowly, though she spoke with little conviction. ‘I suppose it is possible that someone might have noticed the glass rolling about by their feet and picked it up, afraid someone might fall over it. They might then have stuffed it into their pocket quite innocently.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Cedric, with obvious relief. ‘Perhaps nothing untoward took place today after all. I can’t tell you the fun we were all having, acting and the like; giving voice to Shakespeare’s words ...’ His sentence trailed off, as he gave a furtive glance at the corpse. It was quite possible that he thought his words had been disrespectful in the presence of death. Certainly, he moved a step or two away and averted his eyes to take in the lawns and the lake below. In a more melancholy voice, he said: ‘I couldn’t believe my luck when Miss Quail cast me as Laertes. I mean to say, I have so little experience of acting. And it was for a good cause too. All the proceeds from the performance were to go to a deserving charity, and now … why, it’s all ruined.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Rose said quickly. ‘If Ursula Stapleton died of natural causes, perhaps the production need only be postponed.’

  ‘Yes, there’s a thought,’ said Cedric, brightening considerably. It was not long, however, before the expression on his face darkened again, reminiscent of a storm cloud. ‘But if it is as we first feared –’

  ‘If Ursula Stapleton was murdered,’ said Rose slowly, ‘then the sooner we can identify the murderer, the better.’

  As she spoke, she felt the weight of responsibility upon her shoulders. Not for the first time did it occur to her that her very presence seemed to attract death. Had she not decided to attend the rehearsal would the actress still be alive, laughing with the rest of the cast and sipping carelessly from her glass of water without c
onsequence? It was an irrational thought, she knew. If Ursula Stapleton had indeed been poisoned, it had been a carefully planned affair, intended to mirror the very action of Shakespeare’s play itself, and nothing to do with her chance attendance at the rehearsal.

  Though she reproached herself severely for her illogical sense of guilt for what had happened, the feeling resolutely remained with her. She could not rid herself fully of the ridiculous notion that she was in some way accountable for what had happened. This, in itself, did not alarm her unduly. On other such occasions, she had found herself overcome with the same melancholy, similarly considering herself to be in part to blame for the tragedy that had enfolded. Then, she had put such sombre emotions to good purpose. For it had proved the impetus she had needed to strengthen her resolve and help her on her quest to solve the murder. And even while she was thinking these very thoughts, it was almost as if her husband could read her mind, for he turned towards her, an imploring look upon his face. ‘You will investigate this death, won’t you? If it proves to be murder, I mean?’

  Overcome suddenly with emotion, Rose found that she could say nothing. Instead, she nodded her head slowly, all too conscious of her husband’s unwavering faith, as always, in her detecting abilities. Perhaps, though, there was something about his optimism that was infectious, for as some of the colour returned to Cedric’s cheeks, she felt a sudden unexpected wave of optimism lift her spirits. There was no reason to suppose after all that what lay before her was beyond her capabilities. She had helped solve crimes before which, on initial examination had appeared, as this one did, without obvious motive. Thus resolved, she gathered her thoughts about her quickly.

  ‘We must return to the house at once,’ she said. She consulted her wristwatch. ‘Our absence will be commented upon if we remain here any longer.’

  ‘You mean the others might suspect we have suspicions regarding Ursula’s death?’

  ‘They may even believe we have found some evidence to suggest that she was murdered.’

  ‘Other than my vague belief that I smelt bitter almonds on her breath?’

  ‘There is also the missing wine glass, though that, in itself, isn’t really evidence at all. Unless one thinks of it as negative evidence, that is; it should be here on the stage, and the fact that it is not, is suspicious.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’ She looked up at him earnestly. ‘We must do everything in our power to allay their fears, make them believe Ursula Stapleton’s death was from natural causes.’ She laughed at the puzzled look that crossed her husband’s face. ‘You know as well as I do, darling, what people are like when they realise a murder has been committed and they are a potential suspect.’

  ‘They wail and sob like poor old Cordelia,’ replied her husband, ‘or else they retreat within themselves and won’t look at anyone?’

  ‘Yes. But, more importantly, they won’t reveal anything. They tend to think before they open their mouths, and their natural inclination is to say nothing which might incriminate themselves or another.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure of that,’ said Cedric. ‘I think there is nothing more that Freddie Prentice would like to do than accuse poor Miriam of poisoning Ursula; you saw the way he behaved towards her just now. If Walter Drury hadn’t intervened … ah, splendid,’ he added, as a gardener came into view. ‘I didn’t feel we ought to leave the body unattended.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, m’lord,’ said the servant respectfully, as he approached them, doffing his cap. ‘Mr Manning told me how I was to come and guard the … the body.’ In something of a guileful fashion, he tried to look beyond them to the stage and catch a glimpse of the corpse. Meanwhile, the earl and countess descended the stone steps and went forward to meet him. Under the collective gaze of his employers, the gardener shifted his feet uncomfortably, conscious of his dirt-stained hands and face. He clutched his cap so tightly in his hands that Rose feared for the fabric. ‘I was in the servants’ hall having a cup of tea when Mr Manning came in and asks if any of us be minded to go to this here folly,’ he mumbled. ‘Stand over the body of one of them poor thespians, he said. The maids, they were frightened something shocking, and the younger men, they didn’t want to volunteer even if they thought they ought to, like. One or two of ’em have never seen a dead body. But me, I’ve done my bit for King and Country in the Great War; seen more than my fair share of bodies in all sorts of sorry states, I have, more’s the pity.’

  It was only when the man had referred to the war that Rose realised that she had been vaguely conscious all the time that, as he walked towards them, he had a slight limp.

  ‘Well, I’m very much obliged to you,’ Cedric was saying. ‘Hawkins, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, m’lord,’ replied the servant, obviously flattered that the earl knew his name. He drew himself up to his full height. ‘I’m the new under-gardener, come to replace young Smith. Been here two months, I have.’

  ‘Very good. Well, the body’s over there, in the folly.’ Cedric gestured towards the Greek temple behind them. ‘Be careful not to touch anything.’

  Leaving the gardener to watch over the corpse, the earl and countess set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the house. As they came to the lake, Rose spared a moment to glance back at the folly and saw that the gardener was standing over the body, his cap still in his hands and his head bowed. Remembering how the Prentice twins and Miriam Belmore had squabbled in so disgraceful a fashion moments after the actress’ death, it struck her that the gardener, of all of them, had shown most respect towards the dead woman, a person who was no more than a stranger to him. Rose sighed. Perhaps she was being a little unfair on the others. Algernon Cuff had expressed regret at Ursula’s death and Walter Drury had shown genuine grief. It was only the Prentice twins and Miriam who had appeared quite heartless and flippant, and most probably that had merely been an act to disguise the horror they had felt at what had happened. And she must not forget the violent way that Cordelia Quail had responded to the death, though how sincere her display of emotion had been, and how much had been affected, she could not say.

  Their progress back to the grand Georgian mansion, which for years had been the Sedgwick family’s ancestral home, was relatively slow. For the lawn in front of the Greek temple was as nothing compared with the vast gardens and parkland that comprised the estate itself. To return to the house, they were obliged to follow long, winding paths and navigate sunken ha-ha fences before they reached the formal gardens and terrace. During their journey, other eye-catchers vied for their attention, most notable among them a castle ruin and a venetian bridge, both of which served no useful purpose other than as decoration; however, preoccupied with more serious matters, Rose and Cedric were oblivious to these distractions.

  It was not, however, the sprawling estate alone that made their journey back to Cedric’s childhood home a prolonged affair. For quite often they stopped to peer over a box hedge, or to inspect a bush or a clump of trees, anywhere, in fact, where a wine glass might easily be disposed of.

  ‘Suspecting what we do now, I wish I had returned with the others to the house,’ said Rose. ‘I feel quite sure I would have noticed if anyone had run on ahead, or held back and waited for everyone else to go on.’

  ‘In order that they could get rid of the wine glass without being seen, do you mean?’ asked Cedric, looking about him. ‘I shouldn’t think they would have wandered too far from the path in case they aroused suspicion. It is the sort of thing that would have been commented upon.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed his wife. ‘And unless they happened to be wearing gloves, they would have needed to spend a little time wiping their fingerprints from the glass.’

  By this process of elimination, their search of the gardens was narrowed so that they deviated very little from following the established paths. Cedric had somehow acquired a sturdy piece of tree branch along the way, which he used with great enthusiasm to prod the undergrowth, all the while listening for the so
und of broken glass. Rose contented herself with looking in the hedges and stone urns; she searched the fountains and peered behind the marble statues which adorned the gardens. But their various activities were all to no avail. There was no sign of the crimson wine glass, either whole or broken, not even a shard of glass among the shrubberies.

  ‘Of course,’ said Rose, ‘we don’t know for certain that they returned to the house by this route. There are other paths they might have taken. And it’s quite possible that they didn’t keep to the paths at all, but ran across the grass instead.’

  ‘Quite likely, I’d say,’ replied her husband. ‘They’d have been in a great hurry to reach the house.’ In an act of frustration, he threw his branch on to the ground. ‘Dash it all, they might have hidden it anywhere. It will take an age to search these grounds properly. And the more I think on it, the more I’m certain that, if I were the murderer, I would have smashed the glass in to as many pieces as possible. It would have been too great a risk to leave it intact.’

  ‘Because there would have been traces of the poison at the bottom of the glass?’ said Rose. She did not pause to give her husband the opportunity to answer, but went on. ‘Though it’s quite possible of course that there was no time for the murderer to smash the glass without being spotted.’

  ‘Or perhaps there was, but he was afraid it would make too much noise,’ said Cedric, following his wife’s line of reasoning. ‘The sound of glass smashing and breaking is quite distinctive, you know.’

  ‘In which case,’ declared Rose, ‘it seems to me that there are three possibilities.’

  ‘Three?’ Cedric looked surprised.

  ‘Yes. The first one is that the murderer hid the wine glass quickly, with the intention of picking it up when he left, and disposing of it elsewhere.’

  ‘That would seem the most logical thing for him to do,’ agreed Cedric, ‘and if you’re right, a proper search should uncover it readily enough.’