Her words were met with a somewhat surprised and awkward silence. There was the sound of a sharp intake of breath and Rose realised it was her own. What a mess she had made of it all. She had tried to lead up to the subject of the missing wine glass gradually, so as not to show undue interest and arouse suspicion. But in this she had failed miserably. Cordelia was now accusing the whole gathering of theft, glaring at each and every one of them, as if they were all guilty. And all the while, the woman was trembling with righteous indignation. It would have been amusing, comic even, if the situation was not so very awful.
Rose held her breath, trying desperately to think what she could do for the best. Thoughts, however, evaded her and she could only glance around quickly at those assembled, trying to gauge their individual reactions. In this she was rather late, for the first flickers of unguarded emotion had disappeared from the faces of most by the time she had overcome her own shock at what had happened. Now only surprise at Cordelia’s outburst featured in their expressions in equal measure, but not fear. She cursed herself severely for her own stupidity. The murderer had been forewarned and would now be on his guard.
It was while these depressing thoughts were whirling through her mind that Rose caught a vague glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. It had been a slight movement, so fleeting that she almost convinced herself that she had imagined it. But it left a distinct impression upon her. There had been an exchange of looks between two of the Sedgwick Players. They had glanced at each other merely for a brief second but with such a fierce intensity that it had struck Rose as strange, particularly as now they appeared to be staring at anything but each other. Perhaps she would not have considered this, in itself, so very odd had there not been something furtive in their manner. She wondered also why each had been drawn to regard the other, for she did not think they were on particularly friendly terms. Certainly, the way they had behaved towards one another in the folly had suggested otherwise.
Algernon Cuffe was the first to recover from the director’s outburst. ‘Cordelia,’ he said, advancing forward, and taking her firmly, but kindly, by the arm. ‘Don’t go to pieces, there’s a dear. We have more to concern ourselves with than the fate of your wine glass.’ He patted the woman’s arm affectionately and steered her back towards the chair she had so recently vacated, talking all the while in soothing tones.
It surprised Rose greatly that Cordelia, in her current belligerent mood, had allowed herself to be manoeuvred in such a fashion, for she was led away by the thespian without demur. The wild look of anger disappeared from the woman’s eyes to be replaced by something else; Rose could not quite put her finger on what exactly. It might have been relief, or an odd sense of contentment. Whatever it was, it had the effect of subduing Cordelia sufficiently for her to sit quietly, clinging to Algernon’s arm. Rose noticed that the director gave him the occasional imploring look, as if she sought the answer to some question in his face. Algernon, meanwhile, continued to speak softly. At length, he said:
‘I don’t suppose Lord and Lady Belvedere undertook a very thorough search.’ He was at that moment half kneeing, half crouching on the floor beside the director’s chair. His back was towards Rose so she could not see the expression on his face. She saw Cordelia’s, however; the woman responded to Algernon with a smile. He turned and looked up inquiringly at Rose, repeating his sentence.
‘No, not at all,’ Rose muttered. ‘A cursory look at best.’
This statement was so far removed from the truth that she was obliged to turn her face away to conceal the fact that she was blushing. However, in that moment she was conscious not only of her crimson cheeks, but also of the possibility that perhaps all was not lost as she had first feared. If she allowed a few minutes for the dust to settle the situation might be salvaged. And if it were, then it was due to the unwitting actions of the actor king. She found herself feeling benevolent towards him. A quick glance at Cordelia revealed that the woman was almost recovered to her usual self. Relief was showing itself visibly on the faces and in the actions of the others. Rose began to plot her next move. She imagined that she might be able to pass from one small group of thespians to another, alluding softly to the missing wine glass, remarking how wonderful it would be if they could find it and present it to Cordelia. Perhaps someone had noticed where it had been left …?
‘There they go!’
Rose awoke abruptly to reality at the sound of Freddie Prentice’s voice, for the young man had almost shouted the words. But his attitude, she noticed with relief, was not that of one consumed with horror. Indeed, there was something of a gleeful nature in the way he bounded across the room. Together with his brother, he scrambled over to the window for a better look. ‘Out of the way, Miriam, there’s a dear,’ he cried, ‘don’t hog the window. There they are; I told you so.’ This latter remark seemed to be directed to his twin, who merely nodded. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Constable Bright walk so quickly, have you? Why, he’s almost trotting. I suppose he has to, with those short little legs of his, just to keep up with the other two. Though I must say, if he’d kept up that pace when we pinched his helmet … ‘
‘There’s the doctor,’ mumbled his brother, who did not appear to be viewing the scene with such youthful exuberance.
‘And Lord Belvedere leading the way,’ said Freddie.
Rose edged forward until she could see out of the window. It appeared to her that the men were hurrying, certainly, but a sense of delicacy prevented them from actually running. And besides, there was no need, she thought. There was nothing they could do for poor Ursula Stapleton now save catch her murderer.
It was with a heavy heart, therefore, that she regarded the three-man procession as it made its way in a dignified fashion to the folly. Contributing to her sense of melancholy was the knowledge that the advantage that Algernon had unknowingly won for her regarding the wine glass had now been lost. For how could she speak to the actors of such seemingly trivial matters now? It would appear very odd.
It was only later that she realised that she had been so absorbed in her own thoughts that she had missed something very obvious, something that had such a bearing on the case, that she admonished herself afterwards for having been quite oblivious to it at the time.
Chapter Seven
The twins’ fervour appeared to be contagious for, with much ado, the Sedgwick Players crowded round the window and craned their necks. It was almost as if they imagined that some fascinating scene would be played out before them on a distant stage, such was their enthusiasm. Certainly, there was considerable whispering and fidgeting, and jostling for space, with the taller of the actors gazing over the shoulders of the shorter, amid much grumbling. In the midst of it all, Rose was conscious that they kept a respectful distance from her. Only her mother came to stand beside her, peering rather short-sightedly through the glass, as she stared out at the view below.
They all stood there watching the progress of the three men as they made their way along the terraces and the paths. They trudged across the well-tended lawns down to the cool lake, and out to the stone folly beyond, hidden from their view by a veil of leaves.
The little procession made something of an amusing sight. It might almost have been said to be comical, had it not been for the bitter circumstances that had brought the three men together. Varying considerably in age, height and build, as they did, they brought to mind a set of Russian dolls. Rose herself was reminded of Shakespeare’s seven ages of man, of whom the three men could be said to represent three. First, there was Cedric. Tall and fair and youthful, to her somewhat biased mind, he was the lover sighing like a furnace. After him, and struggling to keep up with the earl, came the village constable, a short and portly fellow, breathing heavily from his exertions; he was Shakespeare’s justice, then, in fair round belly. Finally, bringing up the rear, was the sixth age of man, the old village doctor rather shrivelled and stooped in posture, and bent over a walking stick, his pince-nez perched
at a precarious angle on the top of his nose.
Very often, the three men disappeared momentarily from sight, obscured by the hedges, bushes, and trees in leaf, that lined the route, only to appear again a little nearer to their grim destination. An odd silence had sudden befallen the group in the house. As if one, they stared avidly out of the window as the little procession wound its way to the Greek temple. Even the footman, who had entered the room, seemed to incline his head in order that he might catch a peek at what was happening in the grounds.
If nothing else, it relieved the tension and boredom that pervaded the room in equal measure. For the three-man spectacle gave them something to occupy their minds and focus their attention as the minutes dragged on endlessly. The drawing room, which the troupe had so admired on first view, had something of a cloying, claustrophobic feel to it now, like a beautiful gilt cage from which they could not escape.
After a short while, the watchers grew bored with looking at the spectacle. Sighing and shrugging their shoulders, they turned away from the window at intervals. Even the twins began to show signs of being weary of the sight that had drawn them to the casement, forsaking their places at length to join the others in the room.
And so it was that only Rose remained looking out, ostensibly watching, but actually in deep contemplation. It was only afterwards that she regretted having been so deep in thought as to be quite oblivious to what was happening behind her in the room. It was a little while before she woke from her reverie and realised that she alone stood at the window. The Sedgwick Players had returned to the body of the room and were either drinking tea, which was now rather lukewarm, or else sipping brandy from lead crystal glasses. Some had wandered around the room in an aimless manner, from time to time stopping to regard an ornament or stare at paintings in which they were not the least bit interested.
During her musings, Rose had concluded that it would do no good to pursue the matter of the missing wine glass any further. For the moment at least this subject, though not fully exhausted, was likely to prove unpalatable for discussion. She had lost her chance and must focus her attention instead on something else. And on reflection, it seemed to her that her next priority was to determine the approximate route the party had taken to arrive at the house. If she could discover this it would considerably narrow the area to be searched.
The question that occupied her mind uppermost was who she should approach to find out this information. The twins, she noticed, were huddled together in a corner whispering to each other furiously. Cordelia had returned to her chair and appeared to have relapsed into her own little world again, oblivious to all else. She was being tended to by the ever diligent Mrs Simpson. It naturally occurred to Rose that she might speak to her mother, though as soon as the thought crossed her mind she dismissed it, for she remembered that Mrs Simpson and Cordelia had set off for the house before the others. It was unlikely, therefore, that their paths had crossed.
Algernon Cuffe and Walter Drury were standing beside one another, both looking a little awkward and ill at ease. Frowns creased their foreheads and Walter appeared worried. The object of their concern was Henry Rewe, the young man playing Hamlet, who was still looking rather ill. The two older men were gazing down at him as he drooped on his stool and rested his elbows on a convenient occasional table. They were making rather clumsy attempts to comfort him by patting his arm and offering him a glass of water. The gestures, kindly meant as they undoubtedly were, appeared, however, futile. For Henry had turned purposefully away from them and buried his head in his hands so that his face was all but hidden. It was almost as if he were in character; Hamlet, spurning the advances of friendship offered by Claudius and Polonius, suspicious of their true motives.
Despite the appearance given by Henry of a person not wishing to be disturbed, Rose was very tempted to approach him anyway. For she wanted to speak to him on a matter that had been preoccupying her mind for a while. If only she could have fathomed a way to prise him away from the others, she might have done so, but she could not and she did not wish their conversation to be overheard. She also wanted Henry to speak freely, which she thought unlikely if he had an audience. It was with some reluctance, therefore, that she acknowledged that she would have to wait for another opportunity.
This left only Miriam, who was standing by herself a little way from the others, apparently regarding the scene about her with something akin to bored amusement, her lips pouting in a sullen fashion, as if it were all somehow beneath her. The look she bestowed on the room in general seemed to say that Ursula Stapleton’s death was little more than an annoying inconvenience, and the responses of the others to the tragedy were exaggerated and overdramatic. Rose wondered idly how the young woman would react when she learned that Ursula Stapleton’s death had not been from natural causes, that she had in fact been murdered. Would Miriam still assume her look of weary indifference? Rose contemplated the girl who aroused her curiosity. There was something very detached about Miriam, as if she were standing in the room alone. Certainly, there was a certain arrogance about her posture which seemed to deter the other Sedgwick Players from approaching her. Only Algernon Cuffe, Rose noticed, appeared to be making any attempt to catch her eye. Every so often he stared at her anxiously, as if he feared she was concealing a wealth of emotions beneath her cool facade. Miriam, on her part, appeared to be equally at pains to ignore him, pointedly averting her gaze whenever she felt his eyes upon her.
Rose hesitated a moment, wondering whether there was anyone else to whom she might speak. It was not merely the young woman’s cold aloofness that discouraged her from approaching Miriam. Rather, it was the distinct impression she had that any attempt to engage her in meaningful conversation would be pointless. There appeared, however, no other course of action which she might follow. It was with some trepidation, therefore, that Rose advanced on the girl playing Ophelia.
Miriam was still in her loose, unflattering costume, her black hair tangled and unruly, and festooned with flowers which, on closer inspection, revealed themselves to be made of silk rather than of real vegetation. Rose was struck by the thought that the girl’s outward appearance of a wild, unkempt creature contrasted sharply, not only with the girl’s own cool composure and sense of superiority, which emanated from her like an aura, but also with the heavily brocaded and richly coloured garments worn by the other thespians.
Miriam, on her part, watched Rose’s approach with a mild curiosity, her mouth turning up slightly at one corner in what may have been a half smile, but which could just as easily have been something resembling a sneer. Whichever it was, Rose was not sure it boded well for the interview that was to follow.
‘Miss Belmore, won’t you have another cup of tea?’ she began tentatively.
‘No, thank you, your … ladyship.’
The words were polite enough, yet they were said in such a manner as to suggest insolence or, if not that exactly, at least that the girl was mocking her listener. Certainly, there had been a slight pause before the word ‘ladyship’, as if the speaker did not consider her companion deserved to be addressed as such, that it was nothing more than a mock title to cause amusement. Instinctively, Rose felt her own cheeks flush crimson and cursed inwardly for allowing herself to be intimidated by the likes of Miriam Belmore. She reminded herself sternly that she was no longer an assistant in a dress shop, and Miriam was not a customer to be served and pandered to. Rather, she, Rose, was a countess, if only by marriage, and as such the girl’s social superior. And what was more, the palatial palace in which they were standing, and which had so impressed the Sedgwick Players when they had first laid eyes upon it, was her home. In ordinary circumstances, Miriam Belmore would never have set foot across the threshold of Sedgwick Court.
It was with renewed confidence that Rose set about her self-appointed task.
‘Did it take you very long to get back to the house, Miss Belmore?’ Miriam looked at her quizzically and Rose continued hurriedly. ‘It has only
just occurred to me that you might not have known the way. Back to the house, I mean. I do hope that you didn’t get lost. Did you take the lower path or the upper one? Or perhaps you ran across the lawns? That is the most direct route, and is the one I should most probably have taken myself …’
Rose faltered, conscious that she was rambling. To make matters worse, a sullen expression had come into Miriam’s face; the girl looked almost resentful, a feature which did little to enhance her good looks. It was only then that it struck Rose that Miriam was not quite as young as she had first supposed. A handful of tiny lines were etched at the corners of the girl’s eyes, and at close quarters it was apparent that her fresh, unsullied complexion owed more to lotions than to nature. On reflection, Rose placed the woman as being in her late twenties, rather than in her very early twenties, as she had first supposed.
‘We kept to the paths, your ladyship. We didn’t trample on your flowerbeds if that is what you were afraid of.’ The impertinence of Miriam’s words was blatant now, softened only by being uttered in a voice that was rather musical and artificially bright, so that it might be supposed by a casual auditor that her intention had been only to amuse. The words were accompanied by a smile and a little high-pitched laugh. Both appeared a trifle forced, and revealed teeth that were small and even, and very white.
‘The thought never occurred to me, I assure you,’ said Rose, smiling, rather taken aback. She had difficulty mirroring Miriam’s light-hearted tone. Indeed, she found herself speaking more sharply than she had intended, for she felt quite certain that the girl’s real purpose had been to cause offense. Certainly, Miriam’s smile had not reached her eyes, which remained cold and rather calculating, as if she were regarding an object of which she was distrustful. To Rose, who studied her closely, the girl was clearly agitated, even if she was putting on a very good show of being otherwise.
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