Murder in the Folly

by Margaret Addison

  Inwardly, Rose sighed. It was difficult to know what to say next. How was she to engage with a woman who so very obviously did not wish to speak to her? If only she could penetrate the girl’s icy shell. She could not rid herself of the feeling that she had made a complete hash of things. She felt as if her newly elevated position in society had removed her from those of a lower station, who had formerly been her peers or equals, or even her superiors. There was a great distance between her and the others in the room; they spoke to one another as if she were not there and, when she came upon them, they eyed her shyly, the words frozen on their lips, as if they feared they might be speaking out of turn. Miriam didn’t act like that, of course, but Rose’s social status still placed a barrier between them. The girl could not snub her or be blatantly rude to her as she might have wished.

  If only, Rose thought, she had approached matters differently. Then, she might have acquired some valuable information. Instead, her endeavours to locate the whereabouts of the missing wine glass had been sadly thwarted, if only temporarily, by the sudden appearance of the doctor and the policeman in the grounds, which had drawn everyone’s attention to the window. Her initial attempts to discover the route taken by the troupe to arrive at the house had not fared much better, for she admitted to herself now that she had been careless and blundering in the way she had tackled Miriam. Even to her own ears, she had sounded too eager and inquisitive.

  To make matters worse, it was obvious to her that Miriam Belmore had quite taken against her. In the silence that followed, a wall of hostility and suspicion seemed to have sprung up between them. The slightly mocking smile of her companion had quite disappeared and the girl’s eyes now flashed at her angrily. As Rose watched transfixed, Miriam tossed her head back and drew herself up tall, rather as if she were a stallion preparing for a fight. The movement dislodged the silk flowers, which caught in the tangles of her hair before they could fall to the ground. It was all rather theatrical and Rose wondered how much of it was real and how much done for effect. Certainly, she had a sense of how Miriam might play the unfortunate Ophelia, driven mad by her father’s untimely death.

  It was then that it occurred to Rose that she really had very little left to lose. There was no reason now why she need beat about the bush when talking to Miriam. She might say anything she wished; it would not make the girl feel the slightest bit differently towards her. With this realisation, came a lightening of her spirits. She would not pass the time of day with this rude and ignorant girl. Instead, she would assume the mantle of the amateur sleuth she aspired to be, the one who had been involved in six murder investigations and had earned the admiration, if rather grudgingly, of both the provincial police and of Scotland Yard.

  ‘I should like you to tell me the route you took through the grounds when you returned to the house,’ said Rose slowly and quietly, as if she were addressing a stubborn child.

  It was apparent to anyone who wished to observe that Rose’s solemn tone startled Miriam. The girl blinked rapidly a couple of times, and opened her mouth to speak before thinking better of it. Fearing the girl would remain mute, Rose took a step forward, the effect of which was to force a word to escape from the girl’s lips.

  ‘Why?’ The word was spoken in a whisper.

  ‘I should like to know,’ said Rose firmly. ‘Surely it is not too much to ask that you tell me such a very simple thing?’

  An emotion akin to fear appeared on Miriam’s face. Her eyes seemed to dart about the room until they settled on the little trio of actors comprising Algernon, Walter and the ailing Henry. Rose followed the girl’s gaze and Miriam, suddenly aware that she had made some fatal error, grabbed at Rose’s sleeve, so that she might have the countess’ full attention.

  ‘Is it true what they say about you?’

  ‘What do they say?’ inquired Rose, wondering if she really wanted to know. She could only imagine what the village gossip was about her. Certainly, she thought it likely that many of them thought Cedric had married beneath him, for an assistant in a dress shop was not the obvious choice of bride for an earl. No doubt they thought she gave herself airs and graces and considered herself better than she was …

  ‘That you’re an amateur detective?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Rose, somewhat relieved that she was not about to hear some spiteful village gossip regarding her character.

  ‘They say you’ve been involved with murder cases,’ said Miriam. ‘That business last year on Bonfire Night …’ She faltered.

  ‘It is true that I have been in a position in the past to help the police with their inquiries,’ said Rose carefully.

  ‘You think Ursula Stapleton was murdered, don’t you? That’s why you and his lordship took an age to return to the house, isn’t it? We were all wondering where you were.’ Miriam’s tone was challenging now. She looked vexed, as if she thought some frightful trick had been played upon them.

  Rose looked about her anxiously, aware that Miriam’s voice had risen with her growing indignation. She hoped fervently that the others were still engrossed in their own activities and had not heard Miriam mention the word ‘murder’.

  As she gazed about the room, her eyes caught sight of something perched on the top of a bookcase that she had not remembered being there before. The object was half hidden behind a vase of flowers and, had she not been standing where she was, she might not have noticed it at all. As it was, she could only see the smallest bit of it, and she might well have ignored it, had it not been for its colour, which had drawn her attention to it.

  Quickly, she made her excuses to a somewhat bewildered Miriam and, aware that her heart was beating rather fast, crossed the room until she was abreast with the bookcase. In case she was being watched, she made a show of rearranging the flowers in the vase, though her attention was focused elsewhere, in fact on what had been pushed behind the vase itself. She gave a sharp intake of breath; she had not been mistaken. It was definitely red and made of glass. Rather gingerly, Rose moved aside the vase, conscious that she should not touch the object itself. She kept her back to the room in an attempt to hide her discovery from the prying eyes of the others. Certainly, she did not wish them to see the expression on her face. For, reflecting back at her, and looking strangely innocent and fragile, was a Victorian cranberry-coloured wine glass, twinkling in the light from the chandelier.

  Chapter Eight

  For a moment, all Rose’s senses seemed to have left her. She could do nothing but stare dumbfounded at the object in front of her, which seemed to glisten and shine in the light, even as she watched it, like some malevolent deity. She fancied that she could even see traces of the poison that had polluted it at the bottom of the glass. Certainly, the red glass seemed to mesmerise her like some malignant force.

  It was with some effort, therefore, that she tore her eyes from the wine glass and took measures to regain her composure. It was fortunate, she thought, that she had her back to the room. There was no one to witness the expression on her face, or ask her if she were unwell, for she was quite sure that she must look a ghastly shade of white, such was the shock she had experienced.

  She recalled vaguely that she had voiced the possibility to Cedric that the murderer would decide to rid himself of the wine glass in the house. She had surmised that he might consider it his best course of action. For there would be a strong possibility that it would not be discovered until the next day, and then only by some exhausted housemaid who might not be aware of the significance of her discovery. Rose realised now, however, as she stared at the offending object, that she had never given the idea much credence. For one thing, it would require the murderer to take an awful risk; the likelihood of being spotted disposing of the glass by someone in the room was great.

  Rose took a deep breath and, with trembling hands, positioned the vase so that the offending wine glass was hidden behind it, obscured from view from all but the most astute observer. Slowly, she turned and surveyed the room apprehensively. How
ever, somewhat to her relief, it appeared that the others were too engrossed in what they were doing to be interested in her own activities. Certainly, no one seemed to eye her surreptitiously; there was no furtive glance cast in her direction and conversely no one appeared determined not to meet her gaze, aware of what she had unearthed behind the vase.

  Quickly she looked about her and spied one of the footmen standing beside the table of refreshments. Summoning the servant to her, she gave him strict instructions to stand in front of the bookcase and, on no account, to forsake his post.

  ‘And, Charlie, don’t, whatever you do, let anyone pick up the wine glass,’ Rose said quietly.

  The footman nodded and gave his mistress a respectful look. If he was surprised by his mistress’ strange instructions, or alarmed by the note of urgency in her voice, he did not betray the fact by his expression. Neither did he show any surprise at discovering the sudden appearance in the drawing room of one of the wine glasses he had earlier filled with water and taken to the folly. It was all distinctly odd, as he would remark later to Edna, Rose’s lady’s maid, in the safety of the servants’ hall; but in the drawing room he merely muttered: ‘Yes, your ladyship,’ as if such requests and happenings were commonplace.

  Satisfied that she had put measures in place to ensure that the wine glass would neither be handled, nor vanish into thin air the moment her back was turned, Rose hastened out of the room in search of pen and paper. It was with something akin to relief, therefore, that she found the butler, Manning, patrolling the hall outside rather like a sentry. On discovering what his employer sought, the upper servant hastily produced a pencil from one of his pockets and tore a page from his own notebook. Rose hurriedly scrawled a note to her husband.

  ‘Manning, please see that Lord Belvedere receives this note at once. I suppose he is still at the folly with the constable and the doctor?’

  ‘I believe so, m’lady. I’ll take the note to his lordship myself.’

  With that, the butler disappeared and Rose was left to imagine him scurrying across the grounds to the Greek temple. It reminded her of another occasion when Manning, then under butler, had hurried towards her and Cedric in the grounds, when they had been admiring the follies and parkland. Then, Manning had been almost running in his haste, while all the time trying rather unsuccessfully to maintain a dignified appearance. This had not been helped, she remembered, by his attire of black trousers, waistcoat and tailcoat, which had rather given him the appearance of a waddling penguin.

  Rose hesitated for a moment in the hall. Etiquette dictated that she should return to the drawing room and entertain her guests, or at the very least keep them company while they awaited the arrival of the constable and the doctor. However, she found herself reluctant to return to the room with its stifling atmosphere of apprehension and its strange assortment of characters. Instead, she chose to linger a little longer in the hall, to breathe deeply and take stock of the situation in which she found herself. She basked in the welcome solitude the hall offered her for, now that the butler had departed on his errand, there was not even a servant present to observe her. For a moment, she might have been plain Rose Simpson again, instead of Lady Belvedere, for all the interest the world took in her as she stood in the black and white tiled hall, staring up at the great oak staircase that loomed above her like some huge monument.

  A noise startled Rose, rousing her from her reverie as effectively as if someone had splashed cold water upon her face. It took a moment for her to realise that what she had heard was a commotion of sorts emanating from the outer hall, which itself opened out on to the terrace. It was consistent with the sound of the three men returning to the house after their visit to the folly. Instinctively, she moved towards them, to be there to greet them when they entered the main hall. As she approached, she recognised the sound of Cedric’s long strides crossing the tiles even before she caught a glimpse of him, or heard his voice, which was strangely muted and lacking in enthusiasm. This surprised her greatly, for she had expected her husband to be excited, to come bounding into the house and rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his eagerness to see the wine glass in its hiding place. Instead, when she saw him, he looked oddly deflated, like a small boy who had broken his favourite toy.

  Before she could ask him what was wrong, he spied her in the hall and came marching over to her. As he walked towards her, she noticed that he raked his hair with the fingers of one hand in an irritated fashion. His face was a mixture of emotions.

  ‘Confound the man!’ said her husband angrily, his forehead now deeply furrowed with frustration. He spoke the words in something akin to a rough and harried whisper, as if he did not wish those following him to hear what he was saying yet sought a release for his anger.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘That damned doctor. That’s what. And Constable Bright too, of course. I say, did you know the man lacks a backbone? The police constable I mean, not the doctor.’

  The earl did not wait for his wife to reply but hurried on, as if he feared at any moment the imminent arrival of his colleagues in the main hall. Certainly, the sounds coming from the outer hall had ceased.

  ‘Our good constable,’ he continued, lowering his voice after pausing for a moment to glance furtively over his shoulder, ‘doesn’t want to contradict the eminent doctor. Neither does he wish to ruffle my feathers. I think the aristocracy might have taken precedence over the medical profession if the old man had not helped deliver our constable’s wife of a healthy baby boy.’ Cedric scowled. He took a deep breath and some of his anger seemed to disappear with it. ‘Poor old Constable Bright. I suppose it’s not the poor fellow’s fault if he’s a trifle lily-livered. But he knows as well as I do what his duty is; to fully investigate a potential crime, that’s what. Still, I suppose he’s used to dealing with petty theft and damage and drunken louts, not –’

  ‘What are you talking about, darling?’ Rose asked, interrupting, rather taken aback by the ferocity of her husband’s tirade. For it was seldom, if ever, that she had heard him speak in such a manner of his social inferiors. Ludicrous as it seemed, given the circumstances, she had a sudden urge to giggle. Instead she bit her lip and, as she did so, sudden comprehension came to her as clearly as if it had been written before her on a page. ‘Surely you’re not saying that –’

  ‘Yes, I am. Of all the ridiculous things. The doctor doesn’t believe Mrs Stapleton was poisoned!’ Cedric threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of exclamation mingled with disgust. ‘Well, perhaps I am being a little unfair,’ he added, making a face. ‘What the old fellow actually said was that the body’s appearance was not inconsistent with that of a person who had died from some heart disease or other. You know, the rosy complexion and all that.’ He sighed. ‘Still, I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies. By that I mean the old chap didn’t set about issuing a death certificate. Fortunately, it appears that Ursula was not his patient, otherwise I wouldn’t have put it past him.’ Cedric shook his head. ‘To tell you the truth, I suppose I am most angry with myself.’

  ‘Oh?’ Rose put her hand on her husband’s arm and he looked down at her and smiled.

  ‘If I am to be quite honest, it’s all my fault. No use apportioning blame or, if I do, I should look no further than myself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rose looked at him quizzically and wondered whether it was possible that they had both made rather a mess of things regarding furthering their inquiries in to the actress’ death.

  ‘Well, I was fool enough to remark on Ursula having had a weak heart. Sheer stupidity on my part because it put the notion in the doctor’s head. I doubt he would have considered it if I hadn’t blurted it out. Do you remember Algernon Cuffe mentioned it? The heart business, I mean, not my stupidity.’

  ‘Yes, I do. We were in the folly, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes. But really, it’s too absurd to believe that Ursula died from natural causes.’

  Cedric gr
inned at his wife half sheepishly, as if he were suddenly conscious he had overdramatised the situation. He stretched out a weary arm towards her, and she, sharing in his sudden fatigue of everything that had happened, moved towards him and rested her head on his shoulder. Rose was aware only of a sense of peace and contentment. They might have been alone at Sedgwick Court for all the notice they gave to their surroundings. It was as if the house was quite empty of servants, and the Sedgwick Players were still in the folly, treading the boards of the makeshift stage.

  A couple of minutes elapsed, and it was with obvious reluctance that they tore themselves apart and faced the awful reality of the situation in which they found themselves. Death had once more come to Sedgwick Court and they must deal with it as best they could.

  ‘Not that I suppose it matters,’ said Cedric, clearly resigned to what was to follow. ‘They’ll determine the cause of death soon enough when they do the post-mortem. But it is all rather galling. It appears, darling, that it is only me who can detect the smell of almonds on the poor woman.’

  ‘You must have a remarkable sense of smell,’ remarked his wife. If the circumstances had been different, Rose might have laughed. As it was, her thoughts were elsewhere for it had occurred to her suddenly that Cedric had made no mention of the missing wine glass.

  ‘Did Manning find you?’

  ‘Manning? No, should he have done?’ Cedric looked at her with interest, for the eager note in his wife’s voice was not lost on him.

  ‘I sent him after you.’ Rose took a step forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I’ve found the missing wine glass. It was in the drawing room half hidden behind a vase on the bookcase.’

  ‘Have you, by Jove!’ exclaimed Cedric, his eyes wide. ‘Why, that’s capital.’

  ‘Ssh!’ said Rose hurriedly, for Cedric’s voice had risen in his excitement. She gave a furtive glance at the door of the drawing room, praying it was firmly closed and not just ajar. For she had no wish for the troupe to overhear the news.