Murder in the Folly

by Margaret Addison

  ‘They’ll have to believe it was murder now, won’t they?’ continued Cedric in a lowered voice. ‘I mean to say, why else would anyone wish to hide the wine glass?’

  Before Rose had a chance to reply, the constable and the doctor appeared in the hall, the latter carrying a rather battered old Gladstone bag which he placed on a convenient console table.

  ‘Ah, your ladyship,’ muttered the old doctor, peering at Rose from behind his pince-nez. It was evident that the lenses were particularly strong, for the doctor’s eyes were magnified in rather a grotesque fashion so as to give the appearance of being rather too large for his head. Certainly, Rose could see clearly that the eyes themselves were rather red rimmed and watered profusely. She also observed that the doctor was obliged to screw them up in order to focus them upon her, and she wondered idly whether she resembled anything more to him than a dim, shadowy form.

  ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear,’ croaked the old doctor, before coughing nervously as if he feared he might have spoken out of turn. He shuffled a step or two backwards with the aid of his walking stick, as fast as his stiff, old legs would permit, while muttering: ‘Begging your pardon, your ladyship.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Rose kindly. ‘How do you do, Dr Henchard? I am very pleased to meet you, though I should have preferred it to have been under less unfortunate circumstances. And Constable Bright, how do you do?’ she added, addressing the plump little policeman, whom she had met previously, and who was evidently somewhat out of breath due to his exertions round the grounds.

  Constable Bright went crimson, mumbled something, the only words of which Rose could decipher being ‘your ladyship’, and proceeded to remove his helmet and mop at his forehead with an extremely large white handkerchief.

  ‘I should like you gentlemen to come to my study,’ said Cedric briskly, as soon as the pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘My wife has something of importance to tell you.’

  The earl’s companions followed him into the room in question without demur. Cedric closed the door firmly behind them and remained standing. The others seated themselves around the large, walnut estate desk, the doctor taking Cedric’s buttoned-velvet captain’s chair.

  ‘Look here,’ began Cedric, ‘Lady Belvedere has found the missing wine glass, the one with the poison in it. It was hidden behind a vase in the drawing room. I say, darling,’ he added, almost as an aside to his wife, ‘it is quite safe, isn’t it? That’s to say, our murderer won’t be able to get his hands on it?’

  ‘It’s quite safe,’ replied Rose. ‘Charlie is guarding it, though …’ She allowed her sentence to falter as an idea came into her head.

  Her husband looked at her inquiringly. He was, however, impatient to make his point and, when Rose did not appear inclined to say anything further on the matter, continued with his argument. ‘You see, gentlemen, it just goes to prove that I was right. Mrs Stapleton was murdered. I’ll wager that if you have that glass analysed, Constable, you’ll find traces of poison in the dregs.’

  ‘Because it was deliberately brought from the folly to the house, you mean, my lord?’ asked the constable, scratching his head. He fumbled in his breast pocket and produced a pencil stub and a rather dog-eared looking notebook, the pages of which he flipped through rapidly until he found one on which nothing was scribbled.

  ‘Well, there is that, of course,’ agreed Cedric, somewhat impatiently. ‘Why would anyone want to bring the wine glass to the house unless they wished to dispose of it?’

  ‘They might have been afraid it would be broken if it was left in the folly, my lord, or perhaps they picked it up, absentminded like,’ suggested the policeman somewhat nervously.

  ‘The point I was trying to make, Constable, was that they saw fit to hide it,’ said Cedric, trying to keep his temper in check. ‘Why would anyone want to do that unless it contained something incriminating?’

  ‘I’m afraid that I may be to blame,’ admitted Rose rather sheepishly. ‘That’s to say, if there is an innocent explanation for Mrs Stapleton’s death.’

  Cedric looked quite taken aback by his wife’s statement, as if the wind had momentarily been taken out of his sails. The constable, seeing that this was a moment when he might assert the authority of the law, cleared his throat rather noisily, clutched his pencil and rather ostentatiously smoothed with his hand the page in his notebook.

  ‘What do you mean by that, your ladyship? That you might be to blame?’

  ‘I should perhaps say, Constable, that I don’t believe for one moment that Mrs Stapleton’s death was from natural causes.’

  ‘But, if that was to prove to be the case, are you saying as how you might be to blame for the wine glass having been hidden as it were?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why, his lordship is just after telling me how careful you’ve been not to arouse any suspicion that Mrs Stapleton’s death was anything but natural,’ said the constable looking confused. ‘Not that the doctor is saying it isn’t,’ he added hurriedly, giving a quick glance at the doctor, who was sitting quietly, his walking stick clutched between gnarled hands.

  ‘Well, you see, I think I may have given Miss Quail the impression that someone had stolen one of her wine glasses,’ said Rose quietly, aware that all eyes were on her. ‘I didn’t mean to, of course. I was only trying to discover what had happened to the wine glass, and it occurred to me that Miss Quail might have seen someone pick it up. My intention was to question everyone on the matter.’

  Constable Bright coughed and looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he wished to say something but thought better of it. Not for the first time, Rose thought that, had she still been plain Rose Simpson, he would most probably have criticised her actions.

  ‘Unfortunately, Miss Quail became a little hysterical,’ Rose continued. She bit her lip and added rather miserably: ‘To tell you the truth, she made a frightful scene.’

  ‘A scene, you say?’ said Constable Bright, looking up from his notebook. ‘What kind of a scene?’

  ‘She raised her voice, Constable. She addressed the whole room and demanded that the glass be returned to her at once. It was all rather dreadful. The wine glasses belonged to her, you see,’ Rose explained. ‘They were part of a set and I believe she rather treasured them.’ She glanced apologetically at Cedric, ‘I’m afraid she made such a fuss that I am not a bit surprised that no one owned up to having taken it.’

  ‘So, what you are saying, your ladyship, if I understand you correctly, is that only a fool who didn’t mind a good lashing from Miss Quail’s tongue would have admited to having it on their person.’

  ‘Exactly, Constable.’

  ‘I was in one of her plays, once,’ the constable remarked, making a face. ‘Second villager from the left, I was. Frightened me half to death, she did. Not the sort of lady you’d want to cross by not knowing your lines or where you had to stand on the stage, I can tell you.’ He started abruptly, as if he recollected where he was. ‘So what we are saying is that there might be quite an innocent explanation for why someone took the wine glass from the folly and hid it in your drawing room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or there might not be,’ said Cedric, rather sulkily. ‘I say, Constable, surely you are still intending to interview everyone?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem much point in that, my lord, if what you mean is speak to them separate like. A waste of time if you ask me, seeing as now we don’t know if a murder has been committed or not and likely as not it hasn’t. That’s the opinion of the good doctor here, isn’t it? And he should know. He’s of the opinion that the poor woman died from natural causes. Isn’t that right, Dr Henchard?’ The constable had raised his voice slightly and jerked his head in the direction of the aged doctor, who nodded his head sagely and mumbled: ‘Quite right, Constable.’

  ‘Now, look here, Constable –’

  ‘Begging your pardon, your lordship, but there is not much we can do for now, not until we know what’
s happened.’

  There was a stubborn note to the constable’s voice, and it occurred to Rose that the policeman was a little frightened. While he would naturally be nervous of incurring the earl’s wrath, he was also wary of launching a murder investigation, particularly if it was likely to prove unfounded.

  The constable raised a hand as Cedric made to object again.

  ‘I’ll speak to everyone in the drawing room and advise them as we may need to speak to them at a later date. I’ll take the glass with me and telephone the police station at Bichester, ask them to arrange for its contents to be analysed. That’s the best I can do. And of course, it goes without saying that we’ll know more after the post-mortem.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cedric rather bitterly, ‘if you don’t mind losing some vital clue or other. I only wish, Dr Henchard,’ he said, turning to the doctor, ‘that you suspected foul play.’

  ‘Well, I for one think the constable’s proposal is a very good one,’ said Rose cheerfully.

  ‘Do you?’ Cedric stared at her in surprise.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Rose. Her voice was filled with such quiet conviction that her husband eyed her curiously and made no further protest.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Constable,’ continued Rose, ‘I should like a word with our butler. Darling,’ she added, addressing her husband, and giving him something of a meaningful look, ‘why don’t you give Constable Bright a detailed description of the events leading up to Mrs Stapleton’s death? I am sure he will need to make some report or other.’

  Before either gentleman had an opportunity to comment on her suggestion, Rose had opened the door and fled the room. She crossed the hall, thinking rapidly. She was all too aware that there was very little time to put her plan into action.

  Chapter Nine

  She was roused from her thoughts by the arrival of Manning, who entered the hall slightly panting, as if he had been running.

  ‘Begging your pardon, m’lady,’ began the butler between breaths, ‘but I can’t find his lordship. Perhaps he has returned to the house?’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ said Rose. She looked at the servant somewhat apologetically. ‘I’m afraid I shall require you to return to the folly.’ Her next words to him were uttered in a hurried whisper, as she proceeded to give Manning detailed instructions. The butler listened intently and did his utmost to hide a look of surprise from appearing on his face.

  ‘Quickly as you can, Manning, we haven’t much time.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  Rose stood for a moment watching the butler’s retreating back. It was then that she wondered if she were not being a little foolish. Should she confide her plan to the constable? But no, on reflection, she would not do that. For she remembered the sceptical way he had dealt with Cedric, dismissing his suspicions with a wave of his hand or, perhaps more accurately, with a rustle of the pages in his notebook. It would be far better, she decided, to leave the policeman in ignorance until the deed was done. Her thoughts then turned to her husband. How she wished she had an opportunity to whisper in Cedric’s ear. Yet, if he too were oblivious of her plot, did it not mean that there was more chance of it succeeding? Still, she hesitated. She should return to the study, and yet she was disinclined to do so. She wanted to wait for Manning to return and yet to do so would only draw attention …

  It was with some reluctance, therefore, that she retraced her steps and opened the door to the study. Cedric’s words floated across the room to her. ‘Collapsed in a heap, Constable,’ he was saying, evidently drawing his narrative to a close. ‘It all happened so jolly quickly. It took us a few minutes to realise she was dead.’

  ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’ inquired Rose, addressing both the constable and the doctor. She bestowed on them a smile which seemed to suggest that there was nothing in the world that she would like more than to pour each of them a cup of the fortifying liquid. It certainly conjured up in the minds of both gentlemen a rather pleasing image of a fine bone china tea service; they could almost hear the tinkle of teaspoons on delicate saucers.

  The party of four were still seated in Cedric’s study, though some time had elapsed since Rose had returned to the room from the hall. The countess, rather unnecessarily in her husband’s opinion, had insisted on providing the constable with a most detailed account of her own observations during the period immediately prior to Ursula Stapleton’s death. Rose herself was conscious that Constable Bright had done his utmost not to look bored, though her tale was one he had heard before, for it largely mirrored her husband’s rendition. She had added a few little embellishments and flourishes to her narrative to make it a rather long-winded account; even the old doctor, comfortably seated in Cedric’s chair, had experienced some difficulty in stifling a yawn.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, I’m sure, your ladyship,’ began Constable Bright, consulting his pocket watch, ‘but –’

  ‘Oh, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, Constable, I assure you,’ replied Rose rather breezily, casting a furtive glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. She wondered desperately if the butler had returned to the house or whether he was still making his way back from the folly. If she were to pull the bell rope she might …

  Someone coughed, and her thoughts returned to the room. The constable was beginning to fidget. No doubt he was impatient to speak to the thespians and be gone. Rose looked at his flushed face and the way that he clutched his pencil and notepad. He did not hold these articles as if they were symbols of authority, instead as if they were a crutch or a screen, behind which he might hide. She felt, in that instant, that she had the measure of the man. He was comfortable dealing with the petty crimes of a village like Sedgwick, where every person was known to him. He had grown up with most of the lads, and was as familiar with their history and misdeeds as he was with his own. The goings on in the ‘big house’, as he referred to Sedgwick Court, were quite a different kettle of fish. They were as foreign to him as if they had occurred in some distant land. The inhabitants too were unusual, with their elegant clothes, posh voices and privileged backgrounds. ‘Never done a proper day’s work in their lives the lot of them’, he might have said to his wife in the sanctuary of their own home, had he not heard something of Rose’s past that made him view that young lady particularly warily.

  Rose thought rapidly. ‘The library,’ she said.

  ‘The library?’ inquired the constable, raising a startled eyebrow.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘I thought you might wish to interview everyone in the library. It’s more formal than the drawing room. That’s to say, it makes a more fitting interview room. And besides,’ she added, ‘I expect they could all do with a change of scene, don’t you? They have been rather cooped up in the drawing room for simply hours, poor things,’ she exaggerated.

  Rose held her breath. She observed the workings of the constable’s mind as clearly as if they had been set out before her on a sheet of paper. And it was with a sense of relief that she saw that he was minded to concur with her request. The library really was more suitable for such an activity, and the drawing room … well, if truth be told, he would find it rather daunting. All those precious ornaments, which he might inadvertently knock off the shelves given how clumsy he was; least, that was what his wife was always telling him. Richly upholstered furniture … and exquisite Persian rugs … really, he wouldn’t know where to put his feet for fear of ruining the carpets with his police-issue boots. No, far better that they should be seated in the library with only a few shelves of dusty old books.

  ‘Darling, will you be a dear and arrange for a cup of tea to be sent to the library for the constable?’ Rose asked her husband, doing her best not to catch his eye; she could only imagine what was passing through Cedric’s mind and how his thoughts might be reflected in his expression. ‘I’d better get back to my guests.’ She returned her attention to the policeman. ‘I’ll inform them, Constable, that you wish to see them in the library.’

  Rose bustl
ed out of the room before anyone could stop her. She half feared that Cedric would come running after her demanding to know what she was up to. It was with something akin to relief, therefore, to discover that no one had seen fit to follow her. There was no unwelcome sound of footsteps behind her, and no one called out to her. Yet, quickly on the heels of this sense of deliverance came a feeling of apprehension. It was caused, she knew, by the certain knowledge that she was about to do something of which the constable, at least, would wholeheartedly disapprove.

  She crossed the hall and, taking a deep breath, opened the door to the drawing room, trying to compose her face into something that resembled a smile. All the while, her heart was beating rapidly in her chest.

  She was greeted at once by half a dozen or so anxious faces. It was obvious that, as if one, they had turned to confront the door as soon as they had heard it open. Also evident was the fact that they had been expecting to see the constable. For, on identifying the newcomer as the countess, they had relaxed visibly; mouths that were gaping open closed, hands that were clutched were let go, and foreheads that had been furrowed became smooth. Rose noticed all these little outwards signs of relief and felt a stab of something akin to guilt.

  ‘Lady Belvedere,’ said Algernon Cuffe, being one of the first to recover his composure and step forward. ‘Is there any news? I am sure I speak for everyone when I say we have been kept here for an awfully long time. Not that we aren’t very grateful for your hospitality, of course,’ he added quickly, as if he were afraid that his remarks might have caused offence. He gave her a hopeful smile. ‘Are you come to tell us that we are free to leave?’

  ‘Yes and no, Mr Cuffe,’ replied Rose, matching his smile. ‘The constable would like a word with you all in the library and then you may leave. If you would all follow me.’ She turned towards the door and added over her shoulder, almost as if it were an afterthought: ‘You may leave all your things here and collect them when you leave.’ She glanced back at Walter Drury. ‘You won’t want to carry your hat into the library, Mr Drury, will you? It is far too cumbersome. And that goes for all of you. I daresay you’ll want to leave your cloaks and shawls here, to say nothing of your swords and daggers.’