There was a collective mumbling of assent as the troupe rid themselves of their various trappings and properties.
‘Why should the constable wish to see us?’ enquired the director rather nervously.
‘It is merely a formality, Cordelia,’ said Algernon, taking off his crown and propping it rather precariously on the edge of a table. There is nothing to worry about.’
‘I am afraid that is not quite true, Mr Cuffe,’ said Rose quietly. She turned around, aware that she now had their full attention.
‘Oh?’ enquired Walter, his hand poised in unfastening his cloak.
‘Yes,’ replied Rose. ‘I’m afraid it is all rather ghastly. You see, the constable is dreadfully afraid that Mrs Stapleton was murdered.’
She was vaguely aware of a cup slipping from the hand of Cordelia Quail and its contents spilling on to the floor. Rose stared transfixed at the damp patch that the liquid had made, reluctant to meet the eyes of those gathered, conscious that her cheeks flushed with her lie. The tea, she noticed, appeared to be spreading with every passing second. At the same time, she wondered what the constable’s reaction would have been had he been there to hear her utter her last sentence. Her thoughts became tangled. A ludicrous image was conjured up in her mind of the red-faced constable on his hands and knees rubbing vigorously at the rug, trying to rid it of the tea stain.
Rose had stood and watched while the Sedgwick Players had divested themselves of their outer garments and paraphernalia, their movements and actions oddly slow and stilted as they had digested her words, expressions of shock and bewilderment showing on their faces. Even Miriam, who had raised the question of murder and who, Rose observed closely, was quiet and withdrawn, her hand discernibly shaking as she tore at the silk flowers in her hair until they were strewn tattered and abandoned on the floor. If she had had a hairbrush on her person, she might very possibly have been tempted to use it. As it was, her hair remained tangled and wild. Running a hand awkwardly through her curls in the manner of a comb, the young woman clutched at her shapeless gown, wrapping it around her like a cloak.
Mrs Simpson appeared at Rose’s shoulder, a look of reproach on her face.
‘Really, Rose, I don’t know what has come over you; I really don’t. How could you speak as you did? To be so flippant about murder when you know very well that Ursula Stapleton was a friend of theirs. It was a mean thing to do.’
Mrs Simpson glared at her daughter, and Rose was reminded of how she had felt as a child when she had done some naughty deed and been admonished for it by her mother. She opened her mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. Instead, she bit her lip and lowered her eyes.
‘Oh, I daresay you had some reason or other for saying what you did and causing them distress,’ said Mrs Simpson sighing. ‘But really, Rose, did you have to be so unkind? I thought I had brought you up differently.’
Her mother’s words stung her to the quick, and Rose felt herself reeling from them, almost as if she had received a physical blow. Perhaps she did see violent death where there was none. It was quite possible, she thought, that she and Cedric would be proved wrong in their assertion that Ursula Stapleton had been murdered. For it might well transpire that the woman’s death had been from natural causes after all.
Ready at last, the Sedgwick Players filed out of the drawing room. A more forlorn, nervous group of people it would have been hard to imagine. Even Algernon Cuffe appeared to have lost some of his air of authority and bluster, though Rose was conscious that his eyes darted from one to the other of them, and that he alone seemed to take note of their surroundings.
Rose led the way across the hall and into the library. There, they found the constable awaiting them, seated behind a carved oak, octagonal library table with a cup of tea in front of him. The earl was leaning against the mantelpiece in something of a nonchalant manner. There was no sign of the old doctor, who had evidently taken his leave.
On their entrance, the constable coughed rather self-consciously and rose to his feet. He proceeded to bid the troupe to be seated on the various chairs that were scattered about the room, while he himself remained standing. It was a moment or two before he spoke, for he desired that they take in their impressive surroundings, which had so overawed him when he had first entered the room. If nothing else, they appeared to him to add an air of authority to the proceedings. For, from floor to ceiling, rows upon rows of books were arranged in great Georgian mahogany bookcases giving the room something of an ornate formality. Certainly, for a minute or two the Sedgwick Players appeared speechless, the atmosphere thick with their fear and anxiety, which mingled uncomfortably with the dust from the old volumes.
The constable cleared his throat noisily and began to talk, though what he said was immediately lost on his audience. For a voice, considerable louder than his own, had chosen that very same moment to speak.
‘I say, Constable,’ said Algernon. ‘Is it true? Do you believe Mrs Stapleton was murdered?’
Constable Bright, taken somewhat unawares by the abruptness of the question, commenced to stutter a vague sort of response. ‘Well, I wouldn’t ...’ he began, and then decided to stop and take a gulp of tea in order that he might formulate in his mind a suitable response.
‘Lady Belvedere said you did,’ said Miriam in an accusing tone.
The constable went very red in the face and began to splutter. There was a very strong possibility that he would either choke on his drink or else cover those present with a smattering of tea. Even Cedric, from his position by the mantelpiece, looked somewhat taken aback by Miriam’s statement. Rose herself blushed crimson and looked resolutely ahead. She had expected just such an eventuality and yet … She gave herself a good talking to. It could not be helped; she must deal with it the best she could. In the meantime, she would try not to catch the constable’s eye, for she could only imagine the look he was giving her. She stole a quick glance at her husband, who was looking at her curiously, his eyebrows raised.
After such an eventful start, the conversation that followed was somewhat tedious and dull. For the constable emphasised at every opportunity that the cause of Mrs Stapleton’s death was not yet known. They would have to await the results of the post-mortem just like everyone else and it did no good to speculate. As he had stressed this latter point, he had seen fit to glance up from his notebook and give Rose a meaningful stare. The constable had then asked for a brief account of the events leading up to Ursula’s death. Algernon Cuffe, who appeared to have elected himself as the thespians’ foreman, did most of the talking, accompanied by the odd nod of a head or muttering by some other of the Sedgwick Players as the individuals saw fit.
At last Constable Bright closed his notebook and rose from his seat. The others took this as a sign that they had been dismissed and all but leapt from their own chairs and fled from the room, eager to gather their belongings from the drawing room and depart. Cedric and Rose followed slowly in their wake. In the hall, Cedric made as if to follow them into the drawing room, but Rose tugged at his sleeve and requested that he remain where he was. Together they waited in the hall and bid each of the thespians farewell as they came out of the drawing room clutching their effects. The earl and countess watched their retreating backs as the actors departed. Mrs Simpson, who was obviously still annoyed with her daughter, showed little inclination to linger, and followed the Sedgwick Players out of the front door and down the steps.
‘Right,’ said Cedric. ‘Now the coast is clear, let’s see this wine glass you’ve found.’ He bounded into the drawing room. ‘Hello? Where’s Charlie? I thought you said he was guarding the said glass.’
Rose joined her husband in the drawing room. Other than themselves, there was no one else present in the room. Certainly, there was no sign of the footman.
‘Where did you say it was hidden?’ Cedric asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.
‘Over there on the bookcase, behind the vase of flowers,’ said Rose, pointing to the spot.
Cedric ran to the bookcase in question, picked up the vase and all but flung it from him. Rose remained where she was, all too aware that something had stopped Cedric in his tracks, for he was standing there still clutching the vase, staring where it had been positioned on the bookcase. Slowly, he turned around to face her, a look of horror on his face. Rose knew what he was about to say even before he opened his mouth to speak.
‘It’s gone,’ Cedric said. ‘The wine glass; it’s gone. Someone has taken it!’
Chapter Ten
Husband and wife stood for a moment staring at the empty space on the bookcase, which seemed strangely magnified. Such was the intensity of their gaze, it might almost be supposed that they imagined the cranberry-coloured wine glass would magically materialise of its own volition. Looking at the void, Rose recalled how, only half an hour earlier, the glass had glistened in the light like some malign and vindictive presence.
‘Are you quite sure it was there?’ asked Cedric, at length. Rose nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, for she hardly dared breathe. ‘Of course, I’m not suggesting that you imagined seeing it,’ Cedric added quickly, ‘only that perhaps you glimpsed it on another piece of furniture or …’ he broke off from what he was saying to walk to the other end of the room. ‘This bookcase, perhaps. It might be here behind this ornament.’ He picked up the object in question and glanced behind it, a hopeful look upon his face, which quickly faded.
‘No,’ said Rose, ‘it was definitely behind that vase on that bookcase. I spotted it when I was standing here.’ She moved further into the room and regarded the place where the vase had stood, concealing its deadly treasure.
‘Then it’s disappeared,’ said Cedric rather forlornly, replacing the ornament on the bookcase. ‘Someone’s taken it,’ he reiterated, somewhat unnecessarily.
‘Yes,’ said Rose.
Had her husband studied her more closely, he would have seen that there was a certain gleam in her eye. However, at that very moment, Cedric’s attention was drawn to a sudden movement behind one of the curtains.
‘Hello? I say, who’s there?’ He marched over to the window just as a figure emerged from behind the drape of silk brocade. ‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘Charlie! I say, you did give me a fright. Why on earth are you skulking about there of all places?’ His face clouded, and a note of annoyance entered his voice. ‘Lady Belvedere asked you to stand guard in front of the bookcase. Why did you leave your post?’
‘Because I asked him to,’ said Rose quickly, coming to the servant’s aid. For the poor footman, she noted, was looking distinctly nervous at incurring his master’s wrath. ‘Charlie was following my instructions.’ She addressed the servant. ‘Did you see who took the wine glass, Charlie?’
‘Yes, I did, m’lady,’ said the footman eager to redeem himself in his master’s eyes. ‘It was –’
‘But it was evidence,’ protested Cedric, not permitting the poor man to finish his sentence. Instead, he gave his wife an incredulous look. ‘It was the only evidence we had in our possession that proved Ursula was poisoned. If we are right, the cyanide was administered to her in that wine glass. And there should still be traces of it in the glass. But now it is gone, we will never know whether we were right or not.’
Before Rose could reply, she found herself distracted by the sudden appearance of Constable Bright, who was hovering in the doorway of the room.
‘Ah, there you are, your lordship, your ladyship.’ The policeman half bowed his head to each in turn, as if he had just arrived at Sedgwick Court. He hesitated for a moment before he entered the drawing room, treading with the utmost care. ‘I’ve come to take the wine glass, the one what you say’s got poison in it. On the bookcase, did you say it is?’
‘It was,’ said Cedric, a touch of bitterness in his voice. ‘But it isn’t there now, Constable.’ He paused to look rather despairingly at his wife. ‘I’m afraid the murderer has seen fit to take it with him.’
‘Has he indeed?’ The constable looked visibly shocked.
‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Rose lightly. ‘It’s in the study. I think you’ll find it’s on the desk. At least, that’s where I asked Manning to put it.’
‘What?’ cried Cedric. ‘But Charlie said he saw someone take it from the bookcase.’
‘Charlie did see someone take a wine glass from the bookcase,’ agreed Rose. ‘But it wasn’t the glass that contained the poison; it was the other one.’
‘What other one?’ demanded her husband, looking distinctly confused. ‘Darling, you told me the murderer had hidden the missing wine glass on the bookcase. That was the one that had contained the poison, wasn’t it?’ Rose nodded. ‘Then how –’
‘I think it would be best if I explain,’ she said quickly.
‘I wish you would, your ladyship,’ said Constable Bright, evidently having some difficulty in following the conversation.
‘Here, here,’ agreed Cedric, his usual good humour restored now that it appeared a disaster had in fact been averted. The murderer had not made off with a crucial piece of evidence as he had at first supposed.
‘It was an idea that came to me when you told me Dr Henchard wasn’t of the opinion that Mrs Stapleton had been poisoned.’ Rose might well have added that it had actually been the constable’s decision not to launch an investigation into the woman’s death that had persuaded her to devise her own plan. ‘It seemed so very simple. Really, I can hardly believe that it worked. I hoped it would, of course, but I couldn’t be certain.’
The constable looked a little mystified, as if he thought Rose was talking in riddles. He had somewhat reluctantly produced his notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. Now, he looked as if he were rather tempted to return them.
‘It struck me that I could use the fact that there were two wine glasses to my advantage,’ continued Rose quickly. ‘If you remember, two glasses were carried on to the stage on a tray in the final scene. Ursula Stapleton drank water from only one of them, the one that we think contained the poison. The other glass was empty. But in appearance, the wine glasses were identical. They came from the same set and were most distinctive, the bowls being rather a marvellous cranberry colour,’ Rose raised a hand as the policeman made to protest. ‘Yes, I know, Constable, it is quite possible that Lord Belvedere and I are just being fanciful in assuming poor Mrs Stapleton was murdered. But for the purposes of my story I would be grateful if you would humour me.’
The constable nodded, though he looked a little ill at ease. It was possible that he now regretted his rather hasty decision to arrange for the body to be removed before it had been photographed in situ. He said rather gruffly: ‘Very well, your ladyship. If you say so and given as how we’re in your house and not at the police station.’
‘Thank you, Constable. As I was saying, the wine glass was taken from the folly and an effort had been made to hide it in this drawing room,’ continued Rose. ‘The attempt might quite well have been successful had I not discovered it purely by chance. If I hadn’t been standing on that very spot …’ She paused to indicate an area of the rug. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all.’
‘Ah!’ cried Cedric, enlightenment having suddenly come to him. ‘You swapped the glasses. I say, how did you do that?’
‘While you were giving the constable your account of the events leading up to Mrs Stapleton’s death, I asked Manning to get the other wine glass from the folly. I instructed him to substitute it for the glass in the drawing room as soon as the coast was clear.’
‘I see,’ said Cedric. ‘That’s why you suggested that the constable interview the thespians in the library? It was an opportunity to get them to leave the drawing room for a few minutes. I thought it a little odd at the time.’
‘Yes. Manning needed an opportunity to swap the wine glasses.’
‘And Charlie here,’ said Cedric, indicating the footman, who all the while had been standing behind his shoulder, ‘needed a chance to hide behind the curtain with
out anyone noticing so that he could see who took the wine glass from the bookshelf when they all returned to the drawing room.’
‘Yes. That’s why I asked them to leave all their belongings in the drawing room and collect them when they left,’ said Rose. ‘Because I didn’t want the murderer to take the wine glass that contained the poison before we had swapped it with the other one.’
‘I say, he’d have been taking an awful risk if he had done,’ objected Cedric. ‘Charlie would still have been standing in front of the bookcase, wouldn’t he? Our murderer would have had to ask him to stand aside so that he could get to the glass.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Rose. ‘It would have meant drawing attention to both himself and the wine glass. I think that, on reflection, he would have decided that his best option was to leave the glass where it was. After all, the chances were that the domestic staff would just wash it up and return it to Miss Quail. You see, as far as our murderer was aware, no one suspected foul play.’
‘Ah,’ cried Cedric, as further enlightenment dawned. ‘That’s why you announced that Constable Bright was of the opinion that Ursula had been murdered.’
‘Did you indeed, your ladyship?’ began Constable Bright in rather sombre tones, drawing himself up to his full height, which was not very considerable. ‘Well, I must say that –’
‘You wanted to be certain that the murderer would take the glass when he returned to the drawing room,’ Cedric continued in his excitement, rather rudely interrupting the poor constable, who was looking somewhat deflated by the fact that he was being ignored. ‘Otherwise he most probably would have left it where it was.’
Murder in the Folly Page 10
