‘Are you all right, miss?’ the sergeant inquired, venturing forward in a tentative fashion, as if he feared that he was acting out of turn. The concern was so evident in his voice that Rose felt a lump forming in her throat. ‘Only, I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ he continued, ‘but you look a little queer, like.’
‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ said Rose, rallying quickly, keen to allay his fears. ‘I think it is the shock … Ursula Stapleton’s death, I mean. I can’t quite believe that there has been another murder here …’ She paused to glance about her. It seemed to the sergeant watching her that her gaze encompassed everything, from the portraits on the wall to the formal gardens that lay beyond the house. It included the woods and the parkland that he knew comprised the grounds, and the lakes and the eye-catchers, and even the tainted maze with its sorry history.
Rose smiled and sighed inwardly. The sergeant’s simple act of kindness had helped restore her to her usual self. At last she felt in command of her emotions, and trailed behind the others as they made their way to the ill-fated folly, her husband leading the way. She remembered how, only the day before, she had hurried eagerly to the Greek temple, keen to watch the rehearsal and see the costumes. Now, as she followed the others, she walked more slowly, wondering what lay ahead.
‘Miriam. I say, Miriam. Wait a moment, will you?’
The voice appeared from nowhere. It was sufficiently loud, however, to reach the ears of the woman it addressed, even though she was some physical distance from the speaker. Certainly, Miriam Belmore started, arrested in the act of walking, her foot half raised to take her next step. To her, the words had seemed to echo shrilly around the lane in which she stood, bouncing off the tree trunks and the hedges that bordered Lovers’ Lane. On another occasion, it might have been all she could do not to cry out in alarm, such was her shock at being hailed in such a dramatic fashion. The voice, however, with its booming tone was familiar to her, and she had no intention of showing any outward sign of surprise or hesitation. Indeed, her first instinct had been either to swing around angrily and confront the speaker, or else to proceed with her walk, as if she were oblivious to his presence. On reflection, however, she had thought better of it, and had reached a compromise. She remained standing in a fixed position, waiting for him to approach, conscious that her senses were heightened. For, with each footstep, she heard the snapping of fallen twigs underfoot, the noise escalating as he came closer, so that she half imagined that it was bones that he was crushing so carelessly with his purposeful stride. And all the while she stood with her back turned resolutely towards him; a detached, cold figure in the sunshine dappled by the shadows cast by the leaves.
When she judged him to be a few feet from her, she turned around and spoke to him in a voice that affected boredom. ‘Well, what is it, Algernon?’
It took a moment or two for the man in question to catch his breath, and she looked at him with her usual air of disdain. She took the opportunity of his continued silence to add: ‘What were you doing, creeping up on me like that? Were you trying to frighten me?’
‘Hardly that, my dear,’ retorted Algernon, cheerful despite her tone. ‘I called out to you. Didn’t you hear me?’ She did not answer, but regarded the leaves instead, as if they held a special interest for her. ‘But, of course you did. Otherwise you would have continued walking.’ He laughed. ‘I say, you might have turned around or waved.’
Miriam’s response was to lower her gaze. It was a dismissive gesture, almost as if he were beyond her contempt. Certainly, she suggested by such an action that his question did not warrant a reply. However, if Algernon was offended he did not show it. Instead, he laughed heartily again, the noise filling the air about them.
‘How very beautiful you look now, my dear,’ he said. ‘I mean, when you are angry. It brings a sparkle to your eyes.’ He lifted a hand to her face. She brushed it aside with an angry gesture, and stared up at him with fierce, challenging eyes. ‘I must say that I rather liked it when your hair was wild and tangled,’ he continued softly. ‘It suited your temperament. You know, you played the part of Ophelia very well.’
‘I wish I could say the same about your beard,’ Miriam rebutted rather childishly, taken slightly off guard by the intimate sentiment. ‘It makes you look quite ridiculous.’
Algernon laughed and, before she could stop him, he bent his head and kissed her full on the lips. It was a moment or two before she pushed him away.
‘You beast! How dare you?’ Miriam demanded, rather belatedly. She poked him aggressively in the ribs and glared up at him indignantly, the anger she felt flashing in her eyes.
‘Very easily,’ he replied, studying her closely. He saw a flush of colour appear in her cheeks and grinned. ‘I say, I was awfully afraid that you no longer cared for me.’
‘I don’t care for you at all,’ she retorted.
‘You little liar! You care for me a great deal, as I do you.’
‘Is that why you have ignored me these last few months?’ She found it impossible to keep the bitterness from her voice.
‘I had my reasons,’ mumbled Algernon.
He was at pains not to catch her eye. She noticed too that some of the mirth had gone from his voice. She stared at him, as if transfixed, willing him to speak, and yet half afraid of what he might say. Still, she was determined to take advantage of her companion’s obvious discomfort. Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘Had it anything to do with Ursula Stapleton?’
It was as if she had struck him, such was his reaction. He took a few steps back and stared at her, half tottering, his face quite pale.
‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.
There was a cold edge to his voice now, which made her recoil from him. She almost wished she had not spoken, certainly not given voice to her suspicions. But it was too late to retreat now, she realised with a dark foreboding.
‘I know about your evening visits to her house,’ Miriam said, so quietly that Algernon was forced to take a step forward in order to catch her words. ‘I suppose you thought you were being very clever, waiting until her maid had retired for the night before you made your … your excursions.’ She laughed a sad little laugh. ‘Don’t you realise that in a village like Sedgwick, everyone knows everyone else’s business? You were spotted, darling. Leaving her house on numerous occasions, I mean. Biddy,’ she added, referring to the Belmores’ housemaid, ‘took great delight in telling me all about it. I am sure it formed the gossip in many a servants’ hall.’
‘Biddy can go to the devil,’ said Algernon with such ferocity that Miriam half wished she was somewhere else, or at least that Algernon was not beside her. For it had occurred to her suddenly that they were quite alone in Lovers’ Lane. Should she find the need to cry out, there would be nobody to hear her, for the lane skirted the backs of the gardens of some of the larger houses in Sedgwick, and was seldom frequented during the hours of daylight other than by the odd servant dashing to the village for supplies.
Inwardly, she shook herself, and gave herself a stern talking to. This was not the time to go to pieces and become fanciful, to imagine danger where there was none. She had spent too many nights feeling wretched to be afraid. She bit her lip, and stared at the imposing figure before her, aware that it gave her a certain twisted pleasure to see him riled. After all, it served Algernon right. For she remembered how her foes had smirked, and her friends had looked at her in that awful pitying way that had made her blood boil. She had wanted to scream and shout, but convention had dictated that she held her tongue, and kept her emotions in check, bottled up inside her. If she had wept, then she had been her only witness to the fact. To the outside world she had presented a cold exterior, a façade of ice that she had carefully cultivated. Indeed, she had developed something of a reputation for being aloof. Her performance had been so convincing that even she had had difficulty distinguishing which was an act and which was her true self. And all the while she had planned and plotted …
It struck her suddenly that Algernon was strangely quiet. After maligning the housemaid’s actions, he had remained silent, though she could sense that he was seething below the surface with a pent-up anger. She gave him a surreptitious glance. He seemed preoccupied, for she had the distinct impression that he did not see her. It was as if his thoughts were elsewhere, focused on something far away beyond the lane. It occurred to her then that this was her opportunity to pry.
‘Did you love her?’ she blurted out. ‘Or was it her money? They say she was very rich.’
‘What?’ Algernon, recalled to his surroundings, stared at her in bewilderment.
‘Did you love Ursula?’ repeated Miriam; she might have been speaking to a child, so clearly did she accentuate the words.
‘No,’ he said loudly and with feeling, almost choking on the word.
‘Then it was her money that you were after?’’ Miriam said coldly.
Algernon made no reply.
‘And now she is dead, you mean to continue where you left off with me?’ Miriam continued, her eyes brimming with angry tears. ‘How conceited and arrogant you are to suppose that I should want anything to do with you.’ She spat out these last words, and was vaguely conscious that her voice had risen until it sounded shrill, even to her own ears. She took a deep breath and added more quietly: ‘Do you think I have no pride? Do you think I would lower myself to … to …?’ She faltered, struggling to find the words to do justice to her feelings. Failing, she turned away from him abruptly, and the next moment she was walking down the lane at a brisk pace, anxious to be gone.
‘Wait,’ cried Algernon. In one rapid movement, he was beside her. He grasped her roughly by the shoulders, swung her around, and looked down at her imploringly. ‘It’s not … it’s not what you think.’
Miriam caught her breath and stared back at him. There was an urgency in his voice that caused a shudder to go through her. For the first time, she realised she was truly afraid.
Chapter Thirteen
Rose followed her husband and the policemen as they made their way along the earthen path towards the folly, concealed by its rich canopy of trees. Cedric, eager to be assigned a task, had set off at quite a pace and the inspector and sergeant were doing their best to follow him, while negotiating the roots of the trees that protruded underfoot.
Rose was particularly concerned about Inspector Deacon, who now walked with the aid of a cane, as a result of an injury incurred in the line of duty. When first she had witnessed him hobble, the very act itself had seemed to prematurely age him before her eyes. She had, however, soon become accustomed to it, so that she had become barely conscious of his disability. It was only while she followed him along the path that she was aware of it again, as if she were noticing it for the first time. It tugged at something within her, for she found it difficult to reconcile the image of the limping man before her with the tall, upright figure she had first laid eyes on at Ashgrove House. Yet, as she watched the inspector’s progress along the path, it occurred to her that his limp was not as pronounced as it had been at Renard’s. For one thing, he no longer walked with a shuffle. Still, she feared he would stumble; though, as she continued to observe him, she noted that he appeared to navigate the various hurdles with relative ease, as if he were familiar with the treacherous path. It was certainly pleasing to note that in the year or so that had elapsed since they had last met, Inspector Deacon had become more agile or better used to disguising his injury. It was the able-bodied Sergeant Lane, in contrast, who seemed to lurch and falter, clinging at the leaves and branches to retain his balance.
They turned a corner abruptly and the side of the Greek temple came sharply in to view. Rose watched the two policemen with an idle curiosity, interested to see their reactions as they spied the folly, which sprung up before them like some monstrous castle, hidden in the depths of an enchanted forest.
‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ exclaimed the sergeant. ‘I can’t say as how I thought it would be as big as it is, and all concealed, like. Well, I never!’
‘It is certainly very impressive,’ said Inspector Deacon, more reserved in his vocal appreciation of the structure than his colleague, but equally impressed. ‘Quite a feat of architecture, I’d say. Do you know its history, my lord?’
‘I do, indeed,’ replied Cedric, delighted to have an interested listener on whom to impart his knowledge of his ancestral estate. ‘It was built in 1773 by a student of the architect, Henry Flitcroft. No doubt you’ve heard of him?’ He extended a hand towards the folly and said wistfully: ‘As you can see, it would have made a very fine stage for our production. There is something of a palace about it, don’t you think? Not that we can go ahead with the performance, of course … no, not now there is no doubt Ursula Stapleton was murdered.’
‘I suppose it would be in rather poor taste,’ agreed the inspector.
‘It’s a great pity, ‘said Cedric, ‘that all our rehearsals will come to naught. The proceeds from the performance were to go to one of our most deserving village charities, you see; for mothers and orphans. I suppose in a year or two when this sorry business is all forgotten …’
‘Did this building have any other function?’ inquired Inspector Deacon. ‘By that I mean, was it used for anything other than as a stage?’
‘For family picnics and supper parties, and the like,’ said Cedric. ‘It even has a heating system, though I don’t know when it was last used.’
Rose looked on, wondering what the policemen thought of such indulgence. Her husband’s words sounded rather frivolous to her own ears. In her mind’s eye, she could visualise the parties. She could see beautiful girls, like her sister-in-law, Lady Lavinia Sedgwick, dressed in frocks made of some sheer, expensive fabric, giggling at young men who were in equally high spirits. She could imagine the champagne flowing and the music playing, the shrieks of laughter becoming louder as the night progressed and the young people indulged in some game or other. It was quite possible, she thought, that one or two of the young men or women would decide, their senses temporarily affected by drink, that it was a fine night for a swim. Or perhaps they might stumble down the bank and fall into the lake, to be rescued by some servant weary of observing the excesses of the monied classes.
She looked up sharply, aware suddenly that Inspector Deacon had been addressing her, and that she had been too absorbed in her own musings to hear his question.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t …’
‘You were watching the rehearsal,’ Inspector Deacon repeated, looking down at a notebook in his hand, which Rose took to be Constable Bright’s scribbled notes of the account she had given him of the events leading up to Ursula’s murder. Certainly, the inspector spoke as if he were uttering a statement of fact, rather than asking a question; she wondered if she had imagined the note of irritation in his voice.
Rose was aware she had been ideally placed to witness the events as they had unfolded, from the moment Cordelia Quail had snatched the tray rather unceremoniously from the footman and marched up on to the stage with it, to the very moment Ursula Stapleton had slumped to the floor, poisoned.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I had a very good view of what happened. I believe I observed the rehearsal pretty closely and gave Constable Bright a fair account of it.’ She paused a moment as she remembered that she had given a very comprehensive account indeed. For she had provided certain unnecessary details, the purpose of which had been to allow Manning sufficient time to retrieve the wine glass from the folly.
‘Yes,’ muttered the inspector, flicking through the pages of the notebook, ‘very thorough indeed.’
‘Are you familiar with the play of Hamlet, Inspector?’ inquired Rose.
‘I am. I studied it at school, and have seen it performed once or twice.’ Inspector Deacon lifted his head, and for the first time they met each other’s gaze and held it for a moment in the shadow cast by the pillars of the Greek temple. It was another brilliant summer’s day, and they m
ight have been commenting on the weather, or indeed, as they were seeming to do, on the particulars of Shakespeare’s play. To Rose, however, it seemed that the look they exchanged held a deeper meaning. A moment later, and the inspector had returned his gaze to the book in his hand, and Rose was left to contemplate whether she had merely been fanciful in her speculation.
‘Do you remember the order of events as they happened?’ Inspector Deacon asked.
‘Yes. At least, I think so,’ said Rose. ‘I was watching the rehearsal closely, like I said, and I have been playing it over and over in my mind.’
‘Good. I’ll refer to the constable’s notes as necessary, but first I should like you to tell me in your own words what happened. I think,’ he said, pausing in order that he might consult the notebook again, ‘we should commence from the moment Miss Quail took the tray of wine glasses from the servant and carried it on to the stage.’
‘These wine glasses,’ interposed Sergeant Lane, perhaps thinking it was time he contributed to the conversation, ‘where were they? That’s to say, did Miss Quail bring them with her yesterday afternoon, or had she left them here after the last rehearsal, where anyone might have tampered with them?’
‘Oh, she brought them with her,’ said Cedric. ‘She was rather precious about her wine glasses. I think they were a family heirloom, or some such thing. She brought them with her on each occasion and stood them on the ground beside her. Then she took them away with her at the end of each rehearsal. I remember once that I suggested that she leave them here. I assured her they’d be quite safe, that if she left them in the circular room I would arrange for the door to be locked.’
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