‘She hadn’t been here very long, miss, in Sedgwick, I mean. Less than a year, I should say. She was renting Quince Cottage from old Mr Turner, she was, him as sold that bit of woodland to Major Spittlehouse.’
‘Did she live alone?’ enquired Rose.
‘She lived with a maid-companion. At least, Mrs Farrier referred to her as such, and she should know,’ said Edna, ‘though I never did hear tell of such a position. I suppose it means she did the light work. I know as how they had Tilly Willows come in every day to do the heavy work.’
‘The maid-companion, do you happen to know her name, Edna?’
‘Prudie Sprat, m’lady.’ Edna chuckled. ‘It always reminds me of that nursery rhyme, it does. ‘Jack Sprat would eat no fat, his wife would eat no lean. Was not that a pretty trick to make the platter clean?’ Only Miss Sprat don’t look anything like what you’d imagine Jack Sprat’s wife to be. All shrivelled up and as thin as a rake, she is, poor woman.’ The laughter left Edna’s voice abruptly. ‘They say she was devoted to her mistress, pour soul.’
‘Edna, I should like us to visit this Miss Sprat,’ said Rose, turning around in her chair to face her lady’s maid. ‘Perhaps you could ask Mrs Broughton to prepare a basket for us to take with us? Some of her chicken broth, I think, and a Victoria sponge. Oh, and some eggs. An omelette’s awfully good when one doesn’t feel much like eating.’
‘Very good, m’lady,’ said Edna, jumping up from the bed with considerable enthusiasm. For the thought of a journey to the village, away from her daily chores, filled her with delight. Her kind heart was also conscious of the fact that Miss Sprat was most probably feeling friendless and alone in the cottage she had shared with Mrs Stapleton. The girl was certain that, at such a time as this, the woman was in urgent need of companionship.
It was barely twenty minutes later that the Countess of Belvedere and Edna Jones found themselves deposited outside Quince Cottage. Rose, who had been half tempted to stretch her legs and walk the few miles from Sedgwick Court to the cottage had, at Edna’s suggestion, relented and resigned herself to being driven there in the Daimler by Adams, her husband’s chauffeur. If nothing else, she was aware that they did not have much time. For it was very likely, she thought, as she was donning her hat and gloves, that Inspector Deacon would that very moment be concluding his interview with Henry Rewe. His next move, she felt certain, would be to go to Quince Cottage and make a thorough search of Ursula Stapleton’s personal effects and possessions, and she felt a compelling need to talk with Miss Sprat before the full force of the law descended upon her.
Quince Cottage was a house of fair proportions, having originally been three workmen’s cottages. The walls were whitewashed and it boasted a thatched roof. Climbing roses grew around the door, and its front garden was an abundance of colour with a multitude of old roses, delphiniums, foxgloves and peonies in overflowing flowerbeds, complete with an old quince tree from which the cottage derived its name.
Miss Sprat herself answered the front door to them for the very simple reason that there was no one else present in the house to do the task. She was a tiny, wizened figure with a wrinkled face that appeared prematurely aged. Certainly, the eyes, though bright and black, were red rimmed and her skin was of an ashen grey. Her funereal garb of a severe black silk gown and a little old-fashioned lace cap which she wore perched on her head and from which tendrils of dull hair protruded in an irregular fashion, did little to dispel the image of sorrow and grief. For a moment, the woman clung to the door knob, her face peering around the door, the eyes staring with suspicion, like a frightened child. For one awful second, it looked indeed as if she might close the door in their faces, had not Edna, a basket clutched firmly in her grasp, put one foot across the threshold.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Sprat. Her ladyship and myself, we wanted to pay our respects,’ began Edna, in a kindly tone. ‘We’ve brought you a few things, thinking as you wouldn’t feel like cooking, and you need to eat and keep up your strength at a time like this.’ She thrust the basket forward and the maid-companion shrank back. Indeed, she seemed to recoil almost, for she released her hold on the door knob and soon found herself with her back against the wall of the narrow hallway. Edna, holding the basket before her like a shield, marched past the woman, and Rose, feeling as if she were intruding in the most unforgivable manner on the woman’s sorrow, followed her maid’s example until the three of them stood huddled and crammed together in the little hall, the front door shut firmly behind them.
Prudie Sprat stared at her unwelcome visitors and blinked hard. She had a handkerchief clasped tightly in one hand, which she had been using to dab at her eyes. With her other hand, she began to pull nervously at the white material, as she might have worried at a spot. ‘Your ladyship,’ she began and faltered, executing a movement which had a vague resemblance to a curtsey. Rose, full of pity for the unfortunate woman, bit her lip. She wished fervently that they had not seen fit to trespass on this woman’s grief. If she could have turned around in the hall and disappeared through the front door without causing offence, she would have done so. Instead, it was left to Edna to take command of the situation. Holding the wicker basket in one hand, with the other she clasped the woman’s hand and half steered, half propelled her into a surprisingly spacious sitting room.
Rose followed, her eyes taking a moment or two to adjust to the brightness of the room after the dim, gloomy hall. The sitting room was, she realised, tastefully furnished, if a little unusually decorated for a cottage. Instead of an oak-beamed ceiling and dull plastered walls, the room was painted an ivory colour and the white wooden panelling, which adorned the walls, had a glossy surface that reflected the light, and gave the room something of a bright and airy feel. There was no dark, heavy furniture of simple design. Instead there were tables with mirrored surfaces and armchairs covered in cream and gold-patterned glazed chintz, which seemed to shine in the late afternoon sunlight, as did the pale gold carpet that covered the floor.
‘What a beautiful room,’ exclaimed Rose.
‘My little lamb did it,’ said Miss Sprat, her face brightening at praise of her mistress’ accomplishments. ‘Not that she did the work herself, of course, though I don’t doubt she could have if she’d put her mind to it. Employed a carpenter, she did, to make the panelling and mouldings. It was as if she had a vision in front of her. Insisted that it be painted that ivory colour. I was in two minds about it myself and said as much, but she was most insistent, and it was such a dull old room when we first set eyes on this cottage, for it had lain empty that long and was dank and dusty. It had no life about it, but now it shines … while my poor lamb …’
The maid-companion faltered after her long speech and mopped at her eyes with her handkerchief. Rose was aware that the atmosphere in the cottage had changed. It no longer felt so oppressive. Even the hall, when Rose glanced back at it through the open doorway, did not look so dark or uninviting as it had done when they had first entered the cottage unbidden. Certainly, the ice between them had thawed a little, or at least Rose had the impression that their presence was not as undesirable to the inhabitant as it had been. If nothing else, they were an attentive audience. Prudie Sprat desired to speak of her late mistress, and they deigned to listen.
Edna mumbled something about a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake being just the thing to lift one’s spirits and provide nourishment, and wasn’t it fortunate that Mrs Broughton had seen fit to pack one of her lemon drizzle cakes that fair melted on the tongue? Miss Sprat nodded rather blankly and made as if to go towards the door.
‘No. You stay here, Miss Sprat, and keep her ladyship company,’ said Edna, firmly. ‘Me, I know my way around a kitchen, I do. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, but I was once a scullery maid and I’ve made that many cups of tea in my time you’d never believe.’
Miss Sprat made no protest. Indeed, she appeared in no fit state to do so. Her little speech seemed to have taken all her strength, for her fing
ers clung to the top of a convenient bookcase as if for support, her nails denting the pale-coloured surface. As Edna left the room to retire to the kitchen, the maid-companion began to sway slightly. Fearing the woman was about to faint, Rose darted forward and quickly installed her in one of the armchairs amid weak protestations on the part of Miss Sprat who, despite her frailty, evidently did not think it proper that she should sit while her ladyship stood before her. Rose hurriedly pulled up another chair for herself, and positioned it in such a way that the two women were facing each other, with only a little distance between the two chairs.
Thus situated, a casual observer might have assumed that they were ideally placed for a tête-à-tête. Rose hesitated, however, wondering how she might start a conversation with the grief-stricken woman. She was half tempted to come to the point and ask Miss Sprat if she was aware of any enemies that her mistress might have had. Looking across at the huddled figure, however, she had just concluded that it might be kinder to approach the subject more gently and begin with the innocuous question of enquiring how long Miss Sprat had been in Mrs Stapleton’s employ, when it suddenly occurred to her that her companion might be quite ignorant of the fact that her mistress had not died from natural causes.
Rose wondered afterwards whether it was possible Miss Sprat had read her thoughts. For, as she opened her mouth to speak, and attempted to choose her words with care, Miss Sprat said:
‘Constable Bright called on me this afternoon. He said he wanted me to know before it became common knowledge that my poor lamb was … murdered.’ The words were uttered in a dull tone, hardly above a whisper, and Rose was obliged to lean forward in her chair to catch what the woman said.
‘Who would want to kill my poor lamb?’ Miss Sprat continued in rather a sad, pathetic little voice. ‘Why, the poor creature had not an enemy in the world.’ She paused to stifle a sob. ‘Not a bad bone in her body.’
‘Had you been with Mrs Stapleton long?’ Rose asked gently.
‘Nigh on sixteen years, and before that I was her dresser.’
‘Her dresser?’
Miss Sprat leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘You see, she was an actress before her marriage, and a very good one at that, or she would have been if she had made the theatre her profession. I was her dresser, indeed for her and a few of the other young ladies as was in the chorus.’
‘Mrs Stapleton was a chorus girl?’ Rose said, surprised, thinking of the rather formidable and elegant woman whom she had seen on the stage in the guise of Queen Gertrude.
‘She was an actress, like I said,’ Miss Sprat said firmly, though there was a pink flush to her cheeks. ‘Of course, after she was married, she became a proper lady. But she still sent me the odd letter, what with her being an orphan and me being like a mother to her. Awful fond of her, I was, and she of me, though I say so myself, and shouldn’t.’
‘She was a widow, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes. It was awful sad.’ Miss Sprat paused to dab at her eyes. ‘The poor girl had only been married a couple of years at most. She wrote to me, she did, told me how her husband had been killed in the war like so many other poor souls, and how his family didn’t want anything to do with her, seeing how he’d married beneath him. It fair broke her heart, it did, to lose the man she loved and then have his family treat her like that. Wicked, that’s what I call it.’
‘It does seem very unfair,’ said Rose. ‘I can well imagine how she must have felt. You see, I rather married above my station. I was a shop girl before I married Lord Belvedere.’
‘Was you really? Well, I never!’ Her companion stared at her agog, and any remaining barriers between the two women came tumbling down. ‘Well, you’ll know how my poor lamb felt,’ continued Miss Sprat. ‘Awful alone in the world, she was, and so was I, come to that. She meets me in a Lyons Corner House, and she says to me: ‘Prudie, old thing, how would you like to come and live with me and be my maid-companion? Only light work, mind.’ Most particular about that, she was, and kept her word too. Only a little bit of light dusting have I ever been required to do, and the odd alteration of a gown, and perhaps a little cooking though, more often than not, we’d eat in a café or restaurant, except when we came here.’ She gave a strange, almost distasteful look around the room.
‘You were living in London before you came to Sedgwick?’ said Rose, suddenly comprehending the woman’s glare.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Sprat. ‘And we should have stayed there, if you ask me. We weren’t countryfolk. My poor lamb couldn’t abide the quiet, or the fact that everyone knew each other’s business. And there’s no theatres nor playhouses to speak of. Nothing to do but tennis parties and garden fetes and flower arranging for the church. Begging your pardon, your ladyship,’ she added. ‘I hope as I’m not speaking out of turn, but, as I said, we should never have come here to Sedgwick, and then my lamb, she’d still be here. And we wouldn’t have done, come here, I mean, neither, if …’ The end of Miss Sprat’s sentence was lost in the confines of her handkerchief as she blew her nose.
‘If what, Miss Sprat?’ Rose asked, conscious that she was gripping the arms of her chair rather tightly.
‘If it hadn’t been for that photograph,’ muttered Miss Sprat. ‘The one as was in the newspaper.’
Chapter Seventeen
Mr Henry Rewe was something of a poet, or at least he informed Inspector Deacon as much when the two policemen appeared at his lodgings, having first inquired of Constable Bright as to where they were likely to find him at that time of day. Mr Rewe’s adopted profession may well have explained why, when they found the young man, he was sitting in his shirtsleeves, a rather grubby cream cravat tied carelessly around his neck, in something of a regency style. A fountain pen was in his hand, leaking ink rather badly over his fingers. To complete the portrait of an artist at work, a number of pages had been torn from a notebook, screwed up in to tight balls, and strewn about the room.
On being informed by his landlady of the identity of his guests, Henry Rewe had leapt up from his chair in such haste that he had sent it flying, and had stared at the policemen in something akin to horror. His proprietor, on her part, had first cast her eyes up to the ceiling at the state of the room and her lodger’s slovenly attire and then, turning on her heel, banged the door shut behind her, and descended the stairs noisily to return to her own quarters and the nice cup of tea and bit of fruit cake that awaited her.
The inspector and sergeant stared at Henry Rewe with considerable interest. If they had been expecting a tall, imposing figure, then they were to be bitterly disappointed, for the poet was a very slight fellow of below average height. In addition, the manner by which he had sent his chair crashing betrayed him to be in a nervous, agitated state which was not the least becoming. Indeed, he made such an unfavourable impression on Sergeant Lane that on his summing up of the young man later to the inspector he declared with disdain that his hair was almost as long and curly as any girl’s, which he took to be in keeping with his occupation and bohemian ways.
‘Mr Rewe, how do you do?’ said Inspector Deacon, and there followed the perfunctory introductions as he cast his eye around the humble abode to assess its suitability as a room in which to interview the young man. In addition to its rather shambolic state, it was apparent from a cursory glance that the room boasted only one chair.
‘I should be very much obliged, sir, if you would accompany us to the Sedgwick Arms, where we have made our headquarters, to answer a few questions concerning Mrs Stapleton’s death.’
‘Oh? I say, Inspector, is that absolutely necessary?’ protested the young man, a worried look passing over his delicate features. ‘Can you not put your questions to me here? And dash it all, why should you wish to speak to me at all?’ He took a step forward. ‘I take it you will be putting the same questions to the others?’
‘By others, I take it you mean your fellow thespians? Yes, I shall certainly be speaking with them also,’ said the inspector, not quite answering
the poet’s question. ‘As to the other, I am sure you will agree with me, sir, that this room is a little cramped for our purposes, so if you’ll just be a good fellow and accompany us to the Arms …’
The word ‘purposes’ seemed to alarm the young man for he clung to the edge of the table, his knuckles showing as white as the face which he turned to his visitors. An unruly yellow curl fell over his forehead and he pouted with indecision, showing lips that were surprisingly red and full for a man.
‘There’ll be no end of gossip if I do,’ Henry replied rather sulkily. ‘I daresay, coming from London as you do, you have no idea what a country village can be like. It will be common knowledge that you are questioning me before one can say William Shakespeare. Why, my landlady, Mrs Greggs won’t like it a bit. She’s probably talking with her old man as we speak, arguing that I should be given notice.’
‘Mr Rewe,’ said Inspector Deacon pleasantly enough, though there was a firm edge to his voice which was not lost on the young man, ‘it is a matter of some urgency that we speak with you. If you wish, my sergeant and I will make our way to the Sedgwick Arms now and you may follow us there in a few minutes.’ He paused to look at his wristwatch. ‘Shall we say that we’ll expect you in about a quarter of an hour? I should tell you that if you are late, or choose not to assist us in our inquiries, we shall return here to Grove Row.’
Henry Rewe opened his mouth as if to protest, but evidently thought better of it. Instead, he raked a hand through his hair and merely nodded. To the policemen, he looked a ghastly shade of grey, which had them intrigued.
‘And it was he as played the hero in the play, sir?’ asked Sergeant Lane, with a note of incredulity. ‘Can’t say he’d be my first choice. Rather a feeble little chap, I thought; no backbone to speak of.’
Murder in the Folly Page 17
