Inspector Deacon laughed. They were retracing their steps back to the Sedgwick Arms to await the young man’s arrival, and the inspector had been busy cogitating. His sergeant’s words trespassed on his thoughts, and to some degree mirrored his own view of the young man they were intent on questioning.
‘Hamlet is rather an indecisive chap, Lane, very keen on shilly-shallying, though he’s clever with words and has some very fine soliloquies. No, I’d say young Rewe would make a very splendid Hamlet, and no mistake.’
Sergeant Lane merely raised his eyebrows and let the observation pass. After a while, however, he made reference again to the young man.
‘What did you make of him, sir, young Rewe, I mean?’
‘Oh, he’s frightened all right. He looked as if he wished the earth would open up and swallow him when that landlady of his announced us.’
‘My feelings exactly. He’s just the sort who’ll crumble when we question him. It’s like I said, he’s got no backbone.’
‘I wonder,’ mused the inspector. ‘Well, here we are, Lane. Let’s see if Hamlet keeps his appointment, shall we?’
‘He’ll be too frightened not to,’ muttered the sergeant, as he followed the inspector into the private parlour.
‘What photograph was that, Miss Sprat?’ enquired Rose, doing her utmost to keep the excitement from her voice. Here, she thought, at last was something tangible, the reason why Ursula Stapleton, a foreigner of sorts, had decided to come to the village of Sedgwick. She herself loved Sedgwick with all its feudal ways, with all her heart, but for someone else, used to the London ways, it might seem slow and sleepy. From what little she knew of Ursula Stapleton, and had seen with her own eyes, she was not a woman ideally suited to village life. Yet, for some reason Ursula Stapleton had resolved to leave London to come and live in Sedgwick.
Miss Sprat, in response to Rose’s question, bristled and fidgeted with the fabric of her silk dress. She reminded Rose of a blackbird picking at a crust of bread, for her actions appeared pernickety and rather ineffectual, and all the while her thin pale lips were pursed, as if the mere recollection of the photograph caused her pain.
‘T’was a picture in one of those local newspapers. My lamb would never have set eyes on it if we hadn’t been sitting in the ladies’ waiting room at Paddington. Waiting for a train, we were, and madam was that bored with her magazines and illustrated papers that I thought she was near fit to scream. The newspaper, it was lying discarded on a seat beside her; all creased and dog-eared. But she picked it up anyway and glanced through its pages, barely stopping to read an article, and then she found the photograph.’
‘What photograph?’ asked Rose again, aware that her voiced sounded rather too keen and eager, even to her own ears.
Miss Sprat gave her something of a shrewd look. A vein throbbed in her temple and she seemed to be contemplating something beyond the sitting room and Quince Cottage. She might have been in Paddington again, watching the steam trains puff and bellow into the station, passengers descending laden with cases and trunks, porters summoned, whistles blowing, and all the while Ursula Stapleton bent over a small photograph in some provincial newspaper. A noise roused her. It may have been the sudden beating of Rose’s heart, the ready sound of anticipation. Or perhaps she was just aware that her auditor was not listening to her with mere idle curiosity. What is certain, is that something stirred the theatre in her blood, made her colour and embellish her tale so that it became a story of sorts as it unfolded in the bright little sitting room.
‘The photograph, she found it all of a sudden, like. She had been barely glancing at the articles and newspaper columns, reading not a word. It had been something merely to while away the time. And then she came on it.’
‘There was something about the photograph that interested her?’ prompted Rose.
‘Yes, indeed. It was all most peculiar,’ replied Miss Sprat. She gave a furtive little glance at the countess, who appeared strangely rapt in what she was relating, and she just a poor simple dresser, with little enough to say, and of no interest to anyone except her poor lamb, who had taken pity on her and her straitened circumstances.
‘She turned a page. She was talking to me at the time, I remember, about nothing in particular, and then she stopped all of a sudden, like, in the middle of her sentence. I looked at her and her face, it had gone all white, as if she’d seen a ghost. For the colour, it had gone from her, you see, and she who had that rosy a complexion as you never did see. I remember her hand went to her heart and she uttered a little cry. I thought for one awful moment she might faint, for she looked as if she were about to swoon.
‘I asked her what was the matter, did she not feel well. It took her a moment or two to pull herself together and, when she did, she was smiling that broad smile of hers, and a light was dancing in her eyes, as I never did see there before.’
‘What did she say? Did she offer some sort of explanation for her strange behaviour?’
’She did. She seemed so happy, poor lamb, like I’d never seen her since her poor husband’s death, and she says to me, all sweet, like: ‘Prudie, dear, why, if it’s not my dear relative, my relative by marriage.’ She laughed then, a high, unnatural laugh and two red spots appeared on her cheeks like welts that had me worrying in case she was sickening for something. ‘Fancy my seeing a photograph of him in this silly little newspaper of all things.’ She gave me the newspaper, then, and pointed to a photograph …’ Miss Sprat paused. ‘Why, I have it here, for I tore it out of the paper when madam wasn’t looking, I was that intrigued. Would you like to see it, my lady?’
Not waiting for a reply, the old woman got up from her chair and went over to the mantelpiece, where she extracted a newspaper clipping from a little, intricately carved wooden box, and proceeded to hand it to Rose, who peered at it as eagerly as Ursula Stapleton had done in the railway station.
It was a photograph of an Elizabethan Pageant that had taken place at Sedgwick a couple of years previously. Rose knew of it vaguely from her sister-in-law, Lavinia, who had taken part in the procession herself, dressed in the guise of Queen Bess. She remembered that the girl had made much of it, giggling as she recalled the event for the simple fact that some admirer or other had laid down his cloak over a muddy puddle so that she might cross without spoiling her gold silk slippers, reminiscent of the act reputedly done by Sir Walter Raleigh for his monarch.
The photograph itself was of a large group of villagers in Elizabethan fancy dress, some of whom Rose recognised by sight, if not to talk to. The Sedgwick Players, she noted, were fairly well represented, for she could just make out Cordelia Quail, complete with headdress and veil, Algernon Cuffe in velvet doublet and breeches, but without the magnificent beard that currently adorned his handsome face, Walter Drury dressed as an Elizabethan peasant, and Miriam Belmore decked out in a fine Tudor costume, her hair flowing freely from an elaborate circlet.
‘To whom did Mrs Stapleton refer, Miss Sprat?’ asked Rose, the paper gripped tightly in her hands.
The maid-companion came to stand beside her and, with a half trembling hand, jabbed at the photograph with a gnarled finger.
‘It was him,’ she said. ‘It was Mr Drury.’
It was twelve minutes after the policemen had returned to the public house that Henry Rewe presented himself at the Sedgwick Arms. The inspector noted that the young man had taken some steps to tidy his appearance; a tweed jacket had been pulled on over his shirtsleeves, and his hair looked as if it had been brushed. Despite these efforts, however, his fingers still bore the traces of having been stained with ink, though some attempt had been made to scrub them clean; the pigment that remained was muted, giving the appearance of shadow.
Inspector Deacon took a moment to appraise the young man. When he felt he had the measure of the fellow, he said abruptly and without preamble: ‘You may feel that it would be advisable to have a solicitor present, Mr Rewe.’
If the policeman’s intention had been to s
hock the young man then he succeeded. For, had he accused him outright of being Ursula Stapleton’s murderer, the effect could not have been greater. Henry stumbled backwards, as if he had been shot, and had not Sergeant Lane had the foresight to place a chair behind him it is almost certain that he would have slumped to the ground in a dead faint. As it was, he uttered a cry and half covered his face with his hand. A minute or two later, and the face that emerged was ashen, and the forehead beaded with sweat. Henry half sank, half fell in to the proffered chair and sat there motionless, a frightened, wretched creature.
Inspector Deacon regarded his reaction with interest, while Sergeant Lane seated himself in a chair at a considerable distance from the suspect so that after a while Henry, in his bemused, fuddled state, had all but forgotten that he was there. Certainly, he was oblivious to the fact that the sergeant had produced a notebook in preparation for scribbling down his every word.
‘I shall not ask you to give me an account of yesterday’s rehearsal or the events leading up to Mrs Stapleton’s death,’ said Inspector Deacon, deciding that his best course of action in dealing with Henry Rewe was to come straight to the point. Looking at the man before him he felt that, if treated in the correct manner, there was a very strong possibility that the young fellow would go to pieces and confess all. He caught his sergeant’s eye and noted that his subordinate was of the same opinion.
‘You see,’ continued the inspector in a pleasant voice, ‘we have an excellent and most reliable witness to the events as they unfolded on the stage.’
Henry raised his head and looked at the inspector. It was obvious that it was on the tip of his tongue to inquire who this witness was, but something held him back for, when he opened his mouth and licked his dry lips, no words came out. Instead, it fell on the inspector to answer his unspoken question.
‘Lady Belvedere,’ he said. ‘A first-rate witness in my opinion. She was watching the rehearsal closely and has provided us with a very detailed narrative of what she saw.’
‘On account of her being something of an amateur sleuth,’ added Sergeant Lane, much to the annoyance of his superior, who had not intended to divulge such information.
‘I say, is she really?’ exclaimed Henry, turning around in his seat to regard the sergeant. ‘Well I never!’
Inspector Deacon coughed and Henry resumed his position on the chair.
The revelation that Rose was a private detective had brought some colour to his cheeks. On being greeted by the inspector’s solemn face and ensuing silence, however, the hue faded, and the young man tapped the arm of his chair with his fingers in something of an agitated fashion. At length, when it became evident that the inspector was in no rush to break the silence that had fallen awkwardly on the room like an enveloping mist, Henry raised his head and asked rather timidly:
‘Inspector, I am somewhat surprised by your tone and the fact that Scotland Yard have been called in to investigate Ursula’s … Mrs Stapleton’s death. It is all very sad and most unfortunate, of course, but I did not think it was the usual practice for Scotland Yard to be summoned where the circumstances of a case are not suspicious.’
‘I was wondering, Mr Rewe,’ said Inspector Deacon quietly, ‘when you were going to ask me that question. If I may say, I was rather surprised that you didn’t put it to me earlier when we came to your lodgings or just now when I suggested you might like to have a solicitor present.’ He held up his hand as Henry made to interrupt. ‘Well, I have no objection to answering it. Scotland Yard have been called in for the simple fact that Mrs Stapleton did not die from natural causes …’ He paused a moment for dramatic effect before he added in a louder voice: ‘Mrs Stapleton was murdered.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Mr Drury?’ Rose echoed.
For some reason that she could not fathom, she felt surprised at the revelation and not a little disappointed. She realised that, on seeing the Sedgwick Players gathered there in the photograph, she must have supposed it was Cordelia Quail or Miriam Belmore, or even Algernon Cuffe, to whom Ursula had referred; the thought had certainly not occurred to her that it might be Walter Drury, who had seemed to her in the rehearsal yesterday, and afterwards in the drawing room, rather a quiet and insignificant figure.
‘Yes,’ muttered Miss Sprat, ‘and I was that surprised, because he did not seem very much of a man to me, certainly not one to make your heart leap.’
‘But Mrs Stapleton implied that he was a relative of her husband’s,’ said Rose, somewhat confused by the woman’s statement.
‘Aye, she did,’ agreed Miss Sprat rather grudgingly, ‘but you should have seen the look in my lamb’s eyes, and ’course we came to Sedgwick all ’cause of him. Awful kind he was to her, when she was married to his cousin, so she told me. He was the only one of that great family that gave her the time of day. You wouldn’t think it, would you, to look at him, that she had set her cap at him?’
‘Had she?’ asked Rose. ‘Set her cap at him, I mean?’
‘Well, she said as how it would be nice to renew her acquaintance with him,’ said Miss Sprat, rather primly. ‘Though of course I knew what she meant. You see, she was rather lonely since the death of her dear husband, poor woman, and I wasn’t much company for her. Too old and set in my ways. Of course, being not quite forty and still a looker, she wanted a gentleman to look after her, though it’d mean an end to that generous allowance of hers from her husband’s family and the freedom that it brought her and –’
A noise in the doorway made them both look up to see Edna struggling with a wooden tea trolley laden with plates of cake and the tea paraphernalia. It dawned on Rose then that the girl had been gone a while, probably intentionally, and her sudden appearance had the effect of bringing Miss Sprat to her senses and reminding her to whom she was speaking. For she sat up very straight on the edge of her chair, her lips pinched firmly together, her words all but dried up in her throat. Her ladyship was sitting before her, and here she was nattering to her about her late mistress as if she were no more than some common village gossip who had nothing better to do, when all the time she was grieving her poor lamb’s passing something rotten and wondering how she might last another hour without sobbing her heart out.
There was an awkward silence as Edna distributed the plates of cake and poured out the tea. Miss Sprat, with her downcast eyes, looked as if no morsel of cake would pass her lips, so firmly clamped shut were they. Edna, perhaps realising her mistake in disturbing them, or having perhaps caught some words of their colloquy, handed the maid-companion a cup of tea and said:
‘Oh, please, Miss Sprat, you must tell her ladyship everything. We are here to help you, not just by bringing you a bit of food, but helping you to revenge your poor mistress’ death.’
Miss Sprat stared at the lady’s maid with a look of bewilderment on her face.
‘Revenge my poor lamb’s death? Pray, what do you mean by that?’
‘Her ladyship is a famous detective,’ said Edna, not quite truthfully. Indeed, Rose half covered her face with her hand to disguise the fact that she was blushing at such an exaggerated claim. ‘She’s solved many a case, she has,’ continued her maid, quite unabashed. ‘Scotland Yard, they defer to her and call her in to solve their most difficult cases, them as has had them tied in knots, being so confusing.’ She knelt down beside the old woman and took one of her hands in hers. ‘We’re here to help you find your poor mistress’ murderer. You do want that, don’t you?’
Miss Sprat nodded, two enormous tears trickling down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘I do, indeed,’ she said. ‘Wicked, it was, to kill a woman as was so kind to me as my poor lamb. And so full of life, she was. Brightened up any room she walked into. They all turned to look at her, man or woman, they did. She had a certain presence about her. I was always telling her that, when she started fretting about getting old and losing her looks. No one can hold a candle to you, I’d tell her, aye, and I meant it too.’
‘You were telling me, Miss Sprat,
that you were under the impression that Mrs Stapleton has set her heart on marrying Mr Drury and that is why you came to settle in Sedgwick,’ said Rose, mindful that the police might arrive at any minute.
‘Did I say that?’ Miss Sprat asked, looking a little embarrassed. Some colour had come in to her cheeks, and she picked again at the fabric of her skirt. ‘I should never have said such a thing, not to your ladyship. What will you be thinking of me, me who has always kept her thoughts to herself and been proud of it?’ She took a deep breath. ‘But rather taken with him, she was. As I told you, I didn’t think he was anything much to look at myself, and certainly not madam’s usual type, but if he had a kind heart –’
‘And you came to Sedgwick on account of Mr Drury?’ Rose said.
‘Madam said as how nice it would be to live in the country for once, for a bit of a change,’ said Miss Sprat, in something of a resigned tone. ‘Though of course we were town folk and the countryside was not for the likes of us. But she had her heart set on it. She kept saying wouldn’t I like to live in a little thatched cottage with roses growing over the door, and a garden stocked with that many flowers as you never did see? I told her how I preferred the town myself. You know where you are with theatres and motor cars and people who speak proper. But of course, she didn’t listen to me; she thought she knew best, which is how we came to live here at Quince Cottage, though the ceilings are so low and the hall is that dark that you trip and you stumble. Fair take your life in your hands, you do, every time you go to open the front door.’
The vague reference to death was too much for Miss Sprat, who proceeded to dissolve in to tears. Edna put down her teacup and attended to the woman, speaking to her in soothing tones. At length, Miss Sprat appeared to have recovered sufficiently to continue her tale. Indeed, the tearful outburst seemed to have restored in her the need to speak freely, for the words came tumbling out of her mouth with seldom a prompt required from her listeners.
Murder in the Folly Page 18
