Rose turned to face him, a rather becoming flush on her cheeks.
‘Why, Inspector Deacon, and Sergeant Lane, too!’ she exclaimed. ‘We were just paying our respects to poor Miss Sprat.’
‘And bringing her some nourishment as what Mrs Broughton put together,’ piped in Edna, not to be outdone.
If the inspector was surprised that the lady’s maid saw fit to contribute to the conversation, he did not show it. Instead, he said: ‘Why, if it isn’t little Miss Jones. I remember you from that sad business at Ashgrove House.’
Sergeant Lane beamed at the girl. ‘Lady’s maid, is it, that you are now, Miss Edna? Well, you’ve come a long way up in the world since we last met, young lady, and no mistake. And most fetching you do look too in your black silk dress with its bit of lace.’
Edna blushed at the compliment, a wide grin appearing on her young face, similar to that of the Cheshire cat’s. Sergeant Lane had been something of a favourite of the servants at Ashgrove House and she basked in his praise.
Rose stepped forward so that there was very little distance between herself and the inspector. Indeed, if he had chosen that moment to speak, she would have felt his breath upon her face.
‘I am so glad you are here, Inspector,’ she murmured, her words little more than a whisper. Inspector Deacon raised his eyebrows quizzically and instinctively Rose’s cheeks reddened. ‘I am awfully afraid, Inspector, that Miss Sprat may be in danger.’
‘From whom?’ demanded the inspector, studying her keenly. If he was taken aback by her words, he did not betray it in his look.
‘From Mr Cuffe … Mr Algernon Cuffe. He played the part of King Claudius,’ replied Rose rather meekly, for it occurred to her that perhaps she was being a little over dramatic. ‘I have suggested to Miss Sprat that she might like to stay at Sedgwick Court until this awful business is resolved. She was most agreeable to the suggestion. Quince Cottage holds little attraction for her in the absence of her mistress, and I think the company would do her good.’
‘Very well,’ said Inspector Deacon, a certain brusqueness creeping into his voice that Rose was at a loss to explain. ‘We shall be interviewing Miss Sprat ourselves, of course, and undertaking a thorough search of the cottage and the deceased’s personal effects and belongings. Send a servant to call for her in an hour or so by all means. We shall remain with the lady until your servant arrives.’
‘You are most kind, Inspector,’ muttered Rose, thinking it a little strange that the inspector did not ask her for an explanation regarding her concerns. It occurred to her then that he might be impatient for them to be gone. She watched, feeling rather miserable, as he made his way along the path to Quince Cottage. The sergeant made as if to follow but she apprehended him by clutching at his sleeve.
‘Sergeant Lane, did you speak with Mr Rewe?’ Rose said quickly, aware that any moment Inspector Deacon might turn to see what was detaining his subordinate. ‘Did Mr Rewe admit to taking the wine glass?’
‘He could hardly do otherwise, miss … your ladyship, seeing as how he was spotted doing it,’ replied the sergeant equally hurriedly, an eye on his superior. ‘Though he gave us some cock and bull story as to why he’d taken it. Something about wanting to teach Miss Quail a lesson. The inspector told him as how he didn’t believe a word of it, and the young man had the cheek to say as how he had no intention of telling us the truth. Couldn’t make head nor tail of it myself. Almost asking to be arrested, he was, though he shook like a leaf.’
It was possible that the sergeant might have said more, had the inspector not turned around at that moment and cast him something of a disapproving look. Instead, Sergeant Lane bid Rose a hasty farewell and hurried to Quince Cottage, just as Inspector Deacon was in the act of raising the brass knocker.
‘Henry, old chap, how are you feeling?’ said a genial voice. ‘No, don’t bother to get up on my account,’ the man added quickly as Henry Rewe, stretched out full length on his bed in something of a theatrical pose, made to get up. ‘I hope you don’t mind my just seeing myself up like this, only I didn’t much like the look on the face of that landlady of yours.’ The man chuckled. ‘I don’t think she approves of us thespians.’
‘She doesn’t approve of me,’ said Henry gloomily, pushing his fingers though his curls, which had fallen over his face in something of a rakish fashion and all but obscured his view of his guest. ‘It hasn’t much to do with our theatricals either.’ Henry stretched out his hand and caught that of his companion. It is possible that he meant to shake hands, though he clung to the hand so hard that his guest winced. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Walter. I could do with a bit of company. I’ve been lying here thinking until I’m half sick with the worry of it all.’
‘I know you are a poet,’ replied the older man, retrieving his hand from the young man’s grasp, ‘but need you always be so dramatic about things? I was quite fond of Ursula myself, as you know, though she could be very trying, but these things happen. It’s jolly sad and all that, and ghastly seeing her die like that before our very eyes, but you need to pull yourself together, old chap. You’ll be no good to anyone lying here in a darkened room brooding.’
Henry merely grunted. Walter, regarding the young man with something akin to pity and impatience in equal measure, attempted to introduce a lighter note. ‘Can’t you write a poem about it all to help banish it from your memory, something along the lines of your usual drivel?’ He asked, sitting down on the only chair without invitation. If he had hoped his light-hearted insult would generate a response from his companion, he was to be disappointed, for Henry remained lounging on the bed, his face half hidden by an abundance of golden curls.
‘Lord knows,’ said Walter, trying again to dispel the gloom that filled the room, stifling the air, ‘it’s affected me too, but I’m not going to pieces about it. Poor Ursula. It was perhaps rather fitting that she died on the stage as she did. It was her first love, you know, the theatre.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ said Henry, somewhat grumpily. ‘And it’s all very well for you to speak like that. I don’t suppose you’ve had Scotland Yard banging at your door threatening to arrest you.’
‘What are you talking about, Henry?’ Walter Drury glanced over at the table on which stood an opened bottle of port and wondered how much of it the young man had consumed that evening. It occurred to him then that he should really have invited Henry to take dinner with him. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was a little after nine o’clock, and he had just finished his own meal. ‘Have you eaten anything this evening? You need to keep up your strength, you know, particularly at a time like this. I suppose that old dragon of a landlady of yours does cook you an evening meal?’
‘I wasn’t very hungry. But, Walter, didn’t you hear what I said? Scotland Yard were here, standing where you are sitting now, demanding that I accompany them to their headquarters which they’ve set up in the private parlour at the Sedgwick Arms. That’s why Mrs Greggs is in such a foul mood. She doesn’t hold with having the police in the house. She doesn’t want her reputation damaged. She’s been telling me all afternoon how this is a respectable house.’
Walter cast an eye around the room, dwelling on the dingy carpet and sparse furniture, and the walls with their peeling wallpaper. His gaze fell upon the ink bottle, the top of which was spattered. Aloud, he said:
‘What is all this nonsense, Henry? Why should anyone from Scotland Yard wish to interview you? Next you’ll be telling me that you’ve been funding your poetry writing by stealing the crown jewels.’
‘Walter,’ Henry said, an urgent note in his voice, which was not lost on his listener. ‘Ursula was murdered.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried the older man, though his face had gone pale. ‘She died because of some trouble with her heart. We all know that; I hope you told them as much?’
‘They found traces of potassium cyanide in Ursula’s wine glass, the one she drank from on stage.’
‘What?’
Was it a note of fear
that the younger man caught in the older man’s voice?
Henry leant forward, grabbed at his companion’s arm, and said very quietly: ‘She was poisoned, Walter. Who would do such a thing?’
‘Let me think,’ said Walter, unceremoniously detaching himself from Henry’s grasp. He began to pace the room in an agitated fashion. The rather playful mood of a few minutes ago was gone. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said at length, though his voice carried little conviction.
‘That’s what I thought, but if you’d heard the inspector. I tell you, Walter, I was frightened.’
‘What reason had you to kill Ursula?’ demanded Walter, pausing for a moment to face the young man.
‘None that I can think of,’ replied Henry, aware that he now had the other man’s full attention. He got up from his seat on the bed and poured himself a glass of port. ‘Care to join me in a glass to commiserate?’
‘I daresay you’ve had enough,’ said Walter, snatching the glass from the young man and draining its contents himself in one gulp. ‘Why did Scotland Yard want to interview you, of all people? Why didn’t they interview –’
Walter stopped abruptly in mid-sentence and cast a furtive glance at Henry. The young man, however, was busy pouring himself another glass of the port, his attention focused on the task in hand. Inwardly, Walter breathed a sigh of relief and cursed himself for his wayward tongue. He must tread carefully, he thought, until he had decided what to do. Aloud, he said:
‘What did Scotland Yard want with you?’
‘They wanted to know why I had taken one of Cordelia’s wine glasses from Sedgwick Court.’
‘Good lord! Not the one that had poison in it?’
‘Yes. That’s to say it is all rather complicated. Someone set a trap. The glass I took from the bookcase was not the same glass that I had put on it, if that makes any sense?’ replied Henry, putting a hand to his head.
‘It doesn’t,’ said Walter. ‘You’ve had too much port, old chap.’
‘Do you remember Lady Belvedere asked us to go into the library to be interviewed by Constable Bright?’ Walter nodded, interested in spite of himself. ‘Well, that was when the deed was done. My glass was replaced with another and, fool that I am, I was spotted taking the wine glass with me when I left Sedgwick Court.’
Walter stared at the young man, his mind working rapidly. It was always so hard to tell with Henry when he was speaking the truth and when he was lost in a world of fantasy. Look at those poems of his. Romantic nonsense, all those flowery words and purple proses. Still, something had frightened Henry all right, and he had just admitted taking a glass which he had believed to contain poison, though if that really were the case, why was he so shocked to learn that Ursula had been murdered? Really, it didn’t make any sense at all.
‘Why did you take the wine glass, Henry?’ Walter asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer that he might hear.
‘I was frightened. If you remember, Lady Belvedere came into the drawing room and announced that the constable was dreadfully afraid that Ursula had been murdered. Of course, we just thought Constable Bright was talking his usual nonsense …’ Henry took a large sip of port. ‘But … well, I mean to say, what could I do? I could hardly leave the glass where it was after her ladyship said that, could I? It was no use hoping the servants would wash it up and return it to Miss Quail. Don’t you see, Walter? I couldn’t take the risk. I had to destroy the evidence, I had –’
‘Henry, for goodness sake don’t say another word, there’s a good chap,’ cried Walter. ‘You have had too much to drink. I don’t think you know what you are saying. Now, have a good night’s rest and you’ll wake up with a clear head. And whatever you do, don’t have any more of this stuff.’
Walter picked up the offending bottle and moved to the door. Henry, he noticed, had followed his instructions and was already asleep, stretched out on his bed fully clothed, one arm flung nonchalantly across his face. Walter paused for a few moments at the door regarding the young man before him, his mind full of indecision. He had demanded that Henry be quiet lest the poor fellow incriminate himself further, though now he wished that he had let the boy speak. Why had he taken that wine glass from the folly? More curious still, why had he taken the glass from Sedgwick Court at the mention of murder?
He, himself, had given little heed to Lady Belvedere’s words, knowing as he did that she had something of a reputation for being an amateur detective. To a person like that, every death was likely to be regarded as suspicious. He hadn’t believed for one moment that Constable Bright was really of the opinion that Ursula had been murdered. It was a view that had appeared to be justified when that worthy pillar of the law had interviewed them in the library. No, the theory that there had been foul play had originated with the countess, he’d bet his life on it. No doubt, she had been responsible also for the substitution of the wine glass. Henry had referred to a trap, and the poor boy had fallen into it well and truly; if he were not very careful, then the poor fool would get himself hanged.
Walter Drury looked down at the young man indulgently, a frown creasing his brow. In slumber, the cares and worries that stalked the poet during his waking hours showed not a trace on his face, which looked almost unbearably youthful and childlike. Henry Rewe had been the son Walter Drury had never had. Well, he was damned if he would see that poor boy swing due to Henry’s own stupidity, not if he could help it.
There was only one course of action open to him and, though in some ways it was no less repulsive to Walter than the potential fate of the young man before him, he was resolved to face it, unpleasant though the task might prove.
Thus resolved, Walter cast one final look at the sleeping form and then turned and closed the door very gently behind him, making hardly a sound. He proceeded down the stairs one at a time, careful not to tread on the stair that always creaked, lest he incurred Mrs Gregg’s wrath. He let himself out quietly by the front door and turned up the collar of his coat, though the air was still balmy. He stared out at the deserted street and proceeded out into the night.
‘That was an odd sort of tale the old woman had to tell us, and no mistake,’ remarked Sergeant Lane to his superior as they made their way back to the Sedgwick Arms, and the rather splendid supper that had been laid on for them by the landlady.
‘It was indeed,’ agreed the Inspector. He appeared preoccupied with his own thoughts. As they neared the public house, he said: ‘I say, Lane, don’t you think it rather strange that the deceased decided to reside in this village, of all places, merely on account of seeing that photograph?’
‘It sounds to me as if she were a mite too fond of this Mr Drury. Perhaps she was carrying on with him before her husband’s death; he scarpered when he got his chance, and she found him and demanded that he make an honest woman of her.’
The inspector laughed in spite of himself. ‘What a very vivid imagination you have, Lane. That is one theory, I admit.’
‘Well, Mrs Stapleton certainly seems to have had an eye for the gentlemen,’ said the sergeant. ‘Though I wonder why she decided to play one off against the other. It seems a dangerous sort of a game. I suppose she couldn’t make up her mind which of the two gentlemen to wed.’
‘We only have her maid-companion’s word for it that her intention was to marry one of them. I’ve made some inquiries regarding that allowance she was receiving from the Stapleton family; apparently it would cease should she decide to remarry.’
‘I wonder if Drury and Cuffe were aware of that fact? It strikes me she was just the sort of woman who would have kept such knowledge to herself. I had a bit of a word with the landlady earlier, and she told me Mrs Stapleton was thought to be a rich widow.’
They had reached the Sedgwick Arms, and a few minutes later they were seated at a table, each with a generous plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding before them.
‘Ah, roast potatoes and gravy,’ said the sergeant. ‘My favourite. And that’s a proper Yorkshire pudding, t
hat is.’
‘I am glad that the meal meets with your approval, Lane,’ said the inspector, with a smile. ‘It seems to me that we should have a word with this fellow, Cuffe, after supper. He sounds a rather nasty piece of work to me. And Drury, we’ll need to speak with him. Perhaps we’ll learn from him the lay of the land, as it were.’
‘And of course, he knew Mrs Stapleton before she came to Sedgwick, when she was married to his cousin,’ said Sergeant Lane. ‘I daresay he’ll have known her character as well as anyone.’
‘With the exception of Miss Sprat,’ the inspector pointed out, ‘though she does seem to have thought her mistress could do no wrong.’
The meal finished, the policemen retired to the private parlour, where the inspector put through a telephone call.
‘Well, Lane,’ said Inspector Deacon, putting down the receiver, a rather glum expression on his handsome face. ‘It seems we are not in luck. I have just been speaking with Mr Cuffe’s manservant and it appears his master caught the train to Paddington this morning and is staying at his club tonight; he is not expected back until tomorrow afternoon.’
It was a similar story regarding Walter Drury, in that his manservant informed them that Mr Drury had gone out after dinner and had not yet returned and, no, he did not know where he had gone.
‘We could always talk to the director woman,’ suggested Sergeant Lane, with little enthusiasm. ‘What was her name? Miss Quail?’
However, they were informed by Cordelia’s maid that her mistress was staying with her sister after the tragic events of the previous day and would not be returning until the following day.
It was, therefore, with rather heavy hearts that the two policemen decided to call it a day and trudged off to their respective rooms, hoping that the events of the morrow would prove more fruitful to their investigation.
Chapter Twenty
‘I say, that’s awful queer what you were telling me about old Cuffe last night,’ remarked Cedric next morning as he and his wife breakfasted together. ‘I always thought he was a decent sort of a chap, not that I knew him very well, of course. I certainly didn’t think he was the type to go about shouting at women and making them cry.’
Murder in the Folly Page 20
