Murder in the Folly

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Miss Sprat was of the view –’

  ‘Oh, I should have known. Well, I advise you, Inspector, to take anything that Sprat woman says with a large pinch of salt,’ Walter said dismissively. ‘She has a tendency to believe that every man was in love with her mistress.’

  ‘Including Mr Cuffe? You were aware, were you not, of his rather clandestine visits to Quince Cottage?’

  The inspector had the satisfaction of seeing the colour drain from Walter Drury’s face.

  ‘Yes, I was. I am afraid they were not very discreet. And before you ask me, Inspector, whether I considered Mr Cuffe a rival for Mrs Stapleton’s affections and didn’t it make me feel a little jealous, then I suppose my answer is yes. Not,’ he added hurriedly, ‘that I think Mrs Stapleton wouldn’t have come to her senses in time, because I think she would.’

  ‘What an odd little man,’ commented Sergeant Lane to his superior, as they made their way back to Sedgwick village some time later.

  ‘Yes. He was certainly that,’ agreed the inspector. ‘To my mind, he seemed a little erratic in his moods. It did occur to me to wonder if he were frightened.’

  ‘And he contradicted himself repeatedly, sir. About his feelings for Mrs Stapleton, I mean,’ said the sergeant. ‘I reckon he was in love with her, no matter what he says.’

  ‘You could be right, Lane,’ replied Inspector Deacon ruminating.

  It was only later that the inspector wished that he had paid rather more attention to the way in which Walter Drury had answered the questions put to him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘Mr Kettering,’ said Rose, encountering the young man in the hall. ‘I wonder whether I might have a word with you?’

  ‘Of course, your ladyship,’ replied the secretary, effecting a bow of sorts. He looked about him rather hesitantly, as if he were uncertain whether the interview should be conducted in the hall under the possible observation of the servants, or in the little room that he used as his office. It was Rose who came to his aid.

  ‘Shall we speak in the library, Mr Kettering?’

  Giles Kettering, looking relieved, crossed the hall and held the door of the library open for her. The row upon row of books, filling the bookcases from floor to ceiling, brought something of an official note to the proceedings. Rose, in contemplating how to begin, turned to face her husband’s employee and decided to come straight to the point.

  ‘You are aware, of course, Mr Kettering, that Mrs Stapleton was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, your ladyship,’ said Giles, blinking at her from behind a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, which gave him something of an owlish appearance. ‘His lordship informed me yesterday. A most dreadful business.’

  ‘Yes. You played the part of Horatio in the theatricals, didn’t you?’ Giles nodded. ‘You would have been standing with Mr Rewe on the stage when Miss Quail carried the tray with the wine glasses through to the circular room? And all that time you stayed on the stage? During the final scene, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I did, your ladyship. Miss Quail requested that I remain standing on one corner of the stage, looking on, as it were,’ said the secretary, speaking with enthusiasm. ‘Miss Quail’s idea, I believe, was that I should stand apart from the courtiers and attendants. She thought it would illustrate to the audience that Horatio had little to do with the king’s court. It also meant that I could leap forward in a dramatic fashion and kneel beside Hamlet when he was … dying.’

  He had suddenly faltered in saying the last word, as if he thought his enthusiasm for the scene was misplaced given what had happened.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rose, somewhat impatiently. ‘It meant, didn’t it, that you had a very good view of what was happening on the stage?’

  Was it Rose’s imagination, or did the young man pause before nodding?

  ‘If the poison was administered on the stage,’ she continued, accentuating each word in a deliberate fashion, ‘you were more likely than anyone else present to have witnessed the act?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no doubt in Rose’s mind now that the word, when it was uttered, was said with obvious reluctance.

  ‘Did you happen to notice anything suspicious, Mr Kettering?’

  The secretary took a moment or two to answer, as if he was formulating in his mind exactly what to say. Once or twice he licked dry lips and opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind.

  ‘I thought I saw something,’ he said finally. ‘That is to say, it was more an impression that I had … I should perhaps say that I was not wearing my spectacles at the time, your ladyship. Miss Quail does not wish me to wear them to play Horatio. So you see, it is quite possible I was mistaken …’

  ‘If you think you may have seen something, you must tell Inspector Deacon,’ said Rose, a note of urgency in her voice.

  ‘Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but I cannot do that.’ Giles held up his palm in something of an apologetic manner as Rose made to protest. ‘You see, I cannot be certain of what I saw. I should never forgive myself if I helped send an innocent man to the gallows.’

  There was something very determined and resolute about both the young man’s words and posture, which convinced Rose that any attempt to make him change his mind would be futile. No matter how much she was to appeal to his sense of duty, or even command him to do otherwise, he would stand firm. While she felt a somewhat grudging respect for the man’s integrity, she felt compelled to try to dissuade him from his chosen course. She was fully aware, however, even before the words had left her lips that her efforts would be in vain.

  ‘I would urge you to reconsider your decision, Mr Kettering. If it were to become known that you were a witness to … Oh, don’t you see?’ cried Rose, taking a step forward and instinctively stretching out her hand, as if to grab his arm. ‘By not telling the police what you know, you are placing yourself in very grave danger.’

  Inspector Deacon stared at the two young men in front of him. It was not usual to interview two witnesses together. Indeed, it was quite unorthodox, and yet the brothers were so very alike in appearance that one might almost be persuaded they were in fact the same person, caught in different poses. One was standing rather nonchalantly with his back to the empty fireplace, his elbow propped on the wooden mantelpiece, while the other, in stark contrast, was sitting very upright on one of the chairs that had been brought forward for them.

  So these were the Prentice twins, young Freddie and Gerald, though the inspector was damned if anyone could tell them apart, except possibly their poor widowed mother, for whom, with their various escapades, they were proving quite a handful.

  ‘Will you tell me please, which of you gentlemen is Gerald Prentice, and which of you is Freddie?’ began the policeman.

  ‘I’m Gerald,’ said the young man lounging against the fireplace. ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Inspector.’

  ‘Liar!’ cried out the seated brother, jumping up from his chair with indignation. ‘Don’t listen to him, Inspector. I’m Gerald; he’s Freddie.’

  Inspector Deacon banged his fists down hard on the desk making the pens and ink well rattle.

  ‘This is a murder investigation, not some childish game of Squeak Piggy Squeak,’ he said loudly, his voice barely below a shout. He stared at each twin with eyes that seemed to hold a hidden menace. ‘Now, which of you is which, and I want the truth this time mind, or you’ll be in a great deal of trouble.’

  The two young men looked at the floor rather sheepishly, and it was quickly established that it was Freddie who stood by the fireplace and Gerald who sat on the chair.

  Inspector Deacon glanced down at the sheets of paper laid out before him. He made a show of shuffling them until he was aware that he had the brothers’ full attention.

  ‘You were playing the parts of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, weren’t you? The inseparable fools.’ He looked up from his papers and gave them a measured stare. ‘A very good bit of casting, I’d say. And, in the final scene, you w
ere playing the part of the courtiers, for the purpose of determining for Miss Quail how many villagers she would require for the role when the play was performed?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Gerald quickly, eager to redeem himself in the inspector’s eye. ‘We were required to traipse around the stage after the others, which was rather a bore because, of course, we had nothing to say.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why the Quail cast Henry Rewe in the part of Hamlet,’ said Freddie, rather sulkily, from his position by the fireplace. ‘I’d have been much better with the foil, I can tell you. I’d have given Lord Belvedere a run for his money.’

  Inspector Deacon ignored this remark. Instead, he said:

  ‘Did you know that you would be rehearsing that final scene?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Gerald. ‘Miss Quail had made a point of mentioning it at the previous rehearsal. In her opinion, the fight scene required a great deal of work.’

  The inspector nodded thoughtfully. This appeared to confirm the statements that he had read the previous day, written in Constable Bright’s laborious hand.

  ‘Will you tell me how it came about that you were cast in the play?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t through our choice, I can tell you,’ retorted Freddie.

  ‘Miss Quail approached Mother,’ Gerald said. ‘Apparently, she was rather taken with the idea that identical twins play the parts of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, because there is so little difference between the two characters.’

  ‘Where Rosencrantz goes, Guildenstern is certain to follow,’ said Freddie. ‘A bit like Gerald and me, Inspector.’

  ‘Mother thought it a thrilling idea,’ said his brother. ‘She thought it would do us good to learn some Shakespeare.’

  ‘It would have been deathly dull if we hadn’t come up with the idea of learning each other’s lines as well as our own,’ said Freddie sardonically. ‘I am supposed to be Rosencrantz, but on occasion I play Guildenstern. The Quail never suspected a thing.’ He gave a hoot of laughter.

  ‘Is that so?’ The inspector eyed both brothers with interest. ‘Now, which one of you dropped the foils? And none of your games this time, mind.’

  The abruptness of the question and the tone in which it was delivered appeared to take the twins unawares.

  ‘I did,’ admitted Gerald nervously. ‘I say, is it important?’

  ‘It is if it was used as a device to cause a distraction,’ the inspector replied. ‘You were sent down from Oxford for a series of pranks, weren’t you? Let me see …’ He paused to cast his eyes down the page in front of him. ‘Letting the air out of the tyres of a professor’s car ... setting fire to the curtains of your college with a Bunsen burner … putting a chamber pot ... Well, well. It is quite a list. Need I go on?’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Gerald quickly. ‘It was frightfully childish and stupid of us.’

  ‘Not to say dangerous,’ said the inspector. ‘Now, I understand the deceased was very particular that there should be water in her glass, made a bit of a fuss about it if it was empty.’

  ‘I should say she did! But what of it?’ demanded Freddie.

  ‘Well, looking at this list of your tricks,’ said Inspector Deacon, holding up the sheet of paper he had been consulting, ‘it occurred to me that the thought might have crossed your minds to put something into Mrs Stapleton’s glass.’

  ‘We never meant to poison her,’ cried Gerald. ‘We –’

  ‘Shut up, or I’ll give you what for,’ snarled Freddie, abandoning the fireplace and making as if he intended to strike his brother.

  ‘That will do, sir,’ said Sergeant Lane, leaping up from his seat with surprising speed and grabbing Freddie’s raised arm. ‘There’ll be no fighting in here.’

  ‘Is that what you were fighting about in the drawing room at Sedgwick Court?’ demanded the inspector. ‘One of you suspected the other of poisoning Mrs Stapleton?’ He studied the two brothers closely. ‘You,’ he said looking at Gerald, ‘by your own admission dropped the foils. Did you,’ he added, turning his attention to Freddie, ‘take the opportunity to put something into Mrs Stapleton’s glass?’

  ‘We never meant to poison her,’ reiterated Gerald, sounding close to tears. ‘We only meant to put some table salt into her glass to make her splutter.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said the inspector gravely. ‘Traces of potassium cyanide were found in the wine glass from which the deceased drank. In appearance, it would have looked very like table salt.’

  ‘You damned fool!’ cried Freddie, glowering at his brother. ‘Why did you have to say anything? Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?’ He turned and glared at the inspector. ‘I’ll admit we did discuss putting some salt in Mrs Stapleton’s glass, but as it happens, at the last minute I decided against it. I was bored of the rehearsal and knew that, if we did play a trick, the Quail would insist that we do the scene again.’ He slouched against the fireplace. ‘I daresay you don’t believe me, Inspector, and I can’t say I blame you. But tell me, where is your evidence to show that we purchased potassium cyanide? Wouldn’t we have had to sign some sort of poisons sale book?’

  ‘It may interest you to know that potassium cyanide is commonly used as an insecticide, Mr Prentice,’ replied Inspector Deacon quietly, fixing Freddie with a cold stare. ‘It may also interest you to know that a quantity of it was kept in one of the garden sheds at Sedgwick Court, close to the folly.’

  ‘That does not prove –’ began Freddie hotly.

  ‘The under-gardener at Sedgwick Court,’ said Inspector Deacon cutting through Freddie’s sentence as sharply as if the boy had not spoken, ‘a fellow by the name of Hawkins, has advised us that the garden shed in question is always kept locked, and that during working hours he keeps the key on his person. When he isn’t working it is kept on a hook in his cottage.’

  ‘Is it missing?’ cried Gerald, casting a fearful look at his brother. ‘The key, I mean?’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘Well then –’ began Freddie again.

  ‘I requested that Hawkins review his supplies of insecticide, which he did. The lock on the shed door shows signs of having been tampered with, and he has advised me that a small quantity of his potassium cyanide is missing.’

  Both twins had turned white. Gerald held his head in his hands and even Freddie looked to be trembling.

  ‘I didn’t take it, Inspector,’ Freddie muttered. ‘I brought some table salt with me from home, I admit. I swear that was all I intended to put in Mrs Stapleton’s glass, and at the very last minute, like I told you, I changed my mind. I didn’t know this Hawkins chap kept a supply of potassium cyanide. Even if I had done, I’d never have taken any. Gerald, he’s got it all wrong. He thought the salt had induced a heart attack. That’s why we were fighting and I gave him a bloody nose. I was afraid he’d tell everyone I’d put salt in her glass, when I hadn’t. Though, when she choked, I almost convinced myself I must have done. We’d planned to do it, you see. But I didn’t, did I?’ he added, brightening a little. ‘Because it was cyanide that done for her and I swear I never touched that.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Inspector Deacon coldly, ‘but neither of you are to leave Sedgwick without my permission, do you hear?’ The brothers nodded solemnly. ‘Now, be off with you.’

  Both Prentice twins scuttled to the door. Freddie was the first to depart, his brother following closely on his heels.

  ‘Mr Gerald,’ said the inspector, calling him back. ‘One moment, if I may.’

  Gerald returned, visibly shaking.

  ‘I should like to give you a piece of advice, young man. It is up to you whether you take it or not.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Gerald, his voice barely above a whisper, his teeth almost chattering.

  ‘If I were you, the next time your brother suggests some prank or other, I would refuse to take part. If you want to make anything of yourself, go far in the world, as it were, and make your mother proud, you’d do well not to follow your brother b
lindly.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The door to the private parlour of the Sedgwick Arms was thrown open in one dramatic gesture and a voice wailed: ‘Inspector …’

  The two policemen, who had been consulting their notes on the murder investigation, both started and looked up, considerably taken aback by the unwarranted intrusion. For there had been no warning, no courteous tap on the door. Of that Sergeant Lane was quite certain, standing only a few feet away from it as he was. He turned to face the newcomer, a scowl upon his face, quite prepared to take the offender to task for the interruption. The sight that met his eyes, however, had the effect of rendering him temporarily speechless, for it seemed to him that an apparition of sorts had descended upon them. Certainly, there was a theatrical quality about the dress of the woman who sailed into the room like some tidal force, a black silk turban on her head and a full length ebony velvet opera cloak enveloping a body clothed in funereal hues.

  ‘Inspector, I came as soon as I heard the news,’ cried Cordelia Quail, throwing her arms up in a dramatic gesture. ‘I have just this minute returned from my sister’s. Fond of her though I am, she really is rather a tiresome creature; I find I can only suffer her in small doses so I came back earlier than I intended. Well, anyway, I made my excuses as it were and left. I had only just set foot in the door of my cottage when my maid told me. Poor Ursula murdered, and her killer used one of my wine glasses …’ She paused a moment, looking indignant. ‘The sheer audacity of the fellow! I swear I will never be able to bring myself to drink from it again; it has been tainted beyond repair!’ With that, the director collapsed unbidden on to the horsehair sofa, put her head in her hands and arranged her cloak in such a fashion that it was spread out revealing a pale gold silk lining, which she draped rather artistically over one arm of the sofa so that it trailed down on to the floor.

  Inspector Deacon was the first to recover. ‘Miss Quail, I presume?’ he said, indicating the chair that was positioned directly in front of his desk.