Cordelia gathered up her mantle and removed herself and her drapery to the seat indicated. This time, however, she did not arrange her velvet cloak about her; rather, she sat on it and let the ends drop on to the floor. Her turban, the inspector noted, had been put on at an askew angle so that, despite the gravity of her words, it gave her appearance something of a farcical air. The effect was not alleviated by the woman’s liberal use of garish eyeshadow and bright rouge.
‘Yes, indeed, Inspector,’ Cordelia said, answering the inspector’s question rather belatedly. ‘This is a quite dreadful business. You will no doubt have heard from everyone how upset I was even when I thought poor Ursula had died a natural death?’ Here, Cordelia paused to dab a handkerchief to her eyes, eyes which the inspector noticed were quite dry and surprisingly shrewd. ‘When I heard that the poor dear had been murdered, and during one of my rehearsals too, well, I went quite to pieces. Poor Agnes, my maid, almost had to prise me from the floor, for I had fallen on to my knees with the shock of it all. I said to her that someone could have knocked me down with a feather when she told me, and I suppose in a way they did, only of course poor Agnes wasn’t actually holding a feather.’ She sniffed and removed her handkerchief. With a gallant smile, she said: ‘Well, here I am, Inspector. Ask me what you will. I feel I hold some responsibility for what happened. I daresay it is very silly of me, but I was the director, and it was my play.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Inspector Deacon, wondering how best to approach the interview. It was not often that those he interviewed were so garrulous, though he knew that more often than not it was a sign of nervousness. Miss Quail, however, struck him as the type of woman who was habitually verbose. He caught his sergeant’s eye, and ascertained that he was of a similar opinion. He sighed. There was much to be said for those people who grudgingly gave monosyllabic answers to the questions that he put to them, and remained silent otherwise.
‘You were responsible for casting Mrs Stapleton as Queen Gertrude?’ began the inspector.
‘Well, I was, and I wasn’t, Inspector,’ replied Cordelia, and the inspector realised too late that he had introduced a subject on which Cordelia Quail could talk a great deal. ‘Mrs Stapleton would not have been my first choice or, dare I say it, my second choice. Indeed, I was rather intending to play the role myself. I have played it before, you know, to rather great acclaim. But it is so difficult to direct a play in which one is also acting. Mr Cuffe reminded me of the fact and, really, I had quite forgotten because usually I am either acting in a play or directing it, not both. And then, of course, Algernon was most insistent that I cast Ursula; though naturally I had my reservations as I had not seen her act before.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And sadly, I was right to have misgivings because poor Ursula had a tendency to over play her part. I suppose she was more used to pantomime. But, as I said, dear Algernon was most adamant that she play the part of the queen, and I did not feel I was in a position to argue the point because I did so want him to play Claudius. Really, there is no one else among the Sedgwick Players who could have played the king; and the ghost, of course, he played that part too.’
‘I see,’ said the inspector. He would have liked to pursue further the reasons Algernon Cuffe had given Cordelia on why Ursula should play the part of the queen, but he feared this would result in another outpouring of words. Instead, he said: ‘Will you tell me about the wine glasses?’
‘The wine glasses? Oh, but of course, Inspector. They were my grandmother’s and Victorian; a rather nice cranberry colour in fact, which I thought would reflect the light beautifully and be quite visible to the audience. One must think of these things, when one is the director, you know. There are only two remaining from the original set of six; wine glasses, I mean. I suppose it was rather foolish of me, because of course actors do not tend to treat their props very well, but –’
‘I understand that you carried them on to the stage and through to the circular room,’ said Inspector Deacon quickly, keen to stem the flow. ‘Do you remember where you put the tray?’
‘On one of the trestle tables, I imagine,’ replied Cordelia, rather vaguely. ‘I really can’t remember quite where. I was feeling a little flustered that I had forgotten them, you see. I had brought them with me to the rehearsal, but it had quite slipped my mind that they were still on the lawn beside my chair. Ursula could be dreadfully tiresome about the wine glasses, you see, always insisting that the one she drank from was filled with fresh water, when it would have been so much easier for everyone if it hadn’t been. The audience would not have noticed that it was empty and that she was only pretending to drink, because of the cranberry coloured bowls. But Ursula wouldn’t have it, and so it was one more thing for me to worry about, as if I hadn’t enough –’
‘Did you notice if anyone in the circular room paid particular attention to where you set the tray? Perhaps someone got up from where they were sitting and came to stand beside you?’
‘You mean, did I see anyone acting in a suspicious manner?’ Cordelia inquired, a gleam of interest in her eye. The inspector nodded. She sighed despondently. ‘Unfortunately, I did not. I wasn’t paying much attention to anyone in the circular room. I was far too concerned with depositing the tray as quickly as possible so that I could return to my seat on the lawn and direct the scene. I was hoping we would have time to rehearse the scene twice, you see. Henry Rewe, poor boy, alas is no swordsman. I wanted to practice the duelling scene.’ She leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘Just between ourselves, Inspector, I rather wish Lord Belvedere was not so accomplished at fencing. Poor Henry’s performance rather pales in comparison, though,’ she brightened unexpectedly, ‘on the afternoon in question he was not quite as bad as usual. That’s to say, he didn’t stand frozen to one spot as happened at last week’s rehearsal. It was dreadfully embarrassing for –’
‘When did you realise that Mrs Stapleton was ill?’
‘Well, I don’t think any of us realised at first,’ Cordelia said meditatively. ‘That is to say, we thought she was merely acting. Ursula had a tendency, as I think I have already mentioned, to rather over act. I had had cause to admonish her for it before, and I thought that was what she was doing. Though one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, she did try to steal each scene she was in, which was most unfair … Ah, I remember now, she looked as if she was about to faint when Walter said his line about looking to the queen. I recall it for the simple reason that she was not supposed to faint until Henry had delivered his line inquiring after the queen.’ Cordelia’s bottom lip began to tremble and for the first time she looked white beneath the vivid rouge. ‘I told her to dab her forehead with her handkerchief if she must. I accused her of intentionally ruining the scene. How very stupid of me. I should have realised she was unwell, but I didn’t. She put her hands to her throat and made some awful gasping sound … Oh, dear. It was quite dreadful.’
Cordelia bowed her head and hid her face in her hands. Inspector Deacon regarded her with interest. If he had expected a swish of the cloak or incessant and hysterical wailing, then he was to be disappointed. For, though the woman before him was crying, she was sobbing quietly and without fuss. He gave her a moment or two to compose herself and then said in a voice slightly more gentle than before:
‘Are you aware if Mrs Stapleton had any enemies?’
The question seemed to startle Cordelia, for she raised her head immediately and seemed to stare at her questioner with blind, unseeing eyes.
‘I suppose that was all poor Ursula had,’ she said slowly, ‘foes, I mean. A woman of her type does not usually have many friends.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ demanded the inspector sharply. He was vaguely aware that for the first time Sergeant Lane was showing some interest in the woman’s conversation.
‘Mrs Stapleton was the sort of woman who took delight in hurting other people, Inspector. In fact, she seemed to wallow in other people’s discomfort.’
‘Are you speaking of
yourself?’
‘I … no, of course not,’ Cordelia replied, clearly flustered. ‘Why would you suppose such a thing? I was thinking of the others. Poor Miriam and poor Walter. I even felt a little sorry for Algernon, though of course he should have known better. But I suppose those types of women are adept at weaving spells, aren’t they? They entice a man and when they feel they have him in their grasp, they take a cruel delight in toying with his affections.’
‘You believe that was what Mrs Stapleton was doing?’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, Inspector. She was the sort of woman who only regarded her own worth by how many men she had dangling on a string. I even sometimes used to wonder whether she had cast a spell over poor Henry.’ Cordelia made a face. ‘I don’t suppose she had any women friends to speak of except for that maid-companion of hers, who seemed to dote on her. Of course, it was Miriam I felt most sorry for. The girl pretended not to care, but it must have hurt her dreadfully to know how Algernon was carrying on. And then, of course, when Mr Cuffe insisted that Ursula play opposite him in the play … well, she must have suffered awfully, though I’ll say this for her, she never showed it except for a bit of sullenness, not that that was out of character, because it wasn’t. Rather spoilt, Inspector; I’m sure you know the type? Anyway, I felt dreadful insisting that poor Miriam wear an ill-fitting coarse shrift to play Ophelia when Ursula was dressed in velvet and brocade to play her character. But of course, my duty, as director, was to the play. Still, it –’
‘Are you saying that Miss Belmore was aware of Mr Cuffe’s visits to Mrs Stapleton?’
‘Well, of course, Inspector. Nothing happens in a village like Sedgwick without everyone knowing about it. And it didn’t help, of course, that Algernon would insist on visiting her late at night. Ursula, I mean, not Miriam. That sort of thing causes tongues to wag, I can tell you. It suggests a clandestine affair. And everyone knew that he was walking out with Miriam and that the announcement of their engagement was imminent. Really, it was most unfortunate that he should behave in such a way.’
‘Yet, it is possible that Miss Belmore was –’
‘Miriam knew, Inspector.’ There was a firmness to Cordelia’s voice that left the detective in little doubt that the woman spoke what she believed to be the truth. ‘I saw the way Miriam looked at Ursula when she thought no one was looking,’ continued Cordelia. ’And she wouldn’t speak to Algernon. She would pointedly ignore him during the rehearsals. And then, of course, Biddy Smith is housemaid at the Belmores’, and that girl would take great delight in telling Miriam all she knew. Spiteful, she is. All the family are. The Smiths, I mean, not the Belmores. Why the Belmores ever employed the girl, I can’t imagine; she wouldn’t know one end of a feather duster from the other and –’
‘What you are saying, then, is that Miss Belmore would have had reason to dislike Mrs Stapleton?’
A brief look of fear appeared in Cordelia’s eyes. It is possible that she thought she had said too much. Certainly, she suddenly seemed to become conscious of Sergeant Lane seated behind her, scribbling down her every word, for she turned in her chair and glared at him.
‘Miss Quail …’
Cordelia returned her attention to Inspector Deacon. She drew her cloak around her and rearranged her turban on her head. She stared at him, and her bottom lip quivered.
‘It seems a dreadful thing to say, Inspector,’ she said in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘But I think we were all Ursula’s enemy in one way or another.’
‘I wonder what the old biddy meant by that,’ said Sergeant Lane, as soon as Cordelia had departed from the Sedgwick Arms, her cloak flowing behind her in the breeze like a wedding train. ‘They were all Mrs Stapleton’s enemy in one way or another.’
‘I think Miss Quail has a tendency to be over dramatic at the best of times,’ replied Inspector Deacon, shuffling his papers.
‘A trait she was quick to ascribe to the deceased, did you notice, sir?’ said his sergeant with a wry grin. ‘She gave the impression that she hadn’t much liked Mrs Stapleton.’
‘According to Miss Quail,’ said the inspector, ‘no one liked her, except for that maid-companion of hers.’ He selected a sheet from the pile of papers in front of him, on which he had written a few lines. ‘While Miss Quail was regaling us with an account of the various difficulties facing a director when producing a play by Shakespeare, I took the liberty of jotting down a few motives for our various suspects.’
‘Is that what you were doing, sir?’ chuckled Sergeant Lane. ‘I thought you seemed awful keen on what she was saying, scribbling down and the like. I daresay she did too. I didn’t think the woman would ever stop talking.’
‘I suppose directing is a pet subject of hers,’ replied the inspector absentmindedly, for his attention was on the page he held in his hand.
‘I should say it is!’
‘Let us begin with the Prentice twins,’ said Inspector Deacon, returning to the business in hand. ‘Freddie Prentice has admitted that he and his brother intended to play a silly practical joke on Mrs Stapleton. Not with cyanide, I admit, but we only have his word for it that they planned to use table salt.’
‘Or that he changed his mind at the last minute,’ piped Sergeant Lane, ‘about putting it in her glass. Gerald Prentice thought he had done, if you remember, sir? That was the reason for the fight.’
‘Indeed,’ said the inspector. ‘There is a nasty streak to Freddie Prentice, all right. Some of the foolish pranks they played at Oxford, for which they were sent down, were downright dangerous. We will not rule them out just yet.’ He glanced at his sheet of paper. ‘The next person I have on my list is Miriam Belmore. We shall need to speak with her. If what Miss Quail says is true, she would have had a very good motive for wishing Mrs Stapleton dead.’
‘Because she was walking out with Mr Cuffe, you mean?’ There was a look of interest in the sergeant’s eye. ‘She’s quite a looker, by all accounts, and this Cuffe chap was pretty fond of her. But this business with Mrs Stapleton … well, I suppose Miss Belmore might have had a motive if she felt she had a rival for his affections, but to kill the woman …’ He shrugged.
‘That brings us on to Algernon Cuffe himself,’ said his superior, getting up from his chair and beginning to pace the room, the sheet of paper still in his hand, ‘If the picture we have put together of Mrs Stapleton is correct, it would appear she was just the sort of woman who would have cultivated the idea that she was rich.’
‘Wasn’t she, sir? Rich, I mean? After all, we know as how she received a generous allowance from her dead husband’s family.’
‘Yes, Lane. But we also know that, if she remarried, her allowance ceased.’
‘You mean Mr Cuffe might have thought her a rich widow when she wasn’t one?’ said Sergeant Lane, looking somewhat confused.
‘Yes. And in a fit of passion he might have killed her on discovering the truth.’ The inspector looked a little sheepish as his subordinate gave him something of a sceptical look. ‘Yes, I know, Lane. For a motive, it seems pretty weak.’
‘Particularly as we know it was premeditated. Her killing, I mean, with the cyanide and all.’
‘Yes. But we do know her finances were in an unsatisfactory state. I sent one of our local chaps to meet with her bank manager yesterday. He telephoned to me earlier. It appears that Mrs Stapleton did not save any of her allowance, and was extravagant in her spending habits.’
‘Even so, sir, I can’t see as how he would have killed her just because she lied to him about her circumstances.’
‘Ah, but I have a far better motive for this Cuffe fellow than that, Lane,’ said Inspector Deacon, leaning against the empty fireplace, his elbow on the wooden mantelpiece. ‘Suppose Cuffe believed Miss Belmore knew nothing about his evening visits to Mrs Stapleton.’
‘And Mrs Stapleton threatened to tell her if he didn’t agree to continue the affair? I say, sir, that’s rather weak too for a motive.’
‘I dares
ay you’re right, Lane, but it’s the best I’ve come up with. Now, who do we have next on our list? Henry Rewe. We don’t know of any reason yet why he might have wanted to murder Mrs Stapleton, do we?’
‘He’s admitted to taking the wine glass. And Miss Quail hinted that she thought he might be a little sweet on the deceased. Perhaps he killed her because he was jealous that she’d marry Cuffe or that Drury fellow.’
‘H’m. Mrs Stapleton had been toying with the poor boy’s affections and he killed her in a rage, huh? No, Lane. That won’t do, and for the same reason it won’t do for Mr Cuffe. This death was very carefully planned.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Stapleton killed herself, sir,’ said Sergeant Lane flippantly. ‘You never can tell with these thespian types. Perhaps she wanted a dramatic death that was in keeping with her character, as it were.’
‘If that were the case, Lane, Mrs Stapleton would have killed herself on the night of the performance itself, not at a rehearsal, though that idea of yours is rather intriguing. But, no, she was murdered all right. Now, who do we have left?’
‘Miss Quail, sir. Now, she was an odd sort of lady if ever there was one. Passionate about her play, she was. I wouldn’t put it past her to bump off Mrs Stapleton so that she could play the part of the queen herself opposite Mr Cuffe’s king. A bit sweet on him too, I thought she was.’
‘That is your idea, then, is it, Lane? All the women were in love with this Cuffe chap? Well, I, for one, can’t wait to meet the fellow.’ His face darkened and his manner became more serious. ‘Joking aside, Lane, I can’t see a decent motive for any one of them wishing Mrs Stapleton dead.’
‘What about Mr Drury, sir? We’ve forgotten about him.’
‘We have. But if Drury were to murder anyone my money would have been on him killing Cuffe, his rival for Mrs Stapleton’s affections, not the woman herself.’
‘And if he were to murder Mrs Stapleton, it would have been in a fit of passion.’
‘Yes, and we’ve agreed that this is not that type of murder.’
Murder in the Folly Page 23
