‘Well, we’ve learned little that we didn’t know already,’ muttered Cedric to his wife as they emerged from the village hall the next morning. ‘Not that I thought for one moment we would find out anything new.’
They had just attended the inquest in to Ursula Stapleton’s death, which had opened that day. The inquest itself, perhaps out of necessity, had been a very brief affair. It had begun with Algernon Cuffe and Cordelia Quail being called to give witness accounts of Ursula’s death. This had then been followed by the medical evidence, which had been provided by both the old village doctor and the police surgeon. The doctor had admitted, in rather an embarrassed tone, that he had misdiagnosed the cause of death due to the close resemblance of the body to that of a person who had died from heart disease, while the police surgeon stated that the results of the post-mortem had revealed levels of cyanide in the deceased’s blood consistent with Mrs Stapleton having been poisoned.
This discrepancy between the two pieces of medical evidence had caused a titter from the public spectators, with many feeling it was high time the village doctor retired from his profession, while the man in question hobbled from the building as fast as his old legs would carry him, his habitual rather grey cheeks now a vivid scarlet. A few minutes later, and the coroner had adjourned the inquest for a week to enable the police to pursue their inquiries.
While it had been determined in advance that only Cordelia and Algernon of those present at Ursula’s death would be called upon to give evidence, Rose was somewhat surprised that none of the other Sedgwick Players had seen fit to attend the proceedings, if only in the capacity of interested onlookers. She concluded that, having considered it unlikely they would learn anything new regarding the events in the folly, they had determined to stay away from the inevitable attention and gossip that the inquest had generated. Rather guiltily she acknowledged that, while she had been effectively cocooned from the village tittle tattle at Sedgwick Court, the others had no doubt been less fortunate; she could imagine only too well the whispers and pointed fingers that haunted them during the course of their daily business.
Rose looked around for Miss Sprat, who had accompanied them to the inquest. She remembered how the maid-companion had listened to the evidence surrounding her mistress’ death quietly and with a certain dignity, sitting very upright in her seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She had made no display of emotion except for the odd tear, which she had dabbed at quickly with a handkerchief lest it trickle down her cheek and become noticeable. Rose had felt a pang of pity for the woman, and thought how unbearable it must have been for her to hear her mistress referred to in such official and dispassionate tones, particularly when in life Ursula Stapleton had radiated a presence which had set the village tongues alight.
After a quick survey of the crowd that spilled out of the hall and on to the pavement, Rose located Miss Sprat almost cowering against the wall of the village hall, looking for all the world as if she wished she were invisible, or that the earth would open up and swallow her. The cause of her distress was quickly apparent, for the maid-companion was being stared at with considerable interest by those members of the public who had taken to loitering outside the building for a gossip and recognised her as having been in the employ of the deceased.
‘Take Miss Sprat back into the hall, darling,’ said Cedric, quickly surmising the situation. ‘I’ll get Adams to drive round to the back of the building. There’s a door there, which leads off from the kitchen. It won’t be very grand, I’m afraid, but at least Miss Sprat won’t be gawped at by the denizens or pestered by the newspaper men whom I’m assuming are lurking somewhere around here eager to get a scoop.’
Rose followed her husband’s suggestion and, supporting the maid-companion by her elbow, ushered Miss Sprat back into the hall. Prudie Sprat muttered her thanks and Rose could feel the tremble of the woman’s frail body beneath the thin fabric of her funereal garb. Rose felt desperately sorry for her, and was pleased that she had gone to the trouble of visiting Miss Sprat in the servants’ quarters the night before to ensure that she was suitably settled in her temporary abode. The countess had suggested tactfully that she might prefer one of the guest chambers to a servant’s bedroom in the attic. Miss Sprat’s had appeared quite vexed at the suggestion.
‘I like to earn my own keep, your ladyship. Always have done and always will. I can’t abide charity, not when it’s not deserving, and not while I’ve still got the use of my arms and legs and a bit of a brain in my head; not that I’m not grateful for your ladyship’s kindness, because I am, but I shouldn’t want you to treat me like I was one of your grand guests and have your servants wait on me.’
They were sitting in the housekeeper’s sitting room. Miss Sprat had a delicate lace collar stretched out on her lap, which she had evidently been in the process of repairing, unaware that she would shortly be receiving company. Indeed, the maid-companion had been somewhat taken aback by Rose’s sudden appearance in the servants’ quarters and had hastily put aside her sewing, but not before Rose had noticed the quality of her companion’s needlework and commented on it.
‘I’ve mended many a garment in my time as a dresser,’ Miss Sprat said, obviously flattered by the praise. ‘There’s not much in the sewing line that I can’t turn my hand to. I asked Mrs Farrier if there wasn’t a bit of work that she could give me because I couldn’t just sit here and be given my food and board, like; it isn’t in my nature to be idle. Besides, it helps take my mind off … oh, my poor lamb.’ The woman stifled a sob.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Miss Sprat,’ Rose said, with genuine concern. She looked about her for a chair to draw up to the fireplace, and then stretched out a hand to comfort the maid-companion. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I only wanted to see if you were all right and had everything you required.’
‘That’s very kind of you, your ladyship, and I’m sure I couldn’t ask for more,’ mumbled Miss Sprat. ‘You have been very good to me, as have your servants. I … oh, where are my manners?’ she cried, jumping up from her seat and doing an old-fashioned curtsey. ‘And making you get your own chair, too. What must you think of me, your ladyship?’
‘Never mind that,’ Rose said quickly. ‘I came to see how you were, not to be waited on.’
‘Well, that’s nice of you to say so, your ladyship,’ muttered Miss Sprat. ‘I have my good moments and I have my bad moments, as you might say. There are hours when I can do nothing but cry remembering how my poor lamb died, and hours when I think only of the good times. Reminiscing is what I call it, remembering how happy and full of life she was, when she had the theatre at her feet, as you might say. She would have made a very fine actress. Gave it all up for a love, she did, and such a short love it was too. Cruel it was, Mr Stapleton dying like that in the war, and not even a child to lesson her grief.’ She fumbled in the pocket of her apron and produced a very creased photograph, which she handed to Rose. ‘I found this when I was going through her things. Happy, she was there. Why, you can see the joy in her face, shining out, like.’
Rose studied the photograph closely. It was of a couple standing in a traditional wedding pose. The man was tall and handsome and wore a waxed moustache. The woman, who was dressed in a simple Edwardian tea dress offset by a silk satin cummerbund, she recognised immediately as a younger and prettier version of the Ursula Stapleton she had seen parading on the stage. This, then, was a picture of the Stapletons on their wedding day, before disaster had struck. That Ursula had been happy on that day, there was little doubt, for the contentment on her face seemed to radiate from the paper as if it were a real, living thing. Rose felt a sudden pang of sadness, for it occurred to her that the photograph was now no more than a record of a young couple who had both been killed before their time in cruel acts of violence.
‘I’ve looked at that photograph that many times since she died,’ confided Miss Sprat. ‘I want to remember my lamb as she was on the happiest day of her life. I carry it around wit
h me in my apron so that if I feel like I might weep, I can take it out and look at it. To know she was happy …’ The old woman faltered as she retrieved the photograph and restored it to the safety of her apron pocket.
‘What will you do now?’ enquired Rose, ‘once the murderer has been brought to justice, I mean?’
‘Well, I’ve a little put by,’ said Miss Sprat, recovering some of her composure. ‘I’ve always been frugal in my ways and my lamb was very generous. I don’t doubt she’s left me a small legacy; she always said as she would, though of course we thought how it would be me as would go first. Not that it matters much because I’ve made up my mind to go back to the theatre. A dresser is my profession and the theatre is where I belong.’
It was some fifteen minutes after they had first emerged from the village hall that Rose found herself seated beside her husband in the Daimler. The rescued Miss Sprat was installed beside the chauffeur in the front, gazing absentmindedly at the view from the window as the motor car negotiated the country lanes on its way back to Sedgwick Court.
Settling down against the car’s leather upholstery, Rose’s thoughts drifted again to the previous day and, in particular, to Miriam’s visit. Both women had felt disposed to interview Henry Rewe regarding his strange behaviour on the day of the murder. With certain misgivings on Rose’s part, they had agreed to go to his lodgings together. Their visit, however, had proved to be in vain. For Mrs Greggs informed them on opening the door that the poet was not at home. Her manner had been offhand to begin with, her words spoken brusquely. Indeed, she had almost closed the door in their faces, so keen was she to be rid of them. It was only when Rose had given the landlady her calling card that she had realised the identity of her visitor. Then, she had been almost beside herself, fawning and grovelling at the countess’ feet to such an embarrassing extent that Rose almost wished they had not taken it upon themselves to visit the poet’s lodgings. Had Henry Rewe been watching the spectacle, he would have been amazed at how polite and accommodating his landlady could be, for it was a side of her of which he was ignorant. The only Mrs Greggs he ever saw was a grumbling one who bestowed on him the sharp edge of her tongue when he was late with the money for his lodgings.
‘Mr Rewe was it you were wanting, your ladyship?’ the landlady had inquired. ‘A nice young gentleman is Mr Rewe. Educated, he is; full to the brim with learning. Usually you’d find him scribbling away upstairs in his rooms, but not today. Gone wandering about in the fields and the meadows looking for inspiration for his poetry, least that’s what he said. Not to delay supper, that’s what he told me, as if I would.’ Mrs Greggs had bent forward at this point to inform her visitors that she prepared supper for all her gentlemen lodgers, but that Mr Rewe had told her that he was dining out that evening and that she shouldn’t expect him back until late. She had insisted that he take his key so that he wouldn’t wake up the whole house when he returned full of drink as likely as not.
Disappointed though Rose had been at this news, she had not felt too despondent having resolved to waylay the young man after the inquest. To find, then, that Henry Rewe had not deemed it worthwhile to attend the hearing was particularly galling. She was just pondering whether it was too late to invite the poet to join them for luncheon when Cedric roused her abruptly from her deliberations with the following words:
‘I say, I wonder what was in that note that was passed to Deacon?’
‘What note?’
‘Didn’t you see?’ Cedric turned to face his wife, hardly able to keep the excitement from his voice, though he spoke in a low tone so as not to be overheard by Miss Sprat. ‘It must have been when you were helping Miss Sprat to find a seat. A man hurried into the hall and gave the inspector a note. I suppose he must have been a policeman. Well, you should have seen the expression on old Deacon’s face when he unfolded the paper and read what was inside.’
‘Oh?’ Rose was intrigued. ‘Did he look surprised?
‘I should say! Shocked more like. I thought he looked fit to burst.’ Aware that he now had his wife’s full attention, he clasped her hands in his and said earnestly: ‘It must have been dashed important anyway, because Deacon and the sergeant made their apologies to the coroner and fled from the hall.’
‘Before the inquest began?’ Cedric nodded. ‘I didn’t see them go,’ murmured Rose. ‘It must have been while I was arranging for a glass of water to be brought to Miss Sprat. I was awfully afraid she was about to faint. Now you come to mention it, I wondered at the time why they weren’t there.’ Rose stared at her husband. ‘What could have been of such importance that they couldn’t stay for the inquest? They must have known that it wouldn’t last long, what with it being adjourned.’
‘Yes, it’s dashed odd. I say,’ said Cedric, a thought having struck him, ‘you don’t think someone has confessed to Ursula’s murder, do you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ muttered Rose, though she was far from certain. For what else could explain the inspector’s rather hasty departure?
On their arrival at Sedgwick Court, claiming a headache and a wish for solitude, Miss Sprat had returned to her little room in the servants’ quarters. Rose had stood for a moment watching her go, reflecting that the woman made a forlorn little figure as she disappeared behind the green baize door; it struck her then that the maid-companion had aged considerably in the last few hours.
Before she could dwell any further on the fact that Ursula Stapleton’s death had taken its toll, Manning appeared in the hall. One look at the butler’s face told the earl and countess that something was the matter. However, before they had even opened their mouths to speak, Manning said hurriedly:
‘That was the chief constable on the telephone, your lordship. He wants you to telephone him immediately.’
‘Righto,’ said Cedric, in an attempt to sound light-hearted. ‘I’ll use the telephone in my study.’ He looked inquiringly at Rose. ‘Will you join me, darling?’
Looking back on the events afterwards, it seemed to Rose that she had followed her husband into the room in something of a daze. For she was barely conscious of the fact that Cedric had even lifted the telephone receiver to his ear before she was surprised to realise that he was speaking. Her brain in its muddled state could hardly distinguish the words uttered, though the detective in her studied her husband’s face for clues. Vaguely she was aware that the earl’s brow had become furrowed, and that he was passing a hand through his hair in an agitated fashion. His face, when she studied it closely, had gone quite pale.
‘What’s the matter?’ she cried, as soon as he had replaced the telephone receiver.
Cedric took a moment or two to answer, and Rose found herself clinging to his sleeve like a frightened child. He looked down at her in a distracted manner, as if he hardly recognised who she was, or what she was asking. At last he said in a voice so quiet that she had to stand on tiptoe to catch his words:
‘There has been another murder.’
Chapter Twenty-six
‘Who found the body?’ demanded Inspector Deacon, as soon as they entered the house.
‘The manservant, sir,’ replied Constable Bright, coming forward and greeting them. ‘Brown is his name. He’s taken it awful bad. He’s through there in the drawing room if you want to see him,’ he added, pointing to one of the doors leading off the hall. ‘I took the liberty of giving him a bit of brandy, else I doubt you’d have got a word out of him.’
The inspector drew the constable aside out of earshot of the servant.
‘The doctor said he thought the poor devil had been killed around midnight, didn’t he?’ Inspector Deacon looked down at the note that had been passed to him at the inquest, which he still held clutched in his hand. ‘Yes, I was right. Between midnight and two o’clock in the morning was the doctor’s rough estimate. How is it then that this fellow,’ he said, indicating the domestic, ‘only found his master an hour or so ago?’
‘He’s only just returned, sir. He spent the night at h
is sister’s, on account of her having been taken bad a few days ago.’ Constable Bright consulted his notes. ‘Brown left Sedgwick yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘According to him he left at about two o’clock, give or take the odd minute. Went as soon as he had finished his daily chores, he said. His master usually dined in Bichester during the week, you see, what with him working as manager in a bank there.’
‘It makes you wonder why he went to the expense of employing a manservant if he was out all day,’ commented Sergeant Lane. ‘I would have thought a widower like him could have made do with a daily charwoman.’
‘Brown is something of an old family retainer,’ answered the constable. ‘He was just after telling me how he’s been with the Drury family for years. Worked for Mr Drury’s parents before he worked for the deceased. Long gone, they are, and their money with them. He came to work for Mr Walter Drury after the death of his wife, so he’s known his master since Mr Drury was a nipper. That’s why he’s awful cut up by what’s happened.’
‘It’s never very pleasant to discover a dead body,’ muttered the inspector, ‘particularly if one is not used to it. What’s in here?’ He opened one of the doors off the hall which revealed a study of sorts. ‘Ah, good. In you go, Lane. I’d like a quick word with you before we view the body and interview this Brown fellow.’
Constable Bright made as if to follow and then obviously thought better of it, remaining in the hall, as if to guard the door.
‘This is a rum old business and no mistake, Lane,’ said Inspector Deacon, as soon as the sergeant had closed the door behind them. ‘A murder happening under our noses like this and us no further forward in our inquiries than we were when we started.’
‘Our murderer has some nerve, I’ll say that for him,’ said the sergeant, ‘what with a couple of Scotland Yard detectives being in the village at the time.’
‘He has some audacity, all right,’ agreed his superior, ‘or else we have him rattled.’ He sighed and struck the side of the mantelpiece with his fist. ‘I blame myself for what has happened. I should have pressed Drury when we interviewed him. He knew something, I’m certain of it. I thought at the time his behaviour was odd.’
Murder in the Folly Page 26
