Murder in the Folly

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Walter couldn’t stand the woman,’ said Henry. ‘He just felt sorry for her, that was all.’

  ‘He told us when we interviewed him that he was interested in marrying Mrs Stapleton,’ said the inspector, not quite truthfully. ‘That is why he visited her regularly.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe that for one minute,’ said Henry rather insolently. ‘He was having you on, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you remember nothing of the events of last night which might help us, sir?’ asked Inspector Deacon wearily, rather tiring of his interview with the young man.

  ‘Now that I come to think of it, there was one thing,’ admitted the poet. ‘It may have been just my fancy, but I thought I caught sight of someone in the garden. I told Walter, and he said I was just imagining it. He said it was too dark to see anything, and it was probably just a shadow.’

  ‘Indeed?’ For the first time during the interview, the inspector appeared interested. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before? How did Mr Drury seem when you told him? Did he appear nervous or agitated?’

  ‘Well, that’s the odd thing, Inspector,’ said Henry. ‘He seemed rather pleased, as if all the time he had been waiting for that person to arrive.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It had been an odd sort of day, Rose reflected. Henry’s suspicion that Walter Drury had been anxious to meet the person, who in all likelihood was his murderer, had them greatly mystified. Inspector Deacon had viewed Henry’s story with a great deal of scepticism, but there was little evidence on which to detain the young man other than the probability that he had been the last person to see the bank manager alive. It was with some reluctance and misgivings that the inspector had watched the poet depart, but not before giving him strict instructions to remain in the village in case he should be required to help the police with their inquiries.

  The inspector and sergeant had stayed only a little while longer before they too had taken their leave. Rose had caught Inspector Deacon’s eye and seen the look of bewilderment which clouded his face, and which mirrored her own feelings of confusion. Certainly, she sympathised with his predicament. Events seemed to have escalated at an alarming rate and yet neither she nor the inspector felt any the nearer to ascertaining the identity of the murderer, whose very presence seemed to loom over the village like some ominous force.

  Rose had spent the rest of the day walking in the grounds, initially rather listlessly. It occurred to her that she might call on the other Sedgwick Players, for there was always the possibility that she might obtain some additional information which would prove useful to her investigation. However, she found herself oddly reluctant to do so. It was not because she feared for her own safety, but rather that she felt a certain unwillingness to engage with the characters involved. For it seemed to her that she had lived and breathed nothing but the Sedgwick Players and their theatricals, and a longing for her ordinary, commonplace existence overwhelmed her.

  It was another fine summer’s day and, after a while of aimless wandering, the sunshine and fresh air seemed to revive her and liven her spirits. While her steps were without purpose, her mind seemed to gradually awaken, and though her intention had been to avoid dwelling on the events of the past few days, her perseverance was weak. Indeed, the longer she thought about it, the more she had the growing feeling that she held all the necessary pieces of the puzzle in her hand. She had only to arrange them in some semblance of order to enable her to piece them together and solve the mystery that had so far eluded her.

  Of course, it was all very well to believe that she was in a position to identify the murderer if she so chose, quite another thing entirely to assemble the pieces and prove her theory correct. She spent the rest of the day with the odd sensation that the solution to the problem lay just out of reach. Indeed, she felt that she could almost see it out of the corner of her eye, and that if she were to stretch out her hand she could touch it with her fingers. If only she could grasp hold of it and pull it towards her!

  That night she slept fitfully, and when morning came her head ached and felt heavy, as if she had not slept at all. As she dragged herself through the day, her eyelids drooped and every movement became more arduous and each chore more onerous than the last. At length, she yielded to the demands of her body and retired to the library, where she curled up in one of the armchairs and gave herself up to sleep.

  A little while later she awoke feeling refreshed both in spirit and body, and it was with a certain relish that she indulged in her afternoon tea. Manning had informed her that Lord Belvedere had sent his apologies for he was delayed with estate work and would not be joining her. Therefore, she ate alone, in quiet solitude. It was only then that her mind seemed to come alive and work almost unbidden, turning over the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and arranging them in such a way that after a while she grabbed at the arm of her chair as if to steady herself. The next moment she was frozen to the spot, the piece of fruit cake she was eating still clutched in her hand. The tea plate she was holding in her other hand slipped from her grasp and clattered on to the floor. Of all this, however, she was barely conscious. For a sudden realisation had crept up upon her. The last piece of the jigsaw was in place. She knew the identity of the murderer, that shadowy figure that had haunted the stage and pranced in the wings.

  Rose stood on the threshold of the drawing room, deliberating whether or not to enter the room immediately and let her presence be known, or to linger for a moment in the doorway and survey its occupants. She chose the latter course and thought, not for the first time, what an odd collection of people the Sedgwick Players were. Coming hot on the heels of this observation came a memory of the day of Ursula Stapleton’s murder, when she had entered this very same room and been greeted by a similar tableau of thespians. Then, they had been dressed in a strange assortment of Tudor costumes and contemporary dress, and some of their faces had been smeared crudely with greasepaint. She could see the same faces now, though they looked rather pale and insipid in comparison with the previous occasion. Even Cordelia’s complexion looked sallow under its liberal application of rouge.

  Their clothes today were a strange mixture due to the lateness of the hour, with some having opted to wear evening dress, while others still wore their daytime tweeds. It was obvious to Rose that the confusion had arisen from the fact that, while their presence had been requested at Sedgwick Court, the invitation, ostensibly from Cedric, had not made it clear whether they were being invited for dinner or cocktails, or merely for a discussion on the fate of the theatricals.

  The Sedgwick Players had positioned themselves about the room in a variety of poses, some seated, some standing, as they awaited the arrival of their host and hostess, and Rose caught the murmured conversations of one or two, inquiring of the others if they knew why they had been summoned.

  They were all there, Rose noticed, as she reeled off their names in her head. Freddie and Gerald Prentice were standing rather pointedly at opposite ends of the room like two bookends, looking for all the world as if they could not bear each other’s company. Giles, in his tweed office attire, was standing over Cordelia Quail, who was reclining on a sofa, her head adorned by an elaborate headdress of black ostrich feathers and beads. Miriam, in an evening gown of black silk satin, which seemed to accentuate the very paleness of her skin and her mass of raven hair, stood with her back to the wall. Her face was half turned towards Algernon Cuffe, who was regaling her with some tale or other. Rose realised with a start that it was the first time that she had seen Miriam smile. Her companion, with his commanding presence was in full evening dress and looked rather dashing with his vivid red beard. Instinctively, Rose sought out Henry Rewe, who she discovered crouched on a chair in a corner of the room, looking alternately, enviously at his rival and forlornly at Miriam.

  The only other occupant in the room was Miss Sprat, who had adopted her habitual pose of sitting very upright in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She appeared to be deep in her o
wn thoughts, quite oblivious to both her surroundings and to the company. The Sedgwick Players, for their part, cast the odd embarrassed or concerned glance in her direction, though it was only Giles who went as far as to enquire after her health and how she was holding up after the tragedy.

  There was a slight movement behind her and Rose turned her head. Cedric had appeared at her shoulder.

  ‘They’re here,’ he whispered. ‘There was some trouble with the car, I believe.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Rose, sounding relieved. ‘I was afraid that we would have to start the proceedings without them and pretend that we were hosting a party of sorts, and they were our guests.’

  ‘God forbid,’ said her husband, with feeling. ‘That would be dashed awkward.’ He turned his attention to the two men waiting behind him patiently in the hall. ‘Are you ready?’ he enquired. ‘I, for one, would like to get this over with.’

  Cedric and Rose proceeded into the room, supposedly to greet their guests. Rose was reminded again of a tableau. It seemed to her almost as if the day of Ursula’s murder was being repeated, for the chatter had ceased and the room’s occupants were once again arrested in their various activities, eyeing the earl and countess with curiosity. Indeed, they were so still they might have been statues, or portraits, like the many which adorned the walls and alcoves of the house.

  In the end, it was Cordelia who was the first to step forward. She had risen from her sofa fully prepared to exchange pleasantries with her host and hostess, when she suddenly spied the two men standing behind them in the doorway, barring the way to the hall.

  ‘Inspector Deacon!’ she exclaimed in a voice that carried across the room.

  All eyes flew to the door, and the apprehension that had been bubbling steadily beneath the surface came charging to the fore, pervading the atmosphere, and lurking like a shadow in the room. Rose, aware of the heightened tension, was conscious also of the presence of a stronger emotion; it took her a moment to realise that it was fear.

  ‘I should like to thank you all for coming,’ said Inspector Deacon, closing the door and immediately assuming command of the situation. He crossed the room to take up a position on the hearthrug, his back against the fireplace; Sergeant Lane, Rose noted, remained standing in front of the door, effectively blocking it as a possible means of escape.

  ‘Look here,’ said Algernon, taking a step forward and glaring at the detective, ‘what’s the meaning of all this? It seems to me that you have assembled us here under false pretences. I’ve a good mind to –’

  ‘Stay where you are, Mr Cuffe, if you please,’ said the inspector quickly, forestalling the end of Algernon’s sentence.

  The inspector’s tone was pleasant but firm, and for a moment Algernon looked as if he were about to protest further, but on reflection evidently thought better of it. Instead, he contented himself with scowling and muttering a few words under his breath.

  ‘Why did you summon us here, Inspector?’ enquired Miriam. Her voice sounded bored, though her eyes, Rose noticed, were keen and alert. ‘Do you wish to make some sort of announcement?’

  ‘You are quite right, Miss Belmore, I do,’ the inspector affirmed. He glanced around the room, and when he spoke next it was slowly, each word carefully articulated. ‘I have gathered you together this evening as I wish to make an arrest.’

  ‘An arrest?’ said Cordelia, looking a little confused. ‘An arrest for what?’

  ‘An arrest for the murders of Ursula and Walter, of course,’ snapped Freddie. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Inspector?’

  ‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Algernon. ‘Have you gone quite mad, Inspector, or do you mean to tell us that you know the identity of the murderer?’

  ‘l believe I am perfectly sane, Mr Cuffe,’ Inspector Deacon replied, a touch coldly. ‘But, yes, I know who murdered Mrs Stapleton and Mr Drury, and I intend to make an arrest.’

  There was the sound of sharp intakes of breath and the shuffling of feet. Inspector Deacon looked at the faces turned towards him and noted that, without exception, they were deathly pale. A real, tangible fear stalked the room and all of them, he hazarded, were feeling wretched, though for all but one there was the possibility of salvation at the end of the tunnel. A ridding of the burden of fear and uncertainty that they had carried like a heavy load. Even Algernon appeared genuinely dumbfounded. Miriam had lost some of her icy aloofness, and Freddie looked truly solemn.

  ‘Oh, do tell us,’ cried Cordelia at last, dabbing at her forehead with her handkerchief. ‘I, for one, cannot bear this feeling of suspense.’

  ‘I am not the best person to tell you,’ answered Inspector Deacon, rather unexpectedly.

  He looked over at Rose. Despite the sombre circumstances, there was something akin to a twinkle in his eye, and the girl visibly started, realising that he meant for her to make the dénouement. Cedric squeezed her hand and smiled at her encouragingly.

  ‘It is Lady Belvedere we have to thank for solving this case,’ admitted Inspector Deacon.

  With that, he made way for her to stand beside him at the fireplace. It was with some trepidation that Rose crossed the room to take up her position, for she was aware that all eyes were now focused upon her. She took a deep breath, but before she could open her mouth to speak, or to consider where exactly in her tale to begin, Cordelia Quail ran forward, wringing her hands, her turban slanted at its usual ridiculous angle.

  ‘Lady Belvedere, may I beseech you to come straight to the point and tell us who did it? I am sure that I speak for everyone present when I say we are all on tenterhooks?’ She glanced around the room and was gratified to see some nodding of heads. ‘I daresay it is the common practice to point to each of us in turn and assign a reason as to why each of us should have wished Ursula dead, but I’d rather you didn’t prevaricate and prolong this dreadful ordeal. I fancy we all had a motive for wishing Ursula harm. I know I did. Really, she was the most trying of women.’

  ‘Cordelia!’ cried Algernon, clearly shocked.

  ‘It’s no use your looking at me like that, Algernon,’ said Cordelia, making a face. ‘I am only saying what we all thought.’

  ‘I didn’t have a motive for wishing her dead,’ said Henry, rather sulkily from his place in the corner. ‘In fact,’ he added, looking pointedly at Miriam and Algernon, ‘it would have suited my purposes much better if she hadn’t died.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have done any good if she hadn’t, you silly boy,’ said Cordelia, rather dismissively. ‘Any fool could tell you that you are just not Miriam’s type.’

  ‘I say,’ objected Henry hotly, ‘there’s no call to be so unkind.’

  ‘Very well, I will do as you ask, Miss Quail, and not beat about the bush,’ said Rose hurriedly, fearing that the situation might escalate into something of a riot. She was also keen to relinquish her position in front of the fireplace. Taking one last look around the room, noting the faces that were now staring at her intently, she said: ‘The person who killed Mrs Stapleton and Mr Drury was Dudley Stapleton.’

  There was a stunned silence, and then Cordelia said:

  ‘Dudley Stapleton? Never heard of the fellow. Was he some sort of relative of Ursula’s?’

  A cry rang out through the room; it was something akin to the high-pitched shriek of an animal in pain and had the effect of rendering everyone else silent. They all turned as one to face Miss Sprat, who sat huddled in her chair, rocking to and fro, her head clutched in her hands.

  ‘Oh, your ladyship, how could you be so heartless and cruel?’ The old woman spluttered. She lifted her head and gave Rose an imploring look. ‘How could you say as it was my poor lamb’s dead husband that killed her? Him as has lain in the ground these last sixteen or seventeen odd years and died for his country. Begging your pardon, I’m sure, but it’s wicked for you to say such things. Devoted to him she was.’

  Rose moved forward and, crouching down beside the woman, put an arm around her shoulders, which she noticed were shivering.
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br />   ‘I didn’t mean to be unkind, Miss Sprat,’ she said gently. ‘I wouldn’t upset you for the world. But I am afraid that what I said just now is quite true. Mr Stapleton killed his wife, and Mr Drury, too.’

  ‘But that can’t be right,’ protested the maid-companion between sobs. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I assure you that he is very much alive,’ said Rose firmly. ‘And what is more, he is here in this room.’

  A shocked silence filled the drawing room, broken only by the maid-companion’s protests.

  ‘I don’t believe you, your ladyship,’ cried Miss Sprat, ‘Why do you persist in saying such dreadful lies?’

  ‘They are not lies, Miss Sprat,’ said a voice. ‘May God forgive me, but … I am Dudley Stapleton.’

  All those present turned to face the direction from which the voice had come, eager to ascertain who had spoken. With varying degrees of amazement, they watched as the owner of the voice stepped forward. It was Algernon Cuffe.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Later, Rose remembered only the shocked expressions, and looks of utter confusion and bewilderment that had shown themselves on the faces of the Sedgwick Players following Algernon’s startling revelation. She had paid particular attention to Miss Sprat’s reaction to the news, fearing the woman might faint from the shock. The old woman had maintained her composure, however; the only outward sign she had given that she was in any way perturbed was that she had stared at Algernon so intently that Rose was half surprised that the man did not buckle under her gaze. Instead, he stood motionless, though she thought she detected a slight sagging of his shoulders, as if he had been carrying a great burden on his back, which had now evaporated.

  ‘You … you were Ursula’s husband?’ Miriam said, staring at Algernon in disbelief.