Murder at the Masquerade Ball

by Margaret Addison

  Fate, however, seemed to be against him, for all of a sudden they heard the sound of feet hurrying towards them across the gravel.

  ‘I say, have you seen Commander Wrenfield?’

  ‘Hallam, darling, is that you?’ said Lavinia, peering over the balustrade into the gloom. ‘And is Commander Wrenfield that man’s name? He absolutely refused to tell us, you know. He wouldn’t even remove his mask. We thought it was frightfully rude of him, didn’t we, Rose?’

  ‘Ah, Lavinia, is that you?’ said Hallam, joining them, his heart sinking. He admonished himself severely for having made a mistake. ‘I didn’t see you there, Lavinia or else I wouldn’t have spoken so freely. I only saw you, Rose. I thought the commander might have told you who he was.’

  ‘What a beastly thing to say,’ retorted Lavinia. ‘Who is Commander Wrenfield anyway?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Hallam.

  It had not occurred to any of them that their voices might be overheard by anyone standing just inside the French windows. It therefore came as something of a surprise when none other than Commander Wrenfield stepped out of the ballroom to join them on the terrace. Like his superior, Hallam still wore his mask and hoped vehemently that it concealed his flushed cheeks.

  ‘I say, sir,’ he said quickly. He feared an admonishment and decided that his best course of action was to come swiftly to the point. ‘While I was guarding the body in the shed, I thought I would do a bit of investigating. By that I mean make a search of the place. I thought I might find something to explain what the young lady was doing there before she was killed.’

  ‘Oh? Really, Atherton, that’s a matter for the police, not for us,’ the commander replied rather gruffly.

  ‘I daresay it is, sir, but I’m awfully glad that I did.’ Hallam took a deep breath, finding it difficult to contain his excitement.

  ‘What did you find?’ demanded Commander Wrenfield curtly. ‘Out with it, man. There’s no need to keep me in suspense.’

  ‘They were hidden on a shelf behind a couple of watering cans.’

  ‘What were?’

  ‘A scarlet waistcoat, a gold cravat and an ivory mask,’ replied Hallam with the triumphant air of a stage magician who had successfully produced a number of objects out of thin air.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘You’ll agree with me, Chief Inspector, that the discovery of the disguise in the gardener’s shed alters things?’ said Commander Wrenfield.

  His question was directed to Chief Inspector Innes, a small man with fiery red hair, a heavily freckled face and a tendency to grind his teeth when he was worried. At that moment, however, the man was in an attentive mood, ensconced behind the desk in The Retreat at Kingsley House. The commander, who had been pacing the floor, had paused to put his question. This had given Hallam an opportunity to compare the two men’s physique and a greater contrast could hardly be imagined. A bulldog and a terrier was how Hallam summed them up to himself. Indeed, had the inspector not been a particular friend of the commander’s, and also in possession of a pair of particularly shrewd, blue eyes, Hallam might have dismissed the little man entirely from his consideration; for, in comparison with the Head of the Secret Service, he seemed to pale into obscure insignificance.

  ‘On the face of it, it appears to be a pretty straightforward case,’ the commander was saying, ‘and, in the usual course, I’d say it was a matter for the police.’

  ‘And I’d agree with you.’ The chief inspector leaned back in his chair. ‘I suppose you know it’s widely rumoured the murdered woman was this fellow’s mistress? The newspapers have been full of little else, so my sergeant tells me. Not that I’m one to read the scandal sheets myself, nor believe half what’s written in ’em. Still, there’s no smoke without fire, and there’s nothing to say this Casters woman mayn’t have threatened to tell the man’s wife about the affair.’

  ‘General opinion has it that Mrs Franklin is a bit of a recluse and given to ill-heath,’ volunteered the commander, somewhat cautiously.

  ‘Is that so? In which case, it’s quite possible she was ignorant of the rumours,’ said the chief inspector, ‘and I daresay her husband wanted to keep it that way. Now,’ he glanced down at his notebook, ‘as I understand it, the wife’s an heiress. There’s a motive for murder, if ever there was one.’

  ‘Mrs Franklin is a very wealthy woman,’ agreed Commander Wrenfield. ‘She inherited the Smithingham Collection. No doubt you’ve heard of it?’

  ‘Aye, rumoured to be one of the most celebrated collections in Europe and this Franklin fellow’s got a bit of a thing for antiquities, so I’ve been told, cataloguing old artefacts and whatnots.’

  ‘Yes, it’s something of a passion of his,’ agreed Commander Wrenfield.

  ‘Well, it takes all sorts to make the world, I suppose,’ said the policeman.

  ‘It might be one of the reasons why he married her.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, might it not be as it appears?’ argued the chief inspector meditatively. ‘The mistress threatens to tell the wife about the affair, and Franklin takes measures to get rid of her.’

  ‘Except that he thought it was Mrs Franklin,’ interjected Hallam, having tried to listen patiently to this exchange but unable to contain himself any longer. ‘He thought he’d killed his wife. That was his original intention, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘You are, are you, Mr Atherton?’ said the chief inspector, a little gruffly. ‘Well, what of it? We’re still talking about a domestic affair. Suppose this Franklin fellow was in love with his mistress and wanted to marry her. His wife is in the way and he decides to get rid of her. He wasn’t to know the two women decided to swap clothes. Of course, we’ll need to get to the bottom of why they did. It seems to me a rather rum thing to do, particularly as I very much doubt they were by way of being friends.’

  ‘But you’re forgetting the cravat and the waistcoat,’ protested Commander Wrenfield. ‘If nothing else, it shows our thief made a visit to the gardener’s shed. There was an electric torch too. It can’t be a mere coincidence. No,’ he said firmly, ‘there must be a connection between the two cases. Moreover, we ourselves are witnesses to the fact that only a very few minutes could have elapsed between the point at which the thief vanished from this room with the papers and when Miss Casters followed suit. Indeed, there’s nothing to say she didn’t leave first.’

  ‘Or that it was Miss Casters at all. Mayn’t it have been Mrs Franklin who left the room, as you first supposed?’ suggested the chief inspector. ‘Happen they swapped clothes before Miss Casters was killed. Anyhow,’ he added quickly, feeling they were going around in circles, ‘Mrs Franklin ought to be able to clear up that bit of the puzzle for us, so there’s no need to waste any more time dwelling on it.’

  Silence settled upon the room. It was two hours since the body had first been discovered and, without exception, all felt a little despondent. Even the chief inspector who, unlike the others, had had the benefit of a few hours’ sleep felt weary. He passed a hand across his forehead as he remembered the scene that had greeted him on his arrival; it would leave a lasting imprint on his mind.

  In the aftermath of the ball, and having been informed that events of a tragic nature had occurred in the garden, the guests had glided forlornly from room to room, huddled in silk and velvet capes and cloaks which they had pulled about them. It had struck the policeman forcibly at the time that there was something ghastly and grotesque about the way the majority of the figures were dressed. If nothing else, it reminded him of the stories he had read of the French Revolution. Nobles and aristocrats assembled in squalid prisons and cells, attired in garish costumes which had become torn and ragged, the remnants of heavy make-up still on their faces, leaving them with red smeared lips and dark shadowed eyes. Powdered wigs perched on their heads askew, as they awaited their turn to mount the tumbrels which would take them on their journey to meet their wretched fate.

  It had occurred to him that, had he come to K
ingsley House a few hours’ earlier, his impression would have been vastly different. For one thing the guests would have been gay and in high spirits and, for another, there would have been dancing and music where now there was only a heavy silence, interspersed at intervals by the dull ticking of the various mantel clocks and the occasional furtive whisper. He had noted, as he passed them, that each person was clutching in their hands the masks that had so recently adorned their faces. Some held them out at a distance, while others idly toyed with the end of the silk ribbons that had secured them to their faces, so that the masks had seemed to leap and jerk of their own accord. When he glanced at the masks themselves, he was struck by their crude, exaggerated features and gawdy colours, which gave each something of a malevolent air.

  He was thankful that in this room at least, there was some semblance of normality. The masks that had been worn by their inhabitants had been relegated to one corner, and the men present wore evening dress in preference to more elaborate costumes. If they had earlier worn hats, wigs and cloaks, then these also had been abandoned. Similarly, if any had seen fit to wear powder, it had been skilfully and effectively removed prior to his arrival.

  Of the four men present, only one had as yet not spoken. He had taken up residence in front of the fireplace ostensibly as something of an observer, one elbow propped on the mantelpiece, though there was nothing nonchalant about his pose. For his eyes had been darting alternately between the policeman and the commander as each spoke, as if he were diligently following their words. It was only now that there was an awkward silence that he felt the need to volunteer an opinion.

  ‘Well, I, for one,’ he said, ‘don’t believe Raymond Franklin is our murderer.’

  ‘Is that so, Lord Belvedere?’ The chief inspector threw him a sharp glance.

  Before he could ask the young man to expand or justify his statement, Commander Wrenfield returned to the subject of coincidences.

  ‘Well, I’m not much of a one for them, and that’s a fact,’ he said. ‘Of course, there’s nothing to say that Franklin and our thief weren’t in it together, not that I consider that very likely. But there’s a connection between the theft of the papers and the murder, all right. It doesn’t seem likely that they’re separate, not with the young woman being murdered in the very same room, so to speak, as that in which the thief chose to change out of his disguise.’

  ‘I take it you’re suggesting that you should lead the investigation?’ said Chief Inspector Innes, coming to the heart of the discussion.

  Commander Wrenfield stopped pacing the room and drew himself up to his full, and not inconsiderable, height.

  ‘The recovery of the papers is of the utmost importance,’ he said, ‘more important even than the solving of this murder. I do not exaggerate when I say that the very security of our nation depends upon the retrieval of these papers. They relate to an invention, the impact of which, if proved successful, will be almost too fantastic and incredible to comprehend. It is, therefore, imperative that these papers do not fall into the wrong hands. By that, I mean of course, that they do not find their way to powers who are hostile to the interests of this great country of ours.’

  It was an impressive, if rather portentous speech, for the commander was blessed with the art of delivery, which meant his oration was second to none. The effect of his homily on two members of his audience was considerable. The chief inspector, in contrast, appeared relatively unmoved by what he’d heard. He turned over the pages of his notebook as if searching for a fresh page on which to write.

  ‘You were always one with words, Wrenfield,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Even when we were at school.’

  At this, the commander drew up the chair on the other side of the desk opposite the policeman and sat down. He leaned forward and balanced his weight on his elbows.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ he said, ‘but I also happen to be in the confidence of the Home Secretary and what I’ve told you are the true facts.’ He coughed. ‘In the light of this, you’ll appreciate that I must insist I take the lead in this case.’ He held up his hand as if he feared the other might protest. ‘That’s not to say I don’t want us to work together and collaborate, because I do, but I wish it to be understood that I will be in charge of this investigation.’

  The chief inspector steepled his fingers, gave the commander a long and very hard stare, the effect of which was to render the other two men in the room speechless with apprehension. Indeed, they gazed with almost bated breath wondering at the likely outcome of this battle of wills. For it seemed to them that both men were equally placed and similarly stubborn of nature.

  It came as something of a surprise to both when the chief inspector threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was a harsh, grating sound that rather jarred on the ear. With his fierce red mane of hair, it occurred to Cedric that the policeman rather resembled a lion, though, due to his slight stature, a lean and meagre one.

  ‘All right, have it your own way,’ said Chief Inspector Innes. ‘I see you’re in earnest, Wrenfield. It’s not just another one of your stories intended to impress me.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Commander Wrenfield, with a rueful smile. ‘This is the real stuff, all right.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the policeman again. ‘I’m not saying, though, as I believe the two cases are connected, because I don’t. But there don’t seem much point in having two separate investigations running alongside each other.’

  ‘Anyway, now we’ve got that settled, let’s get to business,’ said Commander Wrenfield.

  ‘Begging your pardon, my lord,’ the chief inspector said, turning to include Cedric in the conversation, ‘but it seems to me the holding of a masked ball was just asking for trouble.’

  ‘You may well be right, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘I’ve always found that young people are inclined to act foolish at the best of times,’ continued the policeman, ‘but give them a mask and there’s no telling what stupid things they’ll do when the mood takes them.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the theft of the papers was no more than a practical joke?’ Commander Wrenfield asked, sounding indignant.

  ‘I am not,’ said the chief inspector, ‘though, if you don’t mind my saying, Wrenfield, I think it was a trifle foolish of you to arrange for the exchange of the papers to take place at a masquerade ball.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Cedric. ‘In fact, I’d go a step further and say that I regard it as very remiss of you not to seek my permission first. If nothing else, I should like to remind you that this is my house and, as such, the safety of my guests is my responsibility. Furthermore, as far as I am aware, neither you nor your … colleague, yes, let’s call him that, received an invitation to attend this ball, let alone hold a clandestine meeting which put everyone in this house at considerable risk.’ He held up his hand as the commander made to protest. ‘According to your own argument, your actions may very well have contributed to the death of one of my guests, to which I take a pretty dim view.’

  ‘Someone purporting to be one of your guests,’ corrected the chief inspector.

  Cedric raised his eyebrows, but refrained from comment.

  Rather an awkward silence ensued, during which Hallam wondered whether he should mention that his superior had in fact received an invitation to the ball at his behest. On reflection, however, he thought better of it.

  ‘Had you taken me into your confidence,’ the earl continued in a quiet voice, ‘I might well have consented to your holding your meeting here. But, whether I would have done or not, I feel I ought to have been consulted on the matter.’

  ‘You are quite right, my lord,’ conceded the commander, a little sheepishly.

  It had occurred to him, rather belatedly, that, had the earl been notified in advance of the rendezvous, then none of the present difficulties in which they found themselves would have arisen. If Lord Belvedere had known about the meeting, he would certainly not have chosen the occasion of the ball to visit
the concealed room. In which case, there would have been no raised voices to draw to the attention of the other guests both the existence of The Retreat and the presence of its occupants. It was this, the commander concluded bitterly, which had provided the thief with an ideal opportunity to steal the secret papers.

  It was perhaps fortunate for him that he was not given an opportunity to brood further on the matter. For at that moment there was a knock on the door and a policeman entered carrying a number of notebooks.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Dryden,’ exclaimed the chief inspector. ‘I was wondering what was keeping you. Drawn up a list of all the guests and what they were wearing, like I asked? Good fellow. Now, Sergeant, remember what I said. I want a full description of each mask. Done that too, have you? Good man. I say,’ he said, noticing for the first time that his subordinate seemed to be bursting with something akin to excitement, ‘what the devil’s the matter with you? You’re acting like a cat on hot bricks.’

  The others, alerted by the chief inspector’s question, turned to look at the sergeant who did indeed seem rather agitated.

  ‘They’ve discovered something, sir, when they were taking away the body,’ said Sergeant Dryden, seizing his opportunity to speak with relish. ‘It must have slipped out of her pocket when she fell and rolled on to the floor because they discovered it beneath her body. And it can’t be all hers. All wrapped up in a handkerchief, they were.’

  With that, he produced the handkerchief in question and started to unfold it.