Murder at the Masquerade Ball

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Don’t tell my mistress I told you, will you, m’lady? She’ll dismiss me, she will. Why, you heard her say so yourself. She don’t want anyone to know.’

  Rose’s mind floated back to her interview with Iris. She remembered all too clearly how the woman had remonstrated with her servant when Miss Crabbe had begged her to tell them what was happening. She recalled something else, which seemed only to further substantiate Miss Crabbe’s claim. It was the sound of a startled cry and the sudden, desperate gesture of a woman pulling down the sleeves of her nightdress as far as they would go and thrusting her arms underneath the bedclothes, so as to avoid inspection.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  That night, Miss Crabbe turned over in her bed and pulled the sheets and blanket up to her neck, much as she had done as a child. Then, she had been fearful of the dark, scaring herself by imagining that some monstrous beast lurked in the shadows of her room, ready to pounce as soon as she was foolish enough to close her eyes. Tonight, sleep alluded her, not because she dreaded that the demon of her childhood imaginings skulked within her room, but rather because she was afraid of the one made of flesh and blood that had prowled in her mistress’ boudoir. For, try as she might, she could not rid her mind of what she had overheard and seen on that fateful day.

  ‘Stop, you’re hurting me!’

  The words seemed to echo relentlessly around in Miss Crabbe’s head as she tossed and turned. Only now did she realise it had been a prelude to murder, a hint of what was to come. Then, when she had been ignorant of her master’s murderous intent, it had not only been the words themselves that had made such an impression on her, though goodness knows they had been quite dreadful enough. The thing which had affected her most had been the manner in which they had been uttered, something akin to a scream. Or had she merely imagined it, because of what had followed?

  The more she thought about it, the more she considered it unlikely. She was not one given to fanciful imaginings and there could be no mistaking the note of anguish in her mistress’ voice. She played the scene back in her mind for the umpteenth time. The door had been ajar. She had been waiting on the landing. The shrill voice had called out to her, as if it were beseeching her to intervene. She had pushed open the door and walked into the room. Only now did she hear her own sharp intake of breath as she remembered that for one fleeting moment she had faltered, afraid that she was intruding on a lovers’ embrace. For the master was leaning over her mistress, holding her by the shoulders …

  She shuddered, for Iris Franklin had in fact been cowering, recoiling from the hands that held her fast. Even then she might well have doubted the evidence of her own eyes, had it not been for her mistress’ pathetic attempts to conceal the evidence of what had happened, pulling down the sleeves of her nightdress in that desperate, furtive way that was peculiar to her.

  ‘It was the bruises as did it,’ muttered Miss Crabbe to herself. ‘I’d have doubted my own eyes and ears if it hadn’t been for ’em, what with the master being so preoccupied with his gewgaws and the mistress being so listless and lamenting. ‘But I didn’t know how bad it all were, or what it would lead to, as God is my witness, I didn’t. But now it’ll haunt me all my days, knowing I could have said something so as to stop it. Though, awful as it is to think it, better that it was Miss Casters who suffered by his hand than the poor mistress.’

  She glanced at the door, reassuring herself for the hundredth time that she had jammed the back of the chair securely under the handle to prevent it from being opened successfully from the outside, though she knew full well the master was not in the house. Even if he were, there was nothing to say he’d be after her, despite her having told all she knew to Lady Belvedere. A proper lady, she was, and so kind and considerate you felt you could say anything to her and not be judged. She weren’t the type to think badly of you. Refreshing, that’s what it was. And it had certainly taken a load off her mind. Really she didn’t know why she couldn’t sleep, though perhaps it was only natural when you discovered your master was a murderer …

  She felt her eyelids become heavy and droop. The craved for sleep, that until that moment had eluded her, edged a little nearer, like a mellow wave lapping gently on the shores. Her eyes were tight shut now. Her breathing had become quieter, slower and more regular. Any moment now she knew she would drift into a peaceful sleep, and when she awoke it would be to the fierce brightness of the day, the worries and fears that haunted her in the hours of darkness banished to the shadows.

  In her drowsy state, and seemingly as a final prelude to sleep, the occurrences of the last few days appeared as brief glimpses or bleary images in her head, some half-forgotten, playing from one to another in her fatigued mind like pieces of music on a gramophone. At first they registered very little with her. Indeed, they were all quite forgettable except for one stark reflection which repeated itself again and again with urgent rapidity, becoming clearer and more vibrant on each occasion until Miss Crabbe found herself sitting up abruptly in her bed, rudely wide awake, her heart beating rapidly in her chest and her breathing very fast. A thin layer of moisture covered her brow and she had a sudden craving for a glass of water.

  ‘But what does it mean?’ she asked the empty room. ‘That’s what I’d like to know. It don’t make any sense. Perhaps I imagined it, my memory being what it is and with all these comings and goings it would hardly be surprising if I had. If only it weren’t so vivid now that I’ve remembered it. I can see it clear as day. Even down to the expressions on their faces. Shocked, is what they were, though they didn’t know the half of it … Funny how it’s only struck me now how it was all wrong.’

  Miss Crabbe was not the only one to be troubled during the night by the tragic events that had occurred at the masquerade ball. For when Rose awoke the next morning it was to the certain knowledge that she had been dreaming heavily, and that her dreams had been greatly coloured by her memories of the ball, some of which had lain buried in her subconsciousness.

  Uppermost in her mind, as she sat up in bed sipping her morning cup of tea, was the realisation that Hallam had been telling the truth. Lavinia had gone behind the screen a second time as he’d described, but why, she wondered, had Lavinia denied doing so? For Rose had remembered that she herself had seen Lavinia emerge from behind the screen in a hurried and upset manner. She had been in the small drawing room, drinking a glass of lemonade, when she had chanced to glance up at the mirror that hung above the fireplace and had caught a glimpse of the girl’s reflection. She had been struck forcibly by Lavinia’s agitated manner, convinced that something had rattled her. She recollected her friend’s face now, deathly pale beneath its thick layer of powder, which had contrasted sharply with the vivid black satin beauty patch that had adorned her right cheek.

  Rose gave a start, almost spilling her tea in her saucer in the process, her fingers becoming clumsy with her growing excitement. She’d been looking in the mirror! It had been a reflection that she had seen, not the girl herself. How that altered everything! If she tied it together with all that she had learnt from Hallam and Edna, and even Lavinia herself, then surely a great deal was explained. In spite of herself, she laughed. How very dense and obtuse she had been. For the truth had been staring her in the face all the time, if only she’d had the sense to realise it. She put down her cup and saucer and leaned back against the pillows, safe in the knowledge that one part of the puzzle at least was about to be solved.

  For the time being, Rose had resolved to keep to herself the information Miss Crabbe had confided to her about Raymond Franklin’s behaviour towards his wife. She was filled, quite naturally, with a strong feeling of disgust towards the man, which had not been diminished by a night’s sleep. Initially she had been sorely tempted to seek out the chief inspector to advise him what she had been told. The fact that she did not was due to her own sense of fairness. An accusation had been made but, for the moment at least, she was not absolutely certain it was true, even if Iris’ rather odd
behaviour suggested it likely. Therefore, before she informed the authorities, or indeed her own husband whom she knew held Raymond Franklin in high esteem, she was determined to hear what the man had to say for himself.

  The problem of how this might be arranged was resolved fairly swiftly by Raymond Franklin himself. For he happened to call on them later that morning, requesting a bed for the night, presumably in the safe knowledge that his wife had returned to Sycamore House.

  ‘I hardly know what to do for the best,’ Cedric said. ‘It’s dashed awkward as one doesn’t want to appear as if one is taking sides, particularly with Iris Franklin being a friend of Lavinia’s and, until a little time ago, a guest in this house. Still, I’d like to think I’m not one to strike a fellow when he’s down, and I should hate to think of him languishing in some prison cell. Apparently his club caught wind of the fact that the police suspect him of his secretary’s murder. I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later, but they were dashed unreasonable about it. They demanded he leave the premises with immediate effect and his membership has been suspended.’

  ‘Do you still believe in Mr Franklin’s innocence?’ was Rose’s only comment.

  Cedric gave his wife a sharp look, alerted by something in her voice.

  ‘Well, as it happens, I do. Of course, I know, as I’ve said before, the odds are stacked against the poor fellow, but I’m rather inclined to believe in a man’s innocence until he’s proven guilty.’ Rose raised a sceptical eyebrow, the effect of which was to make Cedric add, with perhaps a little more conviction than he felt: ‘To be perfectly frank, I don’t think the chap is capable of doing such a thing.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, I’m inclined to disagree with you. But,’ she added hurriedly, ‘it will suit my purposes very well if Mr Franklin stays here. I have a couple of questions I wish to put to him.’

  There was a pause as Cedric reflected on her words. That he was affected by his wife’s apparent dislike of Raymond Franklin was obvious, particularly as he considered it out of character. Indeed, that Rose had evidently taken against the fellow to such a degree intrigued him. Still, he was prepared to abide by her wishes and Manning was duly instructed to arrange for Raymond Franklin’s belongings to be sent up to one of the guest bedrooms, while the man himself was ushered into the small drawing room.

  The strained and desolate appearance of Raymond Franklin made quite an impression on both the earl and the countess. The last time Rose had seen him, the man had been dressed in a brilliant blue costume consisting of waistcoat, breeches and frock coat, his face concealed by a mask in the same vivid shade as his outfit. Today she laid eyes on the specimen beneath the costume, a man dressed in ordinary clothes who was in possession of boyish good looks, which were significantly marred by the effects of the recent tragic events. Indeed, though she did not know it, in looks he had aged considerably since her husband had met with him the previous day.

  ‘Good heavens, Franklin, are you all right?’ Cedric asked, stepping forward to grasp the other man’s hand, clearly aghast at the rapid deterioration in his physical appearance.

  ‘Quite all right, my lord.’ Raymond answered with a wan smile. ‘Though I’ve had a rum go of it, I can tell you. That chief inspector seems pretty adamant that I killed poor Miss Casters and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to convince him otherwise. But, I say, I’m awfully grateful to you and Lady Belvedere for putting me up like this. It’s jolly decent of you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ muttered Cedric.

  Rose had not yet spoken, though she had shaken the man’s hand in a perfunctory fashion. If she had happened to recoil from his touch, she had not made the fact obvious. Inwardly, she found herself faced with something of a dilemma. Try as she might to weigh up the man’s character, she could not reconcile the husband who terrorised his wife with the worried and anxious man who stood before her. That this was a failing on her part, she did not doubt. She had acknowledged before that appearances could be deceptive. With the memory of this in her mind, she ignored the usual pleasantries and said, slightly more curtly than she had intended:

  ‘Lord Belvedere has provided me with a detailed account of the conversation he had with you at your club. You may recall he told you I had requested that he ask you certain questions to aid with my own investigation into the murder of Miss Casters?’

  ‘Indeed, your ladyship, Lord Belvedere has advised me that you are a private enquiry agent of considerable note,’ Raymond answered both promptly and politely, though somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of the question.

  ‘Lord Belvedere also informed you, I believe, that I intend to get to the truth of this matter?’ continued Rose.

  ‘He did,’ agreed Raymond, some of the colour leaving his face.

  ‘To that end you must forgive me if what I say next sounds rather impertinent.’ Rose paused and took a deep breath. ‘To be quite candid, Mr Franklin, Lord Belvedere found you to be evasive when answering certain questions. In some instances, he thought it likely you were lying.’

  ‘Rose!’ Cedric exclaimed, quite unable to stop himself.

  ‘Mr Franklin,’ Rose continued, ignoring the interruption, her voice now containing a note of urgency. ‘If you have nothing to hide in connection with your secretary’s murder, you must tell me the truth, however unpalatable or distasteful it may be.’

  ‘I assure you, m’lady, I have nothing to hide,’ stammered Raymond.

  ‘I’m afraid I do not believe you. I do not think you have been quite truthful about your relations with Miss Casters.’

  Raymond coloured visibly. ‘There was no great affair,’ he said, looking put out, ‘if that is what your ladyship is getting at?’

  Feeling that she was making little progress, yet determined to pursue the matter to its conclusion, Rose ploughed on. She had not intended to mention Miss Crabbe, yet to proceed without doing so seemed impossible. Despite various misgivings, she said:

  ‘A few days ago your wife’s lady’s maid witnessed Miss Casters coming out of your study. She stated your secretary appeared deeply distressed and upset and that, thereafter, Miss Casters kept to her rooms. Miss Crabbe had the distinct impression that there had been a falling out between the two of you.’

  ‘I see,’ Raymond said. He crossed the room and walked over to the window. A few moments elapsed before he turned to face them. ‘Well, I suppose one might say she was correct in a way. There had been a falling out of sorts, though perhaps not in the way you might imagine. Before I say anything further, I should like firstly to clear up this business about a supposed affair.’ He looked them both in the eye. ‘As God is my witness, I give you my word there was never a romance between myself and Miss Casters, though the scandal sheets are determined to make their readers believe otherwise.’

  ‘And yet,’ Rose said quietly, ‘you are holding something back.’

  Raymond took a moment to respond.

  ‘You are quite right, your ladyship,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘though I never intended to speak of it.’

  He began to pace the room, keeping his gaze averted.

  ‘I know full well the occasion to which you refer,’ he said at last. ‘As it happens, it made rather an impression on me too. As I have already said, the relationship between Miss Casters and myself was of a purely professional nature. I had given little notice to what was hinted about us in the penny press until it was brought to my attention rather forcibly by my aunt. I had assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that Miss Casters had regarded the scurrilous insinuations with equal disdain. It had certainly never occurred to me that she might act upon them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Cedric perplexed.

  ‘On the morning you are speaking of, Miss Casters tried to kiss me. As you might imagine, I was deeply shocked for I had done nothing to lead her on.’ He paused a moment before continuing, colouring more visibly. ‘It must be said that the poor girl regretted her actions immediately and fled from the room. I suppose one might sa
y I was left reeling. Certainly I did not attempt to follow her.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘If I am honest, it was quite a relief when she kept to her rooms. Indeed, I did not lay eyes on her again until she accompanied me to the ball, though at the time of course I believed it to be my wife who was beside me.’

  On balance, Rose was inclined to believe he spoke the truth. For there was a certain sincerity to his answer. Certainly it appeared to clarify one element of the case that had puzzled her and that was the theft of the jewellery, though perhaps it was only to her that the explanation seemed obvious. She took a moment to compose herself, for the time had come to raise the matter of Miss Crabbe’s allegation that Raymond Franklin was physically violent towards his wife.

  Fate, however, was destined to intervene. For just as Rose was steeling herself to undertake this unpleasant task, the attention of those gathered in the room was drawn to the sound of activity and voices in the hall outside. Cedric advanced to the door and opened it, and they caught a glimpse of two other visitors. The earl walked out into the hall, and the others followed.

  ‘Ceddie,’ Lavinia exclaimed in evident high spirits, quite out of keeping with the sombre atmosphere in the house. ‘There you are. Guess who I found wandering about in the street outside? Priscilla and her brother, Mr Belling. I told them they simply must come in and have some tea with us. Everything has been so frightfully beastly since the murder, and what with having policemen roaming about the house at the most outrageous hours, I –’ She broke off suddenly from what she was saying, having spotted Raymond, who had held back a little and was standing in the doorway. ‘Mr Franklin, what are you doing here?’ She asked rather rudely, though she did not wait for him to answer, for her mind had moved on to consider other matters of more pressing importance. ‘Priscilla, darling, where shall we take tea? Rose, you will join us, won’t you? Have you met Priscilla’s brother? He was at the ball, you know, though you will hardly have recognised him in his costume.’