‘After my death,’ he continued, ‘you must go to my solicitor to hear the will proved. On that occasion, he will hand you a sealed envelope, addressed to you in my handwriting. You must read the document contained in that envelope, and act upon its contents as your conscience directs.’
I said nothing in reply to his words, because it seemed to me that any protestation at that point would be inappropriate. But I was deeply disturbed. Why today, of all days, had he chosen to speak in such solemn tones? They would remain in my mind all through the comic play that Michael and I were about to see.
‘I know that you are very much attached to Michael,’ Uncle continued. ‘Do you think you could ever marry him? There, there, don’t blush, for goodness’ sake! He is a fine young man, very personable, and following a noble vocation. He is many years older than you are, but still a young man, and I hope very much that you will marry him. If you do, whatever … whatever may happen, you will both have my blessing. But there’s the front doorbell ringing. Goodbye, Catherine. Enjoy yourself this afternoon. Is Michael taking you to tea after the theatre?’
‘Yes, Uncle. We’ll go to Palfrey’s Café in Bedford Street, and then Michael will bring me home. We’ll catch an omnibus to Marble Arch and walk from there. Will you be all right here by yourself?’
‘All right? Of course I’ll be all right. I’m – I’m expecting a visitor this afternoon, so I’ll not lack for company.’
My uncle took my hand in his, and pressed it kindly. When he looked at me, I saw that tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.
I left the study, closing the door behind me. I was very disturbed by his attitude and demeanour, and his gloomy talk about death, wills and lawyers. It was almost as though he was biding me farewell….
The door to the parlour across the hall was open, and I saw that Milsom, the housekeeper, had placed a small table near the fireplace, laid for afternoon tea for two. She had set out the best Spode china tea service. I wondered who my uncle’s visitor could be. Even in the midst of his perturbation, he had characteristically not thought to tell me.
Milsom, a neat, competent woman in her mid-fifties, had been with us for six years. She emerged from the kitchen passage, and went to open the front door to admit Michael. I detained her for a moment.
‘Milsom,’ I said, ‘who is my uncle expecting this afternoon? Is it another lawyer? It’s not often that he has visitors at this time of day.’
‘Well, miss, it’s not a lawyer, unless there are lady lawyers these days! Mr Paget told me to set out tea for two, as he was expecting a lady at half-past three. He said that I was not to ask her name, but to show her straight into the parlour. But there’s Mr Danvers ringing again. He’s very impatient, I must say! He’ll not want you both to be late for the theatre.’
As always, the management of the Gaiety Theatre did full justice to its reputation that afternoon. They were presenting a revival of their popular musical farce In Town, which had been hugely successful in the previous year. The doors opened at two o’clock, and Michael had bought two tickets for the pit, at 2/6d each. Uncle, of course, had been right: it was indeed ‘all froth and nonsense’, but it was hugely enjoyable, particularly as the original principals of the farce, Arthur Roberts and Miss Florence St John, were performing that day.
Goodbye, my dear…. Why had Uncle Max used those words? After all, I was only going to the theatre for part of the afternoon. It sounded as though he were bidding me farewell….
Nonsense! I still hadn’t thrown off the baleful influence of Mayfield Court and its hateful secrets. What had happened to Helen – if that was really her name? By what evil course had she ended up as a skeleton, concealed in the ruins of the washhouse? Hateful place! Child and house had decomposed together.
I shuddered, and glanced at Michael, who seemed totally absorbed in the comic antics on the stage. There came a sudden gale of laughter, and the performers obligingly froze for an instant until the audience’s mirth had subsided.
All the light in this building is false, I mused, man-made light; it comes from gas mantles along the walls and from the powerful limelights fixed on to the front of the circle. At any moment they could be plunged into darkness. Outside, the brilliant August sun would still be shining, and there would be a breeze, perhaps. Here, while the performers threw all their energies into the two-act farce, the air reeked of tobacco smoke and stale gas. It was stifling…. Oh, Uncle Max, came my inward cry, what did you mean when you said those words: Goodbye, my dear?
When the performance ended, we emerged, blinking, into the bright sunlight of the Strand. The wide thoroughfare was, as always, thick with horse-traffic, characterized by the drumming beat of iron tyres on the setts, the ‘clip clop’ of countless horses, the cracking of whips and the curses of cabbies in a hurry.
It was a relief to turn into Bedford Street, and seek out a secluded corner in Palfrey’s Café, where Michael ordered tea and toasted muffins. The little shop smelt of freshly baked bread, and coffee, served from steaming silver urns standing on the marble counter.
‘Well, did you or didn’t you?’ Michael’s voice held a tone of slightly resentful amusement. Bother! He’d asked me something, and I had been miles away. I was usually all ears when he had something to say to me.
‘Did I what?’
‘Enjoy the show. What’s the matter with you today, Cath?’
Tea and muffins arrived, and I gave all my attention to pouring out.
‘Michael,’ I said, ‘I’m worried about Uncle Max. I’ve a premonition that something awful is going to happen to him— No, it’s nothing to do with Marguerite and séances. He spoke to me today as though he was bidding me farewell.’
Michael stirred his tea thoughtfully. Even in my agitation of mind I could not resist admiring him. How handsome he was! His fair hair curled at the nape of his neck, and when he half-closed his eyes in thought, his long lashes swept his cheeks as though he was still a little boy. Yes, Uncle, I thought, I may have blushed when you spoke of marriage, but if he were to ask me now, I would accept him like a shot….
‘It’s that business of the old house in Warwickshire,’ said Michael at length. ‘What was it called? Mayfield Court. Perhaps he knows something about that skeleton – something that he dare not tell you. He’s always been a hoarder of secrets.’
‘Well,’ I said, rather lamely, ‘I shall be relieved when the secret of Mayfield is finally revealed to the light. Maybe then the ghost will be able to find rest.’
Michael finished his tea, and began to make inroads into his muffin.
‘Lay the ghost? Well, that rustic policeman did that for you, didn’t he? Helen, the little lost waif.’
‘It was that “rustic policeman”, as you call him, who urged me to tell you all about the secrets of Mayfield Court. Detective Sergeant Bottomley, his name is.’
‘And how did he know about me?’
‘He – he played a trick on me, a trick which made me tell him all about you – well, not all, but enough! That’s when he advised me to confide in you.’
‘Hmm…. Not so rustic after all, then. But I say, Cath, what’s all this about? I don’t like secrets. Finish your tea, and we’ll walk down to Trafalgar Square. We can catch an omnibus there to the corner of Upper Berkeley Street, and cut through into Saxony Square.’
As we came into Saxony Square we saw a crowd of loiterers gathered on the pavement in front of our house. They were, I knew, a pointer to the nameless dread that had hovered in the back of my mind since early that morning. The tall, elegant eighteenth-century houses, with their wrought-iron balconies, basked quietly in the afternoon sun, but the crowd, and the fact that the front door of the house stood wide open, showed that my premonition of evil had been more than a mere fancy. A stalwart uniformed constable stood impassively on the doorstep, keeping guard. The sun reflected from the silver ‘C’ badges on his collar.
Michael shouldered a passage for us through the crowd, and we made towards the doo
r. The constable stepped forward, and held up his hand as though to bar our entry to the house.
‘Are you family?’ he asked, and when Michael replied in the affirmative, he moved aside, and we entered the house.
As soon as we stepped into the hall, Milsom came running along the kitchen passage towards us. Her usually placid face was ravaged with tears, and she was wringing her hands in anguish.
‘Oh, Miss Catherine!’ she cried. ‘Your uncle’s dead – poisoned! That wicked woman – I wish I’d never let her into the house. She poisoned him! And it was such a lovely day!’
She poisoned him…. I suddenly recalled poor Uncle’s words in the ruined garden, after he had rescued a packet of letters from destruction: ‘The harpy will be pleased – maybe she will take her claws out of me once I have given her that elusive deed!’
I clung tightly to Michael’s arm. I was not surprised at the terrible news. My uncle had bade me farewell, as though he knew that he would not survive that day. Perhaps he had a premonition that the ‘harpy’ would be the death of him. For a fleeting moment I saw him in my mind’s eye, shaking his fist at the heavens while he burnt letters and papers on the bonfire in the garden of Mayfield Court. I, too, had had a strong premonition of impending disaster.
‘What woman?’ I asked, and was surprised at how strong my voice sounded.
‘The woman who came to tea, miss. She arrived not fifteen minutes after you and Mr Danvers had left for the theatre. She came in a private-hire carriage, and the driver came down from the box to open the door. Well, she was a recent widow, as far as I could make out, clothed entirely in black, and with a long mourning veil, which she didn’t lift. She – she looked like an angel of death.’
‘What kind of woman was she, Mrs Milsom?’ asked Michael. ‘Did she say anything?’
‘She spoke only to the carriage driver, telling him to wait for her. She was a lady, and I’d say she was about sixty years of age. I took her into the parlour, and poor Mr Paget rose to greet her. Then they both sat down to tea. I’d already brought the teapot in, and placed it on the table. And then I left. I came back again in less than half an hour, to see if they needed anything more, and found him – he was still alive, but gasping and shaking like a leaf. There was no sign of the woman. He looked at me, and there was terror in his eyes. And then he died! He gave a kind of muffled shriek, and fell back in his chair, dead—’
The door of the parlour opened, and a tall man in the uniform of an inspector came out into the hall. He had a red face, a fleshy neck, and thick silvery hair, but his quiet, thoughtful voice belied his truculent appearance.
‘Miss Paget?’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry to tell you that your uncle, Mr Max Paget, has been murdered. Your housekeeper found him dead, and sent for the local constable. Very commendable. I am Inspector Blade, of “C” Division, at Little Vine Street Police Station.’
He turned to look at Michael.
‘And you are, sir?’
‘I am Michael Danvers, Miss Paget’s friend. I am a doctor at St Thomas’s Hospital.’
‘St Thomas’s? Then perhaps you’ll know our divisional police surgeon, Dr Whitney? He’s in the parlour now, examining the body of the late unfortunate Mr Paget. I suggest you join him, sir. Meanwhile, Miss Paget, it would be a good idea if you took your housekeeper to some private room elsewhere, and listened to her story. I’ve already questioned her, and will ask for a written statement later.’
The two men watched as I led the weeping Mrs Milsom up the staircase. I heard the inspector say to Michael in low tones: ‘It’s always a good idea to get the ladies out of the way at a time like this. A police hearse will arrive in a few minutes’ time to take the body away to Horseferry Road mortuary, and I need the hall clear for that eventuality. Go in now, sir, and talk to Dr Whitney, if you like.’
He nodded towards the parlour, and left the house by the open front door.
I have my own sitting-room on the first floor, facing the long, well-tended rear garden of our house. I made Mrs Milsom sit down on a sofa, despite her protests that it ‘wasn’t right’. The housekeeper had gained control of herself, though she was still very obviously shocked and bewildered.
‘Miss Catherine,’ she said, ‘I’ve already told that police inspector all I know. The woman arrived here not long after you’d left for the theatre. From the way she spoke to the carriage driver I judge that she was a lady – an educated person, at least. When I showed her into the parlour Mr Paget rose to greet her—’
‘Did he show any signs of agitation?’ I asked. ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted you.’
‘Not at all, miss. Mr Paget seemed quite at ease, in fact he took the lady’s hand and bowed over it in that old-fashioned way he had. Oh dear! I can see him now, in my mind’s eye. Whoever she was, miss, Mr Paget knew her. After all, he was expecting the visit, and for all I know he may have asked her to the house himself. Who was she? And why did she commit such a wicked murder? I hope Inspector Blade hunts her down, and that she ends up on the gallows!’
For the last few minutes I had felt myself growing strong enough to cope with the horror of my uncle’s violent death. I would grieve for him, but some inner recess of my mind bore a message of liberation from his life-long domination over me. I was my own woman now, free to make my own choices.
‘Now, Mrs Milsom,’ I said, ‘I want you to tell me whether you heard any scraps of the conversation between my uncle and that woman. No, this is no time for niceties about eavesdropping. Did you hear anything?’
‘After I’d shown her in, miss,’ said Milsom, ‘I left the room and closed the door. As I was doing so, I heard the woman say: “The old fool gets loose, and God only knows what he’ll blab about unless we get him permanently under restraint.” I’ll confess to you, Miss Catherine, that I stood outside the door for a while, wondering what those words could mean. The master seemed agitated, and he raised his voice, so that I heard him say something about “making away with him”. It was like a question, as though he was saying, “Shall we make away with him?” or “Are you going to make away with him?”
‘I began to get frightened then, miss, and hurried away into the kitchen passage, but not before I heard the woman’s voice again. I don’t know what she said, but I did hear the single word “Forshaw”. And that’s all I can tell you, miss, because that’s all I heard.’
Later that evening, before he left for his billet in St Thomas’s, Michael told me what had occurred when he joined Dr Whitney in the parlour.
‘Whitney’s a good fellow,’ he said, ‘a lithe, restless kind of man with a short spade beard. He pointed towards— Look, perhaps I’d better spare you the details—’
‘No!’ I cried, surprised at my own vehemence. ‘I am tired of men trying to deprive me of information. Tell me what happened! Tell me what you saw!’
Part of me was horrified at my unbecoming forcefulness. I saw Michael suddenly look at me with something approaching awe.
‘Very well, Cath,’ he said. ‘Your uncle was still sitting at the tea table, but he was quite dead. His head was thrown back, and his features convulsed in what had been a last, agonizing spasm. I have seen many dead bodies, of course, but I had never seen a victim of murder before. Your uncle sat there dead, clothed in his dark suit, with a lined silk waistcoat, his watch still ticking in his pocket, and his hands clenched so tight that his nails have drawn blood from the palms.’
I shuddered, but made no motion of protest.
‘“I know what you’re thinking, Danvers”, said Whitney. “Or as good as know. You’re still seeing him as the living, breathing man whom you knew. But he isn’t that, anymore. He’s a corpse, and can’t speak for himself, to tell us what happened to him. We have to do that for him in the only way we can. Inspector Blade will bring in a detective, I’ve no doubt. But doctors – you and me – have to bring in the scalpel. So what do you think?”
‘I looked at the body, realizing how inexperienced I was. “There’s no sign of
a physical assault”, I said. “As far as I can see, he’s not been stabbed, or shot, or bludgeoned. So I suppose he must have been poisoned.”
‘“He has indeed”, said Dr Whitney, rubbing his hands together in what seemed to be a gesture of satisfaction. “Poisoned by a substance put into that teacup you see there, now standing demurely on its saucer. I think he must have gulped down a good half of the tea before the cup jerked from his hand, and fell to the floor. You can see the stain, just there. Once he was dead, his companion – the lady who was taking tea with him – put the cup back neatly on its saucer. Some killers, you know, have genteel ways.”
‘“Do you know what poison she used, Dr Whitney?” I asked. “Or is it too early for you to say?”
‘“I won’t know for certain until I’ve opened the body up, which I’ll do this evening. But I’m sure in my mind that he was poisoned with aconite, or wolfsbane, as it’s called. I’ll take away that teacup, and a section of the stained carpet, for chemical analysis. Yes, Aconitum napellus, or wolfsbane. It disrupts the balance in the cells of the heart muscle, and a lethal dose produces fatal arrhythmias, including ventricular tachycardia. That housekeeper’s description of Paget’s last moments suggest aconite poisoning – excessively rapid heart rate, et cetera.”
‘And that was it, Cath,’ said Michael. ‘The poison brought on an immediate and fatal heart attack.’
‘Wolfsbane?’
‘Yes, Cath. The alkaloid, you know. I don’t suppose our genteel killer came here with a bunch of lethal buttercups in her hand! Somehow, and somewhere, she knew how to obtain the pure alkaloid. But that’s Inspector Blade’s concern.’
It was time for me to confide the whole mystery of Mayfield Court – at least, all that I knew of the matter – to Michael. I told him of our stay in the old house, of the ‘ghost’ that I had seen, and the story of Helen, the child wraith. I told him all the details of the skeleton, and of Sergeant Bottomley’s investigation. Michael was particularly interested in Uncle’s obsession with the bundles of letters and papers that he had spent most of his time examining.
Ghosts of Mayfield Court Page 6
