by Celina Grace
There was a cry of “Darling! You’re back. Thank God,” from Dorothy. Michael gave Arabella a strained, rather embarrassed smile. Raymond all but rolled his eyes. I felt Mrs Weston flinch a little next to me, but the moment passed too quickly before I could observe any of the rest of the people in the room.
Arabella looked pale and subdued. She wasn’t handcuffed, but Constable Palmer had a hand on her arm. He supported her to an empty chair and she sat down and gazed at the floor in what looked like mute misery. She hadn’t responded to Dorothy’s words.
Inspector Marks waited for a moment before he spoke again. Before he did, he sought my gaze and we exchanged a moment of silent understanding. My stomach flipped.
“This has been an odd case,” Inspector Marks said eventually, almost as if he were musing to himself. “Very odd, indeed. Nothing has been quite what it seemed.” He rocked back and forward gently on his heels, smiling at each of us. “For one thing, when we keep referring to you all as a family, that’s quite wrong, isn’t it? Miss Ashford was not the natural daughter of Mrs Ashford. Miss Drew is only very distantly connected with the family. Mr Bentham is of no relation whatsoever, and Mr Harrison—” Inspector Marks coughed a little and took a sip from the water glass he had put on the mantelpiece. “I’m so sorry, excuse me. As I was saying, Mr Harrison is probably the only one here who could truly be said to belong to the Ashford family, as the nephew of the late Mrs Ashford.”
I half expected Dorothy to say something sardonic at this point, something like we know all this, Inspector, what is your point? But she remained silent, her gaze on his tall, dark figure in front of the leaping flames. I realised then that Michael was holding her hand.
Inspector Marks went on. “Mrs Constance Bartleby, of course, was the sister in law of Mrs Ashford, the wife of her late brother. A relative but not related by birth.”
That was all he said but the names of the two dead women seemed to hang in the air for a moment before dissolving away. Arabella still stared dully at the carpet. For an uneasy moment, I wondered about her reason, her state of mind. Had her arrest and subsequent imprisonment in the police station broken her? Was that the reason she had confessed?
Listen to Inspector Marks, Joan. You don’t know it all.
I took heed of my own stern warning and turned my attention back to the inspector. He was about to say something else when Raymond Bentham interrupted him with a loud and irritated sigh. “Look, is there a point to this – this performance, at all? This whole bally case has got absolutely nothing to do with me, and I’m sick to the back teeth of having to stay in this godforsaken spot whilst the police seem to be able to do nothing about catching the damned killer.”
Inspector Marks seemed unperturbed by Raymond’s outburst. He directed a small smile his way and continued speaking. “I appreciate your concern, Mr Bentham, and I won’t take up a great deal of your time – of anyone’s time, come to that. But it’s important, I think, to clear this matter up once and for all, don’t you agree? Then the innocent can have nothing more to fear – and no reason more to remain here – and the guilty can be suitably…punished.”
The tension in the room leapt up another notch as he finished his sentence. I watched Arabella’s bovine expression twitch into something else, just for a moment. Dorothy and Michael exchanged uneasy glances. Raymond sat back in his chair, his black brows lowered over his eyes in a way that was most forbidding.
Inspector Marks let the tension sing for a moment longer. The snap and crackle of the flames behind him seemed very loud in the silent room. Then he began to speak again, quietly but with an air that commanded everyone’s attention. “Almost everyone in this house had a reason to desire Mrs Ashford’s death, or if not to actively desire it, to realise that they would benefit from her demise, whenever it came about.”
Another beat of silence. I shifted a little, easing my feet which were aching in my shoes. The room was very warm, and I could feel my fingers slipping against one another as I held them clasped and still before me. I wondered when Inspector Marks would pull the rabbit from the hat. I knew, from watching him before, that there was a streak of theatricality in him that made him wait for the most dramatic moment possible.
He certainly had everyone’s attention. I could hear Mrs Weston’s breathing beside me, faster and more shallow than normal. I felt a spasm of pity for her. Poor Mrs Weston. Whatever happened now, things in Hidden House would never be the same again.
Inspector Marks was speaking again. “Now, the murder of Mrs Ashford was an unusual crime. Oh, yes—” He directed this last remark at Dorothy, who’s head came up sharply at the word murder. “Yes, Miss Drew, murder it was. But a strange one. It was at once spontaneous and it was long planned. It was supposed to look like an accident. Both times it was supposed to look like an accident.”
Both times? I knew what he meant but even I was getting confused. Raymond’s expression moved from anger back to its more familiar boredom. Doctor Goodfried frowned. Arabella remained staring at the floor.
“Two attempts were made on the life of Mrs Ashford,” Inspector Marks continued. He turned to face the dancing flames in the fireplace and then turned back. “Two attempts. When the first didn’t succeed, a second attempt took place and this was successful. Mrs Ashford died.”
I wondered if he were going to start to talk about motive, about the will and the confusion there, but he didn’t. He fell silent once more, looking around the room at the different faces. Then he cleared his throat and went on. “Of course, what really threw the investigation was a fundamental error of judgement, and for that I blame myself entirely.” He looked up and caught my eye. “Joan, would you like to say something?”
Even though we’d rehearsed this, I could still feel myself start and blush. There was a mutter from Michael and a frank stare from Raymond. A moment later, he said, “Why the hell would we want to hear her opinion on the subject? Might I remind you, Inspector, that she’s a bally cook?”
“Miss Hart works with me,” Inspector Marks said calmly, and there was another collective intake of breath around the room. I caught Verity’s eye and she dropped me a lightning fast wink before her face settled into neutrality again. I was reminded of the time, a few years ago now, when I’d pretended to be an undercover police woman. And now here Inspector Marks was, pretending the same! If the room hadn’t been so fraught with tension, I’d have laughed.
“Go on, Miss Hart,” said the inspector.
I pulled myself together. “There were two murderers.” That was why I had been reminded so strongly of the events at Merisham Lodge. And at Asharton Manor too, although as I admitted to myself, I’d got that bit wrong. Still, I wasn’t a mind-reader.
“Miss Hart is right,” said Inspector Marks. “There were two killers. Where I made my error of judgement was in assuming, quite naturally, that these two killers were working together.”
Silence fell. A log shifted position in the fireplace, and the resulting soft noise was enough to make everyone start.
“These killers were not working together,” said Inspector Marks. “Murderer one, if I may use the term, attempted to kill Mrs Ashford by giving her arsenic.”
Arabella gave a sob. It was the first time she’d made a recognisable sound.
“So, it was you,” Michael exclaimed. “I knew I’d seen you put something in Aunt Margaret’s coffee. I knew it.”
“Thank you, Mr Harrison,” said the inspector, with steel in his tone. “Miss Ashford has already confessed to the crime.” He looked at Arabella, white and weeping, and said in a gentler tone, “It was a moment of madness, perhaps. You knew your mother was about to disinherit you, or she had certainly threatened to. You also knew that, without money, you had no chance of retaining, or even perhaps gaining, the affection of Mr Bentham, who, I think it fair to say, you are very much in love with.”
Arabella’s white cheeks stained pink. She hung her head. Raymond stared at her with something like horror, possibly the most authentic expression his face had ever worn.
“You saw that Mr Harrison had brought wild mushrooms with him that afternoon, for the dinner table, as he often did. You’ve told me that you believed everyone would think any illness resulting that evening would be from mushroom poisoning, not from the poisoning of the coffee pot that evening. You made sure to drink some yourself, to add credence to the idea that you were an innocent victim of the so-called food poisoning that you were sure would have killed or severely incapacitated Mrs Ashford.”
“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Arabella cried. She shook her hair free from her tear-stained face. “I promise you it’s the truth. I never meant for her to die.”
“Mrs Ashford was very elderly and she was an invalid,” Inspector Marks said sternly. “You knew that such an action would have very likely resulted in her death. Not to mention the fact that you put the lives of several innocent people at risk.”
He stopped talking for a moment and the only sound in the room was that of Arabella’s sobs and the crackle of the dying fire. It needed more wood, but now was not the time for me to concern myself with that. I could feel the knot of anxiety tying itself tighter in my stomach.
Dorothy spoke up then. I scarcely recognised her voice, it was so tremulous and quiet. “So, if it wasn’t Arabella, who is the second murderer?”
“I’m coming to that, Miss Drew.” Inspector Marks began to pace again, slowly. “The night of Mrs Ashford’s death – forgive me, the night before Mrs Ashford’s death – she had an argument with Miss Ashford. The upshot of the argument was that Mrs Ashford was determined to change her will in favour of her sister-in-law and companion, Mrs Bartleby. The argument was overheard by Mrs Bartleby herself, and she immediately, or as soon as she could, informed the other person involved in this crime. Murderer Number Two.”
“So, it wasn’t Mrs Bartleby,” Dorothy exclaimed. We all looked at her in surprise, but she seemed too astonished to be embarrassed. “But, I thought—”
“Mrs Bartleby knew nothing about the murder,” said Inspector Marks. He sounded sad for a moment. “She was foolish in the extreme to let slip to her…companion, let us say, what she knew. But I don’t believe she did so because she realised what they would do in the light of that knowledge. I think she was just, naturally, delighted at the idea of inheriting a great deal of money and wanted to share her good fortune with…shall we say, someone who meant a great deal to her.”
Inspector Marks reached the edge of the Persian rug and pivoted slowly to turn back the way he’d walked. “Murderer Number Two, who was a great deal more intelligent, quick thinking and ruthless than either Miss Ashford or poor Mrs Bartleby, realised that this was a chance. A chance to get hold of a great deal of money and in such a way that was almost without suspicion. It very nearly did work, and it would have, if it hadn’t been for Miss Hart’s sharp eyes noticing that Mrs Ashford’s body had been moved.” He looked up and caught my eye. He inclined his head.
I took up the thread of the tale. I wished Verity was standing next to me, side by side, rather than across the room. “Mrs Ashford’s death was at first attributed to mushroom or food poisoning. Then, when we realised that none of the mushrooms used in the soup that night were poisonous at all, the police began to look more closely at her cause of death.”
“Why, of course they weren’t poisonous,” Michael cried indignantly. “As if I’d be stupid enough to pick the wrong kind—”
“Thank you, Mr Harrison,” Inspector Marks said, cutting him off. “We’re quite aware that you had no intention of making everyone ill that night. You simply wanted to bring some fresh produce to your aunt, like you often did. You have nothing to blame yourself for, that night.”
“Well, quite,” Michael muttered, looking offended. Dorothy gave him a dig in the ribs and he piped down.
Inspector Marks gave him a long, silent glance. I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage. “I said, you had nothing to blame yourself for, that night, Mr Harrison.”
Michael looked confused. “What do you mean?”
Inspector Marks leant forward, his eyes fixed upon Michael’s face. “I mean, Mr Harrison, in the matter of arsenic poisoning, you are entirely innocent.”
“Well, yes, of course—”
Inspector Marks pressed on relentlessly. “Whereas you are entirely guilty of causing the death of Mrs Ashford by a blow to the head, skilfully and quickly done, of rearranging the body to conceal the wound, and later on, of causing the death of Constance Bartleby by cyanide poisoning.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The silence that followed this last sentence of the inspector’s lasted a full thirty seconds. It may have been longer. I was preoccupied in watching Michael’s face.
Eventually, he gave a dreadful laugh. “What?”
Inspector Marks straightened up. “You killed your elderly aunt and then you killed her sister-in-law, Mrs Constance Bartleby.”
Beside Michael, Dorothy had gone white to the lips. The lipstick on her mouth had been licked or bitten away. “What? Inspector…this can’t be right—”
Inspector Marks looked honestly apologetic. “I’m sorry, Miss Drew.”
“This is ludicrous,” Michael said, beginning to sound angry. “Absolutely ludicrous. You must be mad.” He lurched forward as if he were about to get up out of his seat. “I’m not sitting here for a moment longer, listening to these absurd allegations.”
Constable Palmer, who up until now had been waiting unobtrusively in a corner of the room, stepped forward. Michael stopped moving.
“Just sit back down, Mr Harrison,” Inspector Marks said.
Michael reluctantly did so. He had a strained smile on his face, as if reaching for a queasy sort of casualness, but his eyes were flickering from side to side as if planning an escape. I tensed a little more, but Inspector Marks had seen it too. He stepped in front of him.
“This is just ridiculous,” said Michael. He was sweating. “Why on earth would I want to kill my aunt? And Constance?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said the inspector. “You were due to inherit a great deal of money.”
“No, I wasn’t—”
Inspector Marks leant forward. “What are you studying at Cambridge, Mr Harrison?”
Michael said nothing. I saw the tip of his tongue flicker out to moisten his top lip.
“Mr Harrison?”
Michael remained silent. Inspector Marks sighed and straightened up, looking over at Raymond Bentham.
“Mr Bentham, what is Mr Harrison studying at Cambridge?”
Raymond looked as though he’d been hit in the face with something heavy. At another prompt from the inspector, he shook his head slightly and said, hoarsely, “Chemistry.”
“Precisely.” Inspector Marks turned his attention back to Michael. “You’re a chemistry student, Michael. You knew very well what your erstwhile cousin had put in your aunt’s coffee, didn’t you? If you hadn’t worked it out when you observed her doing it, you knew damn well that everyone was suffering from arsenic poisoning, including yourself. Coupled with the fact that Constance Bartleby was about to inherit the majority of Mrs Ashford’s fortune – or so you both thought – it was the perfect opportunity. You knew, if anyone, that Arabella would come under suspicion. In fact, perhaps that was an added incentive? If it’s discovered that Mrs Ashford did die a suspicious death, and her adopted daughter is arrested and then charged, why, the other beneficiary of the original will gains even more when Miss Ashford is hanged for murder.”
Arabella shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut. I’d scarcely noticed Dorothy for the past few minutes but when I looked at her now, she looked as though she were about to be overtaken
by nausea. I think Verity noticed too, because she stepped forward a little anxiously.
Michael tried one last time. “All of this is very amusing,” he said, with a sneer that trembled. “But it still means nothing to me. I don’t know what you mean by me inheriting a lot of money. It’s ludicrous. Aunt Margaret only left me a mere five thousand.” He turned the sneer in my direction. “No doubt that’s an incredible fortune to someone like you.”
Despite my having these exact thoughts, I still flinched a little. I could see Verity standing behind him looking as though she was about to clobber him. I shook my head at her very slightly.
Inspector Marks didn’t defend me. Instead he turned to me and raised his eyebrows.
We’d practiced this moment too. I could feel the rustle of paper in my apron pocket and put my hand in to draw it out, along with the other, much smaller object.
“Constance Bartleby was set to inherit a large fortune,” I said, stepping forward.
“And?” Michael practically spat the word at me.
I opened up the folded piece of paper in front of him, so he could read it. “And you were married to her, Mr Harrison. To Constance Bartleby. You got married last year.”
Beside him, Dorothy jerked forward, her hand going to her mouth, almost retching. Michael didn’t react, gazing in horror at the marriage certificate in my hands.
“I told her to—” he half whispered.
Inspector Marks pounced. “Told her to do what, Mr Harrison? Burn it? Women don’t burn marriage certificates, any more than they burn love letters.” At this, Michael looked up, his face contorting with rage. So, he’d written her letters too? Inspector Marks and I exchanged a glance. Michael wasn’t to know that we hadn’t found them yet.
