“She is still weak,” said the inspector. “But I thought it was necessary that we should obtain a description of what Miss Dereham wore when she left the house. I brought her here myself just before you came. She looked through the woman’s wardrobe to see what was missing.”
“Was she alone in the room?”
“Not for a moment,” said Inspector Edgar. “Really, Sir, we are not ignorant of how a murder case should be investigated. I was in the room myself the whole time.”
“That was just before we came,” said Poiret. He crossed carelessly to the open window which overlooked the road and, leaning out of it, looked up the road to the corner round which he and his friends had come, precisely as the inspector had done. Then he turned back into the room.
“Which was the last dresser or drawer, which Mademoiselle Harriette Carter, she touched?” he asked.
“This one.” Inspector Edgar bent down and pulled open the bottom drawer of a dresser, which stood next to the window. A light-coloured dress was lying at the bottom.
“I told her to be quick,” said Inspector Edgar, “since I’d seen you coming. She lifted this dress out and said that nothing was missing there. So I took her back to her room and left her with the policewoman.”
Poiret lifted the dress from the drawer, shook it out in front of the window, twirled it round, picked up a corner of it and held it to his eyes, and then, to Reece-Jones’s chagrin smelled it and folding it quickly, put it back in the drawer.
“Now show me the first drawer she touched.” This time it was a petticoat. He took it to the window, examined it with a greater care through his horn-rimmed glasses. When he had finished with it he handed it to Haven to put away. Haven in his turn examined the petticoat. But as usual he could see nothing unusual. It was an attractive petticoat, delicate with frills and lace, but it was hardly a thing to grow thoughtful over. He sniffed it, like Poiret had done with the dress. He looked up and saw that Poiret was watching his investigations with a smile of amusement.
“Ah, bon! When Monsieur Haven has put that away,” he said, “we will hear what Mademoiselle Harriette Carter has to tell to us.”
He walked out of the door last, and, locking it, placed the key in his pocket.
“Harriette Carter’s room is upstairs,” Inspector Edgar said. He moved towards the staircase.
But as he did so a man in plain clothes, who had been waiting on the landing, stepped forward. He carried in his hand a piece of rope.
“Ah, Sergeant McAllen!” cried Inspector Edgar. “Mister Poiret, I sent the Sergeant this morning round the shops of Torquay with the rope which was found tied round Lady Charingbridge’s neck.”
Poiret walked quickly to the man. “Please to tell to me, did you discover anything?”
“Yes, Sir,” said the sergeant. “At the shop of Mister Galloway, in the street leading to the casino, a young lady in a dark-grey dress bought some rope of this kind at a few minutes after nine last night. I showed Mister Galloway the photograph of Rosette Dereham, which the inspector gave me and he identified it as the portrait of the woman, who’d bought the rope.”
Complete silence followed on the sergeant’s words. “Yes, that is very important,” Poiret said awkwardly, looking at Reece-Jones. He turned away and, followed by the others, went up the stairs to the bedroom of Harriette Carter.
A policewoman opened the door. Harriette Carter was leaning back in a chair. She looked ill, and her face was very white. On the appearance of Poiret, the inspector, and the others, however, she rose to her feet. Haven recognised the justice of Poiret’s description. She stood before them a hard-featured woman of thirty-six, in a neat black dress, strong with the strength of a farmer’s daughter, respectable, reliable. She looked what she had been, the confidential maid of an elderly woman. On her face there was now an aspect of eager appeal.
“Oh, Sirs!” she began, “let me go from here—anywhere—into prison if you like. But to stay here—where in years past we were so happy—and with Milady having died in the room below. No, it’s unbearable.”
She sank into her chair. Inspector Edgar said, “Now, listen here…”
Poiret came over to her side. “Yes, yes,” he said, in a soothing voice. “Poiret, he understands your feelings, my poor woman. We will not keep you here. You have, perhaps, friends in Torquay with whom you could stay?”
“Oh yes, Sir!” Harriette cried gratefully. “That I should have to sleep here tonight!”
“You need have had no such fear. After all, we are not the visitors of last night,” said Poiret, pulling a chair close to her and patting her hand sympathetically. “Now, tell to Poiret all that you know of this awful business. Take your time, Mademoiselle! We are human.”
“But, Sir, I know nothing,” she cried. “I was told that I might go to bed as soon as I’d dressed Miss Rosette for the séance.”
“Séance!” cried Haven, surprised into speech.
“So Mademoiselle Rosette practiced séances? That is very strange. We will hear about them. Who knows what thread may lead us to the truth?”
Harriette Carter shook her head. “Sir, it’s not right that you should seek the truth from me. I can’t speak with justice of Miss Rosette. No, I can’t! I didn’t like her. I was jealous—yes, jealous. Sir, you want the truth—I hated her!” The woman’s face blushed and she clenched her hand on the arm of her chair. “Yes, I hated her. How could I help it?” she asked.
“Why?” asked Poiret gently. “Why could you not help it?” Harriette Carter leaned back again, her strength exhausted. “I will tell you. But remember I’m a woman speaking to you, and things which you will count silly and trivial mean very much to me.”
Poiret bowed with a smile full of understanding and tolerance.
“Well, one night in June,” said Harriette Carter, “Milady went to supper at Criterion Restaurant near Piccadilly Circus in London. And she brought home for the first time Miss Rosette. But you should’ve seen her! She had on a little bitty skirt and a coat which was falling to pieces, and she was starving—yes, starving. Milady told me the story that night as I undressed her. Miss Rosette was there dancing amidst the tables for a supper with anyone who would be kind enough to dance with her.”
The scorn of her voice rang through the room. She was the rigid, respectable woman, speaking out her contempt. And Reece-Jones had to listen to it. Haven dared not glance at him.
“But hardly anyone would dance with her in her rags, and nobody would give her supper except Milady. Milady listened to her story of hunger and distress. Milady believed it, and brought her home. Milady was so kind, so careless in her kindness. And now she lies murdered as a reward!” A hysterical sob stopped the woman’s words, her eyes began to tear, her hands to twitch.
“Come, come!” said Poiret gently, “calm yourself, Mademoiselle.”
Harriette Carter paused for a moment or two to recover her composure. “I beg your pardon, Sir, but I’ve been so long with Milady—oh, the poor woman! Yes, yes, I will calm myself. Well, Milady brought her home, and within a week there was nothing too good for Miss Rosette. Milady always was like a child. She was constantly being deceived. But nobody so quickly made her way to Milady’s heart as Miss Rosette. Miss must live with her. Miss must be dressed by the best dressmakers. Miss must have lace petticoats and the softest linen and hats from Harrods at sterling prices. And Milady’s maid must attend on her and clothe her in all these delicate things. Argg!”
Carter was sitting erect in her chair, violent, almost rancorous with anger. She looked at the men’s faces and shrugged her shoulders.
“I told you not to ask me!” she said, “For years I’d been more than just Milady’s maid—her friend; yes, that’s what she was kind enough to call me. She talked to me about everything, consulted me about everything, took me with her everywhere, treated me like a daughter. Then she brings home a young woman with a fresh, pretty face and within a week I’m nothing at all—and little Miss is queen.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, that is quite natural,” said Poiret sympathetically. “But tell to Poiret more about these séances. How did they begin?”
“Oh, Sir,” Carter answered, “Lady Charingbridge had a passion talking to the dead, ever since her daughter died so horribly. Anyone could make a harvest out of Milady’s superstitions. But Sir knows the type.”
“Indeed he does,” said Poiret.
“Well, after she’d been with us for a couple of days she said that it was a pity Milady was always being taken advantage of by scam artists, that she herself could do something much more impressive for Milady. I wanted to get Milady out of the clutches of the scam artists and agreed to help her set up the séances.”
“Yes,” said Poiret. “You were trying to help Milady. We shall not,” and he turned to the inspector for corroboration of his words, “be disposed to blame you.”
“Certainly not,” said Inspector Edgar, understanding the interrogation technique used. Poiret had been a policeman himself in his younger years. “After all, life is not so easy.”
“Bon,” said Poiret, leaning forward with a keen interest. “Mademoiselle Carter, how did you assist? What did Miss Rosette do? Tap on the tables in the dark and rattle tambourines like that one with the knot of ribbons which hangs on the wall of the salon?”
There was a gentle and inviting irony in Poiret’s tone. Captain Haven was disappointed. Poiret had after all not overlooked the tambourine.
“Well?” Poiret asked again.
“Oh, Sir, the tambourines and the tapping on the table!” cried Harriette. “That’s nothing—oh, but nothing at all. Rosette would make spirits appear and speak!”
“Really? And she was never caught out? Mademoiselle Rosette, she must have been a remarkably clever woman.”
“Oh, she gave a performance, Sir. Sometimes Milady and I were alone. Sometimes there were others, whom Milady in her pride had invited. She was very proud, Sir, that Rosette could bring her daughter back to life and introduce her to her guests. But Rosette was never caught out. She told me that for many years, even when she was a child, she had travelled through England giving these shows with her father.”
“Ah, bon!” said Poiret. He turned to Reece-Jones. “Did you know that?” he asked quietly.
“I did not,” he said. “I do not now.”
Poiret frowned. “This story, it does not seem invented,” he replied. Then he spoke again to Harriette Carter. “Well, continue, Mademoiselle Carter!”
“Then Rosette, dressed in a long gown of black velvet,” Harriette Carter interrupted her story, with a return of her bitterness— “she would sail into the room with her velvet train flowing behind her while Milady gaped at her with open eyes. At last she would say that the powers were favourable and the spirits would manifest themselves tonight. Then she would be placed in another room—and the lights would be turned off. Or at other times we would sit holding hands round a table, Rosette between Lady Charingbridge and myself. But in that case the lights would be turned out first, and it would be really my hands which held Lady Charingbridge’s. And in a moment Rosette would be creeping silently around the room in a little pair of soft-soled slippers without heels, which she wore so that she might not be heard, and tambourines would rattle as you say, and fingers touch the forehead and the neck, and strange voices would sound from corners of the room, and dim apparitions would appear—then the daughter. Imagine, Sirs, the effect of such séances on a woman like Lady Charingbridge. She loved her daughter so much. She would’ve had séances all day, but Rosette pleaded that she was left exhausted at the end of them. Milady did nothing but congratulate herself on the happy chance which had sent her Rosette. And now she lies there murdered!”
Once more Harriette’s voice broke on the words. But Poiret poured her a glass of water and held it to her lips. Harriette drank it eagerly. “There, that is better, is it not?” Poiret said.
Harriette Carter’s story carried its conviction to Captain Haven. Lady Charingbridge rose vividly before his mind as a living woman. Rosette’s trickeries were so glibly described that they could hardly have been invented, and certainly not by this poor woman. These details were assuredly the proof of the truth.
Besides Harriette Carter’s jealousy was so natural and inevitable a thing. Her confession of it corroborated her story.
“Bon,” said Poiret, “we come to last night. There was a séance held in the salon last night?”
“No, Sir,” said Carter, shaking her head; “there was no séance last night.”
“But you said—” interrupted the inspector; but Poiret held up his hand. “Let her speak, mon ami.”
“Yes, Sir, I will tell,” said Carter. “Yesterday at five o’clock in the afternoon Lady Charingbridge and Rosette left the house on foot. It was their custom to walk to the casino, look around for an hour or so, dine in a restaurant, and return to the villa to spend the evening. Yesterday, however, Lady Charingbridge told me that they should be back early and bring with them a new friend, who was interested in spiritualistic manifestations, but didn’t believe in them. “But Rosette shall convince her tonight, Harriette,” she said confidently; and the two women then went out. Shortly before eight I closed the shutters both of the upstairs and the downstairs windows and of the French doors into the garden, and returned to the kitchen. There was rain at seven which lasted for the greater part of the hour and I, knowing that Milady felt the cold, lit a small fire in the salon.
It was close to half-past nine when the bell rang from the salon. I’m sure of the hour, because the charwoman called my attention to the clock. I found Lady Charingbridge, Rosette, and another woman in the salon,” continued Harriette Carter. “Milady had let them in with her key.”
“Ah, the other woman!” cried Inspector Edgar. “Had you seen her before?”
“No, Sir.”
“What was she like?”
“She was small with black hair and around forty-five years old.”
“Ah!” said Inspector Edgar. “That’s important.”
“Lady Charingbridge was, as she always was before a séance, in a feverish flutter. ‘You will help Rosette to dress, Harriette, and be very quick,’ she said. And she turned to the stranger and said, “You will believe, Evelyn, after tonight.”
“Evelyn!” said the inspector. “Then Evelyn was the strange woman’s name?”
“Perhaps,” said Poiret dryly. Harriette Carter thought. “I think Evelyn was the name,” she said in a more doubtful tone. “It sounded like Evelyn.”
The irrepressible Captain Haven was impelled to intervene. “What Monsieur Poiret means,” he explained, with the pleasant air of a man happy to illuminate the intelligence of a child, “is that Evelyn was probably a pseudonym.”
Poiret turned to him with a grin. “Now, mon ami, that is sure to help her!” he cried. “A pseudonym! Harriette Carter is sure to understand that simple and elementary word. How bright this Monsieur Haven is!”
Captain Harry Haven turned red, but he kept quiet. His one constant fear was that he would be kept out of this murder investigation. And his curiosity wouldn’t bear that. The inspector took the attention away from him. “What he means by pseudonym,” he said to Harriette Carter, explaining Captain Haven to her as Captain Haven had presumed to explain Poiret, “is a false name. Evelyn may have been, nay, probably was, a false name adopted by this strange woman.”
“Evelyn, I think, was the name used,” replied Harriette. “I’m almost sure.”
“Well, we will call her Evelyn,” said Poiret impatiently. “Go on, Mademoiselle Carter.”
“While I helped her dress,” Carter continued, “Rosette said: ‘When I have gone down to the salon you can go to bed, Harriette. Milady Evelyn’—yes, it was Evelyn—’will be picked up by a friend in a car, and I will let her out and lock the door again. So if you hear the car you will know that it has come for her.’“
“She said that!” said Poiret quickly.
“Yes, Sir.”
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bsp; Poiret looked gloomily towards Reece-Jones. Then he exchanged a sharp glance with the inspector, and moved his shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug. Captain Haven saw it, and construed it into one word. He imagined a jury uttering the word “Guilty!”
Harriette Carter saw the movement too. “Do not condemn her too quickly, Sir,” she, said, with an impulse of remorse. “And not on my words. Because, as I said, I—hated her.”
Poiret nodded reassuringly, and she resumed: “I was surprised, and I asked her how she would pull off a séance without me helping her. She laughed. That’s why I think there was no séance held last night. Sir, I will tell you now why I’m sure there was no séance last night—why Rosette never meant there should be one.”
“Yes, let us hear that,” said Poiret leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
“You have here, Sir, a description of how she was dressed when she went away.” Harriette Carter picked up a sheet of paper from the table at her side. “I wrote it out at the request of the inspector.” She handed the paper to Poiret, who glanced through it as she continued. “Well, except for the white lace coat, Sir, I dressed Rosette just in that way. She would have none of her plain black robe. No, Rosette must wear her fine new evening dress of pale reseda-green chiffon over soft clinging satin, her pale green silk stockings, her new little satin slippers to match and a large hat of reseda green with a golden-brown ostrich feather drooping behind. Ah, gentlemen, it is, after all, not so that one dresses for a séance,” she cried, shaking her head. “But it is just so—is it not?—that one dresses to go to meet a lover.”
The suggestion surprised everyone who heard it. It took Captain Haven’s breath away. Reece-Jones stepped forward with a cry of protest. The inspector exclaimed, admiringly, “Well here is an idea!” Even Poiret sat back in his chair, though his expression lost nothing of its neutrality, and his eyes never moved from Harriette Carter’s face.
“Listen!” she continued, “I think it possible, Sirs, that Rosette had a lover waiting with whom she meant to run away. She hurries through the empty salon, opens the glass doors, and is gone, leaving the doors open. And the thief, an accomplice of Evelyn, finds the doors open and hides himself in the salon until Lady Charingbridge returns from the dining-room. You see, that leaves Rosette innocent.”
The Murder in Torquay (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 9) Page 4
