by Clara Benson
‘Oh, I just wanted a breath of fresh air, you know. It was getting rather stuffy in the drawing-room,’ he replied. I thought he looked a little sheepish.
‘Any luck?’ asked Joan as we returned to the drawing-room.
‘None at all. He insists on remaining buried in his papers. Well, we shall just have to continue our fun without him.’
But it looked as though the lightening of mood had been only temporary. Nobody wanted to play another game of Consequences and Rosamund proposed cards in vain. Joan went out and came back with a book, while Simon Gale went off, murmuring about some work that he needed to finish and Bobs disappeared on mysterious business of his own.
‘I want some more music!’ said Gwen, a little too loudly. She had been drinking steadily all evening and was now swaying with great concentration over to the gramophone.
‘Must we?’ said Joan. ‘I’ve a splitting headache.’
‘What headache? You never mentioned it when we were playing the music before,’ said Gwen.
‘I didn’t have it before. It only came on a few minutes ago.’
‘How very convenient,’ said Gwen. There was a dangerous edge to her voice which sounded a warning note.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t believe you have a headache at all—you just want to spoil the evening for everybody.’
Joan flared up at once.
‘What rot! If anybody is spoiling the evening, it’s you.’
‘No it’s not!’
‘Yes it is! You always have to be the centre of attention. We were sitting here perfectly quietly but you had to disturb everything, just as you always do.’
‘Darlings,’ cried Rosamund, ‘now do behave nicely. I hate to see you fall out when things were going so well.’
Gwen paid no attention but drew herself up indignantly.
‘What do you mean, “just as I always do”? You beastly thing! Don’t think I don’t know your real opinion of me—I know you look down on us. You think we’re not good enough to come here, it’s perfectly obvious. You may think I don’t notice your sneers every time we come here but I do. I see you trying to influence Neville against us!’
‘I say old girl, look here,’ began Hugh MacMurray, shifting uncomfortably.
‘Be quiet, Hugh! I’m sick and tired of being insulted by these people. Don’t you see they think you have married beneath you? No, of course, you have never noticed it—why should you? You don’t have to put up with the whispers and the rumours and—and the people looking down their noses at you. If you were a real man you would defend me against them but you never do.’
Her husband emitted an unhappy bleating noise.
‘And you are a fine one to make judgments!’ Gwen continued to Joan. ‘I’ve seen you mooning about after Simon like a love-struck cow, don’t think I haven’t. But really,’ she burst into peals of laughter, ‘who on earth would look twice at a great lump like you?’
There was a startled silence, then Joan burst into tears and hurried out of the room. Gwen appeared to have exhausted her ire. She sat down suddenly.
‘I feel sick,’ she announced dolefully. ‘Boopsie, take me up to bed’.
Rosamund nodded to Hugh.
‘Yes, dear,’ he said and led her out of the room.
There was a general clearing of throats and somebody attempted to begin a conversation about the weather. Rosamund sat with her hand to her forehead for a moment and then heaved a great sigh.
‘What a difficult evening this is! I think I shall just give up trying to make it a success and suggest that you all go to bed immediately. Why won’t people behave as they are supposed to when I am trying to throw an elegant house party?’
‘It is getting late. Perhaps we shall all feel better tomorrow after a good night’s sleep,’ said Angela.
I glanced at my watch and discovered that it was nearly half-past eleven. I was in fact rather tired myself but felt it would look cowardly if I were the first to leave. Fortunately, Mr. Pomfrey expressed his intention to retire immediately and was soon followed by Rosamund and Angela. I excused myself shortly afterwards and headed to my room, where I got into bed and lay awake for some time, before falling into an uncomfortable sleep.
SEVEN
I was woken the next morning by the sound of running feet, followed by a general commotion that seemed to be coming from the direction of the stairs. Through a haze of sleep I peered at the clock and found that it was still early, turned over and attempted to drop off again. But the noise and bustle were insistent and seemed to be getting louder, so I reluctantly emerged from my comfortable bed, dressed and came downstairs. In the hall I found myself confronted by a scene of confusion. Half the servants seemed to be rushing about in varying degrees of uproar, while the old butler vainly tried to shoo them back to their quarters and a housemaid wailed loudly in the corner. I spotted Simon Gale and Mr. Pomfrey standing together in close consultation and joined them.
‘Hallo, what the devil is going on here?’ I asked.
‘Mr. Knox, I am sorry to have to tell you that Sir Neville has met with an accident,’ replied Mr. Pomfrey gravely. Simon Gale nodded. He was very white.
‘What do you mean, an accident?’ I demanded, looking from one to the other. ‘Surely you don’t mean he’s—’
Mr. Pomfrey bowed his head.
‘I am very much afraid that he is dead.’
I was bewildered.
‘But how? What happened?’
‘It—er—appears that he fell and hit his head on the mantelpiece some time last night. He was found this morning in his study.’
‘Fell and hit his head?’ I repeated stupidly. ‘That seems very odd. How on earth did he do that?’
Simon Gale spoke, reluctantly it seemed.
‘We are not quite certain of the exact sequence of events. All we know at present is that the housemaid who came down to clean the study this morning found the door locked. After a search, a spare key was eventually found by the butler and he and the housemaid entered the room to find Sir Neville lying by the fireplace, having apparently fallen. There was a glass lying on the floor next to him and a strong odour of whisky. Of course, there is no suggestion that he was at all inebriated,’ he continued hastily.
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Mr. Pomfrey. ‘But even taking a small amount may well have caused him to lose his balance more easily.’
‘Rosamund—what about Rosamund?’ I said suddenly. ‘Has she been told?’
‘Lady Strickland was informed shortly after the discovery was made,’ replied the solicitor. ‘She insisted on seeing Sir Neville alone. I did not think it right but she would not be dissuaded.’ He shook his head. ‘She is in the morning-room now with Miss Havelock and Mr. Buckley.’
‘The doctor is on his way and should arrive shortly,’ said Gale, ‘although there is nothing to be done, I fear.’ He swallowed. It looked rather as though he needed a strong whisky himself. ‘Lady Strickland wanted Sir Neville to be carried to his room but Mr. Pomfrey quite rightly said that he must not be moved until the doctor has examined him.’
‘Oh, quite so, quite so,’ said the solicitor. ‘The facts of the matter must be established, however distressing to the family. I have taken the precaution of locking the door again, in order to prevent curious servants from entering the room.’
He did not add: ‘And curious guests’ but the phrase hung in the air, unspoken.
The news had quite taken my breath away. I turned from the two men and entered the morning-room. Rosamund was seated on a low divan next to Joan, who was sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. Bobs was staring thoughtfully out of the window, with his hands in his pockets. Rosamund herself was white but quite composed. She looked up as I entered.
‘Oh Charles!’ she cried piteously. ‘Whatever shall I do?’
I went over to her and took her hand but could find no words.
Bobs turned and saw me.
‘Hallo, old thing,’ he said, with
out a trace of his usual jocular manner. He looked rather shaken. ‘Ghastly business, this, what?’
‘When will the doctor come?’ asked Rosamund. ‘I want him to come now. I can’t bear all this waiting.’
‘He is on his way and will be here soon,’ I said.
‘He must come quickly, he must. Where is everybody else?’
‘I’ve no idea. I assume they are all still asleep,’ I replied.
‘Perhaps that’s best for the moment,’ she said. ‘I can’t think what to do. What does one do in this situation?’ She pressed her hands to her temples. ‘I simply must think but my head is going round and round and I can’t.’
‘Hush,’ I said. ‘Don’t try to think for the moment. There’s no need, at least not until the doctor arrives.’
She gave an odd sort of smile.
‘Dear Charles! Always so beautifully uncomplicated.’ She looked about her in an agitated fashion. ‘Where is Angela? I want Angela. She will look after me. Please, somebody, fetch Angela.’
‘Here I am darling,’ said Mrs. Marchmont, entering the room at that moment. She came over to where Rosamund was sitting and kissed her. ‘I’ve just heard the news. My dear, I am so terribly sorry.’ She straightened up and looked around at us all. ‘The doctor has arrived and is now in the study.’
‘Oh!’ cried Rosamund, jumping up. ‘At last! I must see him now.’
Before we could dissuade her, she hurried out of the room, followed by her cousin.
Sylvia arrived, looking white and breathless.
‘Is it true?’ she demanded. Nobody replied but one look at our faces was enough to tell her the truth.
Joan, perhaps mindful of her duties, made a visible effort to pull herself together and stood up, red-eyed.
‘Well, there’s no use in our sitting here all day and we can’t be of any help now that the doctor and Mr. Pomfrey have taken charge. I think perhaps we should go in to breakfast,’ she said, ‘although I’m sure I shan’t be able to eat a bite.’
We all trooped through to the dining-room in a dazed fashion and made a sketchy breakfast, attended by Rogers, the old butler, whose mind was clearly elsewhere. Afterwards, we all gathered in a huddle in the drawing-room, talking in hushed voices. It seemed as though we were all waiting for something, although I hardly knew what.
In the late morning, the MacMurrays finally descended and burst in upon us in a great hurry, having evidently just been informed of the tragedy.
‘I say!’ said MacMurray. ‘What’s all this about Neville? Surely it can’t be true.’ He looked appalled.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ I said.
He swung round to stare at me.
‘Where did it happen?’ he demanded.
‘In his study. It must have been some time late last night.’
‘Are you sure? But that’s impossible!’ he said. He sat down suddenly and put his head in his hands. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said. ‘I need a drink.’ He looked ghastly.
Gwen, if possible, looked even worse, although I thought some of that must be attributed to the amount she had drunk the previous evening. Her face was all blotched and puffy and her eyes darted this way and that as though she did not know quite where she was.
‘What are we supposed to do now?’ she asked.
‘Wait here until the doctor has finished, I imagine,’ I replied.
The rest of the morning seemed to drag on interminably. I felt that I ought to leave, an intruder in a tragedy that was not my own and yet at the same time I did not wish to appear as though I were deserting the family in its time of need. No-one else seemed to have any intention of going but of course they were all close friends or relations of Sir Neville, whereas I was a comparative stranger. I therefore sat uncomfortably, waiting uselessly for some indication of what I should do.
It was not until we had all gone into lunch that Mr. Pomfrey returned, accompanied by Angela Marchmont. The solicitor looked round at the questioning eyes that were raised to his from the table.
‘Dr. Carter has finished examining Sir Neville,’ he said. ‘He is now with Lady Strickland, who has been persuaded to lie down for a few hours.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Joan.
‘He appears to agree with our view that it was a tragic accident. Sir Neville was found lying next to the fireplace and it looks rather as though he lost his balance and fell backwards, hitting the back of his head on the edge of the mantelpiece as he did so. It may be of some comfort to you to know that death would have been almost instantaneous.’
‘Where is poor Neville? Surely you haven’t left him in the study?’
‘Sir Neville has been carried to his room for now, until he can be—er—removed.’
‘Where are the dogs?’ said Joan, suddenly. ‘Poor things. They won’t have had their walk this morning. I’ll take them out now. The fresh air will clear my head.’ She rose from the table and went out.
‘I think I shall take a walk too,’ I said.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sylvia.
We fetched our coats and went out through the side door. It was a dull day but the chill air was a welcome change from the oppressive atmosphere that prevailed in the house. We walked slowly up and down the terrace, deep in our own thoughts.
‘It doesn’t seem real, somehow,’ Sylvia said eventually.
‘No,’ I agreed.
‘How quickly one forgets about death,’ she went on, almost as though talking to herself. ‘I mean, it’s only about ten years since Ralph died. I was just a kid then, of course. It’s perfectly horrid but one picks oneself up and carries on, doesn’t one?’
‘I suppose one does,’ I replied, thinking about my own parents’ deaths.
‘I hope Rosamund will be all right. I’d like to do something but one feels so desperately helpless. There is nothing one can do in such a situation as this—except perhaps be as unobtrusive as possible.’
‘Yes—it must be especially difficult, having guests at a time like this. I shall offer my services of course but if they are declined I think the best thing I can do is to make as discreet and diplomatic an exit as possible.’
Just then, there was a rattle behind us and we turned to find that we were standing outside the French windows to the study.
‘Hallo,’ said Angela Marchmont, stepping out onto the terrace. ‘I was just trying the doors.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to come out through the side door?’ I inquired.
‘I dare say,’ she replied vaguely, gazing intently at the bolt. ‘Ye-es. Difficult to tell when they were last opened.’
‘Not since the summer, I imagine,’ said Sylvia.
‘But I found them unlocked and unbolted just now. That’s rather odd.’
‘Why is it odd? Perhaps Neville unlocked them yesterday and Rogers couldn’t get in to lock them again.’
‘Perhaps. Although it is a little late in the year for that.’ She bent down and peered at the ground. ‘There are several specks of dried paint here but perhaps I did that myself just now. Rather silly of me not to look around outside first.’
‘Why are you so interested in the French windows?’ Sylvia asked.
‘Oh, no particular reason,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. She stepped back inside and banged the doors shut. Sylvia and I looked at each other and with one accord pulled them open again and went after her into the study. We found her looking about her thoughtfully.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
Angela frowned.
‘I’m not sure,’ she replied slowly. ‘But something doesn’t quite add up.’
‘What do you mean?’
She hesitated.
‘I can’t quite put it into words. But I am wondering whether the doctor and Mr. Pomfrey mayn’t have been mistaken about what happened.’
‘Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?’
‘No—no, there’s no reason to suppose anything of the kind. But the story of Neville’s falling backwards and hitting his head doesn’t r
ing quite true to me—I’m not sure why.’
She moved over to the fireplace and examined it closely. I sniffed the air.
‘There’s a strong smell of whisky,’ I remarked.
‘Yes, there is,’ replied Angela. ‘That’s odd too. One would have expected the smell to have dissipated quickly, had he merely spilt a glass of it. But it smells as though someone had poured an entire bottle of the stuff all over the carpet.’
I looked towards the sideboard standing against the wall. There was a decanter standing on it, which was less than a quarter full.
‘That decanter was almost full two nights ago,’ I said. ‘I know, because Sir Neville himself poured me a glass of it then.’
‘Perhaps he drank it,’ suggested Sylvia.
‘That’s rather a lot of whisky to drink in two days,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Was Sir Neville—er—inclined that way?’
‘I’ve never seen him drink much myself but of course one never knows,’ said Sylvia. ‘Rogers would know, though. Perhaps we should ask him.’
Angela Marchmont was again examining the fireplace. She turned round and appeared to come to a decision.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ll show you what I mean. Perhaps you can help.’ To our astonishment, she lay down on the floor face upwards, with her head towards the fire and her feet pointing away from it.
‘Whatever are you doing?’ said Sylvia.
‘This is how Neville was lying when he was found,’ said Angela. ‘At least, this is how I saw him when I showed Dr. Carter to the study.’
‘Well?’ I said. ‘That seems clear enough. He tripped, fell backwards and hit his head.’
But Sylvia opened her eyes wide.
‘Oh, yes, of course. I think I see what you mean,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s all too pat.’
Angela got to her feet as gracefully as possible and brushed herself off.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Look,’ said Sylvia. She went over and stood with her back to the fireplace. ‘If you fell backwards and hit your head, what would happen? Surely you would be knocked this way and be found in a crumpled position with your feet or, more likely your head in this case, near the fire.’ She demonstrated carefully.
