by Emily Organ
“Why should he do that?” asked Mr Lombard.
“I have a theory,” replied James, “which I will return to shortly.”
Chapter 48
“Mrs Craughton!” James exclaimed.
“Yes?” the housekeeper replied nervously.
She glanced around the room and then smiled weakly at him.
James pointed toward the picture of the ghost twins. “May I ask your permission to remove this fine portrait from the wall?”
Mrs Craughton looked over at Mr Glenville, who nodded.
“Of course, Inspector,” she said.
Mr Perrin helped Inspector Trotter take the portrait down. They carefully leaned it up against a cabinet. James examined the darker square of wallpaper where the portrait had previously hung. Then he lifted a finger and peered closely at something on the wall before turning to address Mrs Glenville.
“I believe the two boys in this picture are your ancestors,” said James.
“Boys?” muttered Lady Wyndham.
“Yes, they were uncles of mine,” replied Mrs Glenville. “Broderick and Snowdon Noel-Johnstone.”
“Did you know them by any other names?”
“No.”
“So the names Cubby and Bunty mean nothing to you?”
“Cubby?” jeered Viscount Wyndham. “Bunty?”
“Oh, those names,” said Mrs Glenville. “Those were the nicknames I had for them as a child.”
“Mrs Craughton,” said James. “Are you in possession of a slip of paper which has the names Cubby and Bunty written on it?”
“No.”
“Have you ever come across a piece of paper such as that?”
“No, I don’t think I ever have.”
“That’s odd,” said James. “Because when Miss Green was working here, she said she found a piece of paper bearing those two names hidden between two books in this very room.”
Mrs Craughton gave me an icy stare.
“Miss Green says that you found her with the piece of paper and took it from her.”
“Miss Green is a thief,” she sneered. “She stole a key from my office, opened the drawers of Mr Glenville’s desk and removed one of his books. Do you trust the words of a thief?”
“Miss Green was working here as an undercover reporter,” said Mr Glenville. “She did not pilfer the book. She thought she could use it to find out more information about me. Although why she couldn’t have asked me her questions directly, I will never know.” He gave me a smile. “I’m sure Miss Green had every intention of returning the book, didn’t you, Miss Green?”
I nodded, both surprised by, and grateful for, Mr Glenville’s explanation.
“So you deny all knowledge of this piece of paper, Mrs Craughton?” asked James.
“I can’t remember it.”
“I believe the piece of paper Miss Green found was an instruction,” James revealed. “It was left to describe the location of the hidden packet of cyanide to someone else.”
“That makes no sense!” declared Ralph Lombard.
“If anyone wishes to examine the wallpaper behind the portrait of Mrs Glenville’s ancestors, I invite them to do so,” said James. “There is a small piece of wax on the wall to which the packet of cyanide was once attached.”
James leafed through his notebook and found the empty packet of cyanide. He held it up.
“This is the packet of poison which was found on the chair in the drawing room. It bears testament to the fact that it was attached to something with wax.”
“Why should someone wish to do that?” asked Mr Glenville.
“Perhaps they thought it was a safe place to hide their poison,” said James. “After all, nobody would go looking for it there, would they?”
“This is ridiculous,” said Mary Lombard. “How much longer do you plan to detain us, Inspector?”
“He’s planning to bore us all until someone confesses,” said Viscount Wyndham. “Whoever it was, own up now and put an end to this purgatory.”
Wary glances were exchanged between those dotted around the room.
“Let me mention Mr Evans again,” said James. “He was the man who accompanied Mr Wiggins home. The poor man experienced such an adverse reaction to his drink that evening that we speculate a poison of some sort may have been administered, mixed in with his beer. This would be impossible to verify unless we could speak to Mr Evans himself. Fortunately, I have managed to find him.”
“You have?” I said excitedly.
“Yes I have, Penny. I’m most grateful to my colleague, Miss Green, in this matter. A few days ago, the Morning Express published a description of the mysterious Mr Evans, along with an appeal for information. The Yard was contacted by a gentleman who has now retired from a lifetime of criminal activity, but had certain scores to settle. He was able to inform us of Mr Evans’ true identity and tell us that he is well known in criminal circles as a man who will ‘dispatch’ people in return for payment. We visited him at his home this morning and made the arrest.”
“So you now have one criminal’s word against another? That’s not evidence! It’s meaningless!” scoffed Ralph Lombard.
“Fortunately for us, Mr Evans was rather meticulous in his record-keeping,” said James. “A search of his home and papers revealed a list of people for whom he has worked. Mrs Craughton, are you sure you no longer have the piece of paper you confiscated from Miss Green? It would be extremely convenient if I was able show it to everyone at this moment.”
“I’ll have a look in my office,” she replied frostily, instantly leaving the room.
“When I first arrived at this house, I had a good look around,” said James. “Without a doubt, one of the pleasantest rooms here is the conservatory. I imagine it requires a good deal of maintenance.”
“It’s my wife’s pride and joy,” said Mr Glenville.
“A tropical hothouse presumably attracts a few pests,” commented James. “They attack the plants, do they?”
“We don’t have too much of a problem with them,” replied Mrs Glenville.
The housekeeper returned to the room.
“Mrs Craughton, when was the conservatory last fumigated?” asked James.
“About a month ago, I think, Inspector.”
“Thank you. Did you manage to find the piece of paper?”
“I did, Inspector.”
She held it out for him to take.
“You keep it for the time being, Mrs Craughton, and tell me in whose handwriting the names Cubby and Bunty are written.”
Mrs Craughton glanced around the room and moved her lips, but no sound came out.
The room was so silent that I hardly dared to breathe.
“Mrs Craughton?”
“I... What will it mean when I say the name? Will this person be in trouble?”
“Let’s worry about that later. Whose handwriting do you see on that piece of paper?”
“It’s... er… the handwriting belongs to Mrs Lombard.”
Chapter 49
“No! I didn’t write it!” Mary Lombard cried out, her violet eyes wide in her pale face. “You’re mistaken, Mrs Craughton. Why should I have written it?”
“Let me take a look at it!” demanded Ralph Lombard.
He strode angrily across the room toward Mrs Craughton. He snatched the piece of paper from her hand and glared at it.
“That is not my wife’s hand, Inspector!” he appealed to James. “If you need a sample of her handwriting we can provide it, can’t we, Mary? This is a setup!”
“What are the implications for the person who wrote on that bit of paper?” asked Viscount Wyndham. “Does it mean the writer is a murderer or not?”
“Let me see,” said Mr Glenville, peering over Ralph Lombard’s shoulder at the paper. “I don’t even recognise the writing,” he said. “Inspector Blakely, this is preposterous! What are you trying to do to us here? Rile us up until we all claw each other’s eyes out?”
“Not at all,” said
James. “I’ve almost finished. If everyone can quieten down, I will conclude my explanation. Please hand me that piece of paper, Mr Lombard.”
Ralph Lombard thrust it at him and returned to the seat next to his wife. Most of the faces in the room were turned toward Mrs Lombard. She seemed to be suffering terribly in response to the suggestion that she had written the brief note.
She produced a fan and wafted it beneath her chin. Her husband clasped a protective arm around her shoulders. I watched carefully and tried to imagine them causing Sophia any harm. I decided that they were capable of it. After all, Sophia had been unfaithful to their son. Her murder might have been an act of revenge, and they had no doubt hoped that Dudley could be married to Jane instead.
“Mrs Craughton,” James continued. “When a hothouse or conservatory is fumigated, potassium of cyanide is usually used, is it not?”
The housekeeper remained silent, but glanced around the room, as if the answer lay somewhere within it.
“Answer the question, Craughton,” barked Chief Inspector Cullen. “Did you use potassium of cyanide to fumigate the conservatory?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s reasonable to assume that there is a supply of cyanide somewhere in the house or inside the storage shed out in the yard?” asked James.
“It’s possible.”
“I find you quite evasive, Mrs Craughton,” said James. “You know more than you’re letting on, and I surmise that you’re either protecting yourself or someone else. I suspect it’s a bit of both.”
The housekeeper stared at him.
“It’s not true,” she said coldly.
“It’s not Mrs Lombard’s handwriting on this piece of paper, is it?” said James. “It is, in fact, yours.”
There were gasps from the attentive onlookers.
“You have no proof,” the housekeeper retorted.
“Actually, I do,” said James, leafing through his notebook again. “I kept the sketches of the drawing room everyone drew for me and Inspector Trotter. The writing on your sketch matches the handwriting on this piece of paper.”
“I didn’t draw that sketch,” she said. Her grey eyes were cold and reptilian.
“You can deny it all you like, Mrs Craughton,” said James, “but there’s no escaping the truth. It will be far easier for you if you’re honest with us now. It may have been you who secreted the packet of poison behind the portrait, but you didn’t carry out the poisoning of Miss Sophia on your own. You simply did what you had been asked to do. You carried out orders. Am I right, Mrs Craughton?”
The housekeeper said nothing.
“You’re extremely loyal to your employer, are you not? It was Mrs Glenville who instructed you to put the packet of poison in a place where she could secretly access it that evening.”
“That’s not true!” said Mrs Glenville defensively, rising to her feet. “I had nothing to do with it!”
I stared at her veiled face, struggling to believe the woman could have poisoned her own daughter.
“I think the jury will deliberate over the extent of your involvement, Mrs Glenville,” said James.
“No!” she shrieked. “No, they won’t! I had nothing to do with it! It was all him!”
She pointed at her husband.
Mr Glenville laughed. “You’ll try anything to escape your guilt, won’t you, Camilla? You would even accuse your own husband!”
“But it was you!” she cried. “You poisoned our daughter!”
“Why should I do that?” Mr Glenville asked with a smirk. “You’re suffering from delusions again.”
“She was in the way of your plans. She didn’t do what you wanted her to!”
“I do apologise, Inspector Blakely,” said Mr Glenville. “My hysterical wife is preventing you from finishing your most eloquent speech.”
Mrs Glenville charged towards her husband.
“Tell them the truth!” she screeched.
She lunged wildly at him, and I gasped as he grabbed her wrists.
“Camilla, please calm yourself,” he said softly.
“Tell them what you really wanted to do! How you planned for Dudley to marry Jane instead!”
“No!” Jane entreated. “Please no! Mother! Tell them it’s not true!”
Mrs Glenville tried to wrestle her wrists free from her husband’s grasp, but he gripped them firmly.
“You knew Jane would do anything you told her to,” she cried. “Once that gin distillery was yours, Ralph Lombard would have had no chance. You wanted to push him and his son out the way, just as you did with Archdale. It has only ever been about you!”
I felt my heart pounding heavily as I listened to Mrs Glenville’s words. Was there an element of truth to them? Or was she desperately trying to deflect from her own guilt?
“That’s enough, Camilla,” said Mr Glenville. “Why don’t you lift your veil and show them your face? The face of a murderess who pushed her own maid down the stairs.”
He let go of his wife’s wrists and pulled up her veil to reveal deep scratches across one cheek.
Mrs Craughton let out a cry. “My lady!”
“No!” Jane screamed.
Mrs Glenville’s face remained impassive. She pulled back the veil and made a move to leave the room. Inspector Trotter quickly caught up with her and took her arm.
“You’re right, Inspector Blakely,” said Mr Glenville. “Maisie had scratches on her arms because she put up a fight. It seems she injured the face of her killer.”
“Come with me, please, Mrs Glenville. The air is rather warm in here,” lisped Inspector Trotter.
Mrs Glenville said nothing as he led her out of the room.
Chapter 50
“Well done, Inspector,” said Viscount Wyndham cheerily. “I can scarce believe it, though. Could Camilla really have done such a thing? Whatever possessed her?”
“Maisie must have known who was behind Miss Sophia’s death,” replied James. “As each day went by, Mrs Glenville grew increasingly terrified that Maisie would talk. Unfortunately for Mrs Glenville, hers was a rather clumsy attempt at pretending that Maisie had taken her own life.”
Ralph Lombard stood to his feet. “Glenville,” he barked. “Is there any truth in what your wife says?”
“Nothing but the ramblings of a hysterical woman,” replied Mr Glenville.
“Am I in the clear now, Inspector?” asked Viscount Wyndham. “Are you satisfied that the potassium of cyanide on the chair I selected had nothing to do with me?”
“We’re not quite finished yet, Wyndham,” said James. “Bear with me for a moment longer. Remember our Mr Evans; the man we think murdered Elizabeth Wiggins? A cursory search of Mr Evans’ papers this morning revealed that he had been in contact with someone within this room.” He paused to look around. “And that person is Mr Glenville.”
I gasped.
“You’re wasting your time now, Inspector. You already have your culprit,” argued Mr Glenville.
“Have you ever met with a professional criminal who calls himself Mr Evans?”
“No.”
“Mr Evans’ papers reveal that you paid him the sum of one hundred pounds at the end of February. Is that correct?”
“I don’t recall giving money of any amount to a man called Evans,” replied Mr Glenville. His dark eyes never wavered from James’ face. “Perhaps he used a different name, but I certainly wouldn’t have paid money to aid someone in carrying out a nefarious deed.”
“Mr Evans is a nefarious man, Mr Glenville,” said James. “You paid him to murder Elizabeth Wiggins. It seems the nosy maid had heard too much.”
Mr Glenville laughed. “Wherever have you got this idea from, Inspector?”
“Elizabeth Wiggins, who you knew as Betsy, overheard you and your wife discussing how to rid yourselves of your troublesome daughter.”
“What nonsense, Inspector. You have no evidence to back up your preposterous claims!”
“As Miss Sophia grew into a young
woman, she demonstrated an independence of mind and a strength of character incongruous with your plans for her,” said James. “She was a modern woman who identified strongly with social reform, such as women’s suffrage and fair conditions for factory workers.
“Having betrothed her to Dudley Lombard while she was a young girl, you and your wife increasingly despaired as she became less consistent with your plans with each year that passed. As the wedding drew near and you learnt of her indiscretions, you felt that the girl had become more trouble than she was worth. Perhaps you had both hoped she would elope with her lover, and that would be the end of it. Only her lover wasn’t ready to leave. He had a family to support.”
Mr Glenville folded his arms and his face assumed a bored expression. “You’re an excellent storyteller, Inspector,” he said.
“In addition to your worries regarding how this rebellious young girl could ever manage the family business, you were also concerned about the shame she would inevitably bring to your family,” continued James. “Her attempt to run away was an embarrassment too far. What if the establishment discovered the trouble you were having with her?
“She was engaged to be married to the son of your friend, but then you have another daughter, don’t you? You considered whether Jane would be a more suitable wife for Dudley, and Mr Lombard had already proposed such a match. As your wife suggested, once the Lombard gin distillery was owned by your daughter Jane, it wouldn’t have been too much trouble to push the Lombards out.”
Mr Glenville chuckled and shook his head.
“Together, you and your wife hatched a plan to be rid of your daughter and fix the blame on Viscount Wyndham, a man you had many disagreements with over your son, Maurice. One of you deliberately planted the empty packet of cyanide on the chair upon which he had been sitting to shift the suspicion onto him.”
“Sheer foolishness, Glenville!” laughed Viscount Wyndham. “Looks like you’ll be needing a lawyer now, eh?”
