But before she would allow herself to spend any more time dwelling on the matter and making herself feel miserable, for she had an unbearable, overpowering feeling that the outcome of their relationship was inevitably doomed, she must solve Lord Sneddon’s murder. Only then could things return to normal. Only then could she think about their future. Inspector Deacon’s belief in her ability to help the police investigation had buoyed her spirits in that area at least and she realised now, as she stood hesitantly in the doorway to the garden room, that she had an overwhelming wish to redeem herself in his eyes. With the best of intentions she had held things back from him and he had been disappointed in her. Rose remembered the look on his face. She was determined to restore his good opinion of her. For some reason that she could not quite fathom it mattered very much to her.
There was something else nagging at her conscience that made her feel that she must see that justice was done. Irrational though it might be, she could not shake the feeling that she had in some way contributed to Sneddon’s death. True, she had not snatched the little golden dagger and plunged it into his back, but she had encouraged his change of heart, shamed him into making amends. Had this in some way led to his death? Had he not been feeling so distraught and guilty would he be alive now, a patronising sneer on his arrogant face, a cutting remark falling from his lips? In life she had disliked him very much. In death she had resolved to seek out the person who had brought about his violent end.
This renewed purpose lifted her spirits somewhat. She cast a glance at Isabella but the girl was purposely ignoring her. No doubt she had felt compelled to tell Cedric and Hallam about the wretched blackmail business lest Rose did so. Inwardly Rose cursed herself. She should have told Isabella that she had no intention of mentioning anything about it to the boys. No wonder Isabella did not like her. She could not blame her any more than she could bring herself to sit in this room and endure an uncomfortable and inevitable silence. But where could she go? To her room seemed the obvious answer but she did not want to shut herself away and feel isolated. Without Cedric beside her she suddenly felt very alone and unwelcome in this house. How she wished Josephine were here talking about comforting, inane, trivial matters. Why, she wouldn’t even mind now if she went on endlessly about bulbs and flowers …flowers! There was something significant about flowers and Josephine but she could not at this minute think quite what it was. She had wandered in the gardens on two occasions with Josephine when the girl had been nattering on pleasantly about everyday things. And Josephine had arranged some flowers in a vase. Flowers and Josephine, always flowers and Josephine and something of importance, if only she could think what it was.
The association with flowers made her decide to venture outside in the grounds. Her head ached, as much from her lack of sleep the night before as from the shock of Sneddon’s murder, and fresh air would surely do some good. Although Cedric had said that the police wanted everyone to stay on the premises, she assumed that this included the gardens and not just the house. Certainly Cedric was of that opinion if he were considering taking a stroll with her later.
With one last look at Isabella, who was trying hard to appear oblivious to Rose’s very existence, she sighed and fetched her cloche hat and tweed coat and let herself out into the garden.
The fresh air whipped around her face and Rose drank it in, savouring the moment. She had not realised until then how claustrophobic and stifling the house had become and how much she had felt trapped and shut up in it like some prisoner. Inside she had not been able to think. It had been as if the very air inside the Hall had fuddled her brain, but outside in the fresh air her mind became active again, awoken from its forced hibernation. Now that she had emerged into the gardens she felt a certain clarity, and perhaps more importantly, confidence. She had been instrumental in solving the case at Ashgrove, she reminded herself; she could be the same here. All she needed to do was to think through things logically, piece together the bits of the puzzle, and she would arrive at the answer as she had done before. It would give her a sense of purpose, something to focus on, so that she was not forced to sit there and just play a sort of waiting game. And she would restore her standing in Deacon’s eyes, a little voice said, but she chose to ignore it for that was secondary after all.
Having made a decision on how to proceed she wondered why it had taken her so long to do so. It was only when her eye caught sight of the rosebush that she realised why. She had known all along who the most likely murderer of Lord Sneddon was, although she had been reluctant to admit it to herself. Certainly she had no wish to send that person to the gallows.
‘Well, sir, I can’t see that the baron would have had a motive for wishing old Sneddon dead,’ said Sergeant Lane, standing before the fireplace and holding his hands out before him to catch the warmth from the flames. He flexed his fingers which ached from all his note taking. ‘The exact opposite’s the case, I’d say. He’s the only one who was pleased by his daughter’s engagement to the fellow. Bit of a snob, I’d say. Couldn’t believe his luck that his daughter was going to marry a duke’s son. He’d be beside himself when she became a duchess and all. Something to brag about at his club.’
‘Yes’, agreed Inspector Deacon, ‘he certainly appears to be that type of a fellow. One to be happy to have his daughters enter into marriages of convenience whether or not they happened to like the chaps in question. And if what everyone is saying is true, about there being a time when Sneddon and Josephine were close, then he doesn’t seem to have had any qualms about upsetting his eldest daughter. One would expect any father who cared for his daughter would want to break the news to her gently himself, if only to gauge if it would upset her because she still had some feelings for the man.’
‘Whereas in this case,’ said Lane, ‘the baron didn’t seem to give a damn. Was in an untimely rush to announce the engagement as well, if you ask me. He could have waited until yesterday to have made the announcement. Seen how the land lay, so to speak.’
‘I wonder whether he was worried Isabella Atherton might change her mind,’ pondered Deacon. ‘It made it dashed more difficult for the girl to break it off if everyone knew about it.’
‘Which would explain, sir, why he was so angry with Hallam regarding his outburst,’ said the sergeant. He paused to flick through his notes. ‘According to Lord Belvedere, young Hallam begged his sister not to marry Sneddon, in front of everyone too, even the servants. The baron must have been afraid Sneddon would take offence and walk out.’
‘Yes, he wasn’t to know how strapped for money he was. I’m beginning to think Sneddon chose Isabella to marry as a bit of a last resort. He can’t have imagined that the marriage would ever have been a happy one.’
‘Not given that he’d blackmailed her into it rather than turned on the charm and persuaded her to marry him of her own free will.’
‘The man was desperate, Lane, we’ve got to remember that. He hadn’t sufficient time to charm the girl. He was involved in blackmail and theft, for goodness sake, and who knows what else.’ Deacon sighed. ‘Anyway, getting back to the baron who was happily oblivious to all this. He was probably the only person in this house who wanted Lord Sneddon present and for him to marry his youngest daughter. Although…’ he paused and sat for a few moments in contemplation.
‘Although?’ prompted the sergeant, eagerly, after a few moments had elapsed.
‘Well, I was just wondering, Lane. We say that the baron was keen for his daughter to marry Sneddon, but I’m just wondering if he would have been so keen if he’d found out just some of the truth about the man.’
‘What do you mean, sir? Are you talking about the blackmail and the stealing?’
‘I was actually thinking more along the lines of finding out our Sneddon was hard up and had a list of creditors as long as his arm. Even the baron would have reservations about his daughter becoming destitute. He wouldn’t want to see Sneddon waste her dowry on paying off gambling debts no matter if she was able to
put “duchess” in front of her name in a few years’ time. No, that could definitely have soured his mood towards Lord Sneddon.’
He began pacing the room. ‘But you’re right, Lane, he could have got wind of the blackmail business or the thefts, or both come to that. And he wouldn’t have taken too kindly to either of those, would he? Even he would resent his daughter being blackmailed into marriage, and he’d hardly just stand by and let his guests be robbed in his own house, now would he? And we know he’s got a temper. Loud and jovial when things are going his own way, didn’t Miss Simpson say? But prepared to fly into a temper when things don’t. Look how angry he was with Hallam Atherton when he spoke out of turn about Sneddon being there. And that poor footman. He dismissed the man on the spot.’
‘You don’t think Sneddon could have been blackmailing the baron too, do you, sir?’
‘All things are possible, Sergeant. I could well imagine a man like the baron having a few murky secrets in his past or a mistress in town that he doesn’t want his daughters to know about.’
‘So the baron might have had reason to wish Sneddon dead after all?’
‘It’s certainly possible. We shouldn’t rule him out as a suspect quite yet. But, moving away from suspects for a moment, Lane, there’s something that’s been bothering me about the murder itself that I’ve been meaning to talk over with you ….’
She must go through the list of suspects logically. That was the only way to do things. She would find a bench and sit and think with the cool air blowing on her face. Thank goodness it was only cold and not raining. She could not bear the idea of going back into the house just yet. Cedric, she felt sure, would still be with the baron. No doubt trying to stop Hallam from arguing with his father or else offering a comforting shoulder, because who really knew how Hallam was feeling about it all? He had been jolly rotten to Sneddon, of course, not that the man hadn’t deserved it given what he had put the whole family through. The way he’d treated Josephine and the young maid with the village thinking that Hallam had been to blame. But Sneddon was dead, had been brutally murdered, cut down in his youth as his brothers had been. Who was to say that Hallam didn’t feel a sense of guilt or shame now? He might even this very moment be wishing that he had behaved differently.
Unless of course he was the murderer, said a little voice inside her head. It was tempting to dismiss the idea but Rose had set herself the task of finding the murderer and Hallam was a credible suspect even if the idea of him killing Sneddon was unpalatable, given how very young he was.
She opted for a wooden bench beside one of the gravel drives that edged the formal gardens and gave a good view of the Hall and consequently anyone who happened to venture outside, should Cedric come out to find her, or Inspector Deacon, she thought as an afterthought.
She didn’t want to think for one moment that the murderer might be Hallam, but he was young and impulsive and she could easily imagine him convincing himself that it was the right thing to do to protect his sisters. Cedric had admitted that he had put the idea into the boy’s head that Isabella was being coerced into marrying Sneddon. She would have said that he was not the violent type, certainly not the sort of fellow to kill a man in a cowardly, cold-blooded way. But he had once attacked Josephine, she reminded herself, attacked her badly enough for the scar to still be visible all these years later. But he had bitterly regretted it ever since, Josephine had said so. He could not bear to be reminded of what he had done so she made sure to keep the scar hidden. Hallam could have done it, Rose eventually admitted to herself, in a fit of anger he could have struck Sneddon, as he had done his sister all those years before, but he would have regretted it instantly. She could imagine him standing over Sneddon shaking, his face white and his lips trembling. If he had done it, she thought, he would have stayed at the scene and taken responsibility for his actions. He wouldn’t have slipped away to escape the consequences. Besides, he would have been in shock, he would have been unable to move even had he wanted to.
But, said the little voice in her head, it was probably hours between the time Sneddon was killed and when he was discovered by Doris, the maid. Even someone in deep shock might have recovered his wits sufficiently by then and crept away from the scene. Yes, said another voice, but would he have been able to keep to himself what he had done? Hallam was just the sort of young man who would go to pieces and confess or show some other sign that gave the game away. She thought back to how he had appeared to her in the garden room. He had been distressed by the murder as they all had been and, now she thought back on it, she remembered that he had appeared particularly agitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. He had been particularly concerned too about Josephine and whether her sudden vanishing act could be interpreted as her having had a hand in Sneddon’s death, she remembered. Exactly as he would act and feel, she realised, if he were afraid that his sister would be blamed for his crime.
And who was to say that he had not confessed to what he had done? Certainly he had not confessed to the police but that did not mean that he had not confessed to someone else. Who was to say that he had not confessed to his father and Cedric and that was the reason they were all holed up so long together? Perhaps the tale of trying to get hold of the Duke of Haywater and deciding exactly what to tell him was just a ruse to give them time together to decide what to do to save Hallam from the gallows. Even now they might be planning to stow him away in the dirty laundry sent out to be washed. A fast car might be ready to take him to the coast so that he could set sail for America or India, or anywhere else where he might be able to lose himself, until the hue and cry had died down and the police had lost interest in the case.
But surely Cedric would have told her or, even if he had been sworn to secrecy, he would have given some tell-tale sign that would have given the game away. But then she had seen so little of him this weekend. And what time they had spent together, they had rarely been alone. She stifled a sob. Please, she prayed, don’t let it fizzle out before it’s even really started, I couldn’t bear it.
Chapter Twenty-seven
‘But I’ve already told you, Mr Crabtree, I didn’t do it!’ wailed Robert. He had been summoned to the housekeeper’s sitting room and been alarmed to find, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, both the butler and Mrs Hodges bearing down on him and interrogating him about every aspect of his movements the night before. They had eyed him suspiciously as he had answered each question and he was left with the distinct impression that they only half believed what he was telling them. The housekeeper in particular was looking at him very strangely, he felt himself flinch under her penetrating stare. His mouth went dry and suddenly he found that his collar was too tight and was beginning to rub the back of his neck, as if too much starch had been used.
‘It’s very important you tell us the truth lad,’ said Mrs Hodges, ‘Mr Crabtree and me, we only want to help you but we can only do that if you tells us the truth. Isn’t that right, Mr Crabtree?’
‘It is, indeed,’ agreed the butler, taking over. ‘Now, Robert, you’re quite sure you didn’t go back downstairs for anything after everyone had retired to bed. Nothing that you’d forgotten? A book perhaps, or a pencil, something insignificant like that that you may have gone back down for?’
‘I’ve already told you, I didn’t, Mr Crabtree. I went to bed as soon as you sent me up. Do you remember you sent me up rather early on account of your not wanting me to run into the master? You said as he would more likely than not have me thrown off the grounds if he caught a glimpse of me. And I knew you were keen to lock ‘em doors to the attic and get to your bed yourself, and who wouldn’t after the day we’d had? All the fetching and carrying and cleaning and polishing and them upstairs, they have no idea of all the work we do to make sure everything goes like clockwork like.’
‘Which it certainly didn’t do last night when you doused Lord Sneddon with boiling soup,’ admonished Crabtree sternly, feeling obliged to make some form of retort as Robert had c
riticised their betters and, perhaps more importantly, their paymasters.
‘I did have half a mind to go down and kill the man, I admit,’ said Robert, sullenly. Mrs Hodges put a hand to her heart and looked as if she were about to faint. ‘But I didn’t mind you,’ he added hastily, seeing the effect of his words. ‘Not that he didn’t deserve it after what he made poor Mabel do. But I was afraid to when I thought about it. Not the killing part, I’d have had no problem doing that, it was the consequences that I was afraid of, you know, getting caught and letting you and Mrs Hodges down, Mr Crabtree, after all you’ve done for me and all.’
‘If the police happen to interview you again, for goodness sake keep that bit about wanting to kill Lord Sneddon to yourself, Robert,’ said the housekeeper somewhat recovered from her fright. ‘They’ll be looking for a scapegoat, someone to pin the murder on, you mark my words if they’re not.’
The footman decided not to tell her that he had already confessed as much to Sergeant Lane.
‘Robert, did you know that the door to the attic was unlocked last night?’ Crabtree said, carefully. ‘I must have forgotten to lock it which was very remiss of me, although I could have sworn I had.’
‘You did, Mr Crabtree,’ the boy said eagerly, ‘’cause I saw you do it. And I heard you do it too.’
‘I thought I had!’ The butler sounded as if he had scored a point. In truth he had been wondering whether he was becoming rather forgetful with age. It was a relief to know that he was not declining with the years. ‘I will be that glad when we get back to normal and I don’t have to go about locking doors and the such,’ said the butler with feeling. ‘But this morning the door was open when I tried it, I can’t explain it.’
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