02 - Murder at Dareswick Hall

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Let me see.’ Cedric came over to her so that he could look at it over her shoulder as she held up the article. Rose read it aloud.

  ‘“London Murder Mystery

  The resources of Scotland Yard have been recruited in an attempt to solve the mysterious crime that occurred at a boarding house in Whitechapel last Thursday night, when the proprietress, a Mrs Higgins, discovered one of the boarders dead. The man, thought to be a foreigner, had been brutally stabbed. Despite extensive inquiries, the police have as yet been unable to narrow their investigations into any definite channel.’”

  ‘Oh, I say,’ exclaimed Cedric, ‘that sounds pretty grim. Are you sure that it was this article that caught her eye? What possible connection could Josephine have had with this crime?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it took place in London, which is where she went, and the headline would grab anyone’s attention. I just have a feeling that it was this one that caught her eye.’ Rose read it again. ‘I wonder…’ Her sentence remained unfinished as she became deep in thought.

  ‘Yes, what do you wonder?’

  ‘It’s just an idea that I have. But I want to think about it some more before I run it past you.’

  ‘Well, at the very least, we ought to try and find out who this murdered chap was, don’t you think?’

  They made their way to the study, where Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane looked up in surprise at the unexpected delegation. The policemen heard Rose out as she detailed her theory about the newspaper article being connected with Josephine’s sudden departure to London. At the outset both appeared genuinely interested in what she had to say, although she was aware of Deacon’s growing scepticism as the story progressed.

  ‘And you surmised this all from Miss Atherton saying “Oh” and sounding surprised?’ the inspector asked, raising one eyebrow incredulously. ‘Did you even see her glance at the newspaper? For all you know, she just used it to put the dead flowers on and never even looked at it.’

  ‘Oh, I know it sounds a bit far-fetched,’ admitted Rose, suddenly feeling a little foolish.

  ‘Just a bit,’ agreed Deacon, rather curtly.

  ‘Even so,’ said Rose, quickly, ‘you will find out who the murdered man was, won’t you? You’ll be able to do that easily enough. Scotland Yard are already looking into the murder. It’ll probably only take you a couple of telephone calls to find out.’ She stood before him excitedly, as if she expected him to make the telephone call there and then. And he probably would have done, he thought later, had not Cedric, who had remained silent during the exchange, decided to choose that moment to put his oar in.

  ‘I say, old chap, you might as well. I mean, it’s not as if you’ve got much else to go on, is it?’

  Rose bit her lip in agitation. She knew that Cedric did not mean to sound unkind or to imply criticism, but she was awfully afraid that Deacon might take it that way. His next words confirmed her worst fears.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ Deacon said, wearily, ‘but my sergeant and I have had a very long day, a couple of very long days in fact, and I’ll kindly ask that you don’t try and persuade us to prolong it any further.’

  ‘But –’ protested Rose.

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Simpson, we will look into it, just not this evening. Lane, here, will telephone Scotland Yard first thing in the morning before we come here, won’t you, Sergeant?’ It was a decision he was later to regret.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The late afternoon dragged on. There was little sign of Josephine or Isabella, who kept to their rooms, Josephine because something was obviously on her mind and Isabella, well, Rose was not quite sure why she did, other than that she did not wish to be interrogated by the others over the blackmail business. Or perhaps she just did not find the company very riveting. The baron was in a foul mood and best to be avoided. And Cedric spent most of his time with Hallam, trying to lift the boy’s sagging spirits. Rose sat on the edge, a casual observer. The second murder, somewhat surprisingly she thought given that the victim was a relative stranger and not popular at that, had hit them all hard. It was difficult now for them not to acknowledge that the murderer must be one of them, although the baron at least was holding out hope that it might be one of the servants. The tension in the air was all consuming and oppressive and Rose suddenly found that she was very tired, as if she had not slept or her sleep had been fitful. She had decided to have a lie down in her room, having been escorted there by an insistent Cedric, who refused to go back downstairs until he was certain that she had securely locked her door behind him. For good measure and because Cedric had been so adamant about it, she also leaned a chair against the door lest the murderer should happen to have a key to her room.

  She dozed and let her mind drift over the events of the last few days. Josephine, pleasant but preoccupied, Sneddon’s unexpected arrival and the reaction that had caused, Hallam’s concern that Josephine would be upset and then Josephine’s own apparent indifference. Her mind wondered to the conversation she had overheard between Sneddon and Isabella concerning the blackmail, the girl’s desperate, heartfelt plea that Sneddon not read the letters, and then Josephine’s reaction to being told that Sneddon was blackmailing her sister into marriage and the interest she had displayed concerning the original recipient of the letters. Rose thought of Josephine’s scar, ugly and hidden, and her sudden disappearance, and the newspaper article that she felt sure had in some way initiated it.

  She considered Sneddon’s change of heart and his wish to make amends, Isabella’s general behaviour and how she had confessed to all and sundry about the blackmail, and then produced the blackmail letters triumphantly and thrown them onto the fire to prevent them being read or enabling anyone to have a hold over her again. Rose thought of the baron’s temper and fury, of Hallam’s hatred of Sneddon, of Isabella’s wariness and downright contempt of her, and Josephine’s abject misery. She considered the unfortunate Ricketts, sly and scheming, done up in his ill-fitting suit of livery that could not disguise the man he was. She remembered the inept way that he had tried to play at being a footman, and the manner in which Isabella had leapt up from the table to go and change, her dress as good as ruined as a result of the fellow’s clumsiness.

  It all merged together in her mind; the bits and pieces floating alongside and on top of each other until she found that it was all piecing together, as if of its own accord, until she knew what had happened and why it had happened. She sat up in her bed with a start, her hand clutching at the eiderdown. She knew. She knew with absolute certainty and clarity, as if the killer had stood before her and confessed. She knew why there had been two deaths at Dareswick, why the murderer had seen the need to kill not once but twice. But more importantly, above all else, she now knew who the murderer was.

  Rose looked at her watch. She had not realised how late it was, or how long she must have dozed. The police had long departed for the day so there was no opportunity to talk to Inspector Deacon and tell him what she knew. Besides, it all sounded rather fanciful now that she went over it in her mind again to get it clear. Certainly it would involve a stretch of one’s imagination. What she really needed was corroboration that her theory was correct or, better still, a confession. But first she must dress for dinner and go through the ordeal of the meal, knowing what she now knew. She must share the table with a murderer and engage in small talk and pretend that nothing was amiss.

  She wondered for a moment whether to tell Cedric but she could well imagine his look of shocked disbelief. He would endeavour to keep the news to himself if she asked him to, but she doubted his ability not to betray what he knew by some small unwitting gesture. Certainly he would be quiet and reflective at dinner and the news would make him miserable. Rose bit her lip. She would keep the news from him until tomorrow then, when everyone would know. There was nothing to be gained by telling him any earlier, and yet she felt afraid to remain silent, knowing what she did. The murderer had developed a tendency towards killing, se
emingly thought nothing of committing murder to remove an inconvenient obstruction, and would kill again, she felt sure, unless stopped. She was uncomfortably aware that, now she knew the truth she was potentially in danger. She must be on her guard.

  The meal passed uneventfully and would have been in silence had not Cedric and the baron gallantly engaged in some forced conversation over some very trivial matter. Every now and then, Rose was called upon to contribute a few words to keep the conversation from dwindling. The baron’s children, she noticed, hardly said a word or even looked up from the tablecloth, their faces pale and haggard looking, their mood restive. As if by unspoken agreement, no mention was made of the murders, although the memory of them was never far away and seemed to linger in the room like stale cigarette smoke.

  Josephine came over to Rose in the drawing room after dinner, carrying her cup of coffee.

  ‘Crabtree happened to mention that he saw you and Cedric going into the study this afternoon.’ Josephine seemed anxious, fiddling with her cup and saucer to such a degree that she almost spilt the contents.

  ‘Yes, we had something to tell Inspector Deacon,’ said Rose, studying the girl closely who, in turn, was refusing to look her in the eye.

  ‘Oh?’ Josephine, Rose thought, was trying very hard not to appear too curious.

  ‘Yes.’ And before she could stop herself to consider for a moment whether or not what she was doing was wise, and because the situation was just so unbearable, Rose found herself blurting everything out to Josephine, as she had done in the garden the day before about the blackmail business. ‘I know what made you go to London, Josephine. And that’s what we told the police. It would be so much better if you come clean about it to the police yourself.’

  ‘Oh!’ Josephine’s hand shot to the side of her face, as was her habit. ‘I see. Did you tell them anything else?’ She added hurriedly. Her eyes, Rose noticed, had gone very wide.

  ‘Like who killed Lord Sneddon and his servant, you mean? No, we didn’t tell them that. We didn’t know, you see, not then. Only now I do. I suddenly realised just before dinner who did it and why. And I’m going to tell Inspector Deacon first thing in the morning. You’d –.’

  She broke off from what she was saying. Too late she realised that the whole room had gone silent. The gentle hum of conversation that had lulled her into a false sense of security had stopped abruptly a few moments earlier. Both Isabella and Hallam were regarding her with interest, and even the baron was looking at her curiously. Only Cedric seemed oblivious to what she had just said. Unless she was very much mistaken, everyone in the room except Cedric, even the servants pouring the coffee, had heard what she had just said to Josephine.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ‘Did you find any?’ asked Isabella, as soon as Josephine entered her bedroom later that night.

  ‘My Veronal? Yes, here it is.’

  ‘Will you be a dear and mix some in my glass of water for me while I take my necklace off. These jewels are very fine, but really this necklace is so jolly heavy.’

  ‘I can’t think why you decided to wear it in the first place. Here at Dareswick, I mean. It’s not as if you have anyone to impress here, is it? Or have you set your sights on Cedric now Hugh is out of the way?’

  Isabella stopped fiddling with the clip of her necklace and turned to look at Josephine. There was an uncomfortable silence where neither girl said anything.

  ‘And you brought my cocoa too? It was sweet of you to bring it up to me. And you have brought a cup for yourself, I see. I didn’t think you liked it, found it too bitter. Well, are you wanting us to sit down and have a nice sisterly little chat? I really do need to sleep you know, I’ve hardly slept a wink these last couple of nights, what with everything.’

  ‘The cocoa is not for me, it’s for Rose.’

  ‘For Rose? Are you taking it to her now? Oh, do be a dear and pass me my hairbrush, will you? I think it’s over there on my dressing table somewhere.’

  ‘I’m not your servant, Isabella.’ Even so, Josephine still went over to the dressing table in search of the hairbrush. ‘It isn’t here, you know. I say, Isabella, do you really need all these creams and potions?’

  ‘It must be in one of the dressing table drawers, then. Yes, the top right hand one, I think. Do have a look.’

  A few moments elapsed as Josephine rummaged through the contents of the drawer until she had located the elusive hairbrush.

  ‘We are very different, you and I, aren’t we?’ said Isabella, as Josephine passed her the hairbrush. ‘In character as well as looks, I mean. No one would take us for sisters, would they? You know, Josephine, I have always been rather frightened of you.’

  ‘Have you?’ Josephine said, slowly. ‘Funny, I’ve always been rather frightened of you. Especially after …’ her hand went up to her face.

  ‘Don’t!’ Isabella exclaimed. ‘Don’t be so beastly as to remind me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just that I am frightened, Isabella, as much for you as of you.’

  ‘How strange. You see, sister dear, I feel exactly the same way about you. Everyone thinks you are so kind, and good and reliable. They don’t see what I see. Then they’d realise that you’re nothing like that at all.’

  ‘Oh, Isabella.’ Josephine sat down on Isabella’s bed and suddenly burst into tears, ‘what am I to do; what am I to do?’ She hid her head in her hands and sobbed. Isabella watched on, unmoved.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Hodges,’ said Josephine, coming out of Isabella’s bedroom a few minutes later. ‘Would you mind taking this cocoa along to Miss Simpson? I promised I’d bring her a cup. But I’m suddenly feeling jolly tired and she is sure to want me to stay for a bit of a chat, and I’m afraid I’m really not up to it. I feel quite done in.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Josephine.’

  ‘Oh, and there’s just one other thing.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Miss Isabella is frightfully tired. Understandably she hasn’t been sleeping well, what with what happened to Lord Sneddon and everything. I’ve given her some of my Veronal for her to use. I’d appreciate it if you’d make sure that she isn’t disturbed tomorrow morning. I want her to have a bit of a lie in. I think it will do her the world of good, I really do.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Rose of Crabtree when she came down to breakfast the following morning. ‘Am I the first one down? I know it’s frightfully early but I just couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘The master’s taken a stroll outside, miss. He often does first thing in the morning, believes it sets him up for the day, and the young gentlemen are still in bed. Miss Josephine’s gone for a walk by the lake and Miss Isabella’s sleeping in this morning. Her sister asked that she not be disturbed on account of her not sleeping well lately.’

  ‘Miss Josephine said that?’

  ‘Yes, miss, she told Mrs Hodges yesterday, last thing.’

  ‘I see. And she’s gone for a walk alone by the lake, you say?’

  ‘Yes, miss. Beg pardon, miss, but the police inspector’s just arrived with the sergeant. I need to see to them.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I need to talk to them myself in a minute.’

  It occurred to Rose that she should really eat something. Goodness knew when anyone would feel like eating when she told the police what she believed to be true. But her appetite had quite deserted her. She was worried about Josephine, she realised. Why had she gone for a walk by the lake? Was it possible that…

  ‘Inspector Deacon.’ She was so relieved to see him, it was all she could do not to throw herself in his arms. ‘Please, it’s Josephine, she’s gone for a walk by the lake.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Simpson. And that worries you why?’

  ‘I think she may be going to throw herself in. Please, you have to stop her. We might be too late as it is.’ She found that she was clinging onto his sleeve in her desperation.

  ‘Quick, Lane, take a couple of the constables with you. And when you get her, i
f she’s in a fit state for questioning, I want her brought into the study. Miss Atherton is going to be answering questions this time, whether she likes it or not.’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ said Rose, ‘now that she knows it’s all over.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you know what happened and why it happened, Miss Simpson?’ Deacon asked, leading the way to the study.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. But first you must tell me about the man in the newspaper article, the one who has been murdered. Do you know who he was?’

  ‘Yes, and you were right, you see he was –.’

  ‘Claude Lambert,’ said Rose, hurriedly. ‘I’m right. Aren’t I?’

  ‘You are indeed, Claude Lambert, erstwhile lover of Miss Isabella Atherton.’

  ‘Oh, no, Inspector, you’re quite wrong there. You see, he was never in love with Isabella Atherton. No, he was in love with her sister, Josephine. Don’t you see? He was the man she was planning to elope with.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ‘No, I don’t see at all,’ protested Deacon. ‘This Claude Lambert chap must have been in love with Isabella Atherton at some point in time, otherwise why would she have sent him those letters, the ones that Sneddon used to blackmail her with? Surely you’re not telling me they were forgeries? Or are you telling me they were written by Josephine Atherton not her sister? All this time has Isabella been trying to protect her sister?’

  ‘No, I’m not trying to tell you anything of the sort, Inspector. You see, I said Claude Lambert was not in love with Isabella. I did not say she was not in love with him, or at least thought herself to be.’