Death Sits Down to Dinner

by Tessa Arlen

  “The sort used by fishermen to keep fishing nets anchored down,” her housekeeper explained.

  Together the two women stretched the ladder to its fullest extent across the floor.

  “It’s easily twenty feet long, maybe more,” Clementine exclaimed. “I see what you were doing hanging upside down from the window, Jackson. Now, tell me exactly what you have decided.”

  “Well, first of all I have to set the stage, as it were, m’lady. Before I had them moved, this large Chinese screen stood squarely here in front of the windows, blocking all the light and wasting space.” Mrs. Jackson disliked natural light being shut out of a room. “At the edge of the screen was that huge palm.” She waved her hand to indicate the potted palm now relegated to a distant corner. “And in front of the palm was this Chinese water jar. Do you see what I’m driving at, m’lady? With the setup the way it was, anyone could go behind the screen and not be seen by people in the room, and then they could step behind the closed curtains, slide up the window, and lower the ladder. It was probably already made fast to the screen.” She reached out a hand to shake the screen and it didn’t budge. “And look, some of the black lacquer is scuffed here on the screen’s foot from a rope burn. The potted palm was right in front so no one would have spotted it. It was quite simple, the person who murdered Sir Reginald was upstairs in the salon with you all evening.”

  “Good grief, Jackson, here in this room the whole time?”

  “Yes, m’lady, except for the time it took for him to climb down that ladder and back again. The Clumsy Footman’s job was to cause a distraction by spilling coffee, and as everyone’s attention was briefly taken up with that, and the last of the gentlemen arriving from the dining room, the murderer stepped behind the screen, went out the window, down the portable ladder, and landed on the outside sill of the dining-room window. The window had been unlocked by the Clumsy Footman earlier and he had probably secured the portable ladder, too, as no one could possibly have seen it behind the screen. So the murderer only had to slide the window up and climb in right behind the chair in which Sir Reginald was sitting.”

  “Yes of course, Jackson, how simply brilliant of you. He came into the room behind him and stabbed him with a nice strong backwards thrust right into the heart. He took Sir Reginald completely by surprise.”

  She then repeated her conversation with Detective Inspector Hillary, saying that blood loss from a wound delivered in such a way and with the knife left in place would be far less messy than if the knife was pulled out.

  “And Sir Reginald’s body further acted as a shield. Jackson, we are so close!” Clementine finished triumphantly with thrill of delight. Why was it you pondered a thing for days, waking at night, cudgeling away at an overworked brain trying to make sense of it, and then: voila!

  “Yes, m’lady. I am hoping that you can run over the time upstairs in the salon when the footman spilled the coffee.”

  Clementine walked over toward the piano. “Pity everything has been moved. Well anyway…” She closed her eyes momentarily to conjure up the scene in this room several nights ago. “Marigold Meriwether was sitting on one of two sofas … here, with Miss Kingsley. Lady Wentworth and Mrs. Churchill were sitting close, about here. Miss Meriwether was being congratulated on her engagement to Captain Vetiver. I was standing there talking to Lady Ryderwood. Adelaide was by the piano, organizing sheet music … Lady Cunard was wandering up and down this wall, looking at the paintings and waiting for the men to join us. Now where was Jennifer Wells-Thornton? Had she gone by then? No, of course not, she was with Miss Meriwether. Oh yes, and here,” she walked forward toward the double doors that gave entrance into the room, “were the first of the men arriving to join us from the dining room: Lord Montfort and Sir Henry Wentworth and that poor young flying officer; followed by Sir Vivian.

  “It was as we were talking to Sir Henry about hunting that the coffee was spilled.” Clementine turned back to where this had taken place on the sofa. “Hermione sent off the Clumsy Footman, that would be Eddy Porter, and then Adelaide, and then went off herself. Marigold pouted … Sir Vivian and Lady Cunard were here looking at paintings. I can’t remember who might be missing at this point. Have I accounted for everyone except Mr. Greenberg who came in later, Mr. Churchill, Trevor Tricklebank, and Sir Reginald? We were wholly absorbed in talking about cures for lameness. Wait a moment, where was Captain Vetiver? He came in as the Clumsy Footman was leaving, they passed each other in the doorway. Oh my goodness, Jackson, perhaps it was Captain Vetiver—yes, he came into the room and stood by the door just as the coffee was spilled and reminded Jennifer to go down as Mr. Tricklebank was waiting.”

  Mrs. Jackson interrupted her and related what happened next: “The Clumsy Footman went downstairs and had a cigarette in the area outside the servants’ entrance. So I think he was keeping the servants from going out there, because at that moment the murderer was climbing down the ladder to the dining-room window. Mr. Tricklebank and Miss Wells-Thornton had already left by then. So there was no one in the street to see what was going on. When I looked out of the salon window just now, m’lady, I was checking that it’s possible to look up and down the street and see if the coast is clear on the street from both the salon window and the dining-room window, and there is an unobstructed view on all sides. So the murderer came down the ladder immediately after the coffee was spilled, and killed Sir Reginald while Miss Gaskell was looking for pure spirit…”

  “Helped by Mr. Greenberg,” Clementine put in with delight that Mr. Greenberg was completely in the clear.

  Mrs. Jackson nodded vigorously, completely caught up in the moment as she took back the account of what had happened.

  “It cannot have been Mr. Tricklebank, Miss Gaskell, or Mr. Greenberg … or—”

  “—Mr. Churchill, who was in the library, shouting down the telephone! Jackson, it simply has to be Captain Vetiver. He cornered Sir Reginald in the dining room, and then was purposefully seen to leave by Mr. Jenkins while Sir Reginald was still alive. Vetiver comes up the stairs to the salon, and when he arrives, this is the signal to his friend Eddy Porter to upset the coffee. Then Vetiver slips behind the Chinese screen, the ladder has already been made ready, and all he has to do is slide open the window, lower the ladder … Oh my good grief! Of course it was Vetiver.” Clementine was so astonished that she had arrived at this conclusion that she held her breath and stared at her housekeeper, eyes wide with elated surprise.

  “What time is it, Jackson?”

  “Nearly a twenty minutes to seven; the guests will start to arrive in another fifteen minutes.”

  “Then we must appear to be normal and everyday. Is Captain Vetiver coming here tonight, can you remember the guest list?”

  Mrs. Jackson pulled her lists from her pocket and consulted the first neatly written sheet. “Yes, he is, m’lady.” She lifted the lid of the water jar and they carefully lowered the portable ladder back into it and put the lid on.

  “All right then, here is what I want you to do. Go downstairs and carry on. When Lord Montfort arrives, and he will be on time if not early, ask him to come up here to me. How is this room secured, Jackson?” In her excitement and agitation Clementine was already making for the corner of the room obscured from sight by the screen.

  “Just these double doors for the two rooms remain open, m’lady. The door from the gallery room at the back connects with the back stairs and is locked.”

  Mrs. Jackson was on her way out of the room when she turned as if to say something. But Clementine was already taking up her position behind the Chinese screen.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Up until now, Clementine’s attention had been focused on what had gone on outside the salon on the night of the murder. Now with the information that someone inside the salon had been able to leave the room unperceived, she wanted to piece together the entire story without interruption. Once more she replayed the scene in the salon just before and after the coffee incident; she knew
that she must be thorough and not impatiently jump to the most obvious conclusion.

  How long would it take someone to climb down the ladder, murder Sir Reginald, and climb back up the ladder to the salon? She went to the window, slid up the sash, and looked cautiously out. It was quiet in the street below, still a little time before guests started to arrive in earnest. But the mist lying on the river earlier had indeed become a fog and was rolling into the city, thickening with every moment into an impenetrable wall of gray damp. All of Hermione’s guests to the charity evening would be cautiously crawling along the streets in their motorcars, anxiously asking their chauffeurs if they would be late. Clementine worried that her husband would not be there when she depended upon his early arrival.

  She withdrew her head and closed the window after taking an assessment of the drop below her. It would have been the work of minutes to climb up and down the ladder if someone was agile and strong, she thought. Going down would be easy, coming up more difficult. Again, she tried to conjure up the scene in the salon from the moment the coffee had been spilled and became unsure where Vetiver had been at the time. She remembered talking to Lady Ryderwood about music and the opera, and from that point she carefully went over the arrivals and departures in the room, until she got to Vetiver. Surely he had joined Marigold Meriwether on the sofa, either to commiserate about her dress or to encourage her to buck up and stop sulking. But had he stayed there? She simply couldn’t remember.

  And why was Sir Reginald still in the dining room after everyone else had come upstairs? He had not joined them because he was waiting in the dining room to meet with his murderer. He was waiting for Captain Vetiver to return. Yes, of course, that’s exactly how it had been done. Vetiver had kept Sir Reginald in the dining room after dinner. He had left briefly, probably saying he would return, and then come up to the salon to establish his alibi. In the distraction over the spilled coffee he had slipped behind the screen, climbed down the ladder, stabbed the waiting Sir Reginald, and then returned to the salon.

  She was quite sure of herself now. And with this surety, all the excitement of working out who had been where and at what time, leading to Vetiver as the villain, evaporated. Should I be sitting here alone in this room? she asked herself. And what exactly am I waiting here for? She got to her feet to come out from behind her screen when the door into the room opened.

  Relief washed over her and she was about to call out to her husband when she heard the rustle of silk. It was not Ralph.

  How stupid she would look, she thought to herself, if this was Adelaide or Hermione. What on earth would they think to find her hiding out in a corner of the room behind the Chinese screen? Oh good heavens, what a fool I am. I hope I am not discovered. She held her breath and waited, praying that the whoever-she-was would go away soon.

  It was at this moment that her mind obediently obliged her earlier summons and revealed an image buried in her subconscious that stopped her preoccupation with social embarrassment dead in its tracks.

  Vetiver had been seated next to Marigold from the moment he arrived in the salon until the end of Lady Ryderwood’s song. How did she know this? Because Mrs. Churchill had said so: “I’m glad to see that Marigold is being told to rein it in by her fiancé, silly little thing. She should have left the room with Hermione’s companion to see to her dress and not sit there like a dowager having us all run in different directions.” Clementine had obediently glanced over at the couple and then resumed her hunting conversation with her husband and Sir Henry, immediately after which Hermione had announced that Lady Ryderwood would sing. Vetiver had been there with them all the time! He had not left the salon; he could not possibly be the murderer.

  She heard the person who had come into the room moving around. Was it Hermione counting chairs or rearranging flowers, or was it Adelaide coming to check on her sheet music? Oh dear God, Clementine realized in a horrible moment, if this is the murderer then it’s the Chinese jar they are after, and it’s been moved. She felt that moment of cold dread when you understand that you have made a terrible mistake. She shivered, the hairs on her arms bristled, and in a flash she knew, as surely as she knew that Lord Montfort had not yet arrived in the house, that she had known all along who the murderer was. “Che gelida manina!” Everything came together into a crescendo of understanding, superbly orchestrated. She was alone in the room with the person who had killed Sir Reginald.

  Sir Reginald? Here was where inspiration wavered and didn’t slide into place quite as smoothly and as neatly as it should. Sir Reginald did not fit as the victim for this murderer at all; there was no perceivable motive, surely? But undoubtedly his murderer was in the room looking for the Chinese jar, the jar that Clementine could see quite clearly in the far corner of the room. And if Clementine could see the jar, then she would also be seen when it was discovered.

  There was an exclamation of annoyance and she caught a movement at the edge of the screen, a flash of the shell pink beloved by Hermione. Clementine felt her stomach heave and she thought for one awful moment that she was going to be sick. A wave of heedless panic engulfed her and she wanted to cry out, Here I am! to get the awful moment of discovery over with, as if she were a child playing hide-and-seek and now, after a long and exciting wait, could no longer contain the suspense of being discovered.

  She swallowed and watched as the owner of the portable ladder walked over to the precious Jiajing jar and lifted the lid.

  Clementine felt elation and panic race through her body, practically paralyzing her. For there, bent over in the corner, was an immensely different creature altogether from the one she knew. This woman moved with decisive, brisk movements, there was power in the set of her shoulders and tremendous confidence in her movements; it seemed, somehow, that she was taller. This was not the lovely creature who habituated drawing rooms and theaters; this woman emanated determined purpose. She moved with the elastic confidence of an athlete, the sort of woman who could easily control and train the spirited horse that she said only her husband could ride. Lady Ryderwood was the true owner of Lochinvar! Clementine’s mind flashed back to the night she and Lord Montfort had left to go to dinner at Hermione’s house. Ralph’s voice sounded in her head:

  “Yes, I remember her husband well … he was confined to a wheelchair, poor chap, completely crippled by his war wounds. Awfully bad luck for a man who loved his horses…”

  The scales, as it says somewhere in the Bible, fell from Clementine’s eyes. Everything she had been led to believe about her new friend crumbled to dust. It was Veda Ryderwood who had climbed down the ladder, murdered Sir Reginald, and climbed back in through the window on that bitterly cold night. Her hands had been like ice! She had touched Clementine, seen her shiver, and laughed it off as stage nerves. Stage nerves! This woman had never been frightened in her life.

  Veda Ryderwood lifted out the silk ladder and gathered it up into a bundle, and with the weight still swinging she turned and looked straight at Clementine.

  Her stare, direct and penetrating, took Clementine in as if she knew she would find her cowering in her chair behind the screen.

  Lady Ryderwood said nothing in the second it took her to assess the situation. She dropped her ladder and closed the short distance between them in an agile bound and, reaching out an arm, fastened a grip of iron on Clementine’s wrist. She jerked her up out of the chair and turned her around all in one smooth and hideously capable movement. Clementine found herself with her arm twisted up tightly behind her back and pinned between her shoulder blades, with Veda Ryderwood’s chin digging into her shoulder.

  “Can you feel this, Lady Montfort?” Something hard pressed into Clementine’s back and she gasped with pain. “Yes, I see you do; it’s a gun. One peep and I’ll put a bullet in your liver. Agonizing, and you will die awfully slowly.”

  Fear froze Clementine from head to foot. She thought her heart was going to burst out of her chest. Lady Ryderwood let go of her arm and she carefully slid it down to h
er side, hardly aware that the sharp pain in her shoulder had now turned into a dull, aching throb.

  “I had you earmarked from the start as one of those women who can never quite mind their own business. How right I was.” Veda Ryderwood stepped back, pointing her gun.

  “Che gelida manina—your tiny hand is frozen.” Clementine said aloud the words that had meant little to her on that night; her Italian was particularly poor, and Lady Ryderwood smiled.

  “Yes, that’s right. Now you remember. But you remember far too late. I was cold, from climbing up the ladder in my underclothes.” She laughed as she saw Clementine’s look of disapproval. “My skirt detaches from my dress quite cleverly, it was the work of a moment to unbutton and drop it to the floor so I could climb the ladder. But when I came in through the salon window I brushed against you and you shivered. I thought you more alert than you actually are, and so I passed my cold hands off as stage fright.”

  “You killed Sir Reginald … but why?”

  “Yes, I killed him, and now I’m going to have to include you in the last part of my plans and then kill you too. A pity really, as you are the only really decent person I’ve met since I came back to this godforsaken country with its unbearable, complacent arrogance; so convinced that every one of you is born to rule.”

  “It’s your country too…”

  “Oh really? I don’t think it is. My mother was Dutch, my father German. I married an Englishman certainly, but that most doesn’t make me English. He was another stupid fool who thought that the English were God’s appointed. Take away your colonies and dominions and what are you after all? A bunch of uneducated, isolated barbarians with nothing to recommend you, and now you will lose your empire to a country that knows how to govern.”

  “Germany? That’s quite ridiculous!” Clementine laughed. Keep her talking, she said to herself. Ralph will surely come through that door in a moment.

  “Yes, that’s right, Lady Montfort, Germany. The German culture is more educated, refined, and elevated than that of England any day. I’ve spent an amusing eight months watching you all. There is nothing this country has of any value, except its industry, its steel mills, and its lucrative colonies. Britain has become a culture wholly obsessed by money, with no real interest or comprehension of music, literature, or philosophy; a culture completely empty of intellect and certainly with no obedience from its social inferiors. Your monarchy is borrowed from Germany, even the cuisine you enjoy is French. It’s astonishing that your greatest writer of this century is a dolt like Rudyard Kipling and your most notable composer is Elgar!”