Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  MURDER

  ON

  BONFIRE NIGHT

  by Margaret Addison

  A Rose Simpson Mystery

  Copyright

  Copyright 2016 Margaret Addison

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from Margaret Addison except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Rose Simpson Mysteries (in order)

  Murder at Ashgrove House

  Murder at Dareswick Hall

  Murder at Sedgwick Court

  Murder at Renard’s

  Murder in the Servants’ Hall

  Murder on Bonfire Night

  To Kate

  Chapter One

  Major Spittlehouse did not consider himself to be of a nervous disposition. Why, the Great War to end all wars had proved, if proof was needed, that if anything he veered towards the courageous type. While he did not feel compelled to follow danger, neither did he feel inclined to retreat from it. Rather, he gritted his teeth and faced it head on as best he could, just as he had been trained to do. It was, after all, merely a continuation of what he had been taught to do from a young age, like the long line of Spittlehouses before him, a distinguished group, stretching back into history, setting an example to man and beast.

  The major puffed out his chest proudly as he acknowledged that, on the battlefield at least, a Spittlehouse was a man to be reckoned with, to be relied upon; he was a man who generated respect equally among his superiors and subordinates. Major Spittlehouse coughed. Of course it was his own assessment admittedly, and one did not want to be thought boastful or conceited, but there it was. And there was little harm, he thought, in acknowledging the truth, particularly when it was only to oneself. He would never have voiced such a thing aloud. All of which, of course, made it somewhat embarrassing that a mere woman could reduce him to a timorous wreck, and not any woman, one’s younger sister at that.

  The major frowned and felt the colour creep unbidden and unwanted to his cheeks. Inwardly he cursed himself for his weakness, though thankfully there was no one present to witness his flushed complexion. He never had dealt very well with what he termed ‘unpleasant domestic situations’. Of course a woman’s tears would make any decent man feel wretched, and it was inevitable that Daphne would weep profusely, intermingled with great flashes of anger. In the normal course he considered himself to be a man of action, but in this instance, which would require such careful handling, he had an overwhelming desire to prevaricate, to bury his head in the sand like the proverbial ostrich and hope that the situation would resolve itself of its own accord without his interference.

  That was the effect that anticipation of a confrontation with Daphne always had upon him. It made him nervy; he could not think of a better word for it. And there would be a battle all right. There was no use deluding himself that she would be agreeable to what he had to say. You couldn’t reason with women the way you could with men. They became hysterical, their voices suddenly went shrill so that the servants could hear every word they said. Especially women like his sister. Impulsive, that’s what his parents had called her. And after … after that awful business, they had said that she wasn’t very strong. She had to be looked after, cossetted if you will, which had always made him laugh in a bitter sort of way because, if nothing else, surely Daphne had shown herself to be strong, at least in the physical sense of the word.

  He gave a deep sigh and stared around the soothing and familiar surroundings of his study. With some reluctance he rose from his captain’s chair, with its shaped mahogany back and seat upholstered in brown leather, worn soft and comfortable from frequent use. It felt as much a part of him as his neat, carefully trimmed moustache and filled a similar purpose. For he was vaguely aware that to a certain extent he hid behind the moustache as he would more successfully have hidden behind a beard if it had been in fashion. The favoured chair provided him with a similar haven, located as it was behind the great pedestal desk positioned some distance from the study door, a physical barricade between himself and any unwanted visitor. And he certainly would consider his sister an unwelcome guest, even though he had asked his manservant, Masters, to pass on the message to her that he would like a word. As soon as she returned from the village, he’d instructed him. Looking at his watch, he thought that would not be long now, for Sedgwick could possess few attractions for a woman like Daphne.

  He made a face and cursed his own stupidity. They should have their talk in the drawing room, not in here, the place he considered to be his personal sanctuary. His sister would taint it; she would destroy its peace and calm, that which he had so carefully cultivated. Her perfume, he knew from bitter experience, would linger annoyingly in the air for hours. It would take an age before the atmosphere was restored to the pleasing masculine smells of cigar smoke and whisky.

  It was too late now to do anything about it, too late to alter his instructions to his servant. For he could already hear Daphne’s footsteps in the hall, as he strained his ears to catch Masters’ voice.

  Major Spittlehouse waited with growing apprehension, imagining how Daphne had taken the news that she had been summoned to her brother’s study, a room to which she seldom received an invitation, and rarely chose to enter of her own accord. He pictured her tutting to herself, removing her hat with slow, deliberate actions; trying to string out the task to make him impatient, jabbing her hat pin in to the brim, pretending for all the world that it was him.

  To pass the time until his sister’s arrival, the major turned his gaze to the French windows, which looked out on to a well-tended garden. He watched with a degree of interest as his old gardener, Bennett, bent almost double, his back deformed with age, undertook the long, laborious work of removing all the summer bedding plants, placing them in open trays to be labelled and dried out in the Autumn sun, prior to storage. The grounds seemed almost irresistibly inviting, as if they were beckoning to him to step out and leave the house and its troubles behind him. Perhaps he was even tempted for a moment to acquiesce; certainly he was aware that for a brief time at least he faltered on the threshold between house and garden.

  He was brought to his senses abruptly by the sound of Daphne’s footsteps as she crossed the hall, loud and purposeful, her heels clicking on the maple floor of light and dark grey squares. She was on her guard, he thought; he could almost feel the hostility in her strides. He imagined it welling up inside her, as if her fury were his own. With each step she took it would rise within her so that he knew, with an awful sense of inevitability, it would brim over and she would explode in his study, angry and defensive, as soon as her brother dared raise the disagreeable matter that was foremost in his mind.

  ‘Well, what is it, Linus? What do you want to see me about? Couldn’t it have waited until dinner?’

  Daphne Spittlehouse had come into the study without knocking, and for all his waiting for the moment, her brother had been taken unawares. Certainly he was still staring out of the window with his back towards her when she opened the door, so that he was obliged to turn around too quickly, in rather an undignified fashion, to face her arrival. He was uncomfortably conscious of the look of surprise upon his face and instinctively felt himself to be at a disadvantage. His sister, in comparison, stood before him looking nonchalant and composed. And, unless he was mistaken, there was a faint
look of amusement in her eyes at his obvious discomfort.

  ‘Ah … yes. Masters gave you my message then, did he?’ He said rather gruffly as he tried to gather his thoughts.

  ‘He told me you wanted to see me,’ his sister replied giving him something of a cold stare, ‘which of course is why I’m here.’ She might well have added that otherwise she would never have considered setting foot inside his stuffy old study, but did not, though the implication was clear by her expression.

  The major cleared his throat and Daphne permitted her gaze to drift idly around the room, a contemptuous look upon her face as if she found the masculine air which hung about the place, unsoftened by a woman’s touch, vaguely depressing. She didn’t actually wrinkle up her nose, though she was sorely tempted to do so. And all the while her brother was staring at her, wondering how best to broach the subject on his mind.

  Now that she was standing before him, he noticed that his sister had not troubled to stop in the hall to take off her hat as he had supposed. Instead, she had marched straight in with it still upon her head, and a fox fur stole about her shoulders; she was pulling off her kid gloves even while she spoke. Idly, Major Spittlehouse noticed that her hat was a close fitting affair, almost a skull cap, with a fussy satin trim, which he did not remember having seen before; it reminded him of a Roundhead soldier’s helmet and he wondered whether Daphne imagined, as he did, that she was coming into battle. The wool tweed suit was new too, now that he came to think about it, unless he was mistaken, which was quite possible as he rarely noticed a woman’s attire, particularly not his sister’s. All the same, it was worrying and made him fear the worst.

  ‘Is that a new outfit?’ he inquired, ‘I must say, it looks jolly smart. Don’t tell me you bought it in the village?’

  ‘I haven’t been to the village, Linus.’ Daphne said and sighed. She sounded rather bored, ‘You know what a poor selection of shops Sedgwick has.’ She paused to take a deliberate breath. ‘If you must know, I caught the train to Bichester.’

  ‘To go shopping?’ The major inquired hopefully.

  ‘Don’t worry, Linus.’ Daphne sounded irritated. ‘I haven’t spent all my allowance. Would you like me to check with you in future before I buy a pair of stockings?’

  ‘Of course not. Now … you went shopping, you say?’

  ‘Actually, you said that. But as it happens I did. I went shopping, and then I went to the public library and changed my library books. All very dull stuff. You would have hated it.’

  ‘I daresay.’ Major Spittlehouse paused before continuing. It did not come naturally to him to interrogate his sister and he glanced out of the French windows, whether for inspiration or to muster his courage, it was hard to say. ‘That’s all you did, is it? In Bichester, I mean?’

  ‘Well … I … I did meet a friend for lunch.’

  Did he imagine that she hesitated for a moment before divulging this piece of information?

  ‘We went to a very quaint little place. I hadn’t been there before.’

  It was obvious to him now that his sister was trying to appear nonchalant. He noticed almost belatedly that her colour was raised, her cheeks crimson and her eyes bright. At first he thought it had come about by her irritation of him. After a few moments it dawned on him that she had entered the room like that; her heightened colour had been brought on by excitement, not anger, and now her high spirits were dashed. He felt a sudden stab of both dismay and guilt. How unpleasant all this was. She had come into his study cheerful and happy, so at odds with her usual dull and melancholy self, and now he had ruined it all for her.

  ‘You met a friend for lunch, you say?’ He persisted miserably, trying to match her own blasé tone with a casual one of his own; however, even to his own ears the lightness in his voice sounded forced. It was impossible to hide his apprehension. His worst fears, he felt certain, were about to be realised.

  ‘Yes. Archie Mayhew.’ The words came out of Daphne’s mouth slowly and deliberately, as if she were savouring them, knowing their effect. And, much to the major’s discomfort, he found that she was watching him closely, waiting for his reaction. ‘He’s an articled clerk or something or other at that law firm in Bichester. You know the one? You used them to draw up the papers when you bought that piece of woodland from old Mr Turner.’

  ‘Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker?’ supplied her brother.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. What a mouthful. It’s a wonder anyone remembers its name. Archie helped Mr Whittaker prepare the documents. You may recall him? He’s a frightfully handsome man, Archie that is, not Mr Whittaker.’

  ‘I do.’ The vision of a young man with dark, slicked back hair and an insolent grin immediately came into Major Spittlehouse’s mind. He decided there was nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns. ‘I take it this is the young fellow you’ve been seen running around with, the one that’s set tongues wagging in the village?’

  ‘How quaintly you do put things, Linus.’ There was a steely edge to his sister’s voice now. She looked inimically into his eyes. ‘If you ask me, the villagers here are too inquisitive for their own good. I suppose that is what comes from having such narrow, parochial little lives.’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘Sedgwick can go to the devil for all I care.’

  ‘Daphne!’ Major Spittlehouse looked appalled.

  ‘You needn’t look at me like that, Linus. I don’t care and yet, conversely, I can’t stand being gossiped about,’ retorted his sister, discarding her gloves on the top of a bookcase, which happened to be situated conveniently by the door. ‘Whose business is it anyway whom I go about with?’

  ‘It’s the talk of the village. Really, Daphne, I would have thought that you of all people would have had more sense.’ She responded to this comment with a crease of her brow and her brother hurried on valiantly, adopting what he hoped was a kindly manner. ‘My dear, you know you’re making quite a spectacle of yourself.’

  ‘Why? Because a woman over thirty is not expected to have any fun and enjoy herself?’ His sister’s eyes flashed back at him angrily. ‘Or is it perhaps because poor Archie is perceived as coming from the clerk class? Not that I see anything wrong with that myself. He works jolly hard to earn his daily bread.’ She paused to give her brother a withering look, which implied he had done very little to acquire his own wealth. The major recoiled under her glare, uncomfortably conscious of his thinning hair and his slightly portly figure, a man gone to seed. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t be such a snob, Linus.’ Daphne gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I suppose you and everyone else wants me to busy myself doing good works. You think at my grand old age I should be helping out at parish bazaars and taking my turn doing the flowers in church.’

  In one sudden, impulsive movement, that made her brother take a backward step, she threw herself into a chair, her actions so animated that her hat threatened to topple from her head.

  ‘You’d sooner have me die of boredom than live my own life. Is it really too much to ask to want something more than this?’ Daphne raised her arms in a theatrical gesture that seemed to encompass more than the room. She did not wait for her brother to reply, if indeed he would have done, before rising from her chair and pacing the room in an agitated fashion. ‘Oh, I don’t know why you decided that we should live in this awful little backwater, I don’t really.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Sedgwick,’ said Major Spittlehouse defensively. ‘It’s a perfectly pleasant place. A most delightful little village.’

  However, even as the words escaped his lips, he wondered whether his sister wasn’t right. Wouldn’t it have been better if they had made their home in a city, where they could have lived their lives quite anonymously, without drawing attention to themselves? It was not a new thought; it had plagued him often enough. They had chosen too open a place to live. People tended to pry into each other’s affairs in a village; they dug too deeply into one another’s lives, became too inquisitive.

  ‘But that’s just it, Linus,’ Daph
ne was saying, ‘it’s a village. There’s nothing to do here. Sometimes I think I will die with the mundaneness of it all.’ She rose from her seat and began to gesture at her brother wildly, throwing her arms in the air.

  The major braced himself in his chair, his eyes on her, watching her every movement as intently as a cat would a mouse.

  ‘Oh, why don’t we live in a town? Say we can. We could live in Bichester. It isn’t much of a place, but it’s better than this.’ Her voice had become shrill as she had become more passionate. She stared at her brother imploringly, but his answering look was not encouraging. A shudder passed through her body. ‘Anything is better than this,’ she added bitterly, turning away so that her gaze fixed now on the French windows and the view beyond. The ordered garden made no positive impression upon her. Instead, she thought only about the wretchedness of it all.

  All the while, Linus Spittlehouse stared at her apprehensively. He had hardly touched on the subject uppermost on his mind, but already he was aware of his sister’s growing agitation. For Daphne had at last removed the skull cap and was picking relentlessly at its satin trim with fingers that fidgeted and would not be still. There was going to be a scene, he knew with absolute certainty. His sister was going to become hysterical and as always he would be afraid of what she might say, anxious also that her voice would carry through the house so that her words would be overheard by Masters, and goodness knew what his manservant would think. The major’s only hope was that the man had retired to the kitchen to be with his wife.

  Major Spittlehouse took a deep breath. ‘Archie Mayhew,’ he began cautiously. But he had no opportunity to elaborate for his sister had swung around on his words, her face impassioned with something akin to rage.

  ‘I won’t give him up, Linus.’ There was a steely determination to her voice now; it had lowered in pitch. ‘I love him and … well, he loves me.’