She returned her attention to the pie, purposefully turning her back on her husband who shrugged and left the room. Despite her bluster, she could not rid herself of a sudden irrational feeling of foreboding as she put the pie in the oven, burning herself in the process.
Major Spittlehouse sat at the desk in his study, staring in to the middle distance, a somewhat vague expression on his face. Evening was approaching and the darkness outside was mirrored by the appearance of dark shadows under the major’s eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, so that he seemed to have aged in the space of a few hours. The envelope that had caused such intense interest and speculation downstairs in the kitchen was now clutched in his hand, and was badly creased. Had an observer to the scene been present, he would have noticed that the envelope had been opened and relieved of its contents. Indeed, the single sheet of notepaper that it had contained was laid out prominently on the desk in front of him, the page turned over so that the message scribbled on it was hidden, as if the major found what was written to be too distasteful to read. After a while, however, Linus Spittlehouse’s attention was drawn back to the offending piece of paper, but with such seeming reluctance that it appeared to be contrary to his natural inclination. Indeed, it was as if it the letter held for him a morbid fascination so that it attracted him as much as it repulsed him. With a sharp intake of breath, as if preparing himself for the ordeal and against his better judgment, the major turned over the paper and reread the words that had placed him, only a few moments before, in such a quandary, dredging up the past as it had.
The hand was unknown to him and it had therefore taken a few moments to realise that a threat lurked within the paper’s folds, and another few moments to digest completely the letter’s contents. With a growing sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, it became all too apparent that the correspondent was aware of the Spittlehouses’ murkiest secret, the one unfortunate event that had dominated his life and which he had been at particular pains to keep hidden. And, as Linus Spittlehouse sat staring into space with that deceptively impassive expression of his, it slowly dawned on him that all his efforts had been in vain. It was as if all the sacrifices he had made, all the trouble he had been to, had been for nought. Yet he was aware also that a part of him did not feel surprised. Hadn’t he always known that it would come out in the end? As each year had passed, while part of him had grown complacent, had not another part of him feared that discovery was ever nearer, that it loomed on the horizon? And now here it was, their ruination, contained in this innocuous looking little letter written on a sheet of cheap notepaper.
He had thought matters could not get much worse. The scene that afternoon with his sister had been particularly upsetting, for he had not anticipated her threat. And now this, following on its heels as it had, well … it was too much. He felt the strain of it threaten to overpower and consume him. A part of him was even tempted to let go and succumb to the inevitable …
He was brought to his senses by the sound of his manservant’s footsteps in the hall. Masters, he realised with a start, had thought the letter suspicious. Now that he recollected the way that the man had entered the room and handed it to him, holding the envelope out to him by one corner rather than placing it on the silver salver reserved for the post; it had been distinctly odd behaviour. It was as if the servant had feared the packet’s contents. Major Spittlehouse stared again at the envelope. The absence of a postmark particularly troubled him. It had obviously been hand delivered and yet the handwriting was unfamiliar to him. There had been a pretence at a signature though it was so illegible that it may as well have not been written. He read the letter for a third and final time before disposing of both it and the envelope in the fireplace. He watched with satisfaction as the flames curled around them, reducing them to cinders. It was a hollow victory, however, as he was in little doubt that this was not the end of the matter. This letter, which asked for nothing save that he remember the ghastly deed that had been done all those years ago and acknowledge the effect on the Spittlehouses’ standing in the community should it become common knowledge, was surely merely paving the way for the letters that would follow.
Major Spittlehouse stifled something which sounded suspiciously like a sob rather than a sigh. Blackmail, it must be blackmail. The writer could have no other intention unless of course it was to humiliate him, to watch him cower and tremble as every fretful moment he feared exposure to be looming, an everlasting damage to the Spittlehouses’ good name. When faced with the two alternatives, he realised that he did not know what he feared most, to be financially indebted towards some unknown person or to have his reputation balanced precariously in the hands of this entity, whom might seek to destroy it at any moment on a whim.
The letter had been hand delivered. The significance of this fact had struck him immediately and forcibly, as if he had been physically hit in the chest. The writer had been in the village; was it not likely that he was still here? Even now, might he not be loitering in the street, or passing the time of day with the shopkeepers? Perhaps at this very moment he was outside the house, staring up at the windows, wondering if he, Linus, was reading those awful words that he had scribbled and was turning pale. On an impulse, the major dashed to the window and threw aside the drapes. But of course he could see nothing, for the windows overlooked the garden and besides it was dark outside. As he turned away from the window, defeated, the door handle moved and Masters came into the room, his reassuring presence restoring some sanity to the major’s thoughts.
‘Masters, this letter …’ Major Spittlehouse paused to pick it up from his desk before remembering that he had cast it into the fire, ‘the … the one you brought me a little while ago, did you see who delivered it? I’m afraid I couldn’t quite read the signature. It must be my eyesight …’ He allowed his words to trail off into nothing.
‘No, sir, I’m afraid I didn’t. And neither did Mrs Masters.’ The manservant coughed rather apologetically. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, sir, it was all rather odd. The letter, it wasn’t pushed through the letterbox as you might have expected. No, it was pushed under the garden door, the one leading off from the passage by the scullery. Whoever delivered it must have come through the garden gate from Lovers’ Lane. We don’t keep it locked during the day as a rule on account of Mrs Masters using it to walk in to the village if she suddenly finds she’s took short and is in need of supplies. Takes a quarter of a mile off the route by road it does, because you can cut across Blue Meadow and –’
‘I am sure it does,’ said the major hurriedly. Now that he had learnt what he had, he had no wish to prolong the interview with Masters and fuel the man’s idle curiosity. Rather, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone and for his servant to return to his duties. For he was sure Masters was curious about the letter, had been ever since he had delivered it into the major’s hand. Hadn’t he stood beside him expectantly, even offered to slice open the envelope with the major’s own letter opener as if he were of the opinion that his master was incapable of doing such a simple task? It was surely as obvious to his servant as it had been to him that whoever had delivered the letter had gone to considerable effort not to be seen.
A silence followed and, as the two men who had witnessed so much action together in the battlefield stood opposite one another, Spittlehouse looked at Masters in a searching fashion. He wondered if the same thought had occurred to his old batman as had suddenly come in to his own head. For the major had assumed that the letter-writer must be a stranger who had made a daytrip to the village of Sedgwick with the express intention of delivering the letter. But if so, why go to such measures to conceal his identity? Would it matter so very much if he was seen if his intention was merely to disappear back from whence he had come? And how had he known about the lane and more precisely the garden gate leading off it to Green Gables, which was so obscured from view by a mountain of climbing ivy as to be almost invisible to a casual observer?
No, though th
e thought was abhorrent, was it not more likely that whoever had delivered the letter, and more importantly written it, was someone known to the major? A local in fact? Yes, now that he thought about it, certainly he must be a villager, and perhaps even, though he could hardly bring himself to entertain the idea, an acquaintance or even someone he considered to be a friend? Of course there was nothing to say that the writer was a man. Weren’t anonymous letters more usually associated with women? Major Spittlehouse shuddered. All of a sudden the danger seemed much closer to home.
Chapter Three
Lady Belvedere put aside her breakfast tray and stretched idly in a contented fashion, luxuriating in the fact that, as a married woman, it was deemed perfectly acceptable for her to take her breakfast in bed. A part of her protested at the decadence of it all, contrasting so sharply as it did with her previous existence, before her recent elevation in society. After all, it was not so many months ago that she had been attending on others in her role of shop assistant in Madame Renard’s rather unremarkable dress shop in an unfashionable part of London. Her position there had been little more than that of a servant, and the novelty of her changed position, together with its associated privileges, was yet to lose its shine and diminish.
Pushing back the bedclothes, she rose, draped a negligee about her shoulders and made her way to the windows to marvel at the view which, though familiar now, always took her breath away. Her bedroom was situated at the back of the house and overlooked the formal grounds and the parkland beyond. Hidden within the park she knew were sunken ha-ha fences, which gave the illusion that each piece of park, no matter how differently managed or stocked, was one for as far as the eye could see. Capacious lakes, cut into the ground at different levels, similarly gave the impression of one vast single body of water. If she focused her eye on the horizon, she could just make out one of the many follies that were dotted about the place, a tower bearing a resemblance to the one in the story of Rapunzel.
‘M’lady; her ladyship,’ she whispered to herself, leaning her head against the windowpane, and then slightly louder, as if she were making an address: ‘The Countess of Belvedere.’
She was merely referring to herself and yet how grand the words sounded and how foreign to her ear. It hardly seemed possible that everyone without exception in the village and its surrounds would address her as such, would curtsy when they saw her or doff their caps and treat her with a deference she had never previously known. It was too fantastic, and also a little frightening. The same part of her that had objected to the self-indulgence also clung stubbornly to her maiden name, reluctant to relinquish it forever.
‘Rose Simpson,’ she said, and she heard the note of urgency in her voice. ‘Rose Simpson; I’m still me. Underneath it all, I’m still me.’
She started as her door opened and a housemaid entered to collect her tray. It occurred to Rose that, unlike herself, the girl had probably been up for hours.
‘Shall I run your bath, m’lady, and lay out your clothes?’
‘Yes, please do,’ said Rose. ‘I think I’ll wear my navy blue Poiret twill suit. Betty, isn’t it?’ The girl nodded. ‘Betty, do you know when Miss Evans will be arriving?’
Rose had first encountered Edna Evans sobbing bitterly in the kitchen garden at Ashgrove House, where Edna had occupied the lowly station of scullery maid. By chance, their paths had crossed again a month or so ago in the servants’ hall at Crossing Manor, Edna having risen by then to the position of kitchen maid.
‘Later today, m’lady; least that’s what Mrs Farrier says. I’m to do her room next, air the bed and dust like. Quite a large room she’s to have; quite as big as Miss Denning’s.’
Rose smiled, wondering how Edna would like having a room of her own that she was not obliged to share with another servant. Aloud she said, recalling the servants’ bedrooms at Crossing Manor: ‘Is it in the attic?’
The housemaid nodded. ‘All the servants’ bedrooms are, m’lady, save of course for the chauffeur’s, which is over the garage, and Mr Manning’s. His bedroom is off the butler’s pantry, so he can keep an eye on the family silver and the safe. Least, that’s what Mr Torridge used to say when he was butler.’
Rose thought of the mean little attic rooms at Crossing Manor with their dull, sage green walls and bare floorboards. She had occupied one of the rooms herself, for she had adopted the guise of a servant to investigate the theft of the mistress’ diamond necklace. She had found the attics a dismal place and wondered how those at Sedgwick Court compared. She must find an opportunity to explore them. Though she had already been taken on a most comprehensive guide of the main house, including the far removed rooms in the wings that had been long vacated and shut up with the ornaments crated and the furniture covered in great dustsheets, what lay behind the green baize door at Sedgwick Court remained a mystery to her. It was a fact that she had not set foot inside the servants’ quarters and could only imagine the kitchen and the scullery, the servants’ hall and the stillroom and the various other workrooms, linked together by a number of passages and corridors, much like a rabbit warren, and populated by a multitude of servants.
Rose was interrupted from her thoughts by the noise of hurrying feet in the corridor outside. It sounded to her ears as if an individual were being pursued relentlessly along the landing. She glanced at Betty, who looked equally taken aback by the turn of events and instinctively the two women drew closer together as if for protection. They watched with a terrified fascination as the door handle was depressed and the door swung open.
‘Oh, Miss Rose,’ cried an eager voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I wanted to arrive before you’d woken, but I had to help Cook with the servants’ breakfast because they’re still a bit short-staffed at Crossing, what with staff leaving … or worse. But I said as I couldn’t stay any longer, that you needed me to take up my new position.’
‘Quite right, Edna,’ said Rose, who might well have hugged the little maid had Betty not been present. ‘It was very good of you to have stayed on at Crossing Manor until they had recruited some more staff, but I am in desperate need of a lady’s maid, though Betty was doing a very fine job of it in your absence.’
The housemaid, Betty, looked from one to the other of them to reassure herself that her mistress was not in any immediate danger, curtsied abruptly and left the room. With the room to themselves, Edna ran up to Rose, a look of breathless enthusiasm on her face.
‘Oh, miss, I was ever so excited, I used the main stairs! You should have seen the look on Mr Manning’s face. He sent one of the footmen after me, so he did. Ever so fast I had to run.’
‘Well, you are here now, which is all that matters,’ said Rose laughing. ‘And Betty was just telling me about your room. It is being made ready for you.’
‘Oh, I can’t wait to see it,’ Edna said, clapping her hands together.
‘It’s my first full day back from honeymoon,’ Rose said. ‘We arrived back yesterday mid-morning but, with all the travelling, I was so tired, I couldn’t quite take it all in. It didn’t seem to register in my mind that I had returned here to Sedgwick Court.’ She laughed, ‘Oh Edna, I can’t quite believe I was on the Continent for the best part of a month. It seems only yesterday it was my wedding day.’
‘And Miss Rose, what a day it was!’ cried Edna. ‘I’m ever so glad I was allowed a day off to come and see you in your dress. Lovely you looked in all that pale gold satin. Draped beautifully, it did, and all those tiny satin covered buttons on the cuffs ... And to think your own mother made your dress herself.’
Rose smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm which was infectious. In her mind’s eye, she saw again her wedding day as if she were reliving it, her full-length wedding dress, cut on the bias, its lines so fluid that the overall effect was that of a liquid metal. She observed her reflection in the mirror, the cowl neckline embellished with tiny glass beads that caught the light, the puffed sleeves, which tapered in at the elbow, the simple veil that hung loosely from her h
ead. She was once again clutching in her hands her wedding bouquet of fresh orchids, grown by the head gardener in the orangery. Her mother was wiping away a tear surreptitiously with her handkerchief, while Mrs Dobson, formerly her mother’s cook before the Simpsons had fallen on hard times following the death of Rose’s father, but now thankfully reinstated to the position of housekeeper at her mother’s residence on the estate, was weeping quite openly.
Her bridesmaids, Josephine, Vera and Mary had worn tasteful and elegant gowns designed by the House of Renard, which had complemented Rose’s own wedding outfit to perfection. These had contrasted sharply with the dress worn by the groom’s sister, Lady Lavinia Sedgwick, a bright crimson haute couture gown, the vibrant hue of which was matched only by the colour of Rose’s mother’s face when she caught sight of the dress. Rose, already in a heightened state of excitement and trepidation, had done all she could to stop herself from giggling hysterically. It was so like Lavinia not to be outdone, even by the bride.
‘It isn’t too much, is it, Rose?’ Lavinia had enquired. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind terribly if I wore something a little brighter than the other bridesmaids; I am the chief bridesmaid after all. And I don’t photograph at all well in light colours.’
The Simpsons had had no living male relative to give Rose away; the job had fallen instead to Sir William Withers, KCB, Rose’s new husband’s uncle by marriage. She and Cedric had broken with tradition and been married in the local village church instead of in one of the great English cathedrals, preferring a more intimate wedding to a great society affair. This had not, however, prevented crowds of spectators from lining the streets to catch a glimpse of the bride. Indeed, the roads leading into Sedgwick village had been blocked with traffic for two hours as the locals and press men alike had jostled and scrambled to catch sight of the wedding party. As Rose had emerged from the silver Bentley clutching Sir William’s arm, she had even caught sight of one or two photographers balanced precariously on long wooden ladders, trying to get a picture for the newspapers’ society pages.
Murder on Bonfire Night Page 3
