Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  She looked up to find that the new librarian was still staring at her. Blow the woman, why must she gaze at her so intently? Daphne put a hand instinctively to her face and wondered whether her make-up was smudged or there was a smear of ink upon her nose to justify such scrutiny. Purposefully she turned her back on Miss Warren and let her eyes drift towards the page of her book. Soon, however, she became distracted, the words becoming hazy and out of focus so that she could not read them, even had she tried. Linus was going to tell Archie about their parents’ will. He had not said as much, but the way he had asked the question … It had caught her off guard and she had behaved like a silly little fool, betraying her emotions and showing her fear. Because she was afraid; there was no escaping the fact. She did not doubt for a moment that Archie loved her, but she was not so deluded as to believe that her family’s wealth did not add to her attractiveness in his eyes. She stifled a sob. Why must Linus always ruin everything? Why, every time she found the possibility of happiness, when it was within her grasp, must he intervene and turn everything to dust and ashes?

  She hated him; she could not escape the fact. She despised him; it really was as simple as that. That awful pompous attitude of his, the way he regarded her and spoke to her in that patronising manner, as if he were still on the battlefield and she were a man under his command. The book trembled in her hand. She could not lose Archie. There had been others but they had disappeared, frightened away by Linus and her overbearing family. Archie, she felt sure, was her last chance of happiness. As the book shook, a steely determination came into her eyes. She would not lose him. She was damned if she would stand aside and watch Linus ruin everything.

  She looked up. That wretched woman was still giving her surreptitious little glances. She was tempted to act in a furtive manner herself. In fact, it had been her intention to return her book to one of the shelves unobserved. She had even considered slipping it inside another book to read, but had thought better of it, for fear of drawing too much attention to herself. Instead, she had obscured the cover by holding the book open flat. With an act of sudden temper and defiance, she slammed it shut, causing Miss Warren to glare at her and tut. Daphne, a malicious smile upon her face, dropped the book with a clatter on to the table. She fancied there was not a man, woman or child that did not turn around to look at her as she made her exit, so loud had the noise been in the otherwise silent room.

  Miss Warren herself scurried over to the table and picked up the offending book, glancing at the cover as she did so. The librarian’s eyes grew wide as she read the title. ‘The Household Book of Everyday Poisons’.

  ‘You didn’t?’ said Rose, throwing back her head and laughing. They were sipping pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room at Sedgwick Court. Cedric had just finished regaling her with an account of what had transpired between himself and the major that afternoon.

  ‘Darling, please don’t laugh,’ he cried, his brow furrowed. His face had become flushed at the recollection, not helped by his wife’s giggles. ‘I feel a dashed fool, I can tell you, demanding that he tell me what was on his mind. Whatever possessed me to be so impertinent? First I scolded him for complaining to the Committee over the village lads running amok round that blessed wood of his, and then I asked him to confide his troubles to me as if I were his closest friend.’

  ‘I am sure he appreciated it, your offer of help, I mean,’ said Rose, squeezing his hand affectionately. ‘And, as regards his wood … well it does seem rather odd doesn’t it, to complain. He’s lived in Sedgwick for some years, hasn’t he? He must know what the village boys are like leading up to Guy Fawkes’ Night?’

  ‘How they go about collecting sticks for the pyre each year and don’t care too much on whose land they trample?’ said Cedric. ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘Though I suppose he wasn’t really affected by their activities before,’ mused Rose. ‘He only acquired his piece of woodland recently, didn’t he?’ Her husband nodded. ‘Of course, it doesn’t help that it backs on to the piece of wasteland on which the bonfire is built.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cedric smiled. ‘I say, darling, it’s all rather odd, his buying that piece of wood like he did. I don’t know why he should want it. Old Tucker has let it go a bit to seed. And, if one listens to village gossip, the major paid well over the odds for it.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Rose, only a little curious.

  Manning had just appeared at the door to inform them that dinner was served and her thoughts had drifted to the menu she had agreed that day with Mrs Broughton. It had seemed to her a strange affair, sitting down with the cook to discuss the meal she was to eat that evening with her husband. Similarly, it seemed rather odd now sitting down to dinner in full evening dress when they were dining alone. She supposed that it would feel different when they were hosting house parties and Sedgwick Court was filled with guests. Then it would seem appropriate to dress for dinner and spend time deliberating over elaborate menus conjured up by a diligent staff.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ inquired Cedric, taking his seat at the table.

  ‘I was just wondering if you had ever dined at an ABC,’ replied his wife laughing, staring at her array of cutlery. ‘But seriously, Cedric darling, you mustn’t worry about the major. I’m certain he’ll understand that we were placed in a very difficult position. If anyone is at fault it is his sister.’

  ‘I felt dashed embarrassed, I can tell you, enquiring about his feelings for his sister’s young man. If I hadn’t been his host and a man of some consequence, I think he would have told me to go to the devil.’

  ‘Well, at least we can say that we have fulfilled my promise to his sister. When I next encounter Miss Spittlehouse I can say as much if she asks. Now, let’s not think any more about it,’ said Rose, regarding the rather delicious looking soup that a footman had just placed before her. She was reminded that she had an appetite and, as she took her first mouthful, it occurred to her that they had both wasted too much time discussing the Spittlehouses. Her husband, however, still appeared preoccupied with them.

  ‘I must say, I wish I knew what was worrying the old chap,’ persisted Cedric. ‘He was very troubled about something.’ He sighed. ‘If I had been my father, I think he would have told me what was wrong. I have this nagging feeling that it was something quite awful. I told you what he said, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Rose.

  She experienced a sudden feeling of tenderness towards her husband. That he should care so deeply about what was ailing his father’s old friend moved her. The late Earl of Belvedere had been something of a reclusive figure, whom she realised only now her husband had rather idolised. The fact that Major Spittlehouse had been one of only a small handful of his friends, meant that the man had something of a revered quality in her husband’s eyes. Because of this, she could see that Cedric felt he had an obligation to help the major as best he could, if only for his father’s sake.

  ‘You also told me that Major Spittlehouse intended to deal with whatever was troubling him himself,’ said Rose. ‘From what you have told me of his character, he strikes me as a man of action once he has made up his mind to do something. I predict that whatever is worrying him now will be resolved in the next few days.’

  Chapter Ten

  It was four o’clock in the morning according to the clock beside the washstand. Masters, heavy-headed but fully awake, groaned inwardly. He had not had a wink of sleep. Or certainly that was his impression, for he was vaguely aware that he had tossed and turned uncomfortably among the sheets and blankets and that slumber, forever at the edges of his consciousness, had nevertheless evaded him. It had been the same the previous night and he had a familiar sinking feeling, knowing that he would start the day tired and irritable. At intervals during the night, he had disturbed the sleep of his wife, who had grunted and groaned in annoyance, but had not seemingly woken. Laying back on the bed, his head on the pillow, his eyes fixed staring up at the ceiling, he moved not a muscle. Only hi
s mind remained alert, flicking from one thing to another in its current restive state.

  A faint sound like a sigh or a stifled snore made him turn and regard the sleeping form of his wife. Her well-worn, familiar face greeted him, with the hair now greying at the temples and the fleshy cheeks that had lost their youthful definition. The sleep of the just, he thought with a sudden stab of tenderness. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face and resumed his former position, though now his gaze was focused on the wall in front of him rather than the ceiling above. Perhaps it was fitting that sleep escaped him, he thought bitterly to himself, for had he not behaved in a sneaky and devious fashion? If he had not opened that blasted letter and read the words that had never been intended for his eyes, would he not this very moment be sleeping in blissful ignorance? His mind would not be troubled as it was now, trying to fathom the meaning behind those hateful, scribbled words.

  He had acted instinctively in destroying that wretched letter, afraid that his wife would try to snatch it from him and read its contents. For he could see in her eyes that she had been troubled by the expression on his face. He never could keep anything from her. Malicious lies, that’s what they’d written in that letter. No person in his sober mind could think anything else. At least that had been his first thought. It was only after his second sleepless night that he was conscious of a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. What motivation could anyone have for making such wild and ludicrous allegations? And the furtive and secretive manner in which the letters themselves had been delivered. Surely it did not make any sense unless there was, at the very least, a grain of truth to the accusation …

  What would people say if they knew the village harboured a murderer in its midst?

  Barely a sentence, but the content so frightful that the words were ingrained in his memory, as if they had been written there. He thought of them each morning, and then last thing at night; it was as if the note were forever in his hand, demanding to be read. Endeavour as he might, he could arrive at no plausible explanation for why anyone should seek to accuse a man of such high standing as Major Spittlehouse of such a crime. His employer was an upright and honourable fellow if ever a man was; did he not know that better than anyone? For had he not been in his employ for nigh on thirty years? And you didn’t do that without getting to know a person, all his little foibles and eccentricities. He had been there with him on the battlefield, experienced the horror and brutality of life in the trenches, had witnessed other men fall and crumble, but not the major. There he had come into his own and his character had flourished. No, in his humble opinion, you couldn’t get a better man than the major, and he’d say as much to anyone who cared to inquire. Grant you, of course, the man could be a little fussy and pedantic at times but that was only fitting due to his having led a regimented life; he wanted things done just right, all ship-shape and Bristol fashion as the saying went, and happen the world would be a better place if more followed his example.

  A murmur from his wife reminded him that he said as much to Mol when she was wont to complain about their employer’s peculiarities and her husband’s devotion to him. It was a pity there weren’t more like him, that’s what he always said to her, though she might roll her eyes and give him that look of hers as much as to say that she knew he thought more of that major of his than he did of her, his own wife.

  He sat up with a start. The war … He always tried not to let his thoughts drift back to the battlefield. It brought back too many painful memories long buried, flashes of events that had occurred and men he had known, but were now gone. He might be laying the table for dinner and suddenly an image would appear unbidden before his eyes, the face of a fallen comrade that he had quite forgotten. Or the shriek of a seagull would take him back and he would recall the cries of the wounded. Both events, when they happened to occur, creeping up on him as they were wont to do, taking him unawares, would leave him shaken and trembling. He was reminded above all else of the seeming futility of it all; the Country had lost a whole generation of men, some little more than boys. The lucky ones, of whom he was surely one, had not come back unscathed. To make matters worse, they had not returned to a land fit for heroes to live in, whatever Lloyd George had promised. Thirteen years after the war had ended, and there was still poverty and inequality in equal measure. But the major … he was one of the good ones. He had stood shoulder to shoulder with his men as they faced the onslaught; not for him the life of safety accorded to those of higher rank sitting far away in their ivory towers, formulating attacks that would result in multiple casualties.

  However, that was not to say that someone might not hold Major Spittlehouse accountable for the loss of a loved one. For the major had led his men into battle and grief made people act in irrational ways. Didn’t he, Masters, know that well enough from bitter experience? For he had witnessed many a poor blighter driven half mad with sorrow. It was this sudden thought that had made him sit up abruptly. It was, he felt sure, the explanation for the letters. Someone blamed Major Spittlehouse for the death of a loved one in the war. Someone, and more likely than not a woman he thought, for poison pen letters were oft as not a woman’s sport, was seeking to blame the major for the loss of a husband, a son, a father or a brother perhaps.

  He felt a sudden lifting of the spirits. Major Spittlehouse was not a murderer. He had only been following orders and done what his Country had expected of him. Masters breathed a sigh of relief. Now he knew the heart of the matter, he could do something about it. That, he realised now, was what had been worrying him. And it would be easy enough. He’d speak to this writer of the poison pen letters, if he had to lie in wait for her by the garden gate! He would tell her how it had been, how the major was a decent sort who’d done his best for his men in the most awful of circumstances. Why, he might even have known the fellow to whom the poor woman was related, perhaps he’d been a close chum and then the two of them could commiserate and reminisce a little. He could put the poor soul’s mind at rest, bring her a bit of comfort like. He liked the idea of that, doing his bit. And it would put a stop to those letters. He didn’t want the major to receive any more of them damned letters. He had seen only too well how the colour had drained from his face and he’d trembled when he’d read the first one. Goodness knows what it had been doing to his insides.

  The manservant settled his head on his pillow and drifted off into a contented sleep. It was true that he was awoken barely two hours later by his wife shaking him in an irritable mood to tell him that he’d overslept and he’d best get cracking, that his head throbbed and his eyes ached, but at least his mood was lightened. For he now knew what he must do, and he was determined to put his plan in to action that very day.

  ‘Linus,’ Daphne sailed into Major Spittlehouse’s study without pause or hesitation and launched into the subject foremost in her mind without preamble, ‘Masters says you met with Lord Belvedere the day before yesterday.’ She gave him a reproachful look. ‘You never said.’

  ‘You never asked,’ replied her brother rather coldly, drawing himself up to receive the inevitable onslaught. Secretly he cursed, bitterly resenting his sister interrupting him in the midst of his reading of The Times. It was a daily ritual of his and one he enjoyed, the only time during the day when he requested not to be disturbed. He sighed. Really, was it too much to ask? And today he was particularly riled, for Daphne had very pointedly been avoiding his company since their last painful discussion. She had claimed headaches and tiredness and taken her meals in her room. Not that it had prevented her journeying to Bichester, he’d noted.

  ‘Linus, do put your paper down. Don’t bury your head in its pages and pretend I’m not here,’ implored Daphne. She was tempted to make a grab for the newspaper and tear it from his hands, but thought better of it. Instead, she said: ‘I wish to speak with you.’

  ‘About my meeting with the Earl of Belvedere?’ asked her brother, feigning surprise. ‘I didn’t think you thought very much of our local gentr
y. And really, my dear, we were just discussing the arrangements for the Guy Fawkes’ festivities.’ He lowered his newspaper to meet her gaze. ‘I must say, you’ve never shown much interest in Bonfire Night before. Not, of course, that I’m not delighted. It will do you good to involve yourself more in village events and –’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, Linus. I do believe you are being purposefully infuriating.’ Daphne flung herself unceremoniously down on to a convenient chair.

  ‘Daphne –’ her brother began, clearly taken aback.

  ‘Look here, Linus, I don’t care a damn about your little bonfire or which child has made the best guy or the order of the fireworks or anything like that. I have much better things with which to occupy my time –’

  ‘Archie Mayhew, for instance?’ The words cut through the air like a sword, rendering both brother and sister silent. Certainly, the major noted that some of the fight had left Daphne as, with shoulders hunched, she sank back in to the fabric of the chair. He felt a pang of compassion mixed with guilt, which he quickly brushed away. It would not do to become sentimental.

  ‘Linus, please …’ said Daphne so quietly that the words were barely audible.

  ‘It’s no use, Daphne, my mind is quite made up. I have no wish to go over old ground. You know my views on the matter.’

  ‘Lady Belvedere thought you were being awfully unfair,’ Daphne said rather sulkily, her bottom lip jutting out in such a manner as to remind the major of a petulant child.

  ‘Did she indeed?’ Major Spittlehouse felt the colour rush to his face as he imagined the conversation between the two women, in particular the unsavoury picture of himself that Daphne had no doubt painted. He put aside the newspaper with obvious reluctance, rose from his chair and began to pace the room. He felt restless, yet the activity also provided him with an excuse not to look at his sister’s wretched face, the eyes brimming with unshed tears nor, conversely, for her to bear witness to his crimson cheeks. After a minute or two, when he felt his anger had abated and his complexion had returned to its usual hue, he turned to face her, and when he spoke his voice was soft. ‘Really, Daphne, whatever possessed you to try and get Lord and Lady Belvedere to fight your cause? What were you thinking?’