‘Perhaps he was anxious about what she might say. You know her habit for blurting things out.’
‘I daresay you are right, about Daphne mentioning it to the police herself, I mean,’ admitted Rose, at last. ‘I’ll have a word with her about it. I expect the police will be busy this morning viewing the scene of the crime, and then of course they’ll want another word with Major Spittlehouse, so I suppose there is no great hurry. And besides, I have something else I want to do first.’
‘Oh? What is that?’ Cedric paused in his eating to look up, an interested look upon his face.
‘As soon as I’ve had breakfast, I intend to walk over to South Lodge and speak with Mrs Masters.’
It was Miss Simmons who answered the telephone, adopting what Daphne thought was a particularly affected voice, not her usual tone at all. It was not the timid simpering voice with which she greeted Mr Whittaker. This voice was sharp, bordering on the rude, frightening away potential new clients rather than encouraging them. She would have to have a word with Archie about it when they were married.
Miss Simmons’ voice had, however, its desired effect. Daphne took a deep breath. How easy it would be to hang up the receiver without uttering a word. She had to fight her natural inclination to do just that.
‘Miss Simmons, this is Miss Spittlehouse. I should very much like to speak with Mr Mayhew, please.’
She heard Miss Simmons tut; it was a most distinctive sound. Daphne felt her blood boil and her cheeks flush. How dare she? The situation was not helped when the secretary next spoke.
‘I’m afraid, Miss Spittlehouse, that is not possible. Mr Mayhew is assisting Mr Whittaker with the drafting of a particularly complicated trust deed. They have asked not to be disturbed.’
‘I should like to speak to Mr Mayhew on a matter of some urgency. Please ask him to come to the telephone at once.’ Daphne had spoken in her most haughty voice, the one she reserved for speaking to unhelpful shop assistants and tardy servants. It was the sort of voice that said she would accept no nonsense and that she had better be obeyed or else. For one awful moment she didn’t think it was going to have the desired effect on Miss Simmons. She could feel the woman’s righteous indignation rise as if it were floating along the telephone line to her.
‘Very well, if you say so, Miss Spittlehouse,’ Miss Simmons said at last, rather coldly, and then she was gone and Daphne was left waiting, aware of nothing but the all-consuming silence. In the quietness, she was conscious only of the beating of her heart, thumping against her ribcage. She felt ridiculously exposed standing out there in the hall. Any moment Biddy might take it in to her head to come and dust, or Linus might come out of his study and catch her. Not that there was any reason why she shouldn’t be using the telephone; she had a perfect right to do so if she wished. But she didn’t want them to overhear her talking to Archie, not after all the recent unpleasantness. She drummed with her fingers impatiently on the hall table. Why was it taking so long? It was only a small office. It wouldn’t take a minute for Miss Simmons to tap on Mr Whittaker’s door and convey her message. An awful thought suddenly occurred to her. What if Miss Simmons was only pretending to give the message? What if she had no intention of delivering it? She might only be waiting a few minutes before returning to say that she was frightfully sorry but they really could not be disturbed, and would Miss Spittlehouse be so good as to telephone later? Well, Daphne was not going to have any of that. Who did Miss Simmons think she was, giving herself such airs and graces? The Spittlehouses were undoubtedly Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker’s most affluent clients. True, most of their business was handled by a London firm, but even so …
‘Daphne, is that you, darling?’ Archie’s youthful voice burst on to the line like a ray of bright sunshine. ‘Goodness, what did you say to old Simmons? She looked as if she had swallowed a lemon. Even Uncle Harold looked worried when he saw her.’
‘Archie. Oh, Archie.’
‘What’s the matter, old thing? You sound quite done in. I say, I’m awfully sorry about last night. Not showing up and all that.’
‘Didn’t you? Then you don’t …? Daphne caught her breath. ‘I didn’t know, that you didn’t come, that is.’
‘But you must have known. What did you think when I didn’t turn up?’
‘I didn’t know,’ repeated Daphne dully. ‘You see, I didn’t go either.’
‘Didn’t you? Why not?’ Archie sounded rather surprised and not a little annoyed. ‘I might have gone to all that effort and you wouldn’t have been there. At least I’ve got a decent excuse for not turning up. The bus was late and then one of its blasted tyres suffered a puncture. But you only had to walk a few hundred yards.’
‘A little further than that,’ protested Daphne. ‘But really it wasn’t my fault. Just as I was setting off I saw that my brother had gone out. I knew he’d be making his way over to the bonfire. I could hardly risk following him, could I? He’d have seen me and wanted to know what I was doing. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d arranged to meet you. He’s awfully old-fashioned about that sort of thing.’ She sighed. ‘We should never have agreed to meet in Tucker’s Wood.’
‘Well, I don’t know why we did. It was your idea. I suggested that we meet in the little lane at the back of your house.’
‘I wish we had now. I really wasn’t thinking. I had forgotten how close to the bonfire Tucker’s Wood is.’ She passed a hand across her forehead. ‘We’ve all had the most awful shock. Someone was murdered last night and their body put out with the guys to be put on to the bonfire and burnt. It was awful.’
There was a shocked exclamation on the other end of the telephone line.
‘I say, that’s frightful! There was talk of a body in the office this morning but I didn’t give it much credence. I thought it was a lot of old rot. But, now that you mention it, Uncle Harold did say something had happened last night because they were all herded off to Sedgwick Court to watch the firework display there and he had to give his name.’ There was a slight pause and then he said: ‘Who was killed, do you know?’
‘It was Masters,’ said Daphne. For the first time, talking to Archie as she was, it seemed real.
‘Masters?’ There was a sharp intake of breath. She could have sworn that Archie sounded surprised, as if he had expected her to say someone else. ‘Who was he? The name sounds familiar, though I don’t know why it should.’
‘He was our servant, mine and my brother’s. He and his wife did for us, you might say. It appears that someone mistook him for my brother. He was wearing Linus’ jacket, you see.’
‘Major Spittlehouse? Is he dead too?’
‘No, of course not. I do wish you’d listen to what I’m telling you, Archie. Masters is dead and my brother is very much alive. They think someone killed Masters by mistake, thinking he was Linus.’
‘Good Heavens! Did your brother tell you that?’
‘No. He won’t talk about it. I think he’s too upset, or else thinks it will distress me. You know how protective of me he is. It was Lady Belvedere who told me.’ Daphne sighed. ‘She was awfully kind, she –’
‘Daphne, I really must go. My uncle is calling me.’ Perhaps he was aware of her disappointment for he added in a slightly lighter tone: ‘I need to earn my crust if we are to be married.’
‘Archie, I must see you.’
‘Darling, I don’t think that would be very wise. Not if your servant was murdered in mistake for your brother.’
‘Why not? Why should that matter?’ cried Daphne. ‘What of it?’
‘Oh, darling, do use your head.’
A brief silence followed; the line might as well have been dead.
‘You know my brother disapproved of you, don’t you?’ demanded Daphne. ‘You know about our parents’ will. How do you know? I never said.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Daphne, darling, I really must go.’
‘You haven’t even asked me if I’m all right. You –’
There was a
click and the line was most definitely dead this time. Daphne was left speaking to no one, not even the austere Miss Simmons. She stood there in the hall, the telephone receiver still in her hand, not quite knowing what to do. It occurred to her that she had never felt quite so alone.
Chapter Nineteen
Rose made her way across the grounds to South Lodge. Despite the sombre occasion, she paused a moment to marvel at the blue irises and delphiniums in the well-stocked garden. If anyone had asked her, she would have replied most definitely that she was not consciously dragging her feet, and yet she was aware of a certain reluctance on her part to intrude on Mrs Masters’ grief. She tried to reason with herself. The police would very shortly be interviewing the dead servant’s wife, as soon as they had spoken again to Major Spittlehouse in fact. It therefore stood to reason that, whether Rose interviewed the woman or not, she would shortly be disturbed by the police. Still her natural inclination was to hold back, to give the woman the morning to grieve if nothing else.
She took a deep breath and pressed the brass door bell. It did not do to be too sentimental, not if you were trying to get to the bottom of a crime.
She was shown into the morning room amid much curtseying on the part of the maid. The door had barely shut when Mrs Dobson appeared, flinging the door open. It was apparent that she was vexed that she had not opened the front door herself, particularly once she ascertained the visitor’s identity. She pushed the maid aside, amid loud exclamations. Rose found herself ushered into the sitting room, the same one in which she had regaled her mother and Mrs Dobson with tales of her honeymoon in Paris, only a few days before. It possessed one or two pieces of furniture from Rose’s childhood which jumped out at her, reminding her of their recently changed circumstances. In her mother’s lowly old house, the furniture had been too big, dwarfing the rooms. It had belonged to a life before that, when they had occupied a larger house, before her father’s death had resulted in their reduced circumstances.
She saw at once that the room had a new occupant, a little round woman sitting on the settee, her head propped up on one or two cushions and pillows. A shawl was wrapped around her ample shoulders, and a blanket draped over her knees, which was large enough to cover her legs. The result was that there was very little to see of the person itself except for a pale, tear-stained face. The hair, greying at the temples, was pulled back into a severe bun, which was nevertheless coming apart, hairpins dropping out of her hair and falling over the pillows and down the woman’s front. Whether this was due to a lack of skill in hairdressing or because the woman was all fingers and thumbs that morning was anyone’s guess. Rose assumed it was the latter, for in all else the woman appeared tidy. It was apparent, however, that she was oblivious to the fate of the wayward hairpins. On closer inspection and to a discerning eye, she did not appear all there; that was to say her mind seemed to be in another world or was too wrapped up in its own thoughts. For she barely registered Rose’s arrival. Instead, she was staring fixedly into the fire, as if she thought it might provide her with the answers to her many questions, or perhaps because she found the flickering flames soothing, sufficient to draw her attention and to dull her pain. Whatever it was, she drew the shawl even tighter around her, in a pathetic little gesture as if she were afraid of catching a chill, though to Rose the room was unpleasantly warm, to the point of being stifling.
Mrs Simpson rose from an armchair and came forward to greet her daughter. Her face looked strained, her expression anxious. It was only then that Rose realised she had barely been aware of her mother’s presence in the room, so transfixed had she been by the pitiful sight of Mrs Masters, swaddled in her shawl and blanket.
The sudden movement caused by Mrs Simpson rising and taking a few steps forward seemed to awaken her guest, bringing her out of her stupor. Blinking rapidly, Mrs Masters tore the blanket hastily from her knees and made to rise. Rose ran forward to prevent her.
‘No. Please don’t get up on my account, Mrs Masters.’ She stretched a hand out to the woman, who clasped at her fingers for a brief moment before remembering herself. She was being addressed by the Countess of Belvedere. She should be jumping to her feet and curtseying, not having her hand shaken as if she were a lady. Wasn’t it enough that she was sitting in Mrs Simpson’s sitting room instead of in the servants’ hall? It was Mrs Dobson who was her friend, not Mrs Simpson. And hadn’t Mrs Dobson been attending on her as if she were her maid and Mrs Simpson had tea with her as if she were a fond acquaintance?
‘It’s very good of you to come your ladyship, I’m sure,’ Mrs Masters mumbled.
Rose didn’t think it was good of her at all. Who was she to intrude on this woman’s grief, to make Mrs Masters be deferential and show gratitude when probably all the poor woman wanted to do was to lock herself away in a room and cry her eyes out? She perched on the edge of a convenient armchair. Had she been plain Miss Rose Simpson rather than grand Lady Belvedere, how much easier the situation would have been. The gulf between them would not have been so very great. Now she must tread carefully and try to speak to the woman as an equal. Would Mrs Masters wonder why she was there? She knew she would if she had been in Mrs Masters’ position. Perhaps the woman thought that she was there to represent the Bonfire Committee, or felt an obligation to visit as the bonfire had been held on land owned by the Belvedere estate. Whatever Mrs Masters thought the reason for her visit, she was certain to think it something distant and impersonal, a professional obligation rather than an act done out of genuine sympathy and kindness.
Rose took a deep breath. She was very conscious of her mother standing there, very aware that what she was about to say next would cause Mrs Simpson some displeasure; but it really couldn’t be helped. Besides, it seemed to her that her best, and probably kindest, course of action was to be quite frank and transparent concerning her reason for visiting.
‘Mrs Masters. I do hope you don’t mind awfully my coming like this. I didn’t want to intrude on you at a time like this but … well, you may have heard something to the effect that I am by way of being an amateur sleuth? A private enquiry agent of sorts, if you like.’ She purposely did not look at Mrs Simpson while she said this, imagining only too well the expression on her mother’s face. Yet all of a sudden she felt flustered, as if her thoughts were confused and her words would not come out of her mouth quite in the order she wished to say them. ‘What I am trying to say, and making rather a mess of it, is that I should very much like to assist the police in any way that I can to help them to find your husband’s murderer.’
Mrs Masters blinked at her a couple of times and her mouth opened once or twice rather like a fish, but no sound came out. It occurred to Rose for one awful, frightful moment that she had been far too frank. She really should have introduced the subject gradually, led up to it slowly, instead of announcing it as she had done in that matter of fact way, and making quite a mess of it at that.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m so very sorry. I should never –’
‘Hush, dear,’ said Mrs Masters, reaching forward and tapping Rose’s knee affectionately. It was obvious that she was making a tremendous effort to pull herself together. The result was that once she started talking she didn’t seem able to stop. ‘There now, don’t distress yourself, there’s no harm done and I’m sure it’s very kind of you. I know if Mr Masters were here now, he’d be that pleased to think that a fine lady like you would want to be bothered with finding out what happened to him.’ Mrs Masters blinked away a tear. ‘He was a good man, was my Jack. As loyal as they come. I couldn’t have asked for a better husband. And there was nothing Mr Masters wouldn’t have done for the major. Worshipped him, he did. I used to tease him about it, tell him he was fonder of the major than he was of his own wife.’ Mrs Masters took out her handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. ‘It’s funny. I was that worried during the war, always fearing the worse; dreading the telegram that never came. So many young lives lost. I was certain my Jack would be one of th
em. I kept hoping and praying. I almost got sick with the worry of it all. I couldn’t believe it when he came home with hardly a scratch on him. When I think of some of the other poor… well, you heard such stories, those that came home alive that would have been much better dead …’
Rose squeezed the older woman’s hand. She was at rather a loss what to say. She had so many questions to ask, but she had no wish to hurry Mrs Masters. It seemed only right that the woman be allowed to reminisce if she wanted to. She felt a sharp stab of sympathy. How would she feel in Mrs Masters’ place? If anything so vile should happen to Cedric, would she be able to speak in such an open and composed way to an inquisitive stranger? She thought it highly unlikely and a feeling of admiration joined the empathy she felt towards the woman.
‘Mr Masters was that pleased when the major asked if we’d do for him and his sister. I wasn’t too keen mind, because I wanted Jack to myself. But it was a good job and the pay was above average, so we couldn’t say no. Not that we might have turned him down if we’d known we’d never be staying in one place for more than a couple of years.’
‘Oh? Do the major and his sister travel a great deal?’ asked Rose, interested.
‘Not what I’d call travel exactly,’ said Mrs Masters. ‘We’d stay somewhere for two or three years at most, and then the major would get it in his head to pack up and leave and we’d go and live in another part of the country. Five years next Thursday we’ll have been at Sedgwick. I don’t think we’ve ever lived anywhere so long.’ The thought that her husband would not be there to see in the next five years produced a fresh bout of tears. ‘I thought we had nothing to fear in a village like Sedgwick. Such a pretty little place it is, and the major had always had a mind to go to towns before. I can’t tell you how pleased I was when I first set eyes on this place. I said to Jack that I had a mind to stay here even if the major decided to leave after a year or two.’
Murder on Bonfire Night Page 18
