Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  Mrs Masters put her handkerchief to her eyes and began to weep silently. It had cost her a great deal to speak as she had done. It had taken everything that was in her until there was nothing left. She was now no more than a pale shadow of the woman she had been yesterday before her world had fallen apart.

  Rose bit her lip and refrained from the temptation to glance over at her mother. She had a feeling her mother would give her a reproachful look, holding her responsible for Mrs Masters’ current spell of tears.

  ‘Why would anyone want to hurt my Jack?’ sobbed Mrs Masters. ‘He was the kindest soul on this earth.’

  It was on the tip of Rose’s tongue to say that it was possible that Masters had been killed in mistake for her employer. However, on reflection she thought better of it. How would Mrs Masters feel, she wondered? Surely it would only make matters worse if she learnt that the murderer had never intended to kill her husband, that Masters had been killed because of a ghastly error.

  ‘That is what we are trying to find out,’ she said. ‘Did your husband have any enemies?’

  ‘Of course not. That was what I was saying. Jack, he was kind to everyone. You should have seen how he was with little Biddy, the girl who helps me in the house, if you can call it help because she doesn’t seem to know one end of a broom from the other. From an orphanage she was and timid as anything. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. But Jack, he soon had her laughing and giggling. Treated her like the daughter we never had.’ Mrs Masters began to sob again, big tears that rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘I think that will do,’ said Mrs Simpson firmly, putting a comforting arm around the distressed woman’s shoulders. ‘Rose, can’t you see that poor Mrs Masters has had enough?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rose hastily. ‘You are quite right.’

  She felt in that moment that she had done more harm than good. And what had she really achieved? Very little. She had learnt only that, according to his wife, Masters had been the most likeable of fellows, the least likely of all men to find himself murdered. If nothing else, it seemed to reinforce the notion that Major Spittlehouse had been the intended victim. And if that was the case, the major should be in a position to provide the police with a list of people whom might wish him harm, providing that he was willing to do so of course.

  She made to go, gathering her things about her, pleased only that Mrs Dobson had not been a witness to her humiliation, to the words of reproach from her mother and the distress that she had inadvertently caused Mrs Dobson’s friend. It was not the end of the matter, for she had no doubt that her mother would chastise her later on her method, but that could wait.

  Rose’s hand was on the door knob. She was about to turn and leave the room, when Mrs Masters’ voice arrested her, thin and tearful, but perfectly clear.

  ‘You don’t think it could be anything to do with those letters?’

  ‘Which letters?’ asked Rose, rather more sharply than she had intended. She retraced her steps to the armchair. ‘To which letters are you referring?’

  ‘Those blackmail letters. Or it might have been poison pen. I don’t know which they were,’ said Mrs Masters, drying her eyes. ‘Only, if they were poison pen, isn’t it usual for them to be sent to more than one person, and I don’t think anyone else has received them, least not as I’ve heard.’

  ‘Are you saying that Mr Masters received some letters pertaining to blackmail?’ exclaimed Rose, somewhat incredulous that Mrs Masters had not referred to the matter until now.

  ‘No. Not Jack. Major Spittlehouse. They were addressed to the major.’

  Rose felt her pulse quicken. Aloud she said: ‘What had they to do with Mr Masters if they were directed to the major?’

  ‘Jack, he was that upset about them. The thought that anyone would try and cause the major distress … well, it made his blood boil. The first letter we received, we knew something was wrong, even before we gave it to the major. It was the way it was delivered, you see. It didn’t come through the letterbox as you’d expect. Someone had snuck in to the garden by the lane that runs at the back of the house and pushed it under the door, because I’d found it in the passage. We thought then as how the person who posted the letter might not have wanted to be seen.’

  ‘Did you give the letter to Major Spittlehouse?’

  ‘Yes, Jack did. He said the major turned as white as a sheet. Pretended he couldn’t read the signature and asked him if he’d seen who’d delivered it. Of course we realised then that the letter hadn’t been signed proper, that there was something fishy about it.’

  Rose wondered how she might ask her next question tactfully.

  ‘I don’t suppose Mr Masters managed to catch a glimpse of the letter itself, did he?’

  She had tried to infer by her voice that nothing could be more natural than for a servant to read his employer’s correspondence. If her mother raised her eyebrow, she did not see it. Thankfully Mrs Masters did not appear to have taken any offence. If anything, she pulled her shawl about her and sat more upright on the settee, thankful that she had something of importance to impart.

  ‘No, he didn’t read that letter.’

  ‘But he read others?’ said Rose quickly. ‘I think you referred to letters rather than one letter, am I right?’

  ‘Yes. There were three in all.’

  ‘Three!’

  ‘Yes. Mr Masters didn’t see what was in the first one. But, as I said, it worried him something rotten that someone should be sending the major threatening letters.’ Mrs Masters sighed. ‘Happen I should have kept quiet about the next letter, but I didn’t. When it arrived I told him how it had appeared in the passage, same as the last time. He threatened to throw it on to the fire. But instead he steamed it open and read it.’

  Rose could hardly contain her excitement. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. But I know he was upset by what was written. All the colour went from his face. I’d never known him look so pale. And he couldn’t sleep at night. Tossing and turning he was, muttering things under his breath. Kept me awake it did.’

  ‘What happened to the letter?’

  ‘He screwed it up and threw it on to the fire.’

  ‘So Major Spittlehouse never saw the second letter?’

  ‘No. He’d never have known it existed. The third one neither.’ Mrs Masters’ eyes suddenly became moist. ‘It arrived yesterday morning. I didn’t mean to let Jack have it. I meant to keep it safe. It didn’t seem right withholding it from the major, it being addressed to him and all. But Jack, he got it out of my apron when I wasn’t looking. I thought it was all right, that the writer had come to their senses, because Jack told me not to fret, that it was very good news.’ She gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘He seemed happy, joyful even. I suppose I should be pleased that his last day on this earth was …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose gently. She was aware that the woman was beginning to tire. ‘Do you know what happened to the letter?’

  ‘He took it with him. He didn’t throw it on to the fire like the last one.’

  ‘I have one final question for you, Mrs Masters, and then I shall leave you in peace. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’ Rose smiled and pressed the older woman’s hand, aware that she was about to ask the most difficult question of all. ‘Can you remember when you last saw your husband?’

  Mrs Masters’ hand flew to her mouth. The hand, white and plump, was clenched in a fist, the nails digging into her skin. It was possible that she emitted a small cry, like a wounded animal; Rose was not quite sure.

  ‘I don’t know for certain. I shall never forgive myself. But I had no way of knowing …’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Rose said gently. ‘No one can blame you. It would have just seemed like any other day. I expect you were used to working in the house together, hardly being conscious if the other was in the same room or not.’

  ‘Well, that is just it,’ said Mrs Masters rallying. ‘I do remember him going upstairs. I
t must have been about half past four. I went upstairs myself just before five o’clock to lay out a cold supper for the major and Miss Spittlehouse. But I don’t remember if he was there or not. He certainly wasn’t in the parlour; but then he had no need to be as they were waiting on themselves last night. And he wasn’t there when I cleared away the supper things and brought them down to the kitchen. I know that for a fact for, if he’d been there, he’d have insisted on carrying the tray, and I carried it down myself last night.’

  Mrs Masters’ eyes adopted a faraway look. It had just occurred to her that for evermore she would be carrying her own tray.

  Chapter Twenty

  The examination of the scene of the murder had been disappointing from Inspector Newcombe’s view. It had neither thrown up any leads nor produced any particular clues. As he remarked to Sergeant Bell, the field itself, on which the body had been discovered, had been too well trampled by too many feet to leave anything of value to be uncovered. The shoes and boots of the villagers had churned up the earth to such an extent that it had been difficult to distinguish one footprint from another, let alone determine whether there were any signs which suggested the servant had not been killed there but rather dragged to the spot after death. Their expert, Mutchley, who was usually so helpful in these type of matters, swooping on clues not commonly discernible by the naked eye, said that in his opinion it was possible to put a case for either scenario, which did little to further the investigation. Of course they had all agreed that the soil on the face had probably been applied once the body was in position. A particularly nasty business that. Inwardly, Inspector Newcombe hoped that aspect of the murder had not been premeditated, that it had been done almost as an afterthought. He considered it would take a particularly warped mind to lure a man to a specific place to kill him, in order that his body might be disguised as a guy to be thrown on the bonfire. Now that he thought about it, he was sure it had been a spur of the moment decision. Any right-minded individual would have realised that a body was much heavier than a guy, even an effigy stuffed with rags instead of straw. It was, therefore, very unlikely that the corpse would ever have been tossed on to the bonfire.

  It was with a degree of despondency that the two policemen retraced their footsteps to Sedgwick Court. Their spirits lifted slightly at the sight of the great stately pile. Seen in the daylight, they were afforded a proper view of the place which revealed its true grandeur. The night before, it had been little more than a dark mountain, which had loomed up at them out of the night. In the daylight, however, it was revealed as a great neo-Palladian mansion. Its smooth, plain alabaster-coloured exterior caught the late autumn sunshine. The corner towers, topped by pyramidal roofs, and the great Corinthian columns, which flanked the entrance porch, combined to give Sedgwick Court a palatial air. There was also something of an Ancient Greek temple about the building’s appearance, which prompted Sergeant Bell to utter in hushed tones: ‘This is a bit grand, isn’t it, sir? Fancy us having our investigation headquarters in a posh place like this.’

  If Inspector Newcombe was daunted by Sedgwick Court, he did not reveal the fact to his subordinate. He did not appear at all ill at ease when greeted by the butler and footmen, as if he were well accustomed to an abundance of servants and opulent surroundings.

  The two policemen were directed to the library, as they had been the evening before. Sergeant Bell went immediately over to one of the windows to admire the view. He may have remained there for a while, staring out at the manicured formal gardens, framed by their neat box hedges, had the inspector not cleared his throat and started assembling his notes, staring at each page in turn.

  ‘Well, here’s how it seems to me, Bell. We’ve not got much to go on from the field. It didn’t bring us the clues we were hoping for. It was all spoilt with that many feet walking on every bit of ground, there was nothing left for us to see except for a muddy mess. But we haven’t got to let it deter us. There are more ways to skin a cat than one. It’s the interviews that will help us, and finding out everything we can about the characters involved, every little secret and every little idiosyncrasy. Once we’ve got opportunity, we’ll look at motive and narrow it down from there. Old-fashioned police work, that’s what is going to get us our man.’

  ‘Or woman,’ volunteered the sergeant.

  ‘Or woman,’ acknowledged the inspector. ‘Well said, Bell. It’s good to keep an open mind and by that I mean remind us that it could be either. That was the findings of our medical expert, wasn’t it?’ He spent a few moments searching among his sheaf of papers for one in particular. ‘Ah, here it is. Time of death, that’s what I’m looking for. Milliner thinks it unlikely the man was murdered much before at least four o’clock yesterday afternoon. According to the Belvederes, Lady Belvedere did her bit of judging of the best guy at twenty past seven, or as good as, which meant that the body was revealed as a corpse by half past seven.’

  ‘Well, the major was pretty definite that the body wasn’t there when he and his cronies from the Bonfire Committee came to do their night watch,’ said the sergeant, looking at his notes. ‘Started doing their rounds at about half past four and had finished them before five.’

  ‘Good,’ said Inspector Newcombe. ‘Of course it doesn’t tell us when the chap was murdered, not if he was killed somewhere else and his body brought there later, but it’s a jolly good start. Gives us something to work with anyway.’

  ‘According to the children, the body was already in situ when they came to lay their guys out, sir,’ said Sergeant Bell. ‘That’s the bit of information Lady Belvedere discovered, if you remember? I spoke with a lad named Jude Browning this morning. He is what you might call their leader. He reckons most of them got down to the field about twenty past six. Those that came separately, arrived later.’

  ‘Good work, Bell. And that’s a pretty small window for the body to have materialised where it was found. We may even be able to narrow things down further when we get the last sighting of Masters alive. What with the poor fellow having been a servant, every minute of his time was probably accounted for. It would have been difficult for him to have crept out for any length of time before his absence was noticed.’

  Sergeant Bell flicked through the pages of his notebook again. ‘Major Spittlehouse said that he didn’t recollect seeing Masters between the time he returned from his night watch until he set off for the bonfire festivities proper at a quarter to seven. That was because he and his sister had a cold supper laid out for them and saw to themselves. Masters was not required to be present to wait at table.’

  ‘Splendid, Bell. I say, you are doing well. That’s good old-fashioned police work for you. Now, I think I can go a bit further. Didn’t we reckon it took about fifteen minutes at a brisk walk for Major Spittlehouse to walk from his house to the field? Well, it stands to reason then that it took the same amount of time for Spittlehouse to walk home from his night watch. According to him, he left the field before five. On that basis, I’d say he got to his house between ten past and a quarter past five.’

  ‘By which time Masters had already set off to wherever he went to be murdered?’

  ‘It certainly looks like that, Bell, unless of course he was downstairs with Mrs Masters helping her with the washing up. Of course his wife will be able to tell us; she might even be able to let us know the exact time that he left the house, if she’s anything like my good lady.’ He got up and began to pace the room, his thumbs stuck in the pockets of his trousers. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think for one moment that I was being flippant, Bell, or that I didn’t care about this poor fellow, because I do. From what little we’ve heard about the man, he was a decent, hardworking sort. He was not the type to set the world alight, he just got on with his job and did it diligently. There’s nothing wrong with that. The world would be a better place if there were more like him. One thing’s for certain. He doesn’t deserve for his death to go unnoticed, or for his murderer not to be brought to justice. I tell you, Bel
l, I mean to catch whoever killed that poor man if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Sergeant Bell harboured no doubt as to the sincerity of his superior’s words. Not only had it been evident in his voice, but he was familiar also with the man’s character. The inspector would leave no stone unturned once he’d put his mind to something. He saw whatever it was to its bitter conclusion with a dogged determination. The sergeant described the inspector to his girl as being a ‘solid’ policeman. There was nothing very showy about the man himself and nothing very fancy about his method of police work. He was thorough and he was persistent and such an approach more often than not brought results. And the results that they brought could withstand a clever defence barrister trying to make mincemeat of them on the witness stand. Sergeant Bell knew for a fact that some of his peers found Inspector Newcombe rather dull and old-fashioned, very like the method of police work he so admired. The sergeant, however, was not one of his critics; he held the man in high esteem. He was astute enough to realise the inspector would provide him with a very thorough grounding in his chosen profession. He watched and he learnt, as he told Betty, picking up every morsel that he could. It would make him a better policeman; he was certain of it.

  In this particular case, there was an added ingredient to the mix and Sergeant Bell was in two minds how he felt on the matter. On the one hand, the aristocracy had always fascinated him, but on the other he felt that they should know their place as much as the next man. That was how society worked without falling apart. He didn’t think the gentry would be any good at police work, any more than he would have been suited to overseeing a house full of servants. Which of course brought him on to the question of Lady Belvedere. Admittedly she had had the foresight to question the children before the murder became common knowledge but, to his mind, Inspector Newcombe had shown an unexpected willingness for her, a mere amateur, to collaborate with them on the investigation. Sergeant Bell wondered how it would all pan out.