Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  ‘Bills and the like, miss?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Unpleasant letters,’ said Rose, wondering how best to describe them. ‘Letters casting aspersions about people’s characters.’

  ‘Oh! You mean poison pen letters?’ exclaimed Edna excitedly. ‘There was a spate of those in my nan’s village. Ever so nasty they were, upsetting people and destroying their characters. Of course, Nan had nothing to hide so she weren’t bothered, but some of the young lasses fair cried their eyes out that anyone could be so cruel and write such vile things. They even accused Mrs Jennings, the doctor’s wife, of carrying on with Mr Smith, the butcher. One young girl, Ann, daughter of the local blacksmith, was so upset by the letter she received that she threw herself in the river. Luckily for her the grocer’s boy saw her do it, and they fished her out spluttering and screaming and saying how she wanted to die. A week later, of course, and she’d thought better of it. For one thing the letters had stopped. I daresay the writer had had a bit of a fright.’

  ‘Quite likely,’ agreed Rose. ‘But, yes, those are exactly the type of letters I mean. Tell me, have you heard any gossip about anyone in the village receiving them?’

  ‘I can’t say I have. Though people tend to keep it to themselves if they’ve had such letters. They find it shaming, ’course you know what folk say about there being no smoke without fire.’ Edna made a face. ‘I wouldn’t like to think Sedgwick had a person like that in it, who’d write those nasty letters.’

  ‘Neither would I. There hasn’t been talk in the servants’ hall about anyone receiving them?’

  ‘I’ve never heard it. But that’s not to say it hasn’t been talked about, just not in my hearing.’ Edna looked a little frightened. ‘You don’t think I’ll receive one, do you, miss?’

  ‘No, I don’t, Edna. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, really I don’t. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘You aren’t going to tell me Mr Masters received one of them letters?’ Edna’s eyes had become as large as saucers and her mouth had dropped open.

  ‘No,’ said Rose firmly. ‘No, he didn’t receive any of those letters, but I think he may well have been trying to protect the person who did.’

  When Rose walked out on to the landing, she discovered that Major Spittlehouse had just arrived. She kept a little back from the banisters so as not to be observed, and watched from her vantage point as the major was relieved of his hat and coat by one of the footmen, prior to being shown into the library. As soon as he had disappeared from view, she dashed down the stairs and slipped into the room before the policemen had the opportunity to close the door.

  If Inspector Newcombe was surprised to see her, he did not show it. Sergeant Bell merely looked up from his notebook and gave her a brief glance. Of the three gentlemen there, it was Major Spittlehouse who appeared a little taken aback by her presence, as if he was wondering what she was doing there. Nonetheless, he greeted her politely enough and enquired after her husband. She in turn enquired politely after his sister. It occurred to Rose, however, that he was still expecting her to leave the room before the interview commenced. Instead, she seated herself without fuss in a chair behind him and waited for someone to ask her to go. Nobody did. The major, she thought, was too polite to do so and Inspector Newcombe probably thought it preferable to have her there in the room with them where he could keep his eye on her.

  Rose thought that the major had lost some of his bluster of the night before. The initial shock of his servant’s death and concern for his sister were behind him. He had had a night’s sleep, or something approximating it, and while the tragedy was no less terrible in the daylight than it had been the evening before, the awful immediacy of it having just happened had passed. She wondered if he would be more responsive to the questions asked of him today. Looking up, she met Inspector Newcombe’s eye and thought he was probably wondering the same thing. Whatever his thoughts, it was clear that he intended to take a direct approach; there was to be no beating about the bush with pleasantries.

  ‘Major Spittlehouse, thank you for coming here today,’ began the inspector. ‘I daresay you are wondering why we wished to see you. You are no doubt of the view that you answered all our questions last night.’

  ‘I think I did,’ agreed the major rather gruffly, ‘to the best of my ability. I think there is little more that I can add.’

  ‘There I beg to differ.’ Inspector Newcombe held up his hand as the major made to protest. ‘You see new information has come to light which leads us to believe that we were looking at this murder from the wrong angle.’

  ‘Oh?’ Major Spittlehouse sounded interested in spite of himself.

  ‘Yes. I feel it my duty to inform you that we believe you were the intended victim, rather than your servant.’

  ‘Now look here, Inspector.’ The major had jumped up from his seat so forcefully that the chair threatened to topple over. It was apparent, however, that the inspector had anticipated just such an outburst, for he continued talking very much as if the major had not spoken. He did, however, speak more loudly lest the major be tempted to interrupt him again.

  ‘As I have just said, we strongly believe your servant was murdered in mistake for you.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Is it though, Major? The man was wearing your jacket; the same jacket that you always wore. And we have it on Lord Belvedere’s authority that he was of a similar build to yourself and wore his moustache in the same military style. Given the time of year, likely as not it was pitch dark when he died, or as good as. It would have been an easy mistake to make.’

  Rose leapt from her seat. The inspector had broached the evidence for mistaken identity more quickly than she had expected. Hastily she crossed the room to stand beside the inspector in order that she might glimpse the major’s face. All three men stared at her enquiringly, their mouths slightly open; but not one of them spoke. It occurred to her then that had she been plain Rose Simpson, such a movement would have been remarked upon. However, while Lady Belvedere choosing a rather odd moment to cross from one end of her library to the other might arouse the same level of curiosity, it did not induce comment.

  ‘It would have been dark, Major, just as Inspector Newcombe has said,’ said Rose hurriedly, fearing that the inspector would seek to interrupt her. ‘In light of that fact, you must admit that it is perfectly feasible that Masters might have been mistaken for you for the reasons the inspector has given.’

  ‘No, forgive me, Lady Belvedere, but I don’t see that at all,’ said the major.

  ‘It is perfectly possible that someone who did not know you well,’ continued Rose, ‘or had only glimpsed you on one or two occasions might have made such a mistake.’ The major looked up, and she caught his eye. She saw what she was looking for, a glimmer of hope. ‘I do not think that someone who knew you well would have made such a mistake, even in the dark. According to my husband, you are a good six inches taller than Masters and slightly broader across the shoulders.’

  The look of relief on the major’s face was unmistakeable. He was nodding his head slowly, as if he were still digesting what she had just said. Rose was aware of the inspector beside her. She hardly dared look at his expression. She thought it likely that he would be angry. If nothing else, he would feel that she had overstepped the mark that had been drawn between amateur sleuth and official detective. She had taken over his line of questioning in a most forthright fashion. If he were annoyed, however, he made no show of it other than to firmly take back the reins.

  ‘Now, Major Spittlehouse, I should like you to tell me about the letters.’

  ‘The letters?’ The fear in the major’s voice was unmistakeable though he was making a valiant attempt to disguise the fact. It was clear, however, that he had been caught off guard and was floundering. He blinked hard and stared up at the inspector. Rose thought she could see his mind working, trying to make a stab at guessing how much they already knew.

  ‘Yes, t
he letters. Tell me about the one you received that was hand delivered, pushed under the garden door. Mrs Masters found it. You asked her husband about the person who had delivered it because apparently you couldn’t read the signature.’

  ‘Did I? I can’t recall. It must have been a letter from a tradesman.’

  ‘Come, Major Spittlehouse, this really will not do. We know it was an anonymous letter and what you might call a poison pen letter, or perhaps even a blackmail letter. You only received one, but it might interest you to know that in fact two other such letters were delivered to your house.’ The inspector paused for a moment before continuing; he was watching the major’s face for a reaction. ‘Masters read them.’

  ‘Did he really?’ The colour had drained from the major’s face. ‘Masters read them, you say?’

  The inspector nodded and it became very apparent to everyone present that Major Spittlehouse was appalled at this news.

  ‘His wife told Lady Belvedere that he steamed open the second letter and was so disgusted by what he read that he threw it on to the fire. He refused to disclose to her what it had said, but was so upset by its contents that he could not sleep.’

  The major looked pale, but said nothing.

  ‘Yesterday the third letter was delivered. Masters read it. He did not show it to his wife, but told her everything was all right.’

  ‘What happened to that letter, Inspector?’

  ‘We don’t know. Masters took the letter with him but it was not found on his body. It is likely that he destroyed it.’ Inspector Newcombe paused for a moment before he leaned forward and said: ‘I want to know what was in that first letter, Major. What did it say?’

  Major Spittlehouse swallowed hard and thought rapidly, trying to digest what he had just been told. He had thrown the first letter on the fire himself and watched it burn to a cinder. Masters had dealt with the second letter the same way. In all likelihood the third letter had suffered a similar fate. Masters had read two of the letters but had not divulged their contents. In such circumstances, his natural inclination was to say nothing. He said rather hurriedly: ‘It has nothing to do with Masters’ death.’

  ‘That is for us to decide, not you,’ Inspector Newcombe said curtly. ‘You will tell me what was in that letter please, Major.’

  Major Spittlehouse looked away. He looked first at the ceiling and then at the carpet. He fidgeted in his seat and then looked at his hands. ‘Very well, Inspector, have it your own way. It was all nonsense. It said …’ he paused to glance at Rose. ‘Please excuse me, Lady Belvedere, I don’t wish to offend you,’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. ‘The letter said that Miss Spittlehouse was not my sister. The writer claimed she was … my mistress. It was a load of old rot of course, but it was still rather distressing. That there was someone in the village who could suggest such a thing … and if my sister should have seen it, or received such a letter herself ….’ Major Spittlehouse put a hand to his face, his cheeks crimson.

  ‘There is no truth then to the allegation?’ asked Inspector Newcombe brusquely.

  ‘Of course not. None whatsoever.’ The major’s voice shook with righteous indignation. ‘It was lies, all damn lies. Not worth the paper it was written on.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘So someone was sending vile letters to old Spittlehouse, were they?’ Cedric said at luncheon. ‘I say, that would take some nerve. I wouldn’t want to be the poison penner if the major found out his identity.’

  ‘Is penner really a word?’ laughed Rose. ‘I think you made it up. You can pen a letter but …’ A frown creased her forehead. Sitting here with Cedric, it was so easy to forget the whole frightful business of murder for a few minutes and then, just when she did, she was pulled up short because of course it wouldn’t just go away. With an awful sinking feeling she remembered. The weight returned to her shoulders as if it were a real, tangible thing, and laughter seemed dreadfully inappropriate. She looked around quickly and was pleased to see that none of the servants were present to witness her show of frivolity. She lowered her voice and said more seriously: ‘They’re anonymous, of course. The writer didn’t write his name. Unless the major recognised his writing I suppose he’ll be all right. He disguised it, I would imagine, or typed them and then just signed them “from a friend”, or something frightful like that, because of course he was anything but a friend. If he were he wouldn’t have sent the letters in the first place, would he, if that makes any sense?’

  ‘It does to me,’ assured her husband. ‘I say, it sounds a jolly cowardly business, not to say downright horrid.’

  ‘It is. It’s frightfully unpleasant because everyone dreads getting a letter and of course everyone suspects everyone else of writing them. Still, in this instance it appears that only the major has received them.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s something to be thankful for. Who tends to write this sort of nonsense, do you know?’ said Cedric, tucking in heartily to his plate of food; the murder had apparently done little to diminish his appetite.

  By contrast, his wife picked at her food absentmindedly, pushing it around her plate. She looked down at the fish and could not rid herself of the thought that considerable time and effort had gone in to preparing the dish that sat in front of her, though she knew full well that Mrs Broughton had had a hundred and one other things to do that morning. For had she not learned from Edna that the cook and the kitchen and the scullery maids had been busy restoring the kitchen and pantry to their ordered state after the devastation caused by the children? Yet the cook had still prepared luncheon, and really she should make a stab at eating it to show her appreciation of the fact, but she had no appetite. After the guilt she had experienced for forgetting and laughing, her thoughts now dwelt on Mrs Masters. She remembered her huddled on the settee, a blanket around her, and Masters lying dead in the field, surrounded by guys and effigies.

  ‘I think it is generally thought to be embittered old spinsters with nothing better to do,’ said Rose, trying to rid herself of the unpleasant image of the dead servant. She attempted to sound flippant, but failed dismally. ’But I think it might be rather different in this case because the letters have only been sent to Major Spittlehouse. That is to say, the writer might be quite a different sort of person.’

  ‘I wonder why the major was singled out,’ pondered Cedric. ‘He doesn’t seem the type to receive such letters. I can’t imagine the old man has ever stepped out of line. He’s a pillar of the village and all that.’ His eyes became large and he stopped eating, a morsel of fish suspended mid-air on his fork. ‘I say, I suppose there isn’t any truth to the accusation? That Daphne Spittlehouse is his mistress rather than his sister, I mean?’

  ‘I think it highly unlikely,’ said Rose, ‘though the police will be checking of course; they won’t just be taking the major’s word for it. But it would make rather a nonsense of Daphne coming to see me about her parents’ will if it were true, wouldn’t it? But, as it happens, I did suggest to Inspector Newcombe that he might like to check something else.’

  ‘Oh?’ Cedric looked distinctly interested.

  ‘Yes. I suggested that he might like to check whether Daphne Spittlehouse is in fact the major’s daughter rather than his sister. It occurred to me that she just might be, even if she were not aware of the fact herself. It would fit with her age and all the facts, you see.’

  ‘I say, I think you’re right. There may be something in that,’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘I mean, it would make much more sense of their parents’ will, wouldn’t it? What could be more natural than Major Spittlehouse’s parents leaving everything to their son with the expectation that he would provide for their granddaughter.’ He continued, warming to the theme. ‘You’re suggesting, aren’t you, that Daphne is the result of a relationship between Spittlehouse and a woman, whom was presumably not his wife, and that his parents took the child in and brought it up as their own?’

  ‘Something like that. From what I’ve seen,
the major certainly seems to treat Daphne more like a daughter than a sister. And the age difference between them means it could be possible. It might also explain his attitude towards Daphne marrying Archie Mayhew. He seems frightfully protective of her, as a father would be of his daughter.’

  ‘Well I never! I didn’t think the old major had it in him. One thing’s for certain, he wouldn’t want a thing like that to become common knowledge.’

  ‘I only said it was a possibility,’ stressed Rose. ‘It was something that occurred to me when the police were questioning Major Spittlehouse this morning, that’s all. You see, it was obvious that Inspector Newcombe had taken him rather by surprise when he asked him about the letters. The major didn’t think anyone knew about them so he was rather caught unawares. He didn’t want to admit what was in the letter. The inspector, however, was demanding to know what was written in that first letter. The major knew it wouldn’t look good for him if he were to refuse to tell him; it would only show that he had something to hide, so he had to invent something quickly which was vaguely plausible but at the same time could easily be disproved.’

  ‘So he came up with the notion that the writer accused Daphne of being his mistress, when in actual fact the writer claimed she was his daughter?’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s possible. Though the more I think about it the more unlikely it seems. It doesn’t really explain Masters’ behaviour, does it?’

  ‘If it is proved that Daphne is the major’s sister and not his daughter or his mistress,’ said Cedric, ‘what would that prove? Would it still mean that the major was lying about what was written in the letter he received? I mean, there is nothing to say that the writer was very concerned with facts, is there? Perhaps he just wanted to write something malicious and to hell if it was true or not.’