Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  ‘Yes, I think it would matter. Though, as you say, in most cases I daresay such letters make wildly false accusations.’

  ‘But why should this case be any different?’ asked Cedric. ‘Why are you so certain the major is lying, or has anything to hide, come to that?’

  ‘Because of Masters’ reaction to the second letter,’ said Rose firmly. She spoke slowly, organising her thoughts in her mind as she went. ‘It all goes back to that second letter. I’m referring of course to the letter that Masters read and threw on to the fire, not the one he opened and read yesterday morning.’ She put down her knife and fork and looked at her husband earnestly. ‘If you remember, Masters had been with the major a very long time. If Daphne was Major Spittlehouse’s daughter or his mistress, come to that, I think Masters would have been well aware of the fact. Now, according to Mrs Masters what her husband read in the letter, that he threw on the fire, upset him greatly.’ Rose leaned forward and laid her hand on Cedric’s arm. It felt solid and comforting beneath her touch. She might have got it all wrong about Masters, but she knew in her husband she had an avid listener. ‘I think what he read in that letter alarmed him. If it had merely told him something of which he was already aware or knew to be untrue, I don’t think he would have been so affected by its contents. But he was clearly distressed by what he read, so much so that he couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘I wonder what could have been written in that letter,’ pondered her husband. ‘It must have been something dreadful. I say, you are suggesting the accusation was based on the truth, aren’t you? Is that why old Spittlehouse acted the way he did? It must have been something truly awful for him to think up that nonsense he told Inspector Newcombe. If nothing else, it was dashed embarrassing for him to say what he did.’

  ‘Yes, I think it was based on the truth. What the letter said was both awful and true. At least I think Masters thought there may have been some truth to the accusation. And that was why he was so upset and threw the letter on to the fire. Remember, he refused to let his wife read it.’

  ‘I say, are the police going to interview Spittlehouse again? I daresay there’s a chance he might crack up!’

  ‘They’re busy at the moment trying to find the third letter, the one Masters opened and read yesterday. No one knows if he destroyed it or not.’ Rose gave a grim smile. ‘Inspector Newcombe has taken Major Spittlehouse to the field on some pretext or other while Sergeant Bell and a constable search Masters’ rooms. The major was very interested to know what had happened to that letter and I think the inspector was rather afraid that he might try and look for the letter himself and destroy it, given half the chance. The inspector certainly didn’t want him to return to Green Gables unaccompanied.’

  ‘I expect he would have done. Destroyed the letter, I mean. I think I would have done in his place. I wonder what was written in that missing third letter.’

  ‘Oh, I have a fairly good idea,’ said Rose. ‘It is the first and second letters that I should have liked to have had sight of.’ She smiled in spite of herself as her husband’s jaw dropped in surprise. ‘Yes, that’s the funny part of it. You see, I thought it highly unlikely that the major would divulge the contents of the letter he had received and read, whatever it had said. He would consider it a private matter. He wouldn’t involve the police. But as it happens I don’t think Inspector Newcombe would have raised the matter of the letters to the major quite so suddenly and abruptly as he did if he wasn’t under the impression that I had rather taken over his interview. That is to say, I had a theory that I wished to test and to do so I had to emphasise something to the major and see his face when I did so. It was a feeling I had after the major’s behaviour yesterday.’ She paused to give Cedric something of a smug smile. ‘And it would appear I have been proved right in my assumption.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. It occurred to me that the major believed Daphne had tried to kill him, particularly given that business with Masters wearing his jacket. He was very worried about her last night, if you remember, particularly when you consider that Daphne wasn’t overly fond of the Masters. There was no reason why she would be particular distressed by what had happened, no more so than anyone else, that is.’ Rose paused a moment as she reflected. ‘And she was not there when the body was discovered. It was not as if she had had the shock of seeing the corpse. But the major was adamant that she should not be interviewed last night. I rather think he was afraid she might say something that would incriminate her.’

  ‘I say, do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes I do. I think the major really believed Daphne had murdered his servant in mistake for him. You must remember that she had a very good motive for wishing her brother dead.’

  ‘That business with their parents’ will, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. And a man like the major would still feel he had a duty to protect his sister, even if she had tried to kill him. He wouldn’t want to send her to the gallows.’ Rose sighed. ‘You should have seen the look of relief on his face when I suggested that it was very unlikely that someone who knew him very well, like Daphne, though I didn’t refer to her by name, would have made such an elementary mistake.’

  The librarian stood behind the central issue desk in Bichester library. To a casual observer she appeared to be fully engrossed in her work, cataloguing the books in the library in considerable detail, for her head was bent diligently over an open book in which there was a page of writing written in a neat and meticulous hand. A keen and more perceptive onlooker, however, might have queried why she rarely glanced at the books in front of her, or why she saw the need to make frequent visits to the tables that littered the room to secure more books when she had yet to turn a page in the book in which she was writing. They might also have wondered why her pen scarcely moved over the page and why the ink was quite dry.

  Fortunately for Miss Warren, the public library boasted no such observant spectators. The few people who inhabited the library on that Friday afternoon bestowed on her very little attention. They were more concerned with their own needs of finding a place where they might keep warm or while away a few hours. Therefore, she was to them no more than a part of the library landscape, an ever present figure administering the rubber date stamp and hushing those who dared to speak above a whisper in her domain. They did not notice the surreptitious glances that she cast around the room, or that today they were permitted to speak rather louder than usual without hearing the hated tut-tutting sound escape her lips. Today the library, though relatively quiet, could not be said to be silent. Instead, there was the gentle buzz of gossip in the air, snatches of which reached the librarian’s straining ears.

  Miss Warren gave a profound, though very quiet, little sigh. Well brought up ladies did not listen to other people’s conversations. Her mother had instilled this fact in her as a child. She had been an uncommonly obedient child, taking her lessons to heart, the result being that in later life she was very much of the same view as her long dead mother. Eavesdropping was therefore to be abhorred. It was not to be tolerated on any account and certainly not a thing to be engaged in oneself. Yet, here she was, trying desperately to overhear the conversations of strangers, passing between them and stretching over tables for books she did not want merely so that she might have an excuse to listen.

  She had soon discovered that the task was not an easy one and certainly could not be rushed. It became apparent that the visitors to the library had a tendency to stop speaking when she appeared beside them, looming up out of thin air, as it were. They spoke more freely when she was situated behind her central desk but, being physically removed from them, she then had difficulty catching their words. It was therefore late morning before she had heard enough to hear mention of the murder. Naturally enough, talk had focused all morning on the Sedgwick bonfire festivities of the night before, with much discussion on the quality and array of fireworks. Though reference had been made to the firework display having taken place by the lake at Sedgwick
Court instead of in the usual field, which had drawn comment and speculation, it had not been until late morning that the word death had been referred to.

  It was now early afternoon and Miss Warren, ostensibly cataloguing, stood transfixed on the spot behind her desk. The pen was still in her hand but she did not write and her gaze was not on the open book in front of her. If she looked anywhere it was to the middle distance, where the rows upon rows of books blurred until they became one dark shadow. She realised, even in her agitated state, that she was filled with a fear that she had never known. She had experienced sorrow and distress but nothing like this. It was a fear that seemed to engulf and shake her very body. She could not believe that she did not visibly tremble. Any moment now, someone might notice and ask her what was wrong. She stifled a sob. What could she tell them? It seemed so fanciful, ludicrous even, but it was true. A man in a tweed jacket was dead; murdered. It was not a bad dream from which she might awaken. She had not imagined it; it had actually happened and there was nothing she could do about it. For to open her mouth and say anything would only be to incriminate herself. She glanced at her bag which was now thankfully innocent of its guilty contents. The temptation to confess was great, to relieve herself of her heavy burden that she carried and must now always carry. But she could not give voice to her fears. It was too late. No good would come of it only harm. The need for self-preservation tore at her heart so that it obliterated everything else, even her guilt. She wished in that moment that she was made of sterner stuff, that she could atone for what she had done.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘What I meant to say,’ said Archie hurriedly, rather alarmed by the shocked expression on the solicitor’s face, ‘is that I thought Miss Spittlehouse might appreciate some time by herself. But of course you are quite right, Uncle Harold. I should go to her at once.’

  With that, Archie Mayhew turned tail and fled. That is to say, he collected his hat and coat and walked briskly out of the solicitors’ office, banging the door behind him in his haste, which made the doorframe rattle and Miss Simmons look up from her typewriter and frown. In Archie’s mind, however, he was most definitely absconding, escaping the confines of the office and running to … he did not quite know where. He would have to go and see Daphne of course, if only because it was expected of him. But he did not wish to go there yet, not until he had had a chance to collect his thoughts and decide what to do.

  Archie cursed himself severely. He had acted very stupidly, arousing the old man’s curiosity like that by giving way to his feelings of … he hadn’t been quite sure what his feelings had been. Horror, disgust, revulsion, these were the words that sprung, dark and ugly, to mind, unbidden and unwanted. He glanced down at his black gloved hand and wondered whether it was tainted, whether everything he touched now would be contaminated. He quickened his step, though he had little idea where he was going. He knew only that he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the solicitors’ firm as possible. But to see Daphne after what had happened … why, he didn’t feel that he would ever be able to lay eyes on her again. He wondered whether she felt the same way about him now, despite what she had said during their snatched telephone conversation that morning. He had been conscious only that old Simmons might be listening to his side of the conversation.

  Was Daphne sitting there now, thinking over what he had said? He rather thought she might be and that he had likely given himself away with that business about the servant. Had he sounded too surprised to discover that the body was not that of Major Spittlehouse? The thought returned to him again and again. Was Daphne this very minute pondering their conversation, going over each sentence in her mind? Would she remember where he had paused, where he had emitted a sharp intake of breath, and most damning of all, the moment he had sounded surprised? Or would she think it only natural that he had been obviously shaken by the news, as would any reasonable person when murder crossed his path?

  The beep of a car horn brought Archie abruptly to his senses. He had wandered aimlessly into the road, with no conscious thought given to where he was going. He looked about him now and discovered that his steps had taken him away from the main high street and down some side road and into another and then goodness knew where, so that now he barely recognised where he was. He had apparently walked into some squalid street or other; houses crammed together with crumbling brickwork and windows black with soot and adorned with dirty lace curtains. Had he been in any other frame of mind, he would have quickly retraced his steps to the main road, but today the filthy surroundings suited his mood. A small group of men loitering on the street corner watched him with curiosity, and two or three children playing in the gutter paused in their game to stare at him suspiciously. Archie felt in his pocket for a few coins which he gave to the eldest child who, with the other children in wild pursuit, ran laughing and shrieking with delight into one of the houses to show his mother. One of the men looked at him with a villainous expression.

  Archie quickened his pace. He did not wish to pass by the men on the corner; yet to remain where he was standing in the street, or to retreat cautiously back to where he had come, would surely make him appear vulnerable. Certainly the men appeared to be looking at him now with more than idle interest, and one or two were nudging each other in the ribs. He should not have strayed into this street with his fine city clothes and showed his money in so cavalier a fashion. The street stunk of poverty and desperation, and who knew what men with nothing to lose would be driven to do?

  It was then that he spotted what he considered to be his salvation, or at least a temporary sanctuary of sorts. It was a mean little tearoom squashed in between two houses, its window as grubby as the others, but with a faint glow of light penetrating the glass so that, alone in this street of sordid buildings, the shop glimmered a little brighter, a welcome beacon in a street of murkiness. Without a backward glance, he crossed the street and entered the establishment. The interior was no more pleasing than the exterior, the floor having what looked like sawdust strewn all over it, reminding him of a butcher’s shop. The walls were of a dirty white colour, and the tables, innocent of tablecloths, looked as if they had not been wiped, and certainly never scrubbed.

  Archie chose a table beside the window which gave him a good view of the street, and in particular of the men on the street corner. He ordered a cup of tea from a disreputable looking waitress, who looked at him with open hostility. The tea, however, when it came, though stewed and dark as treacle, was steaming hot and tasted surprisingly rather pleasant, if he could forget for a moment the chipped cup and cracked saucer. He sipped his tea cautiously and an unexpected wave of relief drifted over him. For here he would meet no friend or acquaintance who might ask him some awkward question, query why he looked so pale or was not at work. Here he could give way to his thoughts without disturbance. In this very hovel he would decide what to do. Archie sighed and discovered that his head ached with a throbbing pain. He had had little sleep the night before. The temptation now was to close his eyes and sleep. He could lean his head against the wall. He did not think that it would occasion much interest if he did. But he could not give way to his tiredness, for he must think. Foremost in his mind was the realisation that he had made a mistake. He cursed as he took a gulp of tea and scalded his tongue in the process. He had made a dreadful error for he had mistaken the servant, Masters, for Major Spittlehouse.

  Rose picked up a book at random in the library at Sedgwick Court, barely bothering to glance at its pages. She lacked the concentration required for reading and discarded it almost immediately, acknowledging herself to be in a restive mood. Instead, she drummed her fingers on the polished surface of the octagonal table. Next, she began to pace the room, going from one side to the other in a makeshift circle until the rows of books blurred into one and she was forced to sit down before she became quite giddy. Her head throbbed while she herself was filled with a nagging impatience to do something. But what? She was at a loss. The afte
rnoon stretched out long and endless before her with little to occupy her time other than to sit in solitary thought and wait for events to unfold.

  Inspector Newcombe had returned briefly to Sedgwick Court with Sergeant Bell. He had been in a somewhat brusque temper, disinclined to parley. She had established, however, that the missing letter, for which the police had been searching so rigorously, had not been found among the dead servant’s belongings. Rather grudgingly, the inspector had invited her to accompany him to her mother’s house to interview Mrs Masters. She had declined politely, somewhat to the relief of all. For Rose was of the view that if she should choose to speak with Mrs Masters again then it would be alone. If nothing else, the poor woman could well do without a hoard of visitors descending on her, demanding that she answer intrusive questions. And, if Rose were to be completely honest, she did not wish to be present when the inspector informed Masters’ widow that in all likelihood her husband had been murdered in mistake for their employer. She had no doubt that the woman would go to pieces and a distressing enough image formed itself readily in her mind, without her wishing to be there to witness the actual event.

  With considerable effort, she tore the upsetting vision from her mind. It would not do to dwell on such things. It was sufficient that she knew it resided there and could be called upon to spur her on in her investigation should she find herself to be lagging or in want of motivation. With renewed determination, she was resolved not to visit Mrs Masters again until she had some definite news to impart which might provide the woman with some comfort.

  Rose might well have been tempted to return to the conversation begun at luncheon with her husband, had Cedric not been required to attend an emergency meeting of the Bonfire Committee, which had been hastily convened in light of the tragic events of the night before. She knew that her husband feared what decisions the Committee might reach if he were not present. She was aware that he was very much of the opinion that the festivities should continue unaltered, representing as they did a long tradition in Sedgwick’s history. In her mind’s eye, she could imagine him there now, eloquent and impassioned, as he made his case, urging the members not to give way to fear.