The house without her husband and the policemen seemed unnaturally still and silent, as if it shared her own impatience. It was waiting for something to happen, or willing the hands on the clock on the mantelpiece to move forward at a tremendous rate so that the wanderers might return. Rose closed her eyes for one brief moment. Perhaps this gesture in itself was enough for a thought to come suddenly, and with unexpected force, into her head. Her eyes snapped open and the library appeared about her like the backdrop to a play. She knew the thought that had sprung so readily to mind to be quite out of the question. The books stared back at her in a mocking fashion, as if in agreement. Yet the thought proved persistent, unwilling to be put out of her mind however much she tried. It refused to go, lingering instead on the edge of her consciousness, gathering momentum until she could think of little else.
Inspector Newcombe was currently occupied with interviewing Mrs Masters, and Major Spittlehouse was presumably at the meeting of the Bonfire Committee. Indeed, hadn’t Cedric told her that he was rather afraid the major would consider it his duty to tender his resignation as Committee chairman at that very meeting? Whether he did so or not was quite irrelevant for Rose’s purpose. What really mattered was that he would not be at Green Gables. Daphne Spittlehouse would be quite alone. Now was the ideal opportunity to visit her and implore her to tell the police about her parents’ will and her brother’s reluctance to bestow on her an endowment in the light of her impending marriage. If she could only convince the woman to speak, she would not be placed in the uncomfortable position of feeling obliged to inform the police that Daphne had a motive for wishing her brother dead.
If she were to implement her plan, it was vital that she be quick, and yet Rose hesitated. The temptation was to go at once, but she rather dreaded Inspector Newcombe’s reaction when he learnt that she had once again taken it upon herself to question someone about the murder before the police had had a chance to do so. She took a deep breath. She might well shudder at the recollection of how the inspector had taken the news about her conversation with Mrs Masters, but really she had no alternative but to go. She could not sit here a moment longer without purpose, waiting for the others to return. It was no use hoping that the next piece in the jigsaw puzzle would come to her of its own accord. She must progress her investigation regarding the servant’s murder as best she could and if she ruffled a few feathers in the process, well, it could not be helped. If nothing else, she felt she had a responsibility towards Daphne. It would be much better if the woman could be persuaded to offer up the incriminating information against her, seemingly of her own volition.
Having made up her mind, Rose instructed Manning to summon the chauffeur to bring the Daimler around to the front door. Had time not been against her, she would have preferred to walk instead so that she might gather her thoughts. But she was conscious of nothing else but the urgency of her mission. If she could only get back to Sedgwick Court before the inspector returned, he might never know about her visit to Daphne Spittlehouse.
A quarter of an hour later saw Rose safely deposited at the front door of Green Gables, the Victorian scroll door knocker resting in her hand. She hesitated a brief second before she knocked, painfully aware that her heart was racing, whether because she was about to do something of which Inspector Newcombe would most undoubtedly disapprove or because she feared that Daphne would consider that she was interfering in matters which did not concern her, she did not know. She took a deep breath and rapped the knocker smartly against the back plate. In her agitated state the noise was monstrous; it seemed to echo inside the house as if the building were no more than a hollow shell. She waited, her ears straining for any sound of life behind the brick facade. But no one came to answer the door. It occurred to her then that perhaps the house was indeed empty. Daphne might quite reasonably have gone for a walk to clear her mind or be visiting a friend. There was no reason to suppose her to be sitting brooding and alone in the Spittlehouses’ drawing room.
A wave of frustration overcame Rose. She rapped again more sharply; it was possible that the door even shook with her impatience. Yet this time, above the noise of the knocker, she heard the faint sound of footsteps coming across the hall. After some hesitation, the door was opened in a rather timorous fashion, as if whoever was behind it was rather apprehensive as to the identity of the caller. Rose found herself staring in to the face of a timid looking girl, who showed no inclination to open the door fully. Rather, she clung to her side of the handle and peeked her face around the door.
‘Hallo. You must be Biddy,’ Rose said kindly, taking in the little maid’s red, swollen eyes.
Biddy sniffed, searched for a handkerchief in her apron pocket and blew her nose. Only then did she think to nod, clutching the handkerchief to her as she did so.
‘Mrs Masters was telling me about you. She was awfully concerned that you would be very upset about her husband.’
‘Oh, I am that, miss,’ wailed Biddy, dabbing her eyes with the soiled handkerchief. ‘I can’t seem to do a thing around the house and Miss Daphne is that … oh, begging your pardon, m’lady. I don’t know what came over me, not knowing it were you.’ Biddy did a belated curtsey. Her curiosity overcame her shyness and she asked eagerly: ‘Have you seen her, Mrs Masters, I mean? I am that sorry for her, I am. Loved him she did, though sometimes her tongue was rather sharp, but she didn’t mean nothing by it.’
‘She’s dreadfully upset, as you can imagine, Biddy. But she’s bearing up awfully well,’ said Rose, not entirely truthfully. ‘I’m sure she would like to see you. She said you were very fond of Mr Masters?’
‘Oh, I was that, miss,’ exclaimed Biddy. ‘He treated me like a daughter, he did, and me who’s never had a father to call me own, least not one I’ve ever met.’
The recollection of the dead man’s virtues, coupled with a show of unexpected kindness, had the result of producing a fresh bout of weeping from the girl. Rose waited while the maid mopped ineffectually at her eyes with the sodden handkerchief, her nose running. She was appalled at her own clumsiness and instinctively put an arm around the young girl’s shoulders and spoke to her in a soothing manner. They made a curious sight, the woman dressed in elegant finery comforting the girl in maid’s uniform, standing on the threshold of the house, the door wide open for all the world to see. But if either wondered at the curious scene they made, it was not apparent from their expressions.
‘Biddy, why is the door open? Who are you talking to?’ The voice that cut through the air was sharp as a knife. There was a certain haughtiness about it that stung Rose’s ears. ‘I warn you, if I catch you gossiping about …’
The voice faltered, for Daphne had crossed the hall and now clearly saw the visitor’s identity. Surprise and embarrassment revealed themselves on her face in equal measure and had the effect of deepening the colour in her cheeks. Her eyes opened wide and then she blinked rapidly, lowering her gaze a moment so that she stared fixedly at the tiled floor of the hall. With considerable effort, Daphne composed herself and raised her head, smiling as she did so.
‘Oh, Lady Belvedere, do beg my pardon; I didn’t know it was you.’ Daphne Spittlehouse’s voice was friendly and apologetic. Had Rose not heard the way she had just spoken to her grief-stricken servant, she might have believed the woman to be sincere. ‘I thought … Biddy, don’t just stand there with the door wide open and her ladyship neither in the house nor out. Really, Biddy, that is no way to answer a door. I would have thought Mrs Masters would have taught you better.’ Daphne stopped abruptly. It appeared that she had just noticed that Rose’s arm was about the maid’s shoulders and that the maid was sobbing. ‘Biddy, don’t take on so. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’ Despite the admonishment, Daphne’s voice took on a softer note. ‘Biddy, do take Lady Belvedere’s coat and make us some tea.’
‘Yes, Miss Spittlehouse,’ mumbled Biddy, sniffing and putting away her handkerchief.
‘If you will permit me, Daphne, I should li
ke to make the tea,’ said Rose. ‘The poor girl has had a frightful shock. I think she could do with sitting down a while and resting.’
‘But Lady Belvedere, I must protest. I couldn’t possibly –’
‘Please,’ said Rose sweetly, ‘think nothing of it. Really, I have made a great many pots of tea in my time. Biddy, perhaps you could show me the way to the kitchen. Is it through this door?’
Rose ushered Biddy through the green baize door before Daphne had an opportunity to protest further. The woman, as she had expected, made no effort to follow them into the servants’ quarters. Instead Daphne lingered awkwardly in the hall, twisting her hands together and praying that her brother would not choose this moment to return home. She bit her lip and after a moment of reflection giggled in spite of herself. She could just imagine the expression on Linus’ face should he find himself served tea by Lady Belvedere in his own home.
Having encouraged Biddy to sit down in one of the two comfortable old, worn armchairs placed at each side of the fireplace in the kitchen, Rose went in search of the kettle. She found a copper one, standing on three Bakelite legs, which she filled with water. While she waited for it to boil, she strolled idly over to the basement window and looked out. It appeared that the window overlooked a kitchen garden of sorts which no doubt earlier in the year was decorated with canes for broad beans and tomatoes. Though she craned her neck to take in the view, Rose could not see the garden gate. She cast a sideward glance at Biddy. The girl had all but buried her face in her handkerchief, and seemed barely conscious of her presence. Rose hastily filled the teapot with the water from the kettle, mumbled something about letting the tea brew, and with one last backward glance stole out into the passage.
She passed the door to the scullery and then arrived at the door that opened out on to the garden. It commanded a fine view of the garden gate which was situated almost directly opposite. This then was how the anonymous letter-writer had stolen into the garden and slipped the letter under the door without being seen. She noted that the person would not have been spotted by anyone in the kitchen or scullery, only by someone in the passage, if they happened to be facing the garden door at the time, or possibly by someone in the garden. Had she been at leisure, Rose would have wandered out into the grounds and examined the garden gate. She would also have walked through it to the lane that ran beyond. However, she was conscious suddenly that she had been gone a while. Daphne was undoubtedly awaiting her return with impatience and not a little annoyance. At the very least, she would be considering her visitor’s conduct distinctly odd.
Chapter Twenty-four
Rose returned hurriedly to the kitchen and poured out a cup of tea, which she gave to Biddy. She did not wish to leave the girl alone and cursed the need to speak with Daphne. However, it occurred to her that when she returned to Sedgwick Court she might very well send Edna to Green Gables to keep the girl company and undertake any domestic chores the Spittlehouses might require. She could do without a lady’s maid for a few days. Looking about her, Green Gables struck her as a cold and miserable place without the Masters’ presence. The more she thought about sending Edna, the more the notion appealed to her, and it was with renewed spirits that she bid Biddy farewell, picked up the tray and made her way up the stairs and through the green baize door.
She had fully expected to find Daphne in the drawing room. It was something of a shock then to discover that the woman had remained waiting for her in the hall.
‘So very kind of you, Lady Belvedere,’ said Daphne, all but snatching the laden tray from her and carrying it into the drawing room. Rose followed in her wake, aware that there was anger in her strides. She had dared to cross the boundaries of class and was being silently punished for it.
Rose sat in a well upholstered chair with a rigid back and contemplated the best line to take. As Daphne poured out the tea, she glanced at her wristwatch and was alarmed to discover that she had already been at Green Gables for some twenty minutes. She could almost hear Inspector Newcombe and Sergeant Bell approaching. While she was now resigned to still being present when they arrived, if she was quick she might just manage to speak to Daphne before they appeared. For this purpose, she considered it fortunate that Daphne’s nature was such that she did not feel the need to tread particularly carefully where the woman was concerned. There was no requirement to beat about the bush and approach the matter gently. But how best to begin?
‘Daphne, I daresay you think it rather odd that I should call on you today, but –’
‘Not at all. It was very kind of you Lady Belvedere,’ said Daphne. ‘Do you take sugar?’
She handed her visitor her tea and Rose felt the warmth of the liquid through the fine bone china. She quickly placed the cup and saucer on a convenient occasional table lest she should burn her fingers.
‘I suppose you realised I would be alone,’ Daphne was saying, while making a face. ‘Fancy holding a meeting of that wretched Bonfire Committee, today of all days. You’d think they had better things to do, wouldn’t you?’
‘I wish you would call me Rose, Daphne. Lady Belvedere sounds so very formal, Anyway, as I was saying, I had a specific reason for wishing to come and see you today,’ said Rose, choosing her words carefully. ‘I particularly wanted to speak with you before the inspector interviewed you.’
‘Oh?’
Rose was aware that she had Daphne’s attention now. Fleetingly, a wary look had come into the woman’s eyes. Then Daphne had lowered her gaze and stared down at her cup, her teaspoon poised in her hand.
‘Would you mind awfully if I were to be quite frank?’ asked Rose.
‘I have often thought it is better to be,’ said Daphne feigning an air of indifference. ‘Of course my brother wouldn’t agree with me.’
‘We don’t have much time, you see,’ said Rose, a note of urgency creeping into her voice. ‘It is very likely that the police will be here any moment and –’
‘What?’ cried Daphne. She looked startled, as if the sudden appearance of the police was something to be dreaded. ‘Why will they be here? What do they want?’ The appearance of apathy had quite disappeared. The note of panic in her voice was quite unmistakeable.
‘They will want to speak with you, I should imagine. There is nothing to fear. They will want to know when you last saw Masters, I expect. To enable them to determine his movements yesterday afternoon.’
‘I see,’ said Daphne, relaxing a little, ‘Well, I am not sure that I can be of much help.’ She stirred her tea absentmindedly. ‘You’ll think it dreadful of me, I know, but I really can’t remember the last time I saw him. You see, I was so used to seeing him about the house that I never really gave it much thought or noticed whether he was there or not. What I am trying to say is that he was something of a fixture about the place, if that makes any sense?
‘That is a pity,’ said Rose, a touch coldly, thinking how sad it was for the manservant to have had so little presence in someone’s eyes as to be almost invisible. ‘But I suppose it can’t be helped. Of course I should think the inspector will also want to ask you whether you are aware of your brother having any enemies.’
‘That would wish him dead?’ Daphne rolled her eyes. ‘Well, of course I’m not aware of any. People like Linus don’t make foes. That’s not to say that he isn’t a bit of an old windbag but …’ She laughed. ‘Really, I don’t know why the police don’t just ask my brother. Surely he knows whether or not he has any enemies.’
‘Yes, of course the inspector will ask him. But I don’t think the major will tell them if he has, do you?’ said Rose. ‘From what little I have seen of him, your brother strikes me as rather a proud man and one that would like to keep such matters to himself. Besides, I don’t think he’ll consider it any of the inspector’s business.’ She paused a few moments before continuing, watching Daphne with a degree of curiosity. For she thought the woman looked as though she was frightened but was desperately trying to conceal the fact.
‘
And of course,’ Rose said slowly, ‘there is always the possibility that he is protecting someone.’
Daphne looked at her aghast. ‘Do you mean me?’ Her eyes flashed with anger and her cheeks turned crimson. ‘If you do, you might as well say so.’
‘I do,’ said Rose, rather more abruptly than she had intended. ‘That is to say, I think your brother was trying to protect you last night. Were you aware that he was quite adamant that you not be interviewed?’
‘That is because he thought I was upset. He has a tendency to think women are more delicate than we are.’ Daphne gave a false little laugh. ‘Really, Rose, what are you suggesting?’
‘I think Major Spittlehouse thought there was a possibility that you had tried to kill him last night, and had murdered Masters by mistake because he was wearing your brother’s tweed jacket, the one the major always wears.’
‘Lady Belvedere … Rose, what you are saying is quite ridiculous.’ Daphne put down her cup and saucer and began to pace the room, as if she were a caged lion who could find no means of escape. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. And it’s quite preposterous for you to suggest that Linus should think I would. Really, you are being frightfully unkind.’
‘I don’t mean to be, but is it really ludicrous? You parents’ will and your brother’s opposition to your proposed marriage to Mr Mayhew gave you more than an adequate motive for wishing him dead.’
Really, the conversation was not going at all along the lines that Rose had planned. She had not meant to become riled and accuse Daphne, or encourage her to adopt a defensive stand. She felt the woman’s open hostility, which seemed to dominate the room. If she were to stretch out her hand, she would feel the tension. And she could not really blame Daphne for feeling as she did. How awful to have some woman, whom she barely knew, come into her house on the pretence of kindness and accuse her of trying to murder her closest relative.
Murder on Bonfire Night Page 23
