‘That is good news.’
‘I should say. I can’t imagine anyone else wanting to take on the job.’ Cedric returned to the bed and sat down. He put an arm around his wife and drew her to him almost upsetting the breakfast tray in the process. ‘Now, do tell me, what else did you find out yesterday?’
‘Well, I managed to find an excuse to go into the basement at Green Gables,’ said Rose, moving the tray to rest on the other side of the bed out of harm’s way. ‘I examined the door under which the anonymous letters had been pushed. I couldn’t get it out of my head how awfully easy it would have been for Daphne to have gone out into the garden and posted those letters herself.’
‘Daphne?’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘Surely you don’t think she might be the author of those damned letters?’
‘Well, it’s certainly a possibility. Listen, darling,’ said Rose, grabbing her husband’s hand. ‘It’s not quite as ridiculous as it sounds. If Major Spittlehouse did have some awful secret then it’s quite reasonable to suppose that, if anyone knew about it, it would be his sister. And remember she was absolutely desperate to marry Archie Mayhew, desperate enough to approach me, a stranger, to speak to her brother on her behalf. I think Daphne was very firmly of the belief that Archie wouldn’t marry her unless she was a woman of wealth. And Major Spittlehouse had made it quite clear to her that if she married that young man he would ensure that she never received a penny.’
‘So she decided instead to blackmail her brother for money in the guise of an anonymous letter-writer?’ Cedric looked incredulous. ‘I say, that’s rather ingenious.’
‘Of course, it is only a theory at this stage,’ cautioned Rose, ‘though it might explain why Daphne said something rather strange to me which suggested that she might not be entirely innocent. I thought at the time she was referring to the murder but she might easily have been meaning the letters. Perhaps she felt rather guilty for writing them, even if they played no part in Masters’ death. I am certain of one thing though.’
‘Oh? And what is that?’
‘I believe she is frightfully afraid that the police think Archie was the author of those letters. As it was, the inspector as good as accused him of the murder. If it was Archie who had arranged to meet the major he might quite easily have mistaken Masters for his employer. And when Masters confronted him, and he realised his mistake, they might well have had an altercation that resulted in the servant’s death.’
‘I say,’ said Cedric, ‘I suppose it’s not possible that the two of them were in it together, Daphne and Archie, I mean? Perhaps they concocted the blackmail business between them?’
‘Well, I do think they share a secret of sorts,’ said Rose thoughtfully. ‘I had the distinct impression that they were hiding something. At first I wondered whether it was the fact that they had arranged to meet at Tucker’s Wood on the night of the murder.’
‘Had they really?’ Cedric looked distinctly interested. ‘I say, they would have had a pretty good view of the bonfire. Tucker’s Wood overlooks it, you know. And of course there’s nothing to say Masters wasn’t killed there and his body moved to where it was later found.’
‘That thought struck me too, as it did the inspector. But their secret can’t have been that because Archie quite readily admitted that the two of them had arranged to meet there. Daphne lied about it but I think she only did that because she was trying to protect Archie. You see, I think the inspector is pretty certain in his own mind that Archie is the murderer. Though, according to Archie, he never went to Tucker’s Wood on the night of the murder on account of the bus being late and then one of its wheels developing a puncture.’
‘Well, it should be easy enough for the police to verify that,’ said Cedric, rising and straightening his tie before the dressing table mirror. ‘By the way, what was your impression of Archie Mayhew, you haven’t said.’
‘I was quite prepared to dislike him like anything,’ said Rose, ‘but actually I found myself rather taking to him. I do hope he doesn’t turn out to be our murderer.’
‘He’s not marrying Daphne Spittlehouse for her money, then? enquired Cedric, looking a touch sceptical.
‘I really don’t know,’ admitted his wife. ‘He did seem genuinely fond of her, though I suppose it might have all been an act.’ She sighed. ‘Really, I don’t feel that I have got very far in this investigation. I am positive that there is a connection between the anonymous letters and Masters’ death, but I am not quite sure what it is.’
‘What does the inspector think?’
‘That Archie did it, like I told you. He thinks Archie meant to kill the major for the simple reason that Daphne would inherit his wealth. He simply wanted a rich wife and didn’t much mind how he achieved his goal as long as he got his money. ‘
‘Poor old Mayhew. I feel quite sorry for the chap.’
‘You won’t feel quite so sorry for him if he does turn out to be the murderer,’ said Rose. She straightened her pillows and said: ‘Inspector Newcombe seems to have quite forgotten about the letters, or else he doesn’t think they have any bearing on Masters’ death.’ She paused before adding, ‘Daphne did say something that was quite interesting.’
‘Oh? What was that?’ Her husband turned away from regarding his reflection in the mirror and faced her.
‘On the day of the murder she said she heard the major’s key in the lock of the front door, followed by him crossing the hall. It was about a quarter past five. Apparently Major Spittlehouse had just returned from inspecting the bonfire.’
‘The man insists on doing that every year,’ groaned Cedric. ‘One final check and all that before the festivities begin. Really, I think he’s half afraid that someone from a neighbouring village will creep in and set fire to the bonfire behind his back.’
‘Well, apparently it was all rather strange because a minute or two later he went back out again. Daphne thought he must have forgotten something. She didn’t hear him come back into the house, but he was there when she looked into the parlour later.’
‘What was so very odd about that?’ asked her husband. He sounded disappointed. ‘It’s the sort of thing I might do. Why, the fellow might have taken a sudden fancy to stroll around the garden and look at the flowers, what with the weather being fine.’
‘In the dark?’
‘Well, perhaps he suddenly remembered that he had meant to post a letter and went to the post box.’
‘I think there is a far more likely explanation,’ said Rose. ‘I think Daphne heard her brother’s key in the lock and him crossing the hall as she supposed, but I don’t think it was him she heard leave the house. I think it was Masters done up in his guise as the major.’
‘Do you really?’ She had her husband’s interest now. ‘Wouldn’t he have gone out by the servants’ entrance? I wouldn’t have thought it usual for him to use the front door.’
‘He wouldn’t have wanted to encounter Mrs Masters,’ said Rose. ‘He was wearing his employer’s jacket, remember. I think she would have had something to say about that if she’d caught him. And he wouldn’t have wanted to stop and explain that he was setting off to meet the author of the anonymous letters. She might have put a stop to it, thinking it none of his business, or else he might have been afraid that she would worry. No. I think he crept out of the front door as soon as the coast was clear.’
‘And went to meet his murderer, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited him?’ said Cedric ruefully.
‘It would appear so,’ said Rose. ‘Though of course there is another possibility. Masters might have been murdered later, after he had met with the blackmailer, or even before, on his way to meet the blackmailer.’
‘You mean he might have been murdered by someone else entirely?’
‘Yes.’
‘But if it wasn’t by Daphne or Archie then –’
‘By someone who realised that Masters meant to find the writer of the anonymous letters and didn’t want him to confront the blackmailer and
discover the hold he had over his prey. Someone who would stop at nothing to prevent Masters from discovering his awful secret.’
Surely you’re not suggesting that –’ began Cedric, somewhat taken aback.
‘Major Spittlehouse? But of course.’ cried Rose. ‘Who could possibly have had a better motive for wishing Masters dead?’
Chapter Twenty-eight
Rose was still contemplating the possibility that Major Spittlehouse might indeed be the murderer, when Manning advised her that she was wanted on the telephone. Rose glanced at her wristwatch; it was rather early in the morning for a social call. The butler appeared to read her thoughts.
‘It’s Mrs Simpson for you. If you’ll permit my saying so, m’lady, she sounds a little anxious.’
‘Hallo, Mother? Is everything all right?’ asked Rose hurriedly, as soon as she had picked up the receiver. She was vaguely aware that Manning was no longer there. She was alone in the entrance hall and her voice seemed to echo in the emptiness, seeming unnaturally loud.
‘Rose, is that you?’ Her mother’s voice cut through the silence, a little breathless. ‘I know it is rather early to telephone but Mrs Masters was most insistent that I ring you at once. She’s quite agitated, poor woman. Mrs Dobson told me she hardly had a wink of sleep last night, she was so restless; Mrs Masters, I mean, not Mrs Dobson, who as you know sleeps like a log.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Rose said hurriedly. ‘I was up anyway. Is anything wrong?’
‘That is what I am trying to tell you. Mrs Masters woke up this morning as white as a sheet, so Mrs Dobson told me. It appears she has remembered something which she feels might have a bearing on her husband’s death. All her tossing and turning during the night brought to her mind the night before Masters died, when he couldn’t sleep on account of worrying about the anonymous letters. Apparently Mrs Masters has remembered that her husband kept mumbling something to himself.’
‘Oh? What did he say?’ Rose clutched the telephone receiver eagerly.
‘Well, it’s all rather odd,’ said Mrs Simpson. ‘It’s almost as if he foresaw his own fate. According to Mrs Masters, he kept mumbling something about a murder or murderer; she wasn’t quite sure which. But she was most anxious that I tell you immediately.’
Edna sat on the edge of her seat in the bus feeling very self-conscious. Her ladyship had said she was to keep Biddy company. So it didn’t seem right taking the bus by herself to Bichester, not in the middle of the morning when there was a whole list of chores still to be done at Green Gables and Biddy there on her own to do them. But Biddy had been adamant, most particular about it, she’d been.
‘It’s no good, Edna,’ Biddy had said. ‘There’ll be a lot more work to do now, what with Mr Masters gone, and only me and Mrs Masters to do it. I’d better get used to it sooner than later. And I want to get the house looking nice for when Mrs Masters returns.’
‘But why don’t you let me help you?’ Edna had protested. ‘I’ve not always been a lady’s maid, you know. I used to be a kitchen maid and before that a scullery maid. I’m used to hard work, just like you. If you’ll only get me an apron, I’ll roll up my sleeves and we’ll soon have this place looking spick and span. Mrs Masters will be able to see her reflection in those copper pans of hers as good as if they were mirrors.’
‘It’s very good of you, Edna, I’m sure,’ Biddy had said, looking rather doubtfully at Edna’s rather fine black dress with its Honiton lace at the neck and cuffs, ‘but I’d rather do it myself. It don’t seem right asking you to help me, and I don’t know that Miss Daphne would like it or Lady Belvedere, come to that. No,’ she had added quickly as Edna had made to protest, ‘if you want to help me, you can take these books back to the public library in Bichester as were took out by Mrs Masters; it’ll be one less thing for her to worry about when she comes home.’
This was how Edna found herself on the rickety old bus making its slow and longwinded way to Bichester, clutching a bag of books on her lap. She hadn’t had the heart to tell Biddy that she doubted very much whether Mrs Masters would ever set foot in Green Gables again, save to collect her things. The place would hold too many memories for her; she’d want to start afresh somewhere. Edna made a face. And besides, who’d want to work for someone when your husband had been murdered in mistake for them? Really, it didn’t bear thinking about.
Although not very familiar with Bichester, Edna found her way easily enough to the library. Once inside, she looked around, fascinated by the shelves upon shelves of books, which reminded her not a little of the grand library at Sedgwick Court. If the woman behind the issue desk had not been regarding her so intently, she might have been tempted to stop a little and browse. As it was, she marched straight up to the desk and deposited the books she had been carrying.
‘I do hope you don’t mind my asking,’ said the librarian in a surprisingly deferential voice given Edna’s position, ‘but would you by any chance be Lady Belvedere’s maid?’
‘Her lady’s maid, yes,’ replied Edna proudly, drawing herself up to her full height.
‘I thought as much. You’ll think it ever so strange my asking, but is it true what they say about her ladyship having been a shop girl and an amateur sleuth?’
‘Yes,’ replied Edna, though she spoke the word rather coldly, as if she feared what the woman might say next. If she said anything about fancy the likes of Miss Rose marrying an earl, she’d give her a piece of her mind, see if she didn’t …
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ sighed Miss Warren, obviously relieved. ‘I thought there might be very little substance to it. There often isn’t, you know. One hears such a great deal of nonsense spoken in a place like this. People do like to gossip, don’t they, and I suppose you can’t blame them but –’
‘What do you mean by thank goodness?’ Edna said sharply, interested in what the woman was saying in spite of herself.
‘Well, one does feel rather foolish going to the police. I mean, it might not mean anything, but one never knows, and really it is one’s duty isn’t it to –’
‘Do you know something about the murder?’ said Edna with sudden clarity. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Warren, rather flustered. ‘You see, I don’t know if it has any bearing on the death, but I feel I should tell someone.’
‘Well, I think Lady Belvedere would be the very person to tell,’ said Edna quickly. ‘She’s ever so kind and she wouldn’t make you feel silly or stupid.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Edna firmly. ‘Tell me, do you have a telephone?’
It was only minutes later that the telephone rang in the butler’s pantry at Sedgwick Court.
‘Lord and Lady Belvedere’s residence, Manning speaking,’ began the butler in formal tones, and then: ‘Good heavens, is that you Miss Evans? What are you … What did you say? Miss Evans, you can hardly expect her ladyship to drive into Bichester on the whim of a librarian even if what she has to say is important … Very well, I’ll tell her, but on your head be it. Don’t be surprised if …’
The line suddenly went dead and Manning found himself staring at the apparatus in his hand, somewhat dumbfounded. He shook his head, wondering how old Torridge would have dealt with the situation. Somewhat reluctantly, he went to deliver his message.
‘Oh, Lady Belvedere. Oh, your ladyship …’
Rose looked at the little woman fluttering about in front of her like a nervous butterfly unwilling to land.
‘Miss Warren? How do you do?’ said Rose, extending her hand. But, if she had hoped that such a gesture would put the librarian at her ease, she was to be disappointed. If anything, the woman became even more flustered than before, the colour rising in her cheeks until she positively glowed.
‘I believe you have some information that you think might be helpful to my investigation?’ said Rose, deciding that the best course of action was to come straight to the point. She
glanced at Edna for some sign of confirmation, and the lady’s maid nodded.
‘Well, I don’t know … when I try and put it into words it sounds rather silly … you will think me foolish –’
‘There’s a little room out back, m’lady,’ said Edna quickly. ‘A bit of a kitchen. I suggested to Miss Warren that you should go in there to talk.’ The librarian made to protest. ‘You needn’t worry, miss. I’ll stay here to make sure no one runs off with any of your books.’
Miss Warren was steered swiftly into the back room, before the woman quite knew what was happening. Rose took in her surroundings. They were standing in something that resembled a scullery of sorts, equipped with little more than an old Belfast sink and a copper kettle. The librarian stared at her, with rather a mortified expression on her face, as if embarrassed by the sparseness of the room.
‘Why, this is very like the little kitchen we had in the dress shop where I worked,’ said Rose cheerily. ‘I feel quite at home. Now, Miss Warren, what have you to tell me?’
‘Miss Spittlehouse,’ stuttered the librarian. ‘She often comes to the library just to pass the time, I suppose. Or else to meet her young man; he works in Bichester, you know, ever such a nice young man, awfully polite,’ said Miss Warren rather breathlessly. ‘When she’s alone, she reads books, ever so many of them. Some of them are about … rather strange things.’
‘Oh?’ said Rose, only mildly curious.
‘Poisons. ‘The Household Book of Everyday Poisons’. That was the last book she read. Ever so furtive she was about it. She tried to keep the cover hidden. I was ever so worried.’
‘Why?’
Murder on Bonfire Night Page 27
