by M C Beaton
“And then do we go to the police?”
“If it should prove to be either Tristram or Lord Alfred, yes, certainly.”
“Kerridge will charge you with withholding vital evidence.”
“I believe Kerridge will be only too grateful to have the case cleared up.”
♦
Rose hardly slept that night. What would Angela say? How would she react? The next morning she fretted that her mother would insist on her making calls and so she sent Daisy to say she had a headache. Lady Polly was feeling well disposed towards her daughter because she guessed that Rose was about to thaw and accept Tristram’s hand in marriage and so she contented herself with telling Daisy to bathe her daughter’s forehead in eau de cologne.
The countess went off to make her calls while her husband slept by the fire. At three in the afternoon, Rose and Daisy went quickly out of the house. The lady’s maid, Turner, had promised not to tell anyone they had gone out without permission.
Rose and Daisy giggled over the forthcoming confrontation. It seemed hilarious to them that anyone would pay such a large sum to a blackmailer because they had been caught out eating roast beef.
As they approached Angela’s house, Daisy suddenly burst into song:
Oh! The roast beef of England,
And old England’s roast beef.
Rose burst out laughing and had to stop and mop her streaming eyes.
“Oh, Daisy,” she gasped, “how are we ever going to get through this without laughing?”
“She won’t find it funny,” said Daisy.
“No, she won’t,” agreed Rose, suddenly sober. “Here’s her house. I’m suddenly beginning to wish she weren’t at home.”
Angela’s butler disappeared with their cards. Daisy was very proud to have her own case of visiting cards.
He reappeared and asked them to follow him to the drawing-room. Rose shivered. Although the day was warm, inside seemed to hold all the chill of winter.
Angela rose to meet them as they were ushered into the drawing-room. She was wearing a black-and-gold Turkish turban of a type favoured by ladies almost a hundred years ago. Her long loose gown was of deep purple velvet trimmed with gold embroidery.
“How very kind of you to call,” she fluted. Her American accent sounded peculiar because over the years Angela had tried to replace it with an upper-class English one, but her voice seemed to be permanently stuck somewhere in mid-Atlantic, neither one nor the other.
“Do be seated. I was about to have some fennel tea. May I press you to some?”
Daisy stifled a giggle, having had a sudden vision of both of them being pressed to a teapot.
“No, thank you,” said Rose. “We are here on serious business.”
“Dear me. Nothing to do with that frightful business at Farthings?”
“Yes, it has.”
Angela got to her feet and went and closed the double doors of the drawing-room.
She returned and perched on the edge of a chair and looked at them inquiringly.
“A photograph has come into my possession,” said Rose, not feeling like laughing any more. “I believe it was this photograph which Mr Pomfret was using to blackmail you.”
“Do you have this supposed photograph with you?”
“No,” said Rose. “I left it at home.”
“Then why are you here? You cannot need money.”
“I need to know the name of the person who was blackmailing you. If you tell me that, I assure you I will destroy the photograph.”
“Why, it was Freddy Pomfret, the ghastly little counter jumper.”
“I think someone knew what the blackmailing material was and approached you at Farthings. I think Mrs Jerry threatened to go to the police and that was why she was murdered. Did you know why Mrs Jerry and Lord Alfred were being blackmailed as well?”
“Yes, Mr Pomfret took great delight in telling me.”
“So who approached you at Farthings?”
“It was Lord Alfred. Now, are you satisfied? Go and get that photograph.”
“Captain Cathcart is at present interviewing Lord Alfred. If Lord Alfred confesses, I will return the photograph.”
Angela clutched the arms on her chair so tightly that her knuckles stood out white.
“I am not going to have my life’s work destroyed,” said Angela, staring straight ahead. She seemed almost to be talking to herself.
“I was brought up near Fairfax, Virginia. We were good family but we never had any money. Father gambled and Mother kept telling me how plain I looked. And then I met Mr Stockton at a cotillion ball in Richmond. To my delight, he started courting me. I knew him to be very rich. He had clawed his way up from a poor family and thought that by marrying me it would give him class. He only survived a year of our marriage. The doctor diagnosed a heart attack.
“I came to London and set out to make myself known. I knew I was psychic and I had read the works of Mr Steiner. I set up my vegetarian society. I lectured all over Britain, and the States, too. I was someone at last.
“And then that Pomfret creature threatened to destroy me. Have you told the police?”
Rose shook her head.
“But your parents know about this.”
“No,” said Rose, “they do not even know I am here.”
“Good, good, let me think.”
“There’s nothing to think about,” said Rose sharply. “As soon as I hear that Lord Alfred has confessed, you may have your photograph.”
Angela rose and paced the room, muttering, “Must think, must think.”
Rose got to her feet as well. “Now that you know the situation…” she was beginning when Angela strode to the book-shelves and lifted out an ugly-looking pistol and levelled it at Rose.
“Sit down,” she barked.
Rose and Daisy sank back in their chairs. Daisy remembered throwing herself in front of Rose last year to protect her from a bullet. Somehow, she didn’t think she would ever have the courage to do that again.
“I detest flittery little débutantes like you, Lady Rose, smug in your own beauty, poking your nose into other people’s business. That fool, Mrs Jerry, said that she couldn’t take any more and was going to the police. I was not blackmailing her for money, but I wanted her to join my society and work for me. I lied and said I had my own photograph back but had kept the one of her. She laughed in my face. So I doctored that champagne and put it in her room and then strangled the old bitch while she lay unconscious.”
“So no one other than Freddy Pomfret was trying to blackmail you?”
“No.”
Rose moistened her dry white lips. “So it was you who shot Freddy?”
“Yes, and I enjoyed doing it. I ransacked his flat but couldn’t find anything. Where did you find it?”
“He had put the material in a cigar box and given it to Tristram Baker-Willis for safekeeping.”
Angela gave a harsh laugh. “Amateurs, blundering greedy amateurs out to destroy my reputation. Do you know that the Duchess of Terford has just joined my society? A duchess!”
“Please do put down that gun,” said Rose, striving to keep her voice level.
“No, must think, think, think. Ah, you, Levine, you will go back and fetch that photograph and if you are not here with it after an hour, I will shoot your mistress.”
“I ain’t leaving her!” said Daisy.
“Go, Daisy,” said Rose. “You know what to do.”
Daisy looked at her for a long moment and then got up and hurried from the room.
♦
Harry was seated in front of Lord Alfred. He slowly drew the bundle of letters from his pocket.
“How much?” demanded Lord Alfred.
“I am not here to blackmail you. In fact, if you can tell me one thing, I will give them to you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Did you shoot Freddy Pomfret?”
“No, I swear on my life I didn’t. I wanted to. I knew I would go to pr
ison if those letters were ever made public.”
“How did he get hold of them?”
“I met a young artist called Jimmy Portal. He was not a very good artist but he was very beautiful. He pursued me and I was seduced. Then I was terrified of it coming out, knowing I would be sent to prison. I returned his letters. He waited for me outside The Club one evening. He thrust his letters at me and said I must keep them forever. I told him harshly that I wanted to have no more to do with him. Pomfret told me afterwards that he had witnessed the scene from the window of The Club. He saw me hurrying off and saw Jimmy throwing the letters in the gutter. He nipped out and got them.
“He bragged that it was the letters that gave him the idea of being a blackmailer. He was a keen amateur photographer and said he had compromising pictures of Mrs Jerry and Mrs Stockton. He said he had just realized a way of getting money to buy a title. I paid. Of course I paid.
“Then when I went to Farthings and saw you there along with Mrs Stockton and Mrs Jerry, I was afraid.”
“Did anyone else try to blackmail you while you were at Farthings?”
“Yes. Mrs Stockton whispered that she had destroyed the photograph of her but had kept the letters. She said I must work for her society and travel with her. Then she told me that Mrs Jerry was going to go to the police. I was prepared to flee the country, but then she died. I knew Mrs Stockton had probably done it, but what could I do? You know what happens to fellows like me in prison.”
Harry felt a spasm of dread. Lord Alfred’s voice held the ring of truth.
He had sent Rose blithely off to see Angela Stockton, and Angela was a murderess.
“Excuse me.” Harry got to his feet and rushed from the room.
Lord Alfred looked at the letters lying on the table. He picked them up and took them to the fireplace. He took out a silver box of vestas and struck one and held it to the edge of the packet until a flame took hold and then he threw the burning packet into the fireplace.
He sat down again and covered his face with his hands and wept.
∨ Hasty Death ∧
Twelve
Really, if the lower orders don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them?
Oscar Wilde
Rose felt sick. Angela’s eyes were glittering with a mad light, but the hand holding the gun never wavered. Rose tried to think coolly and calmly but jumbled thoughts raced through her brain. That famous line from adventure stories she had read – ‘With one bound he was free’ – tumbled into her brain. Would Daisy bring the photograph or would she find Captain Cathcart and get help? Her mother had insisted she go back to wearing ‘proper stays’ and a steel had edged itself loose and was cutting into her. The whalebone stiffening in the high collar of her gown was digging into her neck. If she had accepted Tristram’s proposal and settled for an uneventful married life, she would never have landed in this mess. “If you shoot me,” said Rose, finding her voice, “how do you expect to get away with it?”
“I will leave the country and hide abroad. They will never find me.”
“If you have to leave the country, Mrs Stockton, what is the point of wanting the photograph? Your reputation will be ruined by this mad action of yours.”
“I am not mad!”
Rose was aware of the bell-rope next to her chair. If only she could tug it, a servant would appear, and surely this whole household of servants wasn’t party to the murders.
“What happened to Murphy? What happened to Mr Pomfret’s manservant? Did you kill him, too?”
“I paid him to leave for Ireland. He was glad to accept. He didn’t know I’d killed Pomfret but I didn’t want him in that flat in case he found that photograph. I said I was looking after him out of kindness and to honour Pomfret’s memory.”
Rose put her hand to her forehead and swayed in her chair. “I feel faint,” she said.
“Then faint,” snapped Angela.
Rose swayed in her chair nearer the bell-rope. Then, as if about to lose her balance, she seized the bell-rope.
The double doors of the drawing-room opened and a footman stared at the tableau and then retreated. Rose could hear him running down the stairs.
To her amazement, Angela, in her fixed concentration, had not even noticed.
But suddenly a voice shouted from downstairs, “We’ve got to get the police!”
Angela’s eyes widened and her finger tightened on the trigger.
Rose threw herself to one side, tipping her chair over onto the floor, just as the gun went off with a deafening report. The recoil jerked Angela backwards and she gave a howl of pain and dropped the gun.
Rose sprang up from the floor. She fell on Angela, screaming and clawing and biting, dragging her out of her chair while Angela fought to get the gun. Angela was wiry and strong. She rolled Rose under her and her bony hands encrusted with rings fastened around Rose’s throat.
And then Harry erupted into the room, followed by Becket and Daisy. They had met Daisy in the street as she was running to get help.
Harry seized Angela by her thin shoulders and jerked her off Rose. He turned and addressed the gawping servants clustered in the doorway. “Fetch something to tie her up!”
“No,” gasped Angela. “I am calm now. I will go quietly.”
Two policemen came into the room. “Arrest this woman for murder and phone Detective Superintendent Kerridge. We will follow you to the police station and make statements,” ordered Harry.
Angela stood up and with a quaint dignity said, “I must take my medicine with me. I have a bad heart.”
“Send a servant.”
“No, I have it here, over in that desk.”
She went to the desk and took out a small bottle. She squared her shoulders. “Now, I am ready.”
Rose looked wildly at Harry but he stared back at her, his face a mask. The two policemen moved forward. “If you will come with us…” one started to say. Angela twisted the cork off the bottle and tipped the contents down her throat.
“In a moment,” she gasped. Her face contorted and she clutched her neck. Then she held her stomach and moaned as she sank to the floor.
“She’s taken poison,” said Harry. He turned to the servants. “Send for a doctor. Miss Levine, take Lady Rose into another room, for God’s sake. Lady Rose, there is blood on your dress. Are you wounded?”
“One of the steels in my stays came loose,” said Rose with a hysterical laugh. “You knew she was going to poison herself, didn’t you?”
“You are upset and don’t know what you are saying. We will talk later.”
By the time Kerridge lumbered up the stairs, Angela Stockton was dead. He had taken half an hour to arrive, and in that half-hour Harry, Becket, Rose and Daisy had a hurried consultation to get their stories right.
“I want to know what you have all been up to,” said Kerridge. The four had retreated to a morning-room on the same floor.
“Lady Rose is still shocked,” began Harry. “Mrs Stockton held a gun on her and was going to shoot her. Miss Levine managed to escape and came to look for me. Fortunately we saw her on the street and came here immediately.”
Kerridge turned his grey gaze on Rose. “Why was Mrs Stockton trying to kill you?”
“I had been thinking and thinking about the murders,” said Rose in a low voice. “I thought she might have committed them. I always thought she was mad. I came with Miss Levine and challenged her. She pulled out a gun and said she was going to shoot me. She confessed to both murders. She said she shot Mr Pomfret because he was blackmailing her. He had a photograph of her eating roast beef.”
Kerridge’s bushy eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline. “Do you mean she killed twice over a plate of roast beef?”
“She said she had built up a world-wide reputation as a vegetarian. She said Mrs Jerry was going to the police. She said Mr Pomfret had a picture of her in a compromising position with a young footman. Although she did not have the evidence, Mrs Jerry thought she h
ad.”
“And what was Lord Alfred being blackmailed about?”
“I believe it was because he had got a servant girl pregnant and she died in childbirth,” said Harry smoothly. “We only have what Mrs Stockton told Lady Rose. There is no proof of that.”
“The press are going to have a field day with this,” said Kerridge.
“I think it would be better,” said Harry, “if we stick to the roast beef blackmail. We cannot mention the other two because there is no evidence.”
“At least Mrs Stockton saved us a court case. Did you not guess she was going to poison herself?”
“How could I?” said Harry. “She said it was heart medicine.”
“I don’t believe you. There’s a lot in your statements I don’t believe. But I’m very glad to have two murders solved.”
“May we please leave further questioning until tomorrow?” asked Harry. “Lady Rose has been through the most terrible ordeal.”
“Very well. But Lady Rose, you did a mad and foolish thing. If you had any suspicions that the killer was Mrs Stockton, then you should have come to me. Never do anything like that again. Go back to your society life. Get married. Have children. That’s what a woman is supposed to do.”
“You are just an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy, Mr Kerridge,” said Rose. “Women should be independent and have the vote.”
“Those trouble-making suffragettes should all be locked up. I want you all at Scotland Yard first thing in the morning.”
♦
Rose, Harry, Becket and Daisy emerged from Angela’s house. The day had turned dark and they were nearly blinded by the magnesium flashes of the press on the doorstep going off in their faces.
“This is bad,” said Rose as they drove off. “My parents are never going to forgive me. Why did you not tell Kerridge the truth about why Lord Alfred was being blackmailed?”
Harry shrugged. “He did not murder anyone. It would extend the inquiry and I am heartily tired of the whole thing.”
♦
The Roast Beef Murders hit the papers the following morning. Photographs of Rose, looking beautiful, stared out wide-eyed from every newspaper. She was hailed as a heroine, as the New Woman of this new century.
