01 - Murder at Ashgrove House

by Margaret Addison

  ‘It must have been awful for you,’ Lavinia continued, in a dull voice that seemed to lack all emotion. ‘I realise that now, although I didn’t see it before I must confess. I saw you as responsible for my mother going on the walk. I thought that if you hadn’t been here, then she wouldn’t have been –.’

  ‘Lavinia, I’m so –.’

  ‘I’m not sad she’s dead, you know. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? A daughter saying that about her mother, but there you are, it’s true and I don’t feel I have the strength to try and pretend something I don’t feel, just for appearance’s sake.’

  ‘But just now you were crying as if your heart was fit to break,’ Rose said, appalled by her friend’s words. ‘You’re just in shock, you’ll feel something soon once the numbness has worn off.’

  ‘I don’t think so, not for my mother. But you’re wrong, I don’t feel numb, as you put it, I feel everything very much.’

  ‘Lavinia, I don’t –.’

  ‘Understand? Yes, I see that. It’s not for my mother that I’m weeping, Rose, it’s for my brother.’

  ‘Cedric?’ A feeling of dread came over Rose. She felt an overwhelming urge to turn and run from the room before Lavinia could say anything more to confirm her worst fears.

  ‘He did it, Rose, Cedric killed our mother and the police will find out and then he’ll hang.’ Her voice had started to rise.

  ‘Shh,’ Rose grabbed her arm and dragged the girl to her bed where they both sat down, Rose turning to glance at the closed door, very aware of the constable’s presence a few feet away. For all she knew, he had left his chair and moved to the door to try and overhear their conversation, eager to assure himself that she was not being attacked. ‘For goodness sake, speak quietly, have you forgotten that there’s a policeman the other side of the door? Do you want to be the one to send Cedric to the gallows?’ She did not wait for an answer. Instead, even though a part of her desperately did not want to know, she felt compelled to press Lavinia for why she believed something so awful to be true. ‘Tell me, Lavinia, what makes you think your brother is guilty of your mother’s death?’

  ‘I overheard them talking this morning, Cedric and Hugh. They were in one of the rooms on this corridor, the room the other side of yours. I pretended I had a headache this morning so that I didn’t have to go down to breakfast, because I didn’t want to see you, not after our argument yesterday.’ Lavinia cast Rose a look, which was far from kind. ‘I was still angry with you, you see, so I decided to stay in my room. Anyway, I suddenly became aware that two people were shouting at each other in one of the rooms. You can imagine my surprise as only you and I have rooms on this floor. Anyway of course I was curious, so I crept along the landing and listened outside the door. I recognised Cedric’s and Hugh’s voices at once and, although I found it difficult to hear clearly what they were saying, I caught the odd word here and there, enough anyway to grasp that my mother had put Hugh up to enticing you away from Cedric. Cedric, as you can imagine, was incredibly angry and then, when Hugh went on to tell him that at that very moment Mother was out walking with you just so she had the opportunity to berate you and persuade you to leave Ashgrove, Cedric tore open the door and bounded down the stairs two at a time looking as if nothing would stop him. I had little chance to hide before being caught eavesdropping, but he was so set on his mission I don’t think he even saw me.’

  Even though Rose had felt her heart sinking at each word uttered by her friend, she tried not to think the worse.

  ‘That doesn’t mean that he killed your mother,’ she argued, clutching at straws. ‘For all we know he just shut himself up in his room.’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Rose, that he did no such thing,’ retorted Lavinia. ‘Do you really think he is the sort of young man who would just have stood aside and let my mother lay in to you without coming to your defence? You know he isn’t.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Rose, giving up any pretence of doubt. Cedric was not that type of man. If he had been she never would have fallen in love with him the way she had. And hadn’t he told her that he would do whatever it took to ensure that they were together. Hadn’t he identified his mother as an obstacle to be overcome? And if she were honest with herself, hadn’t she known all along that he was guilty? She remembered leaning over Lady Belvedere’s body to try and stem the bleeding and check for signs of life. She remembered the words that had sprung from her own lips unbidden. ‘It’s all my fault’. In fact hadn’t she said it again and again even when the man and boy had found her, on and on so that she was even mumbling words to that effect in the servants’ hall? She had known then that Cedric was guilty and had felt responsible, that his love for her had driven him to commit the most horrific of acts. She thought back to their snatched conversation that afternoon before tea, when he had reassured her of his feelings towards her, when she had realised with utter joy that, despite everything, he still wanted her. Her heart leapt now as she remembered his very words and then, just as quickly, it sank and she was engulfed with a sense of dread. He had been there. All at once she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had been there. He had overheard their conversation, hers and Lady Belvedere’s. He had been there in the woods while they had snarled and spat at each other, he had been there!

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Rose awoke the next morning, the feeling of dread still firmly lodged in her stomach. She was prepared to swear that she had not slept above a few minutes all night, her eyelids felt sore and heavy and her head throbbed. She lay back on the bedclothes feeling sick and absolutely wretched. But she had no doubt of her course of action. As a law-abiding citizen she should inform the police of what she knew to be true. As soon as Inspector Deacon and his sergeant arrived to resume their investigation, she should demand to see them and tell them everything. But this was not the course of action that she had chosen to take and Lavinia, she realised, had banked on that. She could no more hand Cedric over to the police to be sent to the gallows than she could stop breathing. Lavinia held her responsible for Cedric’s actions as she did herself. He had killed Lady Belvedere in a spur of the moment, desperate act, goaded into it by his erstwhile friend. It had been a half crazed, frenzied Cedric that had pulled the trigger, not the kind and gentle man she knew. But ultimately, although she may hold Lord Sneddon to account, she must face the fact that her very presence had been the driving force. Had she not been there that weekend and met Cedric, then the countess would be alive now, free to bully and intimidate her family it was true, but alive nevertheless. Rose had no alternative; she must stand by Cedric and do everything in her power to protect him because surely morally she was as guilty as he was, or at least she felt as if she were.

  She must focus her attentions on diverting suspicion away from him. But, and this was a very big but, however could she feel for him as she had done before? If he requested her hand in marriage, then she was duty bound to give it because of what he had done to be with her, but could she really love him as she had done, knowing what he was capable of, knowing him to be what he was, a murderer? However, could she in all conscience introduce him to her own mother as her future son-in-law? Her whole life going forward would be based on secrecy and deceit, afraid always that the truth would come out. They would never be able to relax for one moment. And should she tell him what she knew? Should she tell him that she knew what he had done to be with her? Lavinia was anxious that she did not. Lavinia wanted to pretend that he was not the culprit, but if she were to adopt such a stance, would it only serve to drive a wedge between her and Cedric? Or was it better that he never knew that she knew the truth? Otherwise, when he happened to catch her looking at him might he not always be left wondering whether she was thinking back to the woodlands and the gunshot that had changed their lives.

  There was no use thinking about it now, she knew, although it was so difficult to stop herself from doing so. She would have a lifetime to do nothing but think about it, but whatever happened she would have to
see it through. She owed that much to Cedric. The enormity of the task that lay ahead of her suddenly struck her and she buried her head in her pillow and sobbed.

  ‘Right,’ said Deacon, as the two policemen let themselves into Sir William’s study and made for the alcove, ‘let’s have another look at this gun cabinet, the forced lock in particular.’ He pulled back the heavy velvet curtain and both policemen studied the broken lock carefully.

  ‘It hasn’t been picked, sir, if that’s what you were thinking,’ said Lane after careful examination, ‘it’s definitely been smashed. Looks as if it took quite a lot of attempts too, looking at all these marks here on the metal.’

  ‘It was and it wasn’t what I was thinking,’ replied the inspector, somewhat mysteriously. ‘The position of the lock, Lane, what strikes you about it?’

  ‘Well, there being a pane of glass in the door, rather than it being solid wood, I reckon it would have been quite hard for the murderer to break the lock without breaking the glass,’ said the sergeant, standing back so as to be able to appraise the gun cabinet as a whole, ‘but he obviously managed it all right, didn’t he, sir, because the glass is intact, not even a scratch.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, Lane,’ concurred the inspector. ‘Well, I think that answers my question. Let’s get back to the library and go over everything again. Before we do that, though, I think we’ll have Miss Simpson in to see if she’s remembered anything else about the shooting that may help us to identify the murderer.’

  ‘Take a seat, Miss Simpson. How are you feeling today?’ Deacon looked at her kindly. It occurred to him that she appeared more agitated this morning than she had the previous day, which interested him.

  Rose sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. It had not occurred to her that the police might want to interview her again, and being summoned to appear before the inspector this morning had definitely thrown her. It was all very well to decide not to tell the police about Cedric and keep out of their way, but quite another thing to sit before them and lie. And what was worse, the inspector seemed to know that she was on edge. The way he looked at her so intently, had he guessed that she was hiding something?

  ‘Miss Simpson, Rose, if I may say you look decidedly unhappy to be here. Do you find the presence of myself and my sergeant here so abhorrent?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She glanced up from looking at her hands. There was something of a twinkle in his eye, she thought, as if he was trying to put her at her ease. She hadn’t noticed yesterday how attractive he was. If it hadn’t been for Cedric, she would have noticed, she knew. But from the very moment she had first set eyes on Cedric, she had known that she would never be able to think of any other man. Cedric, Cedric, Cedric, oh Cedric ... She could not stop herself, even though she knew it was the very worst thing to do because it would confirm to them that something was most definitely wrong, but she couldn’t help it, just saying his name to herself made her think of the awful deed he had done to be with her, how much she owed him and how much danger he was now in and that, coupled with her lack of sleep which was beginning to make her feel quite sick with tiredness, suddenly made her burst into tears. Once she had started she sobbed uncontrollably. She covered her face with her hands and was only vaguely aware that both inspector and sergeant had shot up out of their chairs in alarm, the inspector hastily passing her a handkerchief on which to dry her eyes.

  ‘I ...I’m ... sorry,’ she stuttered between sobs. ‘I think everything has suddenly got a bit too much for me, it’s the shock and everything. I’m just being silly –.’

  ‘Do you know something, Miss Simpson? Something that you haven’t told us about yet? Perhaps you’ve suddenly remembered something that you’d forgotten about yesterday? It happens like that, you know, the sergeant here and I often find that, don’t we, Lane?’ he indicated his colleague, who nodded. ‘That’s why we wanted to see you this morning, in case you had remembered something else.’

  Rose said nothing. She felt cornered and did not know what to do.

  ‘I’m guessing by your silence that you have found out something about someone you care about that could implicate them in Lady Belvedere’s death, am I right?’

  Still Rose said nothing. If she had had more sleep, felt more refreshed, then perhaps she could have thought of what to say or do, but as it was she could think of nothing to allay their suspicions. They were going to guess, were on the very verge of guessing, she knew, and there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it.

  ‘I’m thinking it concerns Lady Lavinia or Lord Sedgwick,’ continued Deacon, looking at her closely. He noticed that she clenched her hands together when he mentioned Cedric’s name.

  ‘You’ve found out something about Lord Sedgwick which implicates him in his mother’s death, Rose.’ She noticed that he said it as a statement rather than as a question. ‘I know you don’t want to tell me what it is, that you’ve got feelings for Lord Sedgwick, but I implore you to let us know what it is you’ve discovered, for your sake as much as for justice’s. You’ll find that you won’t be able to get on with your life until you do. It will eat away at you and you will always wonder if you did the right thing. Lady Belvedere was brutally killed in cold blood. If you think you know something that will help us catch the murderer and bring him to justice, then now is the time to tell us what it is.’

  Silence filled the room. Once again the ticking of the clock was clearly audible. But even as she sat there in the quietness, Rose knew that ultimately she would break. She could not keep it to herself any longer. Already the knowledge was eating away at her. She had thought that she would do whatever it took to protect Cedric, but she realised now that she could not keep the truth to herself. The inspector was right, justice must be done, she was only sad that she must do it. She realised now with a great sinking feeling that a man like Deacon would never give up. He would never close the investigation until he had arrested someone for the murder. She could perhaps manage to keep silent today, but there would be other days. They would hound her, these policemen, she felt sure. They would interview her every day until she broke down and divulged what she knew.

  ’He was there,’ she said eventually, so quietly that both men had to lean forward in their chairs to hear what she said, ‘Cedric was in the woods, he heard my conversation with his mother, or at least a part of it.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Deacon. ‘Did he say as much to you?’

  ‘He didn’t need to. He gave himself away, although he didn’t realise it, and neither did I at the time.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He referred to my being Sir William’s and Lady Withers’ invited guest, and not the countess.’

  ‘Yes?’ The inspector sounded disappointed, even to Rose’s ears.

  ‘I said as much to Lady Belvedere in the woods. But that’s not all.’

  ‘What else, Miss Simpson?’

  ‘Cedric … Lord Sedgwick said that he could not tell me how much he admired me for standing up to his mother,’ Rose looked up at their uncomprehending faces. How could they not see the significance of her words?

  ‘Oh, don’t you see?’ she felt herself becoming angry. They had forced her to divulge what she knew and now they were forcing her to interpret it for them. How could they be so dense? ‘Nobody knew that I stood up to the countess. I told no-one except perhaps you, I can’t exactly remember, but I definitely didn’t tell anyone else, I know I didn’t. Cedric could only have known that I did stand up to his mother if he’d been there to overhear our conversation. He was there a few moments before Lady Belvedere was killed, he was there!’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Rose fled the library, leaving the impact of her words to echo around the room as if she had shouted them. Both the inspector and sergeant had looked shocked, although it was the breakthrough that they needed to solve the case. In a few moments they would be summoning Cedric to their presence and then they would be arresting him for the murder of his mother.
She could not bear to stand and watch. She would go outside into the garden until it was all over and he had been taken away. She had betrayed him. He had done what he had done for her, and then she had betrayed him. Even if she was eventually able to convince herself that she had done what was right, she would never, she knew, be able to forgive herself for being responsible for sending the man she loved to the gallows. And he would know what she had done, they would tell him. She could imagine the hurt look in his eyes, the disbelief that she could have done such a thing. She may even have to stand up in Court and give evidence against him. She could not bring herself to do that, she would rather die than do that. The thought of having to look across the Court at his shackled and dejected figure, to have him hear her give evidence against him and perhaps their eyes would meet and then what would she see in his face? Surely hatred, she deserved that, but how much worse would it be if she saw only misery?

  She crossed the hall which, to her relief, was deserted although she could hear Lady Withers in the dining room, the door of which was open, discussing with Stafford her requirements for luncheon.

  ‘I suppose that we’ll have to have just soup again, Stafford, rather than a proper meal. Will you speak to Mrs Palmer to that effect for me? I’d rather have something more substantial, of course, but I suppose it’s not the done thing after a murder, is it? I suppose we’re all supposed to still be off our food, which is all very well if one has just got the appetite of a sparrow like dear Lavinia, but when one enjoys their food like I do it really is rather trying. But still I suppose it would look rather insensitive to just tuck in. I wonder if Henry has much of an appetite. One would not expect a man in his situation to, of course, not when his wife has just been murdered, but I’ve always found that reading makes one so hungry, don’t you Stafford, and that’s all poor Henry ever seems to do.’