“Why is that?”
Her mouth quivered. “If I am to seek a position in another household, I shall require a character, and I shall have to approach Mr. Marcus to see if he will supply me with one. There is no one else who can do it now. I wouldn’t like to repeat anything to his discredit.”
“Is there anything to his discredit?”
She lowered her face.
I said, “If there is, you must tell me. What did you hear from Lady Drummond?”
And much to my disappointment, she spoke as if she meant it, “My mistress was utterly loyal to her brother.”
“Utterly—or blindly?”
“That is not for me to say, sir.”
“But you have your private suspicions, I gather.”
“They are not of any consequence.”
“I shall ask you something else, then. You said just now—I’m quoting your own words—that the house is fairly swarming with servants early in the morning. Do you think it was possible for the murderer to have entered and left Lady Drummond’s rooms without being seen by one of the servants?”
“It is most unlikely, sir.”
“Did anyone in the servants’ hall mention seeing anything suspicious this morning?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Thank you, Singleton. I have no further questions at this juncture. I should think you will get the character reference you want, and if I were you, I would ask for it without delay.”
“You see?” I said to Sweeney when we were alone again. “Perfectly amenable and extremely helpful.”
Those black eyebrows of his reared up.
“What’s the matter now?” I said.
“Helpful sir?”
“Vitally so. We learned that Pelham wasn’t seen going into the room or out of it. One of the servants would certainly have noticed him. What do you deduce from that?”
“He could have got in there sometime in the night, sir, before the servants were about.”
“And when did he come out, do you suppose?”
“After he’d killed her.”
“Which we estimate as sometime between six and seven, when the corridors were thick with servants. No, Sweeney, that won’t wash.”
He said without much conviction, “Then he must have remained hiding in the room until later.”
I shook my head. “The housemaid found him tucked up harmlessly in his own bed when she brought the tea just after seven o’clock.”
Sweeney was obviously stumped.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Come upstairs and I shall demonstrate how it was done.”
CHAPTER 19
I led Sweeney briskly upstairs to Amelia’s dressing room, which felt like the North Pole when we stepped inside, because the balcony windows still stood open. Sweeney hastened to close them.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?” I demanded with a frost of my own. “We’re not here for the sake of our comfort, you know. We are about to reconstruct the crime. Pray leave them as you found them and step into the bedroom.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Right. I shall be the murderer, you the victim.”
He did as instructed, while I remained in the dressing room.
“Close the door and lie on the bed as if you are asleep. Have you done that?”
A muffled, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now listen for a disturbance. When you are convinced that you have heard something, enough to waken you from your slumbers, get up from the bed, cross the room and step in here to see what is the matter. Not yet. I am going outside.” So saying, I moved to my position, not in the corridor, as he would suppose, but on the balcony, pulling the windows gently together.
I waited a few moments and then rapped on the glass. Through it, I presently saw the connecting door open and Sweeney emerge. Just as I had anticipated, he crossed to the dressing room door without a glance in my direction, and looked out into the corridor.
I tapped again and he spun on his heel, saw where I was, and gaped like a cuckoo.
“Look alive, man!” I shouted, for I was in danger of perishing from exposure out there. “Come over here and let me in.”
He shook his great befuddled head as he admitted me.
“So,” I said, “having gained entry, I take two strides to the fireplace like so, snatch up the poker like so, and strike you across the skull, which we shall have to leave to the imagination. You fall to the floor. Well, do it, man!”
He sank to his knees.
“I drop the poker, stoop and carry your unconscious, dead or dying body to the balcony. On your feet, Sweeney—I’m not going to risk a hernia for this.” I took a firm grip on his arm. “Through the open window you go, out to the balcony and over the edge.” As we advanced to the iron railing, Sweeney grabbed it like a drowning man and held on. I said, “You don’t have to panic. This is only a demonstration. Do you see how it was done?”
“No, sir.”
Reader, who could have blamed me if I had tipped him over? “What, then, is the difficulty?”
“How did the murderer get here, sir?”
“Get where?”
“Onto the balcony.”
I said cuttingly, “Take a look to your right.”
He did as instructed. “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” He was looking, as you may have surmised, at the balcony of the room next door, a mere arm’s length from where we stood. This wing of the building was so designed that pairs of balconies jutted from the facade at regular intervals. There was a long stretch of wall before the next pair, so Amelia’s balcony was accessible from its neighbor to the right, but no other. Even Sweeney in his jittery state saw the significance. “Anyone could climb from there to here.”
“And back,” I said, “after committing murder.”
“So that was why no one saw him in the corridor. He climbed over the balcony.” He gave a whistle, which was rather infra dig, but gratifying in its way. “Smart of you to think of it, if I may say so, sir.”
“You may.”
“Such a thing would not have occurred to me in a million years.”
“That I am willing to believe.” I basked in his admiration for a short while, without troubling to mention how I had got the idea. You will recall that two nights before I had seen Claude Bullivant enter Isabella Dundas’s room by way of the balcony.
“The next question is,” Sweeney remarked with ponderous calculation, “whose balcony is that?”
“You ought to know. We looked into the room last night.”
“Mr. Pelham’s?”
“Correct.”
He made a fist with his right hand and punched it into the palm of his left. “We’ve got him now, sir, thanks be to God!”
“Not yet,” I cautioned. “We have merely established a possibility. We need proof that he entered the room this way. Clues, Sweeney, clues.”
“Like a footprint on the balcony, sir?”
“A bloodstain is more likely. There was blood on the poker.”
“But he dropped the poker, sir.”
“There could have been blood on his hands, or his clothes. I propose that you climb over and see what you can find.”
“Would you be asking me to climb onto Mr. Pelham’s balcony, sir?”
“Precisely.”
“Suppose he’s in his room.”
“He’s downstairs. We saw him a minute or two ago.”
“Sure and that’s the truth,” said Sweeney limply. He hoisted one leg awkwardly over the rail and reached for the other balcony. He had difficulty getting a foothold, and I didn’t assist him. The point of the exercise was to demonstrate how easily a man could manage it alone.
He completed the maneuver eventually. A younger man such as Pelham could practical
ly have vaulted the rails.
“No signs of blood here, sir.”
“Examine the windows. Are they marked at all?”
“They are spotless, sir. Shall I come back?”
“Certainly not. See whether the windows open.” When that suggestion came to nothing I said, “Very well. Remain where you are. I shall go into the room and open them from the inside.”
I don’t altogether approve of entering other people’s bedrooms without invitation or permission, but this was a murder investigation. Who could say what damning discoveries I might make: a bloodstained garment possibly, or a copy of The Times with the name of the day cut out.
Not a soul was in the corridor when I stepped out of Amelia’s room. I moved the few yards to Pelham’s door, grasped the handle—and felt the horrid sensation of its turning independently. The door swung inwards and Marcus Pelham stood there, all teeth and charm.
“Do come in, Your Royal Highness.”
I said on a high note of disbelief, “You were downstairs.”
“And now I am here. As the only surviving member of the family, I thought it proper to make myself available. Won’t you come in, sir?”
Naturally I was wary, but he appeared not to have any murderous weapon to hand. “How did you know I was at your door?”
“I watched Inspector Sweeney climb onto my balcony. I cannot imagine why he should essay such an acrobatic feat except in the performance of his duty as a bodyguard. I therefore concluded that I was about to be graced by a Royal visit.” He rounded off this sarcastic piece of insolence with a faint smile. He knew very well that I hadn’t expected to find him in the room.
I said, “You wasted no time in coming upstairs.”
“I followed you up,” he admitted without turning a hair. “The obligations of host fall entirely to me now that my poor sister is no longer with us. I am at your service, sir, ready and willing to render assistance.”
“Very well,” I responded, treating his humbug as if I believed every word, “you can begin by opening your balcony window and inviting Inspector Sweeney to step inside. He’s of more use as a bodyguard in here than out there.”
“So I would have thought,” said Pelham. “He’s the one whose life is threatened.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked at once.
“He’ll catch pneumonia out there.”
He approached the window and reached for the bolt. The wretched Sweeney saw his approach, dodged sideways and pressed himself against the railing in the corner, trying without success to escape from view, a mortifying spectacle. “I seem to have startled him,” Pelham remarked.
I declined to comment. I was observing the attempt to open the window, which was in itself an action of overriding importance to the investigation. Sweeney’s personal comfort was of no account compared with this. Pelham was having some difficulty, or so he wanted me to think.
“It’s the devil to shift,” he said.
I let him struggle a moment, and then told him to stand aside. I discovered that he had not been bluffing. The window was stuck fast. I had to put my shoulder to the frame to move it, and then I only succeeded at the fourth or fifth attempt. There was a rasp as it finally yielded and flakes of paint came away from the wood.
“No wonder,” said Pelham. “It must have been given a coat of paint last summer and closed before it was dry, with the result that the surfaces stuck fast. Shoddy work. Step inside, Inspector, we’re not discussing you.”
Sweeney entered without a word. He didn’t need to pass any comment. His look was eloquent enough. He had seen the efforts to open the windows. He could see the paint flakes on the floor. He knew, as I did, that those windows hadn’t been opened in months. Our theory—no, let’s be brutally honest—my theory had just been exposed as impossible.
CHAPTER 20
So the hounds had bayed in vain. I was obliged to spend the rest of the day in the kennel, so to speak, gnawing at the bones of my theory and finding precious little meat. Reluctantly I was forced to conclude that my suspicions about Marcus Pelham had got the better of me. Try as I might, I was unable to fathom how he could have got into Amelia’s room and out of it unseen when the corridor was swarming with servants. In fact, I couldn’t fathom how anyone had managed it.
In bed that night (with a gundog and his handler on guard outside my bedroom door) I resolved to toss out all the suspicions and prejudices I had accumulated and adopt a more objective method. Emulating Scotland Yard, I would marshal the facts of the case and make a “wanted” portrait of the murderer.
Five deaths had to be accounted for. Five deaths in five days, and apart from the obvious fact that the victims were all members of our house party, the only thing they had in common was the piece of paper left beside or upon each of the bodies. Beyond doubt the murderer had left those clues for a purpose. The deaths were linked to a few lines of rhyming folklore. What could one deduce from that?
First, those lines of verse fitted the victims so aptly that the guest list must have been known to the murderer some time in advance. To put it in legal jargon, the crimes were premeditated.
Second, the daily killing was clearly presented as a challenge, or a taunt. We, the people under threat, were invited to guess who was to be next and we had been outwitted so far.
Third, this murderer was willing to take risks. The leaving of clues was a dangerous indulgence.
And fourth, it had taken exceptional foresight to calculate that the house party would not be abandoned and the police called in after one, two or three murders. The killer had banked on my personal refusal to embroil the office of Heir Apparent in a sensational case of murder. That stuck in my gullet.
Have a care, Bertie, I cautioned myself—the good detective strives to be impartial at all times.
With a firm eye on the facts, I characterized the murderer as a plotter of ingenuity and foresight, one for whom mere killing was insufficient satisfaction, who treated it as a macabre game, to baffle and taunt the victims. Unhappily, the description fell short of a physical picture. Age, height, build, hair, eyes, dress, marks or peculiarities. I wasn’t even certain of the culprit’s sex.
And this night was bringing us to Saturday. My thoughts became unscientific again and drifted back to my fellow guests, the remaining members of the house party, no doubt lying awake, like me, asking themselves the dread question, “Could I conceivably be described as one who works hard for a living?” George Holdfast, Marcus Pelham and Isabella Dundas. I did not seriously consider as possible victims Sweeney and all the servants; the killing had been confined to legitimate guests, and so I expected it to continue—unless and until I put a stop to it.
Holdfast, Pelham, Miss Dundas and myself. Survivors, thus far. You may wonder why any of us lingered any longer in that house of murder, and it is difficult to explain, but I will try. Two of the party had already chosen discretion as the better part of valor, of course, and who could blame them? But since Alix and Lady Moira had left, a sort of understanding had grown up. We who remained were all, in our different ways, dogged, self-reliant individuals with our own private reasons for refusing to leave. A sense of moral obligation played a part in my own case, and, I am sure, in others; there was an unspoken pact between us that no one else would quit until this monster was caught. Call us brave, if you must. The same dauntless spirit built the greatest Empire in history.
Besides, if anyone had packed his bags at this juncture we would all have smelled a rat.
Saturday
CHAPTER 21
Have you ever gone to bed with a problem to resolve and found that when you woke up you had the answer? That was what happened to me that Saturday morning. But before you shout “Unfair” and protest that no self-respecting detective relies on dreams to resolve his cases, let me make myself clear. This wasn’t a dream. I was roused by Wellard, one of my
footmen, who brought me my usual glass of cold milk, and the sight of him prompted me to say, “What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock, sir.”
“Seven, eh. Is it busy out there?”
“Busy, sir?”
“In the corridor. Servants going this way and that.”
“Well, yes. Quite busy, sir.”
“I dare say you’re getting to know the other servants.”
“Not to any noticeable degree, sir. Each retinue tends to keep to itself.”
“So if you pass someone in the corridor, the chances are that you won’t know who they are?”
“I’m afraid that is so, sir.”
I sat bolt upright, alert to the importance of what my questions were revealing. “Now tell me this, Wellard. Would you recognize any of the guests if you passed them in the corridor?”
“The guests? Certainly, sir.”
This wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. “How? How would you recognize them?”
“From their clothes, sir. They are not in uniform as the servants are.”
“Never mind what they wear. Do you know any of the guests by sight—by face alone?”
“No, sir. My duties confine me to your suite and the servants’ quarters.”
“As I thought.” I beamed at him with approval. “That is all I wanted to know, Wellard.”
Thus, without fuss or fanfare, I finally grasped the key to the mystery. It was clear to me how the murderer had been able to pass through the house unremarked and unchallenged—by posing as a servant. This week Desborough was stuffed with visiting servants, and in most cases one flunky didn’t know another from Adam—or from Pelham, or Holdfast, or Miss Dundas.
Breakfast found the four of us still alive and in pretty good spirits considering that the day held nothing more in prospect than a funeral. It was a fine day, too; the sort of sunny October morning when one ought to be off to Newmarket for the races, but the blinds were down and two mutes with crepe-covered wands were on duty at the front door. In the absence of the Chaplain, who had excused himself from leading the morning prayers, I said a brief grace and dismissed the servants. Then I enquired of Pelham what arrangements had been made.
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