Death at the Wychbourne Follies

by Amy Myers

  It was Hubert Jarrett.

  ‘This isn’t the way I envisaged our first private meeting, Nell.’ Alex Melbray pulled out the chair for her to sit down.

  ‘Nor me,’ Nell rejoined cheerfully. ‘I thought Paris at the very least.’

  ‘Only for lovers or kept women, and I don’t have any of either right now. Someday we’ll get there, Nell.’

  ‘Yes.’ A vision of strolling by the Seine or the Eiffel Tower with him floated through her mind. ‘Nevertheless,’ she added gravely, ‘Lyons teashops are very charming in their way.’

  He laughed, and she thought how different Alex looked then to when he was on duty. She supposed that applied to her too. Nell the chef hauling Michel over the coals for curdling the mayonnaise was not the same woman sitting with Alex Melbray in a teashop in London’s Northumberland Avenue.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘I myself have a particular fondness for their chocolate eclairs. Let’s order some.’

  ‘Speaking as a chef I can’t approve of afternoon snacks,’ she replied in her best pompous voice. ‘But as I’m not a chef at the moment, I shall have no hesitation in enjoying such exotic fare with you. Oh, Alex,’ she said abruptly, ‘I have to tell you about today.’ She couldn’t wait any longer. At last she had a theory about the files and photographs.

  ‘I assumed that was why you wanted to see me.’

  She spilled it all out while he listened – attentively she thought, although she could not tell what he was making of it, especially as the teapot and eclairs arrived. She was too intent on her story to pour tea, and eventually Alex reached for the teapot to pour it himself. Disconcerted, she stopped mid-flow.

  ‘I’m listening, go on,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘You can. You were ferreting through the cuddly toy basket. Just reached Henry the lion.’

  Mollified, but only half convinced she had his full attention, she continued. His eyebrows shot up when she told him about the underclothing and the black crosses through the photographs. And at last she was able to blurt out her theory that the loose photographs in the drawer represented those he was blackmailing and that the files and clippings were tied in with it, probably together with the cuddly toys and locked underwear drawer.

  He took over immediately once she’d finished. ‘I’m not sure I agree with this theory of yours.’

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded, deflated. She’d done her best not to sound obsessed with her own idea.

  ‘If you’re right, Tobias would have taken some kind of evidence with him to Wychbourne to wave in front of his victims’ faces; he wouldn’t have passed up an opportunity like that. In which case I or my men would have seen it when we searched his room at the Court.’

  ‘Perhaps the blackmail victims searched for it and hid it,’ she said lamely.

  ‘We’re into speculation as well as theories then. Theories require at least some evidence. May I please have my eclair now?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said crossly, taking her own – just as she remembered that last photograph she’d found. ‘But you can’t dismiss my theory altogether.’

  ‘Give me one reason why not.’

  ‘This.’ She handed over the photograph of Hubert Jarrett.

  He struggled to look at it, while coping with the eclair. ‘What’s this photo doing here, Nell?

  ‘It slid into my pocket by mistake.’

  He heaved a sigh. ‘Removal of evidence is frowned upon.’

  ‘Even though the Mary Ann case is closed?’

  ‘I’m temporarily reopening it.’ He frowned. ‘Joking apart, you must see what this means.’

  ‘Yes, that if Hubert Jarrett was the man harassing Mary Ann, he might have been blackmailed by Tobias Rocke. The great Mr Jarrett wouldn’t want his wife to know about his former little weakness, nor would he want to risk his reputation in the theatre.’

  ‘There’s more, Nell. If this is Jarrett in the photo, Rocke could indeed have been blackmailing him for persecuting Mary Ann and even more so after Rocke had identified her body.’

  ‘You think he was blackmailed because he killed Mary Ann?’ Nell thought this through. ‘Mr Jarrett left Romano’s early that night so he could have managed to get rid of Mary Ann’s lover and sit in the second cab himself.’

  ‘If you insist on speculation, Nell, there are all sorts of possibilities, none of them pleasant. This isn’t a pretty Gaiety world. Whether Rocke was blackmailing Mary Ann or not, he certainly seems to have had other people in his power and Hubert Jarrett is probably one of them. In the best Sherlock Holmes tradition, I’m a mere Lestrade, but looking at this photograph again, I’m bound to say that I’m halfway convinced. There’s still a problem, though. I can’t ask my men to squirrel into the Mary Ann Darling case.’

  Nell’s hopes sank. ‘But—’

  ‘But I can look into it myself. Dare I mention though that there is one point you appear to have overlooked or perhaps not thought through sufficiently?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This blackmail theory is fast developing as far as the Gaiety veterans are concerned, but why would Rocke have confined his blackmailing career to them? Even if he carried the threat on when he saw them in various productions, he might well have had other people in his sights. Not only in the past but the present.’

  She could answer that one promptly. ‘There were lots of other photographs in the drawer and plenty of other files.’

  ‘But there is one person vulnerable to blackmail whose photograph would not be in that drawer. Timothy Trotter.’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t kill somebody?’

  ‘You say that dismissively, as once my predecessors spoke of Dr Crippen. Never underestimate the apparent underdog. They too have passions. Mr Trotter, it seems to me, has very strong ones. However, I too don’t see him as a murderer. Unlike, perhaps, others of the Wychbourne Court guests.’

  ‘My dear Nell. Just the person I wished to see.’

  Much as she liked Arthur, Nell’s heart sank; it was just her luck that she ran into him as she parked her motor car on her return from London. She desperately needed to find Mr Fairweather, who would already have gone home for the day.

  ‘Can I call in on my way back? I’m on my way to find out how the potatoes are.’ That sounded ridiculous, but it was the truth. She needed to restock even though, thankfully, the guests had long departed, judging by the lack of motor cars here. The Jarretts had disappeared even before she left, leaving before breakfast in their chauffeured Bentley.

  ‘Make it later, Nell. Do come to the cottage after dinner. A gathering is to take place which I’m sure will interest you.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘Now don’t demur. Clarice is bringing a Ouija board with her. Quite harmless, I assure you. It’s almost a game nowadays and compared with her usual ghost hunts it is a game. She is also bringing Mr Trotter. She has been most upset at the revelations concerning him but is still convinced he is a genuine medium, despite his clearly having helped one or two photographs along. Clarice is determined to help lift this cloud lying over Wychbourne Court and he is equally determined to clear his name.’

  Mr Trotter didn’t look determined about anything when Nell, highly dubious as to what would take place, duly arrived at Wychbourne Cottage.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Nell,’ Arthur said. ‘Incidentally Lady Clarice is convinced that those appalling fake photographs can be explained, as Mr Trotter explained to her that he merely wished to encourage the spirits into coming by such means.’

  He conducted her to his drawing room and she could see why she had been invited. Arthur, Lady Clarice and Mr Trotter were the only prospective players and she, Nell, was presumably there to declare to the world that Mr Trotter was a bona fide spirit medium. Why on earth had she agreed to this? Nell wondered, looking round.

  The Ouija board was set up on a small polished table near the window, with the planchette with its pointer in the mid
dle and the alphabet printed out around it, together with Yes and No – in order to make it easy for the spirits to reply to questions, Nell deduced, her dismay growing. It might be no more than a popular game at the moment but here at Wychbourne in these circumstances Nell felt dubious about it. True, Lord Richard had bought and used one without dire results (indeed without any results that couldn’t be attributed to his sisters’ comic touches) but then Lord Richard didn’t have Mr Trotter, spirit medium or otherwise, with him at the time.

  ‘What, might I enquire,’ Arthur said plaintively, as he turned down the lights to their dimmest point, ‘should we be asking the spirits, Mr Trotter? Will they even travel from the Court as far as my humble cottage here? May we ask questions of them?’

  ‘First we concentrate, sir,’ Mr Trotter said. ‘Kindly do not interrupt me. The more I can summon the spirits of the Court to assemble here the more likely we are to be privileged with their presence to guide us to the truth.’

  Nell, sitting meekly at the table, was extremely glad that Alex Melbray was not here, even though she had to admit a certain interest now in what might happen, despite the butterflies in her stomach becoming more active by the minute.

  ‘First try to reach Mr Rocke,’ Lady Clarice commanded. ‘We can then enquire who murdered him. Place your fingers on the planchette, everyone, pressing them down hard.’

  As simple as that? Nell obediently did so. Mr Trotter, with eyes closed, was clearly in deep meditation, but if he was pleading with Mr Rocke to appear his request was ignored. The pointer stayed where it was.

  ‘Mr Trotter has kindly offered to ask the questions,’ Lady Clarice whispered. ‘And that of course is only sensible, given his great powers as a medium. Do begin, Mr Trotter.’

  For a moment Nell thought he would not oblige, but he did. ‘Great spirits of Wychbourne, has Tobias Rocke joined your number?’ He sounded most impressive.

  Silence, and no movement.

  ‘Tobias Rocke, do you wish to tell us who murdered you?’ Mr Trotter enquired.

  No movement, no sound.

  Nell took her courage in both hands. If this was all faked nonsense, she could do no harm in speaking up. If it wasn’t, then she might do some good. Leaving the questioning to Mr Trotter alone might be a mistake. Suppose the spirits didn’t like his questions?

  Firmly pressing her fingers on the planchette, she asked, ‘Did John Palmer kill Tobias Rocke?’

  A hiss of disapproval from Mr Trotter, but then all she could hear was the heavy breathing of her companions as she pressed down her fingers. Too hard perhaps, because she felt a quiver from the board. And another – it must be pressure from Arthur or Lady Clarice. But slowly, just as Nell began to feel uneasy, conscious that it was certainly not her causing this movement, the pointer began to move. Slowly, very slowly, it moved on and then stopped, still quivering slightly.

  ‘Who did that?’ Arthur demanded, sounding distinctly jittery.

  Mr Trotter did not look happy either. ‘Who’s out there?’ he cried. ‘What do you want?’

  Nell could have sworn he was genuinely nervous – and yet if he were a genuine medium then he must surely be used to it. Even as these thoughts ran through her head, the pointer began to move again. Surely she was imagining it? But she wasn’t. Someone must be pushing it, but all of them looked as shaken as she was. And then the pointer stopped.

  ‘That’s a D,’ cried Lady Clarice. ‘Pray try again, Nell. I knew you had an affinity with the spirits.’

  But there was no need for Nell to try anything. The pointer was quite happy on its own, moving to the next letter.

  ‘E,’ Arthur said, as though he couldn’t quite believe it. Nor could Nell. She felt trapped, hypnotized into watching that pointer.

  ‘Onwards, Nell,’ shrieked Lady Clarice. ‘Look, an A!’

  Now the pointer was swinging wildly. Nell could hardly bear to watch, her fingers shaking but pressed down on the board. It was a U – no, she thought in alarm: it was T. She couldn’t bear it, she had to turn away.

  ‘H,’ Lady Clarice pronounced solemnly. ‘Tobias Rocke is here. He wishes to tell us of his death.’

  ‘Or another’s,’ Arthur murmured quietly.

  ‘I must admit I was shaken, Nell,’ Arthur said after the departure of a delighted Lady Clarice and very quiet Mr Trotter.

  ‘So was I,’ Nell confessed. ‘But what did it tell us, after all? Merely that Tobias Rocke had met his death. It doesn’t necessarily portend another one.’

  ‘Some experts believe that movements of the planchette are just our thoughts or unconscious coursing through our nerves to the fingers,’ Arthur observed.

  ‘Not comforting,’ Nell said. ‘Especially if it does signal another death.’

  ‘I agree. Mr Trotter looked far too shaken for me to be convinced by that. But I’m sorry I let you in for it. How about a glass of my excellent brandy? Not as good as Romano’s, I daresay, but passable.’

  She accepted gratefully and relaxed with the warmth of the drink. She was about to leave him when the telephone rang.

  ‘Strange,’ Arthur said. ‘That’s the house telephone and it’s nearly eleven o’clock.’

  Alarmed, she saw his face change as he listened. ‘What is it, Arthur?’ she asked, as soon as he hung up the receiver.

  ‘Lord Ansley,’ he said soberly. ‘He wants us to know there’s been another death. Whether murder or accident or suicide is not yet known, nor indeed whether it has anything to do with Wychbourne Court.’

  ‘Who was it?’ she asked fearfully.

  ‘Hubert Jarrett.’

  TWELVE

  Hubert Jarrett dead? Nell let herself in to the darkened and silent east wing, still trying to take this in. Usually Wychbourne Court was a comforting womb, but tonight, creeping upstairs with a flickering candle (the generator disliked working through the night), it felt to her as though all Lady Clarice’s ghosts were ready to pounce on her at any moment.

  ‘Gibbering jam pots,’ she muttered. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Nell Drury. This is home not a house of horror.’ There were no malevolent ghosts waiting around the corner, nor any Ouija board spirits nipping back from Wychbourne Cottage to have another word with her. Whatever happened to Mr Jarrett, Wychbourne Court wasn’t involved, she reasoned. He died in London by a frightening coincidence, that’s all. She hadn’t liked Mr Jarrett and could easily have seen him as having been Mary Ann’s stalker, perhaps even her murderer and therefore one of Tobias Rocke’s blackmail victims. Now he himself had died, perhaps murdered, and all her theories were probably wrong.

  She tried to put the events of the day aside, but her dreams kept her half sleeping half awake all night, dreams in which Alex Melbray was crazily whipping a bowlful of egg whites, then waving the whisk shouting that meringues were just the thing to trap killers. Goodness knows what Mr Freud would make of that. Why dream of Alex at all? Repressed sexual desires indeed. Nonsense, she told herself firmly. This was Wychbourne, not a romantic picture palace with Rudolph Valentino galloping all over the place. Alex Melbray was certainly not going to be a sheikh sweeping her off her feet into his tent.

  Wednesday morning breakfast over, Nell awaited her regular summons to the Velvet Room, not least because she was hoping for information about Hubert Jarrett’s death. When the call came, however, it was not only earlier than usual but from Lord and not Lady Ansley. Was that ominous? When she reached his study, he was not surprisingly looking very tired.

  ‘My wife,’ he told her without preamble, ‘is joining Lady Kencroft at her London home to see what they can do for poor Constance. I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now and as yet I know no more about Hubert’s death. There is another development that might affect today’s schedules, Miss Drury. My wife will no doubt stay in London, but unexpectedly Chief Inspector Melbray will be returning here to stay at the Coach and Horses. He tells me you met him yesterday after the visit to Tobias’s home. How did that go?’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Your sleuthing
powers were at full strength?’

  ‘They don’t affect my work here,’ she replied anxiously. This was bad news. Much as she would like to see Alex again, his presence here was a sure sign that he was not only investigating a probable case of murder, but that he thought there was some link to Wychbourne Court.

  ‘I can bear witness to that.’ He managed a smile. ‘Nell – forgive my informality, but these are unusual times – there is a strong possibility from his symptoms that Mr Jarrett was poisoned with arsenic.’

  ‘Like Herbert Armstrong and Mrs Maybrick?’ She tried to remember the details of those cases. Wasn’t that a poison that took its time to kill although its symptoms could appear almost immediately? Her brain did a double-take, as she recalled Mr Jarrett’s querulous complaint that he didn’t feel well on Monday evening and that he and his wife had left by motor car early the next morning. Mr Jarrett had declared himself ill on at least a couple of other occasions, though, and therefore his complaints on Monday could mean nothing. But had he cried wolf too often and he was suffering the effects of poison even then? If so …

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Lord Ansley replied. ‘Arsenic is the poisoner’s poison of choice. It’s hardly likely to have been self-administered in Hubert’s case.’

  ‘He’ll never get his knighthood.’ Nell felt genuinely saddened, remembering his magnificent rendering of ‘To Be or Not to Be’ at the Follies.

  ‘No. He is a loss to the stage, as well as to Constance. Nell, you realize this will affect Wychbourne Court?’

  Just as she had feared. Nell braced herself.

  ‘Hubert had complained of feeling ill here, as you may remember,’ Lord Ansley continued, ‘and retired to his room with what he assumed was a bout of gastric fever. It worsened overnight which is why they returned home so early on Tuesday, and Constance then sent for a doctor. As he so often claimed of feeling unwell – although I gather that it seldom affected his stage appearances – she was not unduly alarmed and nor was the doctor at first. Then his suspicions grew as all the symptoms of arsenic poisoning made themselves apparent. As Hubert took no breakfast I fear the spotlight might once again fall on us as he dined here on Monday evening. Thankfully, my wife recalled that he ate very little dinner, as he was already feeling ill. Nevertheless, the finger of suspicion must point to that dinner.’