‘Poor woman,’ he said. ‘I suppose it was her heart?’ He did not wait for Cedric to reply, but continued. ‘As it happens, I inquired about her health only the other day. I thought she looked a little peaky at the last rehearsal. She told me she had suffered dreadfully from ill-heath all her life. But she wasn’t one to complain, was she, Mr Drury?’
‘I would have said, myself,’ said Walter Drury rather tersely, ‘that the woman did very little else.’
‘Walter!’ Algernon Cuffe looked appalled.
‘She certainly made my life a misery,’ sniffed Henry Rewe from his place on the stool. His voice, which had a rather unpleasant whine to it, made everyone start, for they had almost forgotten that he was there.
‘Henry –’ cried Algernon, his face now as red as his beard.
‘It’s no use pretending, Algernon, that she was anything but a thoroughly unpleasant woman,’ objected Walter. ‘The poor boy is only speaking the truth. You saw the way she spoke to him.’
‘Well, I must say, you’ve certainly changed your tune a bit,’ retorted Algernon angrily, adjusting the position of his crown, which shone majestically. ‘You were quite unpleasant to Miriam earlier, accusing her of being flippant.’
Walter glared, but said nothing. Instead, he turned his back and made a great show of looking about him at the paintings on the wall. A still life painting hanging in an alcove in the far corner of the room appeared to attract his particular attention, and he walked over to study it more closely. Algernon, meanwhile, snorted and made a face. He then seemed suddenly to recollect where he was. He turned to Cedric again in preparation for bestowing another apology for the troupe’s unpardonable behaviour.
Fortunately, Cedric was spared this ordeal. At the very moment he was preparing mentally to grit his teeth and don an outward smile, Giles Kettering appeared to announce the arrival of both the doctor and the village constable. The earl quickly made his excuses and bade a hasty retreat, catching his wife’s eye as he left the room.
‘What ghastly people,’ whispered a voice in the countess’ ear. Rose gave a start, for she had been so fully engrossed in listening to the arguments being played out before her in the room that she had been quite oblivious to all else. It was with a sense of relief that she found that it was her mother standing beside her, and not Miriam Belmore, as she had first feared, mocking her fellow thespians. She gave her mother a brief smile and then glanced idly over at Cordelia Quail. The director appeared to have recovered a little. Certainly, Mrs Simpson appeared to be of the view that the woman no longer required her ministrations.
‘How does poor Cedric put up with them?’ Mrs Simpson continued, shaking her head.
Rose laughed in spite of herself. ‘I don’t expect they usually behave like this. In fact, I know quite well they don’t. Cedric speaks of them quite warmly.’ She sighed. ‘It is the shock, I suppose. People behave in different ways when they are faced with sudden death.’
‘As you know to your cost from bitter experience,’ said Mrs Simpson, with feeling. The sour note in her voice was not lost on her daughter, who frowned inwardly. Rose knew only too well how heartily her mother disapproved of her sleuthing activities.
‘There is no reason to suppose that this is anything but a death from natural causes, is there?’ said Mrs Simpson rather anxiously, having made her point.
‘No,’ Rose said quickly, conscious that her mother was no longer whispering. She looked about her and noticed with dismay that one or two of the Sedgwick Players had turned to stare at them with undisguised curiosity. Even Cordelia Quail had looked up from her cup of tea and appeared to be regarding them with interest. ‘I believe Mrs Stapleton had a weak heart,’ Rose added, speaking rather louder than was absolutely necessary. ‘There is no doubt in our minds that it contributed to her death. It is very sad of course …’ She gave a forlorn smile and allowed her sentence to drift, fervently hoping that it was not obvious to her watchers that she did not believe a word she was saying.
Her mother proved an unexpected ally in this respect. For she nodded and murmured: ‘Yes, most unfortunate’, in a voice that carried. It seemed to reinforce Rose’s statement that Ursula Stapleton had died from natural causes. To Rose herself, it indicated equally Mrs Simpson’s sense of relief that her daughter was not inclined to view Ursula’s death as suspicious. The overall effect on the listeners however was the same; they had nothing to fear.
Rose glanced at her wristwatch. Ten minutes had elapsed since Giles had appeared in the doorway and Cedric had followed him out into the hall. She assumed that her husband had gone to his study to talk with the doctor and the constable before they examined Ursula’s body. A thought suddenly occurred to her. Perhaps Cedric was speaking only with the policeman. For was it not possible that even now the doctor was making his way to the folly? She could imagine him hurrying, clutching at the vain hope that they had been mistaken, that Ursula Stapleton, though unconscious and very ill, was still alive. Her thoughts returned to the study and the village constable. How would he react, she wondered, when her husband informed him of their fears that the actress had been murdered? Would he stand there with his mouth open, his expression incredulous?
She was brought to her senses by William, the footman, inquiring whether he should arrange for another pot of tea and some more refreshments; some plates of sandwiches, perhaps, or Cook’s chicken soup? He understood it was very good for shock. Rose nodded, barely listening, reminded only that the events of the day had bestowed upon her the role of hostess. So far, she had neglected her duties dismally. She had not mingled with her guests and inquired how they were bearing up. Instead, she had observed them quietly and surreptitiously, waiting for one of them to make some fatal mistake.
Closely on the heels of this thought came the realisation that she had wasted time. She should have been commencing her investigation in earnest, while her suspects were still ignorant of the fact that Ursula Stapleton had been murdered, not dithering and prevaricating as she had been. Time was marching on and at any moment the constable might appear and announce the awful truth concerning the actress’ death. Then, any advantage of ignorance or surprise that she had possessed over her audience would be lost.
It was with this thought in mind that Rose took a deep breath and walked over to Cordelia, conscious all the while that her mother was staring at her thoughtfully.
Chapter Six
It was all very well to decide to do a task, thought Rose, but putting it in to practice was quite a different matter. For one thing, she was very aware that Cordelia Quail was in something of an agitated state, and she did not wish to upset her unduly. And then of course there was the fact that the other Sedgwick Players were watching her every movement closely. Algernon Cuffe was staring at her quite blatantly, as if it were a sign of deference, and Walter Drury did so furtively, as if he feared being caught in the act. One of the Prentice twins was scowling at the other, while also covertly stealing a glance at Rose every few moments, the other, with a handkerchief clutched to his wounded nose, was watching her nervously, his lip trembling. Rose was quite sure that even Miriam, who was very pointedly ignoring everyone, was nevertheless conscious of her presence. It was almost, Rose thought, yielding to a brief flight of fancy, as if she were herself an actress on the stage and they were her audience, so closely did they monitor her every step.
She wondered idly whether they would have been half as fascinated by the activities of Rose Simpson, shop assistant, as they were by Rose, Countess of Belvedere. On reflection, however, she thought that her social position probably had very little to do with their interest in her. It was her reputation as an amateur detective which no doubt intrigued them the most. This fact reminded her that she must tread carefully if she were not to arouse their suspicions. As far as the Sedgwick Players were concerned, they had witnessed the sad and untimely death of one of their members from natural causes.
She could almost imagine the thoughts racing through their minds. I
t was most unfortunate and regrettable, and perhaps, if they were not feeling very charitable, a little inconvenient to be detained like this. For weren’t there more pressing matters to attend to? They weren’t paid after all to perform; they gave up their own time graciously for the enjoyment and advancement of others. That being said, how wonderful it was to have the opportunity to look around Sedgwick Court. The grand and sweeping oak staircase was just as it should be, the exquisitely decorated drawing room was even finer than they had envisaged. Really, one was almost afraid to sit down for fear of leaving traces of the gardens, a grass stain here perhaps, or there a bit of mud caught on the heel of a shoe. And what an array of servants, when everyone knew how difficult good servants were to find these days since the war …
‘Miss Quail,’ said Rose. ‘How are you feeling? Would you like me to ring for some more tea? No, please don’t get up,’ she added hurriedly, as Cordelia made as if to scramble to her feet, in her haste large strands of hair falling from under her scarlet turban. ‘I’ll just sit down beside you, if I may?’
Rose did not wait for a reply before perching herself on the edge of a Queen Anne chair and smiling kindly at Cordelia. The woman blinked rapidly, opened her mouth once or twice, as if to speak, though no words came out, and dabbed at her face rather vigorously with her handkerchief. Rose felt a stab of something akin to guilt. It seemed an act of meanness to disturb her. The woman was evidently distressed by what had happened and the sudden appearance of the countess had done nothing to alleviate this; if anything, Cordelia was more flustered now than before, pulling her black silk kimono about her so that she seemed to disappear into its folds as if it were a blanket.
‘Oh, dear Lady Belvedere, what must you think of me?’ Cordelia Quail said at last, all too aware, rather belatedly, that she must look a frightful sight with her red-rimmed eyes and runny nose. ‘And your kind hospitality … it is very gracious of you.’ She stifled a sob. ‘It was the shock of course, that made me behave in such a way. Utterly disgraceful of course. Oh dear, I shouldn’t like you to think that I am that type of woman.’ She paused to make a face, which involved screwing up her nose as if some unpleasant smell had drifted into the room. ‘Not one of those timid, frail little creatures that wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Oh no, dear Lady Belvedere, I shouldn’t like you to think me one of them.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Rose politely, while trying to reconcile in her mind the woman who had barked orders to the actors on the stage with the one who had been led wailing from the folly.
‘I have always been of the belief that women are much stronger than men,’ confided Cordelia, lowering her voice a little. She leant forward in her seat so that her head was not far from the countess’; Rose could feel the woman’s breath on her skin. ‘Emotionally, I mean, not physically, of course,’ clarified Cordelia. ‘Particularly spinster women. We have no one to depend upon but ourselves.’
Rose opened her mouth with the intention of saying something to the effect that she was quite sure Cordelia had a great many friends on whom she might depend, but changed her mind. For it was clear to her that Cordelia Quail was still in rather a distracted mood and likely to go off at a tangent given any little encouragement. And Rose was all too conscious of the fact that time was against her; she must get to the point of her interview. Inwardly she sighed. If only the woman could be persuaded to rally a little. How welcome the return of the formidable lady director would be, a woman who would answer her questions in a candid and forthright fashion. But it could not be helped. Cordelia Quail might well be a shadow of the woman she had been an hour ago, but Rose could not give way to compassion and sentimentality. She must interview the poor woman while she had the opportunity to do so. It would be a dereliction of her duty not to. And above all else, she must raise the matter of the missing wine glass.
She pictured the crimson wine glass as she had last seen it in the folly. Indeed, a vision of it appeared before her eyes as vividly as if it had been suspended in the air in front of her, a glittering, tangible object catching the last rays of the late afternoon sun. She imagined that, if she stretched out her hand, she would feel the delicate glass as she traced her finger around its rim … It was in that moment a possible opening occurred to her.
‘I’m sorry we rather took our time; returning to the house, I mean,’ Rose began cautiously, hoping that her voice did not carry across the room. ‘We didn’t feel we ought to leave Mrs Stapleton quite alone. And then of course we were worried about the wine glasses …’
She had been watching her companion closely. There was no more than a flicker of a reaction from Cordelia at the mention of the glasses. Certainly, the woman did not start or take a sharp intake of breath.
‘We were worried that they might be trodden underfoot. Quite unintentionally of course …’ Rose continued, stealing another glance at Cordelia. It was difficult to ascertain what the woman was thinking from the expression on her face. It was quite possible that, distracted though the woman was, she would think it a little strange that Lady Belvedere, when confronted with the death of a woman in her grounds, should be preoccupied with the fate of some glassware.
‘Wine glasses?’ murmured Cordelia rather dully, a faint echo of the words uttered by her hostess.
‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘The beautiful crimson ones that were used on stage. I believe they are yours, aren’t they? Victorian, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘Yes.’ said Cordelia, recovering her senses a little. ‘Cranberry.’ After a moment, she looked at Rose sharply. ‘What were you saying about the glasses, your ladyship?’
‘We found one of the wine glasses on the tray on the little table. But unfortunately, we couldn’t find the other one.’ Rose leant forward in her chair. ‘There were two, weren’t there?’
‘Yes,’ said Cordelia, and this time she frowned. ‘There were six in the set originally, but only two are left. You found only one, you say? I do hope the other one isn’t broken. They belonged to my grandmother, you know. She was quite a remarkable woman …’ She gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have used them in the play, but Ursula … Mrs Stapleton would insist on our having proper wine glasses instead of goblets. Silver goblets really would have looked so much better, don’t you think?’ She did not wait for Rose’s reply, but continued, a sudden outpouring of words as if she had been keeping it all bottled up inside her. ‘And dear Lord Belvedere told me he had a couple of goblets that he could lend us, but Ursula made such a fuss about it. Said the silver would make the water taste odd, or something equally foolish. Of course, I tried to reason with her, but once Mrs Stapleton had set her mind on something …’
‘I suppose she had a point,’ said Rose, thinking she ought to say something, while wondering how she might turn the conversation back to the missing wine glass.
‘But it made things awfully difficult,’ complained Cordelia, ‘Because of course a plain, transparent glass would have been no good. It wouldn’t have shown up on the stage, not in brilliant sunshine. The audience would not have been able to see it at all from where they were sitting. That’s what made me think of my grandmother’s wine glasses; such a very vivid shade of red.’ Cordelia paused a moment, as if she too were picturing the glass in front of her. ‘When Claudius holds the glass up to the audience and later when he drops the pearl in to it, it makes quite a nice spectacle. He always makes a great show of it, you see.’
‘I am sure your glass is quite safe,’ said Rose, fearful that the conversation was digressing. ‘Perhaps Mrs Stapleton dropped it on to the ground when she became … ill, and someone else picked it up fearing it would be broken if it was left where it was.’
‘Do you think so?’ Cordelia said. ‘I suppose it might have happened as you say, but why didn’t they put it back on the tray?’
‘Perhaps they weren’t standing near the table at the time,’ said Rose. ‘In which case, they may have picked up the glass with the intention of placing it on the table at the end of the s
cene.’
‘Then, why didn’t they?’ demanded Cordelia, sounding rather vexed. ‘Why didn’t they put it on the table? Where is it now? That’s what I should like to know.’ Rose looked about her hurriedly, conscious that the woman’s voice had risen with her indignation.
‘Perhaps they put it in their pocket and forgot about it,’ Rose said hurriedly. ‘It’s the sort of thing I might do.’
Cordelia pursed her lips and looked to be about to say something. Rose imagined the words that she had in mind were something along the lines of ‘rubbish’ or ‘nonsense’. But on reflection Cordelia appeared to change her mind, for the words did not escape her lips.
Rose realised too late that she had allowed herself to relax a little, certain in the belief that danger had been averted. Indeed, she was on the point of breathing a sigh of relief when Cordelia sprung suddenly to her feet, pulling her kimono about her as she went, and straightening her turban. With dismay in her heart and a feeling of abject helplessness, Rose waited for Cordelia to speak. The woman opened her mouth, and when she spoke it was in a loud voice, which seemed to fill every corner of the room, spilling out into the hall beyond. This, in itself, would not have been so bad had everyone else not been huddled together in twos or threes, speaking in hushed tones. Cordelia’s voice penetrated through these snatched conversations as easily as a knife cutting through butter, for she spoke in the booming voice of the director issuing commands to the actors on the stage. Certainly, the effect was to cease all idle chatter. All eyes turned to her, the thespians regarding her with mouths slightly open as if they had been disturbed in mid-sentence, their hands twisting nervously with the fabric of their costumes. Even Miriam, aloof and in splendid isolation by the window, turned her gaze from looking out at the garden, and Gerald Prentice lowered his handkerchief from his swollen face and sniffed.
‘Which one of you took my wine glass?’ demanded Cordelia. ‘Where is it?’
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