‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘I feel that way too. I suppose it is because it didn’t seem real before. It was almost like a game; a jigsaw puzzle. We were trying to find the pieces and make them fit, as if it was all for our own amusement.’
‘I say, I don’t think we were quite as heartless as that,’ protested her husband, recovering some of his equanimity. ‘Ursula’s death was real all right. We were all shocked and startled by it, but this …’ He paused to express a gesture almost of bewilderment. ‘The realisation that we actually witnessed the murder. Why, it was played out before us. It’s too awful. We watched as Ursula drank the poison and was killed before our very eyes. We should have done something.’
‘We thought it was all part of the play,’ murmured Rose, almost to herself. ‘Indeed, it was. It was a scene from the play. In Hamlet, Gertrude is poisoned in the same way and at the same moment that Ursula was. The murderer took his inspiration from the play. It determined the method by which Ursula was killed.’
‘I say, how ghastly. What sort of a person would do that?’ pondered Cedric. ‘It does mean of course that her death was premeditated. I daresay it would have taken a great deal of planning.’
‘Yes, it would.’ With a physical effort, Rose roused herself. ‘I suppose the police will be here in a few minutes. We had better warn the servants.’
‘I suppose they’ll send an inspector this time,’ said Cedric. ‘I wonder who it will be.’
‘I hope it isn’t Inspector Connor. He’ll be accompanied by that awful Sergeant Harris.’ Rose shuddered at her recollection of the sergeant. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered how he had looked at her. She had been disguised as a servant at the time and on realising that she was in fact something of an amateur sleuth he had treated her with little courtesy.
‘I think I’ll telephone to the chief constable,’ said Cedric hurriedly, advancing towards his study. ‘I’ll ask that they assign Inspector Newcombe to the case.’
‘Yes, do that, darling,’ said Rose though, if truth be told, she had some reservations about Inspector Newcombe investigating Ursula Stapleton’s death. The man might be something of a friend of her husband’s, playing as he did for the Sedgwick village cricket team, but she felt he also did not fully approve of her sleuthing activities. With some just cause, she admitted to herself, remembering how she had pursued her own investigation surrounding the death that had occurred on Bonfire Night, rather to the initial detriment of the official police inquiry.
‘I’ll speak to Manning,’ Rose told her husband, glad to have something useful to do.
She watched Cedric disappear into his study, while she herself went in pursuit of the butler, who she discovered was on some errand or other. It was therefore a quarter of an hour or so before she spoke with him, conscious all the while that the inspector’s arrival was most likely imminent. Indeed, she was half afraid that Inspector Newcombe would arrive before she had had an opportunity to apprise Manning of the situation. The butler, she noticed when she told him, paled visibly at the mention of murder, and she was reminded that generally servants did not like to have the police about the house. It gave the place something of a reputation and added to their heavy workload. While she sympathised with these sentiments, she thought it likely that the inspector would wish to conduct his interviews at Sedgwick Court, due to its proximity to the folly. It would also, she realised with something akin to delight, provide her with an ideal opportunity to speak with the witnesses and suspects in the case herself, as they went to and fro between the interviews. She wondered if they had recovered from the shock of Ursula’s death and would be more forthcoming with their answers to her questions. They would naturally be rather shaken to learn that Ursula Stapleton had indeed been murdered and they were all suspects in her death.
Rose was suddenly aware that Manning had asked her a question to which, absorbed in her own thoughts, she had given no answer. The butler was standing before her patiently enough, with something of an expectant look upon his face.
‘I believe Detective Inspector Newcombe will be leading the investigation,’ she said. ‘I realise it will be rather dreadful for you all, but we must make the best of it. Do what you can, Manning, to reassure the staff. I daresay that some of the younger girls will be rather frightened. You must tell them there is nothing to be afraid of.’
It occurred to her then that in her servants’ eyes the folly would take on the guise of some sinister edifice, haunted by ghosts and evil spirits. It would no longer bear witness to clandestine meetings between the maids and their beaux, and the knowledge of this filled her with a certain melancholy. For the idea that it would become some monstrous, abandoned construction left to fall into disrepair filled her with a feeling akin to despair. Even if she was to take measures to ensure that it was kept well maintained, there would still be an air of neglect about the place. It was likely to become ill-frequented, even by herself and Cedric. For there was an abundance of follies and eye-catchers scattered in the grounds of Sedgwick Court; they were quite spoilt for choice as to which ones to visit.
They were standing in the butler’s pantry. Rose had been keen to speak with Manning as soon as he had returned from his errand, and thus had seen fit to accost him in his lair before he had even had time to remove his hat and coat. A shrill noise rang out and she clutched nervously at the back of a chair.
‘What was that?’ She enquired, aware that her voice sounded rather high pitched.
‘It’s one of the bells on the bell board, m’lady,’ explained the butler patiently. ‘The door bell, if I’m not mistaken. It doesn’t sound as loud in the hall.’
‘The doorbell? Then it must be the inspector.’
She hurried from the room, determined to be in the hall to greet the inspector as soon as the front door was opened. But, even as she mounted the basement staircase, she realised that she would be too late. One of the footmen had undoubtedly opened the door to him by now, and she would be forced to emerge rather awkwardly from behind the servants’ door. Still, it could not be helped, she told herself. It had been necessary to forewarn Manning. The butler needed to be in full possession of the facts so as to be in a position to prepare his staff for the ordeal that lay ahead of them.
It was with a sense of considerable relief, therefore, that she discovered that the inspector and his sergeant had their backs to her as she surfaced from the servants’ quarters, their attention focused elsewhere than on the green baize door. Indeed, she was vaguely aware from their murmured comments that they were regarding the old, heavy gilt-framed portraits of Cedric’s ancestors that hung on the walls.
It gave her an opportunity to catch her breath and pat her hair and straighten her skirt before they saw her. It was with renewed confidence, therefore, that she prepared to greet them. A moment later and she wished that she had paid less attention to her appearance and more to the silhouettes that stood before her. For if she had, she told herself, she might have realised the assumption she had made so carelessly was false. She felt certain that, had she bothered to give him a second glance, she would have recognised the figure of the tall, dark-haired man, even with his back towards her. As it was, it was only when the two men happened to turn around, that she was aware of her mistake. Involuntarily, she put a hand to her mouth to stifle the exclamation that sprung resolutely from her lips.
For instead of gazing on the forms of Inspector Newcombe and Sergeant Bell, as she had fully expected, she found herself staring up in to the faces of Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane.
Chapter Twelve
There was an awkward, desperate moment where each seemed glued to the spot on which they stood; they might have been figures in some strange tableau for all the movement they made. Rose, herself, was aware that she was staring at the policemen rather stupidly, an uncomprehending look upon her face. She had been badly startled, she knew, in that rather confused, dazed way that accompanies shock. Gradually her feelings of disbelief began to subside, and dimly she wa
s conscious of the fact that she must pull herself together. If nothing else, she was rather afraid of what they must think of her, gaping at them so rudely. Only to herself would she admit that she had felt a certain reluctance to catch Inspector Deacon’s eye, fearing that the colour would rise vividly to her cheeks.
Meanwhile, she was vaguely aware that Sergeant Lane was regarding her politely and with not a little interest. She could only guess at what was going through his companion’s mind concerning her reaction to their unexpected arrival. As the senior of the two policemen, it might have been supposed that, of the two, Inspector Deacon would be the one who stepped forward to address her. Instead, the duty seemed to fall upon his sergeant. A tentative glance at both the countess and his superior had confirmed Sergeant Lane’s initial feelings that there was something odd and charged about the atmosphere in which he found himself, which seemed to render the others strangely mute. Certainly, he surmised that neither of his companions were inclined to break the silence, which hung heavily about the hall like some strange mist.
‘Miss Simpson.’ Sergeant Lane said somewhat shyly, though Rose noticed he looked pleased to see her. ‘I knew of course as how you’d be here, your being married to his lordship and all, and this being his estate.’ He paused a moment to look about them. ‘It don’t seem so very long ago since I was last here with Inspector Bramwell.’ He turned to his inspector, as if to offer some sort of explanation for his previous visit to Sedgwick Court, though he knew his superior to be familiar with the circumstances. ‘We were investigating another murder then too,’ explained Sergeant Lane, rather unnecessarily. ‘One as happened in the maze.’
Inspector Deacon merely nodded and said: ‘Lady Belvedere, how do you do?’
His tone was so formal that it took his two companions quite by surprise. Sergeant Lane reddened perceptibly, conscious that he had committed a faux pas in the way he had addressed the countess as Miss Simpson. It also occurred to him that he might have been a little over familiar in the manner in which he had spoken to her. Rather crestfallen, he hastily mumbled an apology of sorts.
By contrast, Rose had stepped back involuntarily and turned slightly pale. She could hardly bring herself to meet the inspector’s eye. For she was aware suddenly of how considerably her circumstances had changed since they had last met. Rose was acutely conscious of her newly polished façade, of her fine, expensive clothes, and her hair, expertly arranged, which shone from the vigorous daily brushing given it by her diligent servant. Even the house in which they were standing seemed to proclaim its vast, palatial opulence and wealth. It was all a very far cry from the modest little dress shop in which she had worked as a lowly shop assistant, and in her heightened, agitated state, Rose felt that these variances illustrated only that she was no longer the ordinary young woman she had been.
All this was the realisation of but a moment and, with a stab of dismay, it dawned on her that never had she felt quite so far removed from plain Miss Rose Simpson as she did then, standing rather awkwardly in the main entrance hall with the two policemen, whom she had previously thought of as her friends.
With a tremendous effort, she managed to compose herself sufficiently to muster some sort of greeting.
‘Inspector Deacon, Sergeant Lane, how very good to see you both again.’ She bestowed on the sergeant a kindly smile. ‘You may still call me Miss Simpson if you wish, Sergeant. I shan’t be the least bit offended. In fact, I am rather used to it. You see, my lady’s maid is forever calling me miss.’ A thought seemed to strike her for she added: ‘You may remember her? Her name is Edna Jones. She was the scullery maid at Ashgrove House.’
‘That little mite,’ exclaimed Sergeant Lane. ‘I do, indeed. Well I never!’
‘I met her again last year at Crossing Manor,’ said Rose conversationally, finding, once she had started speaking, it was difficult to stop. ‘She occupied the position of kitchen maid. I happened to be there investigating the theft of a diamond necklace.’ She continued, more for something to say, than for effect: ‘I was disguised as a servant at the time.’
‘Were you really, miss?’ said Sergeant Lane, sounding impressed, and not a little surprised.
‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘And I should like very much to give you a hand with this case. If I may, of course.’ She hardly dared pause for breath, but hurried on, fearful that the inspector would raise some objection or other. ‘Really, it is too awful that there has been another murder here at Sedgwick Court. We are all quite shaken, I can tell you …’ She was aware that she was rambling and that her sentiment sounded rather insincere, though she knew herself to be in earnest, affected as she was by Ursula’s death. If truth be told, she could not stifle a sob, so overcome was she by emotion, though only a part of it, she acknowledged, was due to the murder.
Sergeant Lane hurriedly produced a handkerchief and, while she dabbed at her tears with the cloth, glad of an opportunity to hide her eyes while she regained her equanimity, she stole a furtive glance at Inspector Deacon, whom she noted was looking a little uncomfortable. He eyed her strangely, and she wondered whether it was with concern or something else.
‘I shall be quite all right in a moment,’ she mumbled apologetically, feeling she had made rather a fool of herself by going to pieces on their arrival. Certainly, she was conscious that her reaction might be regarded as somewhat extreme and perhaps exaggerated, for she had hardly known Ursula Stapleton in life. Indeed, her knowledge of the woman had been determined largely from what her husband had observed, during the course of the many rehearsals he had been obliged to attend, and which he had subsequently described to her.
It was only now that it struck Rose that she had directed her conversation almost exclusively to the sergeant. She wondered whether her behaviour appeared pointed. Was it apparent, even to the most casual onlooker, that she was all but ignoring the inspector, who stood there like some shadowy presence? She thought it was almost as if he were not there at all, so quietly did he stand in the black and white tiled hall, allowing his sergeant to partake in the idle chatter and reminiscences, while he observed from a distance. With something akin to bitterness, Rose realised that a gulf had sprung up between the two of them, to which poor Sergeant Lane appeared quite oblivious.
She attempted to tell herself that it was because the inspector did not perceive her to be the same person with whom he had been acquainted. Following her marriage, there was now a huge disparity between their social positions. The inspector would be keen to follow etiquette. Whereas Sergeant Lane seemed inclined to treat her as he had always done. To him, she was still Miss Simpson, the amateur sleuth, who would, in all probability, help them with their investigation. The thought restored to her a sense of calm. Meanwhile, she tried to ignore the nagging, persistent little voice in her head which told her that the inspector’s reserved manner towards her had little to do with her elevation in society. For it was hardly surprising after their last encounter that they should be a little awkward in each other’s company. Her cheeks flushed crimson as she remembered her last conversation with the inspector. They had been standing in the makeshift kitchen-cum-bathroom of Madame Renard’s flat. The area had been partitioned off from the main room by a curtain, which had afforded them a little privacy, and as they chattered, washing up the tea things, it had become obvious that Inspector Deacon had been waiting for an excuse to talk to her. He had had something to say to her, and she recalled how she had panicked, knowing that once it was said, it could not be unsaid. She remembered how she had been overcome by a mixture of conflicting emotions, and that before she had had a moment to gather her thoughts or examine her own feelings, Cedric had arrived and told Inspector Deacon of their engagement …
Rose was roused abruptly from her musings. She had returned to the present, yet it was as if history were repeating itself. She might have been back in Madame Renard’s kitchen, washing up the cups and saucers while Inspector Deacon dried. Indeed, she almost felt the cup slip from her hands, as it had
threatened to do before, as if her recollection was a real, tangible thing, and not just a vivid memory. For the study door had opened, and someone had walked out into the hall behind her. She recognised the tread, and a moment later a familiar figure appeared at her shoulder.
‘Hello. I say, it’s good to see you again, Deacon,’ said Cedric. There was a pause as they shook hands. With a sudden stab of tenderness towards her husband, Rose noted that this courtesy was also extended to Sergeant Lane, who appeared genuinely flattered by the gesture.
‘The chief constable has just been telling me how he’d called in Scotland Yard,’ continued Cedric. ‘I gathered from what he said, or rather from what he didn’t say, that he’s a trifle embarrassed the case was not investigated properly yesterday. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for my wife’s quick thinking,’ at which point Cedric paused a moment to beam at Rose, ‘some vital evidence might have gone astray. Still, no harm done, and I’m jolly glad it’s you two who’ve been assigned to this case. A dreadful business. No doubt, my wife has been telling you all about it.’
He looked at Rose questioningly, and it occurred to her that she had been very amiss in this regard, for she had told the policemen next to nothing regarding the events that had culminated in Ursula’s death. Before she had a chance to reply to that effect, Inspector Deacon was hastily explaining that the two policemen had only that very minute arrived, and he would be most grateful if his lordship would do him the honour of regaling them with an account of the proceedings leading up to the murder.
The earl was delighted, and obliged with a very thorough narrative. In the most part, it was a repetition of what he had told Constable Bright, though greatly embellished due to the receptive nature of his audience. Rose was content to remain in the shadows half listening, half absorbed in her own thoughts. She caught snatches of the conversation between her husband and the inspector, and was conscious that Sergeant Lane was giving her the odd worried look, as if he feared she ailed for something. She lowered her gaze so that she saw only the black and white tiles on the floor; they reminded her of a gigantic chess board, and she wondered whether they were all playing some elaborate game.
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