‘I should certainly like to see what this fellow has to say for himself,’ replied the inspector, more guardedly, returning to his chair. If truth be told, it seemed to him unlikely that a man who had gone to such considerable effort to construct an elaborate murder would lose his head and go to pieces the moment the police questioned him. If he had been pressed further on the matter, he might also have added that he considered the man’s guilt to be a trifle too obvious, yet it was difficult to ignore the fact that the young man had evidently taken the wine glass in the full knowledge that the police were of the view that Ursula Stapleton’s death was out of the ordinary.
‘Miss Simpson –’ began Sergeant Lane, tentatively.
‘Lady Belvedere,’ corrected the inspector. ‘What of her, Lane? She has provided us with a line of inquiry, I admit, but –’
‘Knowing her like we do, she’ll have her heart set on investigating this murder, sir, like as not, what with it happening in the grounds of her estate, as it were.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Inspector Deacon admitted, declining to look up from his papers and catch the sergeant’s eye.
To Sergeant Lane, his superior sounded strangely complacent, almost resolved to the fact, as if he had no intention of trying to persuade Lady Belvedere to do otherwise. It was quite possible, of course, that he was aware that such an action would be in vain. Rose Simpson, as the sergeant thought of her still, would not sit by and idly wait for the police to do their job. If they excluded her from participating in their own investigation, as Inspector Deacon appeared minded to do, then she would merely instigate her own inquiries. He knew that absolutely, as if she had stated her intentions to him in the hall. Aloud, he said: ‘Wouldn’t it be better, sir, if we worked together? Lady Belvedere and us, I mean. She has a flair, she does, for these things. I’ll wager she’ll discover things they don’t want to tell us. She has a knack for it, she does, unearthing people’s secrets, and loosening their tongues.’
‘She may well have done in the past, I’ll give you that, Lane,’ said Inspector Deacon. He spoke firmly and decisively, and perhaps also with a little anger in his voice, the precise reason for which his sergeant could not explain. ‘But it is quite a different story now since her marriage. She is the Countess of Belvedere. She cannot escape the fact and don the cloak of the amateur sleuth when the fancy takes her. In the villagers’ eyes, she’ll still be seen as being gentry.’ He got up from his chair, and stared out of the window, the view from which was the village green. ‘I daresay a village like this is still rather feudal. No one will want to be seen as speaking out of turn to her ladyship, not when it comes to the likes of murder. Lady Belvedere’s reputation as a detective won’t amount to much in a place like this, you mark my words. They’ll see her only as the lady of the manor.’
It was quite an impassioned speech, or at least to Sergeant Lane it appeared so. He sensed there had been much below the surface, which rendered him silent for a moment while he considered how best to respond. He was half tempted to argue that to his knowledge Rose had successfully investigated at least one murder since her marriage; one had only to read the papers to know that. He held his tongue, however, for he had the distinct impression that such an argument would not be well received.
‘Then, that is why we are not based at Sedgwick Court?’ he said rather feebly, more for something to say than anything else.
‘I have already told you it is.’ Two bright spots of colour had appeared on the inspector’s cheeks giving him a vague resemblance to the painted toy soldier Sergeant Lane had played with as a child.
‘Because –’
‘It’s no use, Lane. Circumstances have changed. Lady Belvedere is not the Miss Simpson you met at Ashgrove House.’ There was a strange note to the inspector’s voice that his sergeant could not quite place. It was only later that he wondered whether it had been regret.
‘But presumably the chief constable requested that Scotland Yard investigate Mrs Stapleton’s death,’ persisted Sergeant Lane, experiencing an odd reluctance to yield to the inspector’s superiority, ‘on account of the murder happening on Lord Belvedere’s land? That’s why we’re here. Why, I don’t doubt that it was at the behest of his lordship himself,’ he added.
‘You are quite wrong in your assumption,’ said Inspector Deacon rather curtly. ‘It had nothing to do with where the murder occurred or Lord Belvedere asserting undue influence, for that matter. It was in fact Mr Cecil Stapleton who requested that Scotland Yard be brought in to investigate this case.’
‘Cecil Stapleton?’ The sergeant’s brow furrowed in rather a comical manner. ‘I think I’ve heard of that name before …’
‘I should think you have. An eminent fellow. Moves in high circles. Has his finger in many pies, if what you read about him in the illustrated papers is half true. Government; the City. He even has interests in the coal mines.’
‘I see. And he and the deceased had the same surname. Ursula Stapleton … is she by way of being a relative of his?’
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. By that I mean she was his daughter-in-law, though I don’t believe he ever met her.’
‘His daughter-in-law?’ Sergeant Lane looked surprised. He recalled the body he had seen in the morgue. It had not struck him then that the corpse he was looking at had been of high social standing in life, though in truth he found death deprived a body of much that was individual or of character. ‘And he never met her, you say?’
‘No. There was something of a falling out, I believe. Ursula Stapleton, or Ursula Westbrooke as she was called then, married Stapleton’s youngest son, Dudley. On all accounts, he was a rather wild and reckless fellow, couldn’t settle at anything. Well, old Mr Stapleton didn’t approve of his son’s marriage. When the engagement was given out he threatened to disown Dudley if he went ahead with the wedding.’
‘Then he didn’t favour his son’s choice of bride?’
‘No. He thought Dudley was marrying beneath him and that the woman was no more than a common fortune hunter.’ Inspector Deacon returned to his chair and sat down, propping his elbows on the desk in front of him. ‘I daresay the affair would have come to nothing, a youthful infatuation, that’s all. It would most probably have died a natural death in the ordinary course of things. But the son was as obdurate as his father. He declared that he was damned if he was going to be told whom he could or could not marry.’
‘Dudley Stapleton married Ursula Westbrooke against his father’s wishes?’
‘Yes. And old Stapleton kept to his word and disinherited his son for his troubles. There was to be no tearful reconciliation.’
‘Mr Stapleton never forgave his son for going against him?’
‘He was never given the opportunity, Lane.’ Inspector Deacon sighed. ‘You see, like many other poor devils, Dudley Stapleton was killed in the war less than two years after his fateful marriage.’
‘I say, that’s pretty rum, sir.’
‘It is. By all accounts, Stapleton senior was much affected by his son’s death. He held the wife to blame and refused to have anything to do with her. The union had produced no child, so there was no son or heir in which he had to concern himself.’
‘You mean, he left poor Mrs Stapleton to provide for herself then, did he, sir?’ said Sergeant Lane, a touch bitterly. ‘Despite all his wealth and all?’
‘I daresay he gave her an allowance of sorts. He’d have put some arrangements in place; had his solicitors draw up some deed or other.’
‘And now he wants Scotland Yard to investigate her murder?’ Sergeant Lane sounded incredulous.
‘I’m afraid it has more to do with the old man’s fear of the gossip columns than a wish to avenge his daughter-in-law’s death.’
‘It seems to me Mrs Stapleton was rather hard done by in life, poor woman,’ muttered the sergeant. ‘She loses her husband in the war and her husband’s family don’t want anything to do with her. And then she’s murdered. Still a relatively young woman
too, she was. It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is.’
‘It is. But then murder’s always a sorry business, Lane. All you and I can do is see that her murderer is brought to justice.’
‘And Lady Belvedere …’ The sergeant allowed his sentence to falter, as if the words had fallen on stony ground.
‘Yes?’ said the inspector, somewhat impatiently. ‘What of Lady Belvedere?’
‘Well,’ began Sergeant Lane, choosing his words with care. ‘I see as how you don’t want us to be stationed at Sedgwick Court, as it were, but do you have any objection to my discussing the case with her ladyship?’ The inspector frowned, and the sergeant continued hurriedly, thinking that as he was in for a penny he might as well be in for a pound. ‘I have every faith in Miss Simpson’s detective abilities, countess as she may be now. I’m not saying as how it might not be a bit harder for her, like, but she has a knack, she does, of engendering confidences, as it were. It seems a pity not to discuss the case with her. It would be like missing a trick or cutting our nose off to spite our face, as my dear old mother would say.’
Inspector Deacon stared at his sergeant somewhat dumbfounded. It seemed to him an age since the two of them had investigated a murder together at which Rose Simpson was also present. He had quite forgotten in what high esteem Sergeant Lane held the woman in question. For a moment, in his mind’s eye he was back at Ashgrove House …
‘Very well, Lane,’ he said finally. ‘I have no objection to your speaking with her ladyship if you wish.’ He sighed. ‘I admit it is quite possible that she might make some discoveries which may prove useful to our own investigation.’
‘And you, sir,’ enquired Sergeant Lane, ‘do you intend to speak with Lady Belvedere? If you don’t mind my saying, I think she’d appreciate it if you did. It would be a bit like old times, it would. And she was helpful concerning that affair at Renard’s, wasn’t she? And I read as how she solved that murder on bonfire night, countess though she were, and –’
‘I will not be consulting with Lady Belvedere on this case,’ said Inspector Deacon.
There was a firmness, coupled with a dangerous edge to the inspector’s voice, which was not lost on the sergeant and made him fear he had overstepped the mark. Certainly, it was clear the inspector did not intend to discuss the matter further. As he returned to his chair, the sergeant wondered, not for the first time, what exactly had occurred at Madame Renard’s dress shop to cause the awkwardness that seemed to exist between the countess and the inspector like a pervading gloom.
Chapter Sixteen
‘An interview with Henry Rewe should clear up this business,’ said Cedric. ‘I suppose that is where Deacon has gone, to speak to the fellow now?’
He glanced over at his wife, who appeared to be in something of a brown study, for certainly, Rose took a moment or two to respond, and then only to nod her head in an absentminded fashion. By common accord, their return journey to the house had been a rather meandering affair, for they had deviated from the formal paths more than once, and were now standing on the grass in the rose garden, staring at the yellow and pale pink blooms as if they might cast some light on the mystery before them.
‘Deacon made it quite clear that he did not wish you to accompany them,’ Cedric continued, his face darkening as he remembered the inspector’s polite but firm manner. ‘Damn the man! He seems to forget that it is thanks to your actions that he has been given a very valuable lead in this case. I say, darling, are you all right? You’ve hardly said a word. It’s rather galling about Deacon, of course, but –’
‘Cedric, how well do you know Miss Belmore?’ The words sprung from her mouth and were uttered rather more harshly than Rose had intended, and she blushed in spite of herself.
‘Miriam? Well, hardly at all.’ Her husband glanced at her, and she fancied there was something sheepish in the look he gave her. ‘Of course, I’ve spoken to her a bit during the rehearsals, only polite to do so, what. Passed the time of day, that sort of thing.’
‘She is not in the way of being a friend of yours?’
‘No. I hardly know the girl at all, as I’ve said. I’ve had some dealings in the past with her father in the way of business. He happens to be a partner of an old law firm in Bichester. Not Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker, I hasten to add,’ he added quickly, his thoughts returning for a moment to the events that had occurred on Bonfire Night. ‘Rotches, Belmore & Birchen. They are a most respectable law practice; no hint of embezzlement there.’
He attempted a chuckle, but the sound seemed to fall on deaf ears. Certainly, his wife did not join in the merriment, and Cedric was reminded that perhaps it was no laughing matter. But for the diligent efforts made by a couple of the partners, the law firm in question might lie in ruins, its clients’ investments with it, and those whom it employed out on the streets. Feeling rather ashamed of himself, he made a mental note to employ the services of the beleaguered firm in future on small matters of business.
The rose blooms swayed gently in the summer breeze, and the sound of birdsong filled the air. But for the sombre circumstances, it would have produced a lightening in the mood of each of the two young people present. As it was, it seemed to restore to Rose the power of speech, or at least awaken in her the detective’s instincts, which had been all but slumbering since the policemen’s departure.
‘I must go. If Inspector Deacon is intent on excluding me from his investigation, then I ought to try to speak to as many of the suspects as I can.’ She paused a moment to glance up at the house, the stately pile dominating the view. ‘I only hope that they are more forthcoming than they were yesterday.’
‘It’s a pity you won’t be able to speak with Henry Rewe before they interview him,’ said her husband.
It seemed to Rose that the conversation had returned full circle. She smoothed the fabric of her skirt carelessly and said rather flippantly: ‘I don’t believe he is of much importance in this affair.’
‘Oh?’ Her husband stared at her in surprise. ‘How can you possibly think that? Why, the man stole what he took to be the poisoned wine glass.’
‘I am well aware of that fact,’ said Rose, in spite of everything, unable to keep the laugher from her voice at the look of bewilderment on her husband’s face.
‘Yet –’
‘In my opinion,’ said Rose slowly, aware that she now had Cedric’s full attention, ‘Henry Rewe is the only one of our suspects who could not possibly have murdered Ursula Stapleton.’
‘Why not?’
‘As Inspector Deacon said, when the poor man was on the stage he was too preoccupied dodging your blade to focus his attention on doing anything else.’ She held up her hand as Cedric made to protest. ‘To administer the poison, he would first have needed to locate the wine glass. Then, he would have had to position himself in front of it to obscure his actions from view. Only when he was satisfied that he had done so, would he have been in a position to slip the poison into the glass.’ She smiled. ‘No, it could not have been done. He did not have the necessary time to do the deed, for he was not able to remain still for one moment.’
‘The circular room –’ began Cedric.
‘Henry Rewe did not go into the circular room. From the moment Miss Quail took the tray from the footman and carried it into the circular room, to the moment Mrs Stapleton drank from the poisoned wine glass, Henry Rewe did not leave the stage.’
Silence filled the air while Cedric digested his wife’s words. At length, he said: ‘If Henry Rewe is innocent, why did he take the wine glass?’
‘That,’ said Rose, ‘is something we shall have to find out. As it is, I have my own suspicions, but,’ she held up her hand again to stall her husband’s questions, ‘I don’t intend to tell you yet. I should like to ascertain first if my theory is correct.’
Before Cedric could protest, Rose was half walking, half running, along the path that skirted the rose garden and proceeded up to the house, and he was left to wonder at his wife’s s
trange mood.
‘Edna,’ Rose said, walking into her bedroom, and discovering her lady’s maid draping one of her gowns across the bed in order that she might study it for faults and creases, ‘what can you tell me about Mrs Stapleton?’
‘Oh.’ Edna put a hand to her mouth and her eyes widened. ‘You mean her as died?’ Rose nodded, and the girl continued excitedly, the words tumbling from her mouth like a waterfall. ‘Murdered, she was, is the talk in the servants’ hall on account of the gentlemen arriving from London. They gave Mr Manning their card, they did. A detective inspector from Scotland Yard, it said on it, and anyhow, Mr Manning, he says how he recognised the detective sergeant with him. Same fellow, he says, as came to investigate the murder in the maze.’
‘That’s quite right. And you’d know them too, Edna,’ said Rose hurriedly, trying to stop the flow and get a word in edgeways. ‘They are the very same policemen who were sent by Scotland Yard to investigate the … the death at Ashgrove House.’
‘Are they really? Well, I never!’ exclaimed the lady’s maid. ‘Ever so handsome we thought they were, and Sergeant Lane, he made me and Bessie giggle with his stories, something rotten.’ She paused a moment to laugh at her recollections. ‘Even Mrs Palmer, who didn’t have a good word to say about anyone but Mr Stafford, why, she was quite taken with the sergeant herself, and gave him great slices of her Victoria sponge cake and had us make him that many cups of tea as you’ve never seen, you’d think the tea would have come out his ears.’
‘Mrs Stapleton?’ prompted Rose, though her own thoughts drifted back to the events at Ashgrove House, when she herself had first set eyes on Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane.
‘A rich widow she was, by all accounts,’ said Edna. She had quite abandoned any pretence at studying the dress in front of her, and had perched herself instead on the edge of the bed and was leaning forward with barely concealed excitement. Rose, who was at this stage sitting at her dressing table repairing her face, glanced in the mirror, and gave the girl an encouraging nod.
Murder in the Folly Page 16