Murder in the Folly

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Mr Drury, he called on my lamb almost every day without fail,’ said Miss Sprat. ‘Not much to look at, as I said, but he had very pretty manners, and he made my lamb laugh. And he was always very pleasant to me, I’ll say that for him, not like the other one.’

  ‘The other one?’ said Rose sharply. ‘To whom are you referring, Miss Sprat?’

  Miss Sprat’s hand flew up to her mouth, as if she had never intended to make mention of another fellow; it was almost as if the words had slipped out of their own accord.

  ‘I don’t feel at liberty to talk about him, your ladyship,’ she said rather primly. ‘My lamb, she wouldn’t have wanted me to.’ However, despite her fine words, her tongue appeared to think otherwise for, with no prompting from the others, she continued, the colour rising in her cheeks so that she looked as if she had sat a little too long in the sun. ‘Ever so mysterious about him she was, and he only visited her after dark when the village was asleep. Not,’ she added hastily, ‘that there was anything untoward about it, ’cause of course there wasn’t,’ said Miss Sprat mendaciously, ‘my lamb being a proper lady with refined manners and knowing what’s right. Still, ever so anxious about it, I was, because you know how people like to gossip, even when there’s nothing to gossip about. And it’s far worse in a village than it is in a town, because of course everyone knows everyone else’s business. Why, you can hardly breathe without everyone knowing about it, and –’

  ‘Miss Sprat …’ interrupted Rose, her eye glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. It may have been only her imagination, but she thought she heard footsteps on the path outside. Certainly, Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane would be there any minute, and she desired to be gone before they arrived. For she could too readily imagine the expression on the inspector’s face once he realised that she had embarked on her own investigation. It was perfectly possible, she conceded, that he was fully expecting her to follow such a course, but to actually catch her in the act, as it were, would be perhaps a little too much for even him to stomach.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Miss Sprat said, ‘I didn’t hold with it myself, though I knew my lamb to be as blameless as a new-born babe, but folk do talk, what with him walking out with another young lady and everyone expecting their engagement to be given out any day ... But my poor lamb … and I’ll say this, as perhaps I shouldn’t, she did like to be admired and flattered, on account of her growing up in an orphanage where she was all but neglected and ignored … I did say to her: ‘My lamb, you cannot have male admirers in the country like what you did in town before you was married. It isn’t done in a village, it isn’t. Why, everyone will be expecting to hear that you and Mr Drury are engaged. What will they say if they think you are carrying on with him … him who has a temper and is that rude to me I could scratch his eyes out.’ Well, madam, she just laughs and tells me I am taking on something rotten, that there is no harm in it, and that’s just his way to be a little rough-spoken …’

  The colour had drained a little from the old woman’s face giving her something of an ashen pallor. She mopped at her eyes again with the sodden handkerchief and took a deep breath before she continued, the hand holding the handkerchief visibly shaking.

  ‘Well, I was having none of that, I can tell you. I never stayed in the sitting room when my lamb had her gentlemen to visit, though perhaps I ought to have done, but I’ve never been one to sit there like a wallflower. They didn’t want me there, neither of the gentlemen, or madam come to that, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t know … Mr Drury, he spoke to my lamb in that lovely soft voice of his, while the other one seemed to rage and roar. At least there were always raised voices when he came. Why, he had my lamb in tears more than once, and on one occasion he slammed the door so hard it almost came off its hinges and he stormed out into the night and I said to her I really didn’t know why she wanted to have anything to do with the likes of him when there was a good, kind man who thought the world of her. And do you know what she did?’ Miss Sprat paused and looked up at them, an indignant expression on her face. ‘She laughed and told me it was none of my business what she did; I was not her keeper. I’m not ashamed to say that I wept bitterly at being spoken to like that, and my lamb, her face crumpled and she said she was a heartless woman to have spoken to me so harsh and I wasn’t to listen to her, and she put her arm around my shoulders and held me ever so tight.’

  ‘Miss Sprat …’ Rose said again.

  The maid-companion was crying quite openly now at the recollection, the tears trickling down her cheeks and splashing on to her black silk dress.

  ‘I only ever wanted what was best for my lamb,’ she said forlornly. ‘Lord knows I told her it wouldn’t end well her playing one off against the other like she had a mind to. Though there was nothing malicious in it; I knew she did it only for her own amusement for, despite her fine words, she found village life dull and no society to speak of, begging your pardon your ladyship,’ Miss Sprat added apologetically, looking across at Rose rather timorously, ‘because of course she didn’t move in your high circles. No, there was no real harm in it, but gentlemen, they get jealous, even Mr Drury, and as for the likes of Mr Cuffe –’

  ‘Mr Cuffe?’ said Rose, pouncing on the name as a cat might a mouse. ‘Was he the other gentleman, the one with the temper?’

  Miss Sprat nodded, a sad little movement, as if all the fight had gone out of her. She sank back in her chair, a deflated little creature, her hands cradled in her lap holding the handkerchief between them.

  ‘Aye, it was Mr Algernon Cuffe, and a more unpleasant man you never did meet. Charming he is, I suppose though I never thought it myself, when he walks out with Miss Belmore and all the village can see him. But when he skulked here furtive like in the dark like some wild beast, I saw another side to him. Angry, he was, more often than not, and when I told him once that he had no business coming here and making my lamb cry he accused me of listening at the door, as if I ever would, and I swear he went to strike me, and would have done too if my lamb hadn’t clung to his sleeve and begged him not to.’ She lifted her head and stared at them. ‘He killed her, I know he did. You mark my words. It was him murdered my poor lamb.’

  If Henry had been pale before, he was now as white as a sheet. His eyes, which were a very clear blue, widened, so that they appeared a little too large for his face. Even his breathing became rather laboured.

  ‘I say, Inspector, are you quite sure Ursula … Mrs Stapleton was murdered? She had a bad heart, don’t you know. We all thought that she died as a result of that.’

  ‘I am afraid, Mr Rewe, that we have absolute proof that there was nothing natural in the manner of Mrs Stapleton’s death; she was most definitely murdered.’

  ‘Oh,’ Henry said in a small voice. The study of his ink-stained hands suddenly becoming his main preoccupation.

  ‘You don’t ask me how Mrs Stapleton was murdered,’ continued the inspector, studying the young man closely. ‘Most people in your position would, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know how she died,’ replied Henry rather petulantly, still regarding his soiled fingers as if they held for him a strange fascination. ‘It’s too awful; I can hardly take it all in. I suppose it is the shock of it all.’

  ‘Very likely,’ agreed Inspector Deacon, ‘or perhaps it is because you know how Mrs Stapleton was murdered.’

  Henry Rewe’s head jerked up. His eyes blazed and his lips quivered. For a moment, it seemed as if he might jump up from his seat.

  ‘That’s a damned impertinent thing to say, Inspector. How dare you?’

  ‘However, you do not deny it, Mr Rewe. That you know how Mrs Stapleton was killed, I mean.’

  ‘Well, of course I deny it. I –’

  ‘Mrs Stapleton was poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned?’ Henry gulped hard.

  ‘Yes. The results of the post-mortem showed levels of cyanide in Mrs Stapleton’s blood consistent with her having been poisoned.’

  ‘
Levels of cyanide?’ repeated Henry, pondering over the words. ‘Consistent with her having been … Look here, Inspector,’ he said suddenly, his face brightening, ‘you say it was consistent with Mrs Stapleton having been poisoned. That does not mean that she actually was poisoned, does it?’

  ‘We also found traces of potassium cyanide in the wine glass.’

  ‘You could not have done because I …’ Henry’s sentence trailed off, and he stared at the inspector for a moment, before lowering his gaze. He now appeared to find a spot on the faded carpet to be of particular interest, for he stared at it, his cheeks flaming, while his fingers fiddled with the knot of his cravat.

  Inspector Deacon studied the bowed head before him. Much to his surprise, he felt a touch of pity for the young man.

  ‘We could not have done because you took the incriminating wine glass with you when you left Sedgwick Court?’ suggested the inspector. The young man remained resolutely silent and Inspector Deacon raised his voice slightly. ‘That is what you were about to say, wasn’t it, Mr Rewe?’

  ‘I was not going to say anything of the sort,’ said Henry rather sulkily, having regained some of his composure. ‘That,’ he added, his voice gaining confidence as he looked the inspector full in the face, ‘is pure supposition, and I don’t think much of it.’

  ‘Pure conjecture on my part, is it? Well, well, we shall soon see about that. It may interest you to know that we have a witness who saw you take the wine glass from where it had been hidden on top of a bookcase in the drawing room at Sedgwick Court. And he’ll swear to the fact under oath in a court of law if it comes to it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Henry slowly. Inspector Deacon could almost see the young man’s brain working frantically, wondering how best to proceed. Henry said finally: ‘You are quite right, Inspector. I took a wine glass from the bookcase. But what of it? It does not signify anything. Miss Quail was being very tiresome about those damned wine glasses of hers. Really, she was rather precious about them; she kept reproaching us for not looking after them properly on stage. She was desperately afraid that they would get broken. But, I mean to say, in that case, why give them to us to use as props?’

  ‘That does not explain why you decided to steal one of her wine glasses,’ the inspector pointed out.

  ‘Well, I thought it would serve her right,’ replied Henry, getting into his stride. ‘She’d accused us all of stealing one of her wine glasses, you see; she made a frightful scene about it. And I was rather anxious because I happened to have discovered, a little while earlier, that I had inadvertently picked up one of those damn glasses of hers without thinking when I left the folly. Well, of course, after Miss Quail’s outburst I didn’t know quite what to do. I had intended handing it to her, but … well, I didn’t want to have to endure a lecture, not in front of everyone. I decided that the best thing to do was to put the glass on the bookshelf.’ Henry leaned forward and said in something of a confiding manner: ‘If I am quite honest with you, Inspector, I have always found Miss Quail rather frightening. Why, I would never have taken a part in this play if Miss Quail had not heard me doing a recital of some of my poems in the village hall and offered me the role of Hamlet. Most particular, she was, that I should play the part, and of course I was flattered.’

  Henry sat back in his chair and beamed at the inspector. To his mind, he had come through a horrible ordeal and not been found wanting.

  ‘I see,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘But that does not explain why you decided to take the glass with you when you left Sedgwick Court?’

  Henry’s brain worked quickly. ‘I was afraid the glass would get broken or lost if I left it where it was. I thought it best that I take it with me and present it to Miss Quail when she was … in a more reasonable mood.’

  ‘Indeed. And did you do that?’

  ‘Do what, Inspector?’ enquired Henry, a blank look on his face.

  ‘Present the glass to Miss Quail?’

  ‘Well … no. That is to say, that I’m afraid I have not had an opportunity to do so, but –’

  ‘If I were to ask you to produce the wine glass now, Mr Rewe, would you be in a position to do so?’ Inspector Deacon inquired rather abruptly.

  ‘I … well … no …’ said Henry, passing a hand through his hair so that it stuck up in unruly little tufts. ‘I’m afraid that I dropped it on my way home and the glass shattered. It was very careless of me, I know, and of course I shall have to apologise to Miss Quail for the damage. But really, Inspector,’ he added, looking earnestly at the policeman, ‘I do not know what all the fuss is about. If you found traces of potassium cyanide in a wine glass, you are obviously referring to another wine glass, and not the one that I took from the folly.’ He sat back in his chair and gave a triumphant little smile.

  ‘There I am afraid I must disappoint you, sir,’ said Inspector Deacon, leaning forward in his chair and fixing his gaze on the young man. ‘Traces of poison were found in the glass that you took from the folly.’ He lifted his hand as Henry made to protest. ‘You see, when you were in the library being interviewed by Constable Bright, the glass that you had put on the bookcase was replaced by another glass from Miss Quail’s set. You do see what this means, Mr Rewe, don’t you? The glass that you removed from the drawing room, and which you subsequently broke, was not the same glass that you brought into the drawing room from the folly.’

  It took a moment or two for the inspector’s words to register. When they did, the colour drained from Henry’s face, and the young man sat trembling. With a tremendous effort, he pulled himself together and said: ‘I did not poison Mrs Stapleton, Inspector. But of course, you only have my word for that.’

  ‘Why did you take the glass from the folly, Mr Rewe?’

  ‘I have already told you, Inspector.’

  ‘It would be far better for you, Mr Rewe, if you told me the truth.’

  ‘I have no intention,’ said Henry, suddenly defiant, ‘of telling you anything.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Well, what do you make of our young Hamlet, Lane?’ enquired Inspector Deacon as soon as the man in question had left the room, scurrying away like a frightened rabbit.

  ‘He’s a rum one and no mistake,’ replied Sergeant Lane, closing his notebook. ‘I didn’t think he had it in him, and that’s a fact. Admitting he’d taken that wine glass and then refusing to tell us the real reason he’d taken it, I mean. Not many folk tell us straight to our faces that they have no intention of telling us the truth. It takes some nerve to do that.’ He sighed, getting up from his chair. ‘Yes, he’s an odd sort of a fellow all right. Looks as if he wouldn’t say boo to a goose and took quite a turn, by all accounts, when Mrs Stapleton died, and then he’s all insolent, like, when you say as how you don’t believe a word of what he’s saying. Why, he might have thought we were going to arrest him. I daresay we’ve sufficient grounds.’

  ‘I daresay we have,’ replied the inspector, going to stand by the fireplace, ‘and yet … I don’t think he’s our man. Of course, I may be proved wrong, but I don’t think he’s got the right temperament to be a murderer, not the sort of murderer we’re looking for, in this case. He’s just the sort of fellow who might stab a woman in a crime of passion; but a cold, premeditated affair like this? And there is also the question of opportunity. He would have had to administer the poison while he was fighting his duel with Lord Belvedere on the stage. I don’t believe it would have been possible for him to halt for a moment to do the deed. By all accounts, he spent all his time dodging his lordship’s foil, his lordship being a superior and more energetic swordsman.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed his sergeant, ‘there’s that, of course.’

  ‘And,’ continued Inspector Deacon, continuing with his argument, almost as if his subordinate had not spoken, ‘I don’t think he’d have the nerve to do it. It’s one thing to put a few drops of poison in a glass but quite another to actually watch someone die by your own hand. It takes a certain sort of person to do that.’


  ‘He did come over all queer,’ argued Sergeant Lane, not to be beaten. ‘Said he was feeling a bit queasy and had to sit down. He might not have realised when he administered the poison that it would be instant, like. Perhaps he thought she’d die at home where he hadn’t to watch her.’

  Inspector Deacon looked somewhat sceptical. ‘Then of course there’s his motive for wanting Mrs Stapleton dead. I wonder what that could be?’ He moved to the desk and gathered his various papers together and said: ‘Well, Lane, I suppose we’d better make our way to Quince Cottage and talk with this maid-companion of Mrs Stapleton’s that Constable Bright mentioned.’

  ‘Took it awful bad, she did, her mistress’ death, the constable was telling me. Floods of tears and the like when he was obliged to tell her how her mistress had been murdered. He thought the poor woman was about to faint. Apparently, she had known Mrs Stapleton since she was little more than a girl. Very fond of her, she was, fair doted on her, she did.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Inspector Deacon looked interested. ‘Well, let us hope she can tell us who may have wanted her mistress dead.’

  ‘It’s fortunate, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘that we only have a few suspects. It could only be one of those who was on the stage who could have done it.’

  It being a fine summer’s evening, they set off for Quince Cottage on foot in a comfortable silence, for both men were deep in their own thoughts. All of a sudden, just as they approached the cottage, the inspector stopped so abruptly that his subordinate almost walked into him.

  ‘Hello,’ said the inspector, ‘what have we here?’ For he had suddenly spied the chauffeur-driven Daimler, which was almost obstructing their path. ‘It would appear Quince Cottage has a visitor. Ah, Lady Belvedere,’ he added, as Rose and Edna emerged from the cottage, ‘what a pleasure. And what,’ he added with barely concealed scorn, ‘may I be so bold as to ask, brought you here?’