Murder in the Folly

by Margaret Addison

  ‘So, what are we saying, sir?’

  ‘No one particularly liked Mrs Stapleton,’ said the inspector somewhat exasperated, ‘but no one had an adequate motive for wishing the poor woman dead.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘Begging your pardon, your ladyship,’ said Manning, ‘but Miss Belmore is here to see you. Most urgent she said it was.’

  Rose had remained in the library after Giles Kettering’s departure, ostensibly to gather her thoughts, but also because she did not know whom to speak to next without stepping on the policemen’s toes. Her mind had at length drifted to contemplation of other matters, before she returned to the task in hand. She was seated behind the carved oak, octagonal library table, as favoured by Constable Bright, when the butler appeared to inform her of her visitor. She cast her eyes down at the sheets of notepaper in front of her, on which she had written a summary of the events leading up to Ursula Stapleton’s death, as well as the salient points gleaned from her interviews with Prudie Sprat and her husband’s secretary. She had just finished scribbling a note on the policemen’s interview with Henry Rewe, as told her by Sergeant Lane, when the servant appeared beside her like a shadow. It was with a sense of relief that she set aside her fountain pen, for the task she had set herself had proved rather laborious, and she welcomed the interruption.

  ‘Very good, Manning,’ she said, gathering her papers together. She got up from her chair and surveyed the room. ‘Show Miss Belmore in here, if you will.’

  She had been tempted to suggest the drawing room, but, on reflection, had changed her mind. For the room brought back to her memories of the immediate aftermath of Ursula’s death when the Sedgwick Players had stood dejectedly in the corners of the room, or perched despondently on the upholstered stools, all inclined to hold their tongues and brood. Certainly, none of them had been very forthcoming when she had attempted to ask them questions. The library, which was smaller in dimensions and, despite the vast array of books and bookcases which lined the walls, had a more intimate feel to it, might serve to loosen Miriam Belmore’s tongue.

  ‘Is it true what people are saying?’ demanded Miriam without preamble, as she entered the room.

  Rose was rather taken aback by the lack of pleasantries, and also by the girl’s rather unkempt appearance. For it was obvious, even to the most casual observer, that the girl had taken little trouble over her toilet. Her blouse was creased, and her hair appeared not to be brushed, falling in a mass of tangled waves to her shoulders. Even her face looked as if it had not been washed, accentuated perhaps by its unnatural pallor. For there was no trace of rouge, and the fine lines around her eyes,which had not been very noticeable on the previous occasion when Rose had seen the woman, were now clearly visible. The effect was to age Miriam by some ten years or so. She was also clearly in an agitated mood, a stark contrast with the cold, almost haughty manner of the woman who had appeared to take Ursula Stapleton’s untimely death in her stride. The woman’s transformation brought to Rose’s mind Ophelia, as she was portrayed in the height of her madness.

  ‘Is what true?’ Rose enquired, though she knew full well to what Miriam referred.

  ‘That Ursula was murdered, of course. They are saying she was poisoned.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true. Someone put potassium cyanide in Mrs Stapleton’s wine glass.’

  ‘Not the one she drank from on stage?’ said Miriam, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it is true … it must have been one of us. I was hoping …’

  ‘If by that you mean one of the Sedgwick Players, then yes, I don’t see how it could have been anyone else.’

  It was almost as if Miriam’s worst fears had been realised and she found herself rooted to the spot. She put a hand to her head and stared at a corner of the rug, as if she had a sudden need to focus on something that was mundane and tangible in equal measure. Rose studied her closely and, for a moment, neither woman spoke.

  ‘You sound as if you are surprised,’ said Rose at last. ‘Yet it was you who asked me whether I thought Ursula Stapleton had been murdered. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Miriam replied irritably, gesturing with her hand as if she were brushing away Rose’s observation. ‘I said it merely for something to say. You are a sort of private detective, aren’t you?’ Rose nodded. ‘Well then, you must regard every death as suspicious.’

  ‘I told you at the time that Constable Bright was also of the opinion that Mrs Stapleton had been murdered,’ countered Rose, though she had the grace to blush, knowing that when she had uttered the statement she had spoken mendaciously.

  ‘Only because you told him she had been, you and his lordship,’ cried Miriam, as if she could read the girl’s thoughts, splashes of colour appearing on her cheeks for the first time. ‘He would never have thought of it himself.’ She bit her lip and added rather spitefully: ‘He doesn’t live up to his name, you know; Constable Dim would be a far better name for him.’ She gave a mirthless laugh.

  ‘How very unkind you are,’ said Rose, still reeling from the woman’s abrupt manner. ‘I daresay it’s the shock, but I really think you should leave. I’ll ring for Manning and he can show you out.’

  ‘No, please!’ cried Miriam springing forward with surprising speed and clinging at Rose’s sleeve before the countess could summon her servant. ‘I … I … I am afraid, that is all.’

  ‘That Henry Rewe killed Mrs Stapleton?’

  ‘Henry?’ Miriam gave her companion a look of utter amazement. Rose, watching her closely, wondered whether it was merely an act, though the woman’s reaction appeared genuine.

  ‘Mr Rewe has admitted to taking the wine glass from the folly.’

  ‘Why would Henry do that?’

  ‘Admit to taking it, or actually taking it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. You are talking in riddles,’ cried Miriam, wringing her hands. ‘There was a pause and then she added rather grudgingly: ‘Your ladyship.’

  ‘He told the inspector that he wanted to teach Miss Quail a lesson,’ said Rose. She was aware that her manner towards the girl was rather cold.

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’ Miriam looked bewildered.

  ‘I cannot imagine. When the inspector informed him that he did not believe a word of it, Mr Rewe told him he had no intention of telling him the truth.’

  ‘Henry said that?’ Miriam looked incredulous. ‘What utter madness.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why would he say something like that?’ persisted Miriam. ‘He’s talking nonsense. You do know that, don’t you, your ladyship? Henry wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose replied, and she saw the look of relief appear on the girl’s face, reducing the fine lines and bringing back her youth. ‘I do not believe he was telling the truth. By that, I mean I do not think he took the wine glass from the folly. He was speaking the truth, however, when he said he took it from this house. He was spotted removing the wine glass, or should I say what he believed to be the wine glass, from the drawing room.’

  ‘But why? What made him do it, do you think?’ cried Miriam.

  ‘I fancy,’ Rose said slowly, articulating every word, ‘that Mr Rewe thought he was protecting you.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ cried Sergeant Lane, marching to the door. ‘Is that someone else coming?’

  Inspector Deacon paused in what he was doing, and the two men waited silently, craning their necks. Their efforts were rewarded by the sound of a man’s long strides, which could be heard distinctly on the landing outside. This was followed by a hurried rap on the door, which was opened before the sergeant had an opportunity to answer it.

  ‘Inspector Deacon, I presume?’ said the man hurriedly, striding into the room and grasping the inspector’s hand. ‘Algernon Cuffe. I came as soon as I could. My man called me at my club last night and told me about poor Ursula. Didn’t sleep a wink all night for thinking about it. I decided to take an
earlier train. It shook me, I don’t mind telling you, hearing she’d been murdered. We thought it was her dicky heart.’ He gave the inspector a penetrating gaze. ‘I don’t suppose there is any chance you’re making some dreadful mistake?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Inspector Deacon stared at the figure before him. This, then, was the man who had by all accounts set the hearts of the women of Sedgwick aglow. Well, there was a certain vitality about the fellow, he wouldn’t deny it. There was an energy and strength that radiated from him, and which the policeman could feel even in his handshake. In appearance, he cut a fine figure of a man with his broad shoulders and above average height. There was also something in his bearing which suggested a military man, for he held himself very upright, which gave the impression that he was even taller than he was. The auburn hair suited him too, the inspector decided, even the full beard in its striking shade of red. He could well imagine this man playing King Claudius, for there was the hint of ruthlessness about his character …

  ‘Poor Ursula,’ Algernon continued pensively. All the liveliness seemed to go out of him suddenly and he took the chair offered, though, if he had a mind to slump in it, he did not do so. Instead, he sat perfectly upright. Some of the energy had left him, it was true, but he was still alert. The inspector had the odd feeling that he was ready to pounce should the need arise.

  ‘Traces of potassium cyanide were found in the wine glass from which Mrs Stapleton drank on stage,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘The results of the post-mortem showed levels of cyanide in the deceased’s blood which were consistent with her having been poisoned.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that, Inspector,’ said Algernon, rather brusquely. ‘My man told me as much when he telephoned me at my club. What I want to know from you,’ he said, leaning forward and thumping the desk, ‘is who did it?’

  ‘That is what we are trying to find out, sir,’ said the inspector equably. ‘Now, I understand that you and Mrs Stapleton were intimate friends.’

  ‘Oh?’ Algernon looked surprised. ‘Who told you that?’ His face clouded. ‘I suppose it was that Sprat woman. Inquisitive old busybody, that’s what she is. I wouldn’t listen to what she has to say, if I were you. I caught her once or twice listening at the door. Can’t abide eavesdroppers myself. Still, I suppose her own life is so uneventful that she –’

  ‘Miss Sprat was particularly fond of her mistress,’ said Inspector Deacon rather coldly, for he found the man’s manner riled him. ‘Naturally she is anxious that Mrs Stapleton’s murderer is apprehended and brought to justice.’

  ‘As are we all,’ cried Algernon. ‘Damn it man, do you –’

  ‘You were in the habit of visiting Mrs Stapleton at a late hour,’ continued the inspector cutting through the man’s sentence as cleanly as a knife through butter.

  ‘What of it?’ demanded Algernon. ‘There’s no law against it, is there? And as to the lateness of the hour, well, that Sprat woman would think anything past seven o’clock was late. Mrs Stapleton kept late hours, that was all. It’s not so unusual in town you know. It is only in a sleepy little place like this that the denizens are in bed by ten o’clock.’

  ‘It had nothing to do, then, with a wish to keep your visits to Mrs Stapleton a secret?’ Inspector Deacon held up his hand as Algernon made to interrupt. ‘By that, I mean, perhaps you did not wish news of them to reach the ears of Miss Belmore … or Mr Drury, for that matter.’

  ‘Walter?’ For a moment Algernon looked bewildered. ‘What had my visits to Ursula to do with him?’

  ‘You were not aware, then, that Mr Drury was a regular visitor to Quince Cottage?’

  ‘Well, of course I was,’ Algernon blustered. ‘He was a relative of Ursula’s late husband, wasn’t he? I remember him mentioning it to me once. He visited her out of common courtesy. Well, what of it? Why should he mind my visiting Ursula?’

  ‘You were not aware, then, that Mr Drury had a mind to marry Mrs Stapleton and was jealous because he considered you a rival for that lady’s affections?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mr Drury himself.’

  ‘Good lord!’ cried Algernon. ‘Did Walter really say all that?’

  ‘He did,’ admitted Inspector Deacon, instantly regretting that he had mentioned Walter Drury, for he felt that he had said too much and betrayed a confidence, which he was aware had been very grudgingly given. He looked up, caught Sergeant Lane’s eye, and groaned inwardly. For it was obvious that his sergeant had been surprised by his disclosure.

  ‘I say, I didn’t think the little man had it in him,’ chuckled Algernon. ‘To set his cap at Ursula of all people. Ha, ha.’

  ‘I am pleased you consider it to be so amusing, Mr Cuffe,’ said Inspector Deacon, rather more coldly than he had intended. ‘May I remind you that a woman has been murdered and –’

  ‘Look here, Inspector,’ said Algernon hurriedly, ‘you’ve got me all wrong. I was surprised, that’s all. I knew Walter was fond of Ursula because she was a relative of sorts and he felt he had a duty towards her, but I didn’t know he had any intention of making her his wife.’

  ‘You didn’t consider him to be a rival for Mrs Stapleton’s affections, then?’

  ‘Certainly not. To be quite frank, I don’t mind telling you I’m dreadfully cut up over this business, whatever you may think. I was awfully fond of Ursula, and for her to die in the prime of her life like that, well, it’s wicked, that’s what it is.’

  ‘What were your intentions towards Mrs Stapleton, Mr Cuffe?’

  ‘My intentions? What do you mean, Inspector?’ Was it the inspector’s fancy, or did a look of fear come into the man’s eyes?

  ‘I would have thought it pretty obvious what I meant, Mr Cuffe. But if you wish me to spell it out … Were you hoping to marry Mrs Stapleton yourself?’

  ‘I …’ Algernon Cuffe paused, and half covered his face with his hand. It occurred to the inspector that the man was desperately trying to decide what to say. Certainly, it was clear that he was trying to compose himself, not just to gather his thoughts. He raised his head and said: ‘I honestly don’t know, Inspector. I enjoyed her company, that was all. And she was a fine figure of a woman, carried herself well. I … I … don’t know. I suppose, if I am to be perfectly honest, the thought had occurred to me but –’

  ‘There was Miss Belmore to consider?’

  ‘Yes.’ Algernon lifted his head and, though colour had risen to his cheeks, it seemed to Inspector Deacon that the man had recovered some of his equanimity. Certainly, some of the old vitality had returned to him. He stuck out his chin in something of a defiant manner and said:

  ‘I don’t doubt that you consider me to be something of a cad, Inspector, and I can’t say I blame you. Well, I’ll put my cards on the table and you can judge. You are quite right to suppose that I wanted to keep my visits to Mrs Stapleton a secret. The lady herself used to enjoy the clandestine nature of them, and I wanted to keep knowledge of them from Miss Belmore until … well, until I had quite made up my mind what to do.’

  ‘By that you mean whether to marry Mrs Stapleton or Miss Belmore?’

  ‘That’s it, Inspector, though it sounds rather awful when you put it like that. I was all set to ask Miss Belmore to be my wife and then Mrs Stapleton arrived in Sedgwick and … well, she quite took my breath away.’ He chuckled, as if at some fond recollection or private joke.

  ‘Miss Sprat told us you and Mrs Stapleton often argued. Indeed, on several occasions you reduced her to tears, and once you slammed the door behind you so hard it almost came off its hinges.’

  ‘Damn that woman. Miss Sprat can go to the devil!’ boomed Algernon with considerable feeling.

  ‘She also mentioned you were rough-spoken and had a temper,’ Inspector Deacon said calmly, apparently unruffled by the man’s outburst. ‘I see she spoke the truth.’

  ‘Now, look here, Inspector, I –’

  ‘No, you look here, Mr Cuffe.’ There was a cold edg
e to the inspector’s voice now and, though Algernon opened his mouth as if to protest, he obviously thought better of it. ‘A woman has been murdered,’ continued the inspector. ‘A woman, I might add, whom it is known you argued with on a regular basis during the course of a series of clandestine meetings. Why, it seems to me that I do not need to look any further for our murderer than this very room; he is sitting in front of me!’

  Algernon visibly flinched and paled at such words, but did not speak. It occurred to the inspector that the man did not know quite what to say, and thought it best to keep quiet. It also struck him that Algernon Cuffe might be too proud to protest his innocence for fear of appearing weak. Instead, he sat on his chair looking rather sulky, and bestowed on the inspector the odd contemptuous look.

  ‘Why did you and Mrs Stapleton argue?’ Inspector Deacon said finally.

  Algernon sighed. ‘She had grown bored with the illicit nature of our meetings,’ he said. ‘She wanted me to throw over Miss Belmore and announce our engagement.’

  ‘And you did not want to do that?’

  ‘I have already told you, Inspector. I had not quite made up my mind what to do. I argued with Mrs Stapleton because I did not like being forced into a corner, as it were. I wished it to be my decision whether I married Mrs Stapleton or not.’

  ‘I see. Did Mrs Stapleton threaten to tell Miss Belmore about your … meetings?’

  ‘Tell Miriam?’ A look of fear came into Algernon’s eyes, which was quickly replaced by one of relief. ‘I suppose she did. Not that it would have mattered much because Miriam already knew about them. It is difficult to keep anything a secret in a village like this, though of course it would have been jolly unpleasant for the poor girl if Ursula had spoken to her.’

  Inspector Deacon looked at him sharply. ‘How do you know that Miss Belmore knew? Did she tell you?’

  ‘Good lord, no. But she did not need to, Inspector. I saw it in the way she behaved towards me. To put it bluntly, she ignored me when I passed her in the street and refused to see me when I called. She instructed the servants to tell me she was not at home. I won’t tell you how awkward it has been during the rehearsals, with Miriam refusing to have anything to do with me.’