‘Particularly as you had arranged with Miss Quail that Mrs Stapleton be cast as Queen Gertrude opposite your King Claudius. Not a very wise move, I’d have thought. Now why, I wonder,’ mused Inspector Deacon aloud, ‘did you do that?’
Chapter Twenty-four
‘Protect me?’ said Miriam, looking startled.
To Rose, the woman’s bewilderment appeared genuine, though she reminded herself that Miriam was a skilled actress. Indeed, had Cedric not declared as much when they had been discussing the production? She recalled the colloquy, during which he had stated that the woman’s portrayal of Ophelia in her madness was most convincing.
‘Why would Henry wish to shield me?’ demanded Miriam.
‘Presumably because he thought you guilty of Mrs Stapleton’s murder, and being rather fond of you he did not wish you to be found out.’
‘Henry fond of me?’ Miriam gave a high-pitched little laugh, which seemed to Rose’s ear to lack sincerity. Indeed, it had something of a mocking element to it, which increased the countess’ distaste towards the girl. ‘Surely you must be mistaken?’
Rose thought it rather strange that Miriam’s first inclination had been to pounce on the suggestion that Henry Rewe had feelings for her, rather than to protest her innocence in respect of Ursula’s death.
‘Yes. I believe Mr Rewe to be fond of you,’ Rose said, ‘which would explain why he has placed himself in some jeopardy. I wonder,’ she added, as Miriam threatened to laugh again, ‘whether Mr Cuffe would have been so obliging.’
Colour flowed into Miriam’s face and her eyes flashed with anger.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rose, hastily, ‘that was rather beastly of me. ‘But I wonder why Mr Rewe thought you were implicated in Mrs Stapleton’s … death. There must be a reason.’
In reply, Miriam got up from her seat and began to pace the library, somewhat hindered in her progress by the array of leather chesterfields, writing desks and wooden writing steps which adorned the room. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and there was a look of indecision on her face. Rose watched her eagerly, for she felt that with a little encouragement Miriam was on the point of revealing a confidence. Certainly, the girl was clearly agitated, as if she was summoning up the courage to say something of importance.
Rose was conscious that she must remain silent and contain her excitement. Any outward sign of curiosity was likely to have a detrimental effect. Just as she thought she could not stay still nor impassive a moment longer, Miriam walked over to the empty fireplace and turned to face her hostess. She stood erect, her shoulders thrown back, her head held high, her hair falling to her shoulders in a mass of dark tangled curls.
‘I suppose,’ Miriam said finally, her voice clear and loud, as if she were projecting from a stage and Rose was her audience, ‘the reason was, he knew how much I hated her.’
If Rose was shocked by the girl’s statement, she did not show it, though the words were spoken with such ferocity that they seemed to echo around the room. Outwardly, at least, Rose appeared unruffled. She said calmly:
‘You were aware then, of Mr Cuffe’s evening visits to Mrs Stapleton?’
‘Of course, I was, along with half the village,’ snapped Miriam, somewhat irritably. ‘How stupid men are to think they can keep matters of that nature a secret.’ She gave a contemptuous look.
‘It must have been very upsetting for you,’ Rose said gently.
‘It was the pity that I despised most, or being laughed at, depending on what people thought of me.’
‘Indeed? Yet Mr Cuffe’s behaviour must have hurt you dreadfully.’
‘It was not Algernon’s fault,’ Miriam said, somewhat defensively. ‘I fancy they do things differently in the colonies, and that woman … well, despite her money she had no breeding. She was very common, and I daresay she did not know how to behave. She probably thought there was nothing very amiss with her conduct.’ Miriam made a face. ‘She was horrid and spiteful. She set her cap at him, but she didn’t want him, not really. She regarded it all as some sort of wretched game. And Algernon … well, he is like most men. He’s weak. He was tempted by her charm and by her money. What man wouldn’t be?’ She paused a moment, and then added bitterly: ‘They say she owned a great house in London, and a villa on the Riviera.’
All the while Miriam had been delivering this tirade, her voice had risen, fuelled by repressed fury, and Rose, glancing nervously at the door, was half afraid that her words had carried out into the hall, to be overheard by any servants who happened to be there.
‘And now Mrs Stapleton is dead …’ said Rose quietly, hoping the girl would follow her example with regard to volume. She let the sentence drift unfinished into the charged atmosphere.
‘Yes,’ snapped Miriam, ‘but it was not by my hand.’
‘But you –’
‘Did I have a satisfactory motive for wishing Ursula dead?’ said Miriam, an edge of danger creeping into her voice. ‘That is what you want to know, isn’t it? Well, I shall tell you what you want to hear. I hated her. There, I have said it again. I hated her like … like poison,’ the girl spat out the words. ‘With her dead, I thought Algernon would come crawling back to me. And I was right because he’s renewing his affections to me, and yet …’ said Miriam, lowering her head, her voice now barely above a whisper, ‘I did not do it. I wanted to, but I did not do it.’
‘But that does not explain why Mr Rewe was so sure that you were guilty of causing Mrs Stapleton’s death. By that, I mean he was sufficiently certain as to tamper with the evidence,’ said Rose, half wondering if the girl’s performance was merely an act, for she remembered the cold and aloof woman at the rehearsal and the drawing room, who had seemed to lacked empathy or any other type of feeling come to that.
‘Well, there is nothing else I can tell you. I didn’t do it,’ Miriam said impatiently, before giving her hostess a wry smile. ‘Of course, you only have my word for that.’
‘You had an opportunity to administer the poison,’ Rose said quietly, almost as if her companion had not spoken.
‘No more than anyone else,’ cried Miriam.
‘You took the wine glass from Mr Drury and handed it to Mrs Stapleton only a few minutes before she drank from it,’ Rose pointed out. ‘You weren’t supposed to take the glass. What made you do that, Miss Belmore? It should have been Mr Drury who handed the glass to Mrs Stapleton.’
‘Ursula was not standing where she was supposed to be,’ Miriam said hurriedly. ‘Walter … well, he was flustered. He is not very good at improvising at the best of times, and … well, I was afraid Cordelia would make us do the scene again from the very beginning if the glass was not passed to Ursula in time for her to raise it to her lips and deliver her line. As it was, it was dreadfully late. If only I had known what I was doing …’ Miriam paused and put her hand to her face. ‘How I wish I had never handled that wretched glass.’
‘Do you remember what happened to the glass after Ursula drank from it?’
‘Yes. It slipped off her lap and dropped on to the floor. I remember thinking it was dreadfully clumsy of her, and that Cordelia was certain to comment on it. I mean to say, it might have broken, and you know how precious Miss Quail was about those wine glasses of hers.’ Miriam went deathly pale. ‘Of course, I didn’t realise at the time she had been poisoned …’
‘I wonder what happened to it after it fell on to the floor,’ pondered Rose, more to herself than as a question to be answered.
‘I picked it up and put it on the table,’ said Miriam.
‘Did you?’ The two women stared at each other.
‘Do you think that is what Henry saw?’ said Miriam. ‘Me pick the glass up and put it on the table?’
‘I don’t think that would explain his actions,’ said Rose. ‘There is nothing very odd about your picking up the glass from the floor. Anyone might have done the same. There must be something else that Mr Rewe saw you do which made him suspect that you might have killed Mrs Stapl
eton.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ retorted Miriam, some of the colour returning to her cheeks in her indignation. ‘There is nothing else.’
‘There must be something else to explain his actions,’ reiterated Rose firmly. A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘I have already told you that I do not think Mr Rewe was telling the truth when he told the policemen that he took the wine glass from the folly.’ She paused slightly for effect. ‘I think it far more likely that he saw you take the glass.’
‘What utter nonsense! I put the glass on the table, that is all. I don’t know what happened to it after that.’ Miriam glared at her hostess. ‘Why are you so certain, anyway, that it is me Henry is protecting? It could be Walter, you know. He regards the man as some sort of father figure.’
‘Because of the look he gave you,’ said Rose slowly. ‘It was when I told Miss Quail that one of her wine glasses was missing and she demanded to know which one of you had taken it. If you remember, she made quite a scene.’
‘I do, now you come to mention it, but what has that to do with me?’
‘There was an exchange of looks between you and Mr Rewe. It struck me at the time as rather odd because afterwards you appeared to be staring at anything but each other. Indeed, there seemed to me something rather furtive in your manner.
‘How fanciful you are, your ladyship,’ said Miriam. To Rose’s surprise the girl looked relieved. ‘I remember the incident you are describing very clearly. I heard Henry gasp, that is all, and so I turned towards him and caught his eye.’ She laughed, and this time the action appeared genuine. ‘I daresay the poor boy was embarrassed that his gasp had been overheard. He went awfully red and stared at the carpet and, if you must know, I thought he had been rather silly, so I stared rather pointedly in the other direction.’
‘Did you happen to see what Mr Rewe was looking at when you heard him gasp?’ Rose asked, having some difficulty in keeping the excitement from her voice.
‘I don’t know what you are getting at.’ Miriam gave her a sharp look and then closed her eyes, as if in concentration. ‘Now you come to mention it,’ she said slowly, ‘I think he was regarding a waste-paper basket.’ She opened her eyes and looked puzzled. ‘How very strange. Why would Henry be staring at a waste-paper basket of all things?’
‘Mrs Stapleton took a fancy to playing Gertrude,’ said Algernon. ‘She had once been something of an actress, don’t you know, and I think she was eager to tread the boards again. I wasn’t keen, of course, because of Miss Belmore playing Ophelia, but Ursula was most insistent, and really anything was better than Miss Quail playing the role, what with her also directing the play. It would have led to disaster.’
‘I see,’ muttered Inspector Deacon.
In truth, however, he found Algernon’s explanation unsatisfactory. The man had gone to considerable lengths to keep his relationship with Ursula Stapleton a secret from Miriam Belmore, albeit unsuccessfully; it therefore made little sense for him to have created a situation whereby he brought both women together. The notion then occurred to him that Algernon’s intention might have been to make both women jealous, though it seemed to the inspector to be such a risky and foolhardy strategy that he instantly dismissed the idea. He decided, however, that little would be achieved by pursuing the matter further. Instead, he focused on another point to which Algernon had made a reference.
‘Mrs Stapleton mentioned to you that she had once been an actress, you say?’
‘Yes,’ said Algernon, adjusting his tie. ‘It was before her marriage, of course. Between you and me, Inspector,’ he said, leaning forward and becoming confidential, ‘Mrs Stapleton came from rather humble beginnings.’
‘Indeed? You are very well informed, sir. Miss Sprat told us that her mistress went to great pains to keep that fact a secret.’
‘Is that so?’
Was it the inspector’s fancy, or did the man look a little anxious? Certainly, he shifted his position on the chair, as if he suddenly found it uncomfortable.
‘Yes,’ replied Inspector Deacon, watching him closely.
‘Well, I daresay you’re right.’ Algernon chuckled. ‘One can’t be too careful in a place like this. A little too much emphasis is placed on one’s social position, if you ask me. Sedgwick is rather old-fashioned that way. Things are different in the colonies, I can tell you. Mrs Stapleton realised as much and had a habit of confiding in me.’
‘Did she, indeed? I don’t suppose,’ said the inspector rather sharply, ‘that she confided in you who might have wished her harm?’
‘Well … no, she didn’t.’ Algernon Cuffe said, looking distinctly taken aback by the question. ‘Don’t you think I’d have told you if she had, Inspector? The poor woman didn’t have an enemy in the world.’
‘Well, obviously she did,’ countered the inspector curtly, ‘or she would not have been murdered. Come, sir, did she not mention anyone with whom she had a grievance?’
‘She did not,’ Algernon snapped, clearly irritated by the inspector’s manner towards him.
‘Miss Belmore, perhaps?’
‘Now look here, Inspector, you keep Miss Belmore’s name out of this, do you hear?’ Algernon’s voice had risen to a dangerous level, and he made as if to rise from his chair. ‘Miriam had nothing to do with Mrs Stapleton’s death.’
‘You cannot possibly know that for certain, Mr Cuffe; unless, of course, you yourself are the murderer.’
Inspector Deacon caught his subordinate’s eye. Sergeant Lane was looking a trifle surprised at his superior’s outspokenness. The truth of the matter was that Algernon Cuffe had vexed the inspector, who rather resented the man’s pompous attitude and the temper that lurked beneath the surface. Nevertheless, inwardly he cursed himself for being riled, and braced himself for another verbal onslaught. Algernon Cuffe, however, sat back in his chair gaping rather stupidly at the inspector, apparently at a loss for words. It was almost as if he could hardly believe his ears.
‘Now, let us get back to the business in hand,’ Inspector Deacon said quickly, taking advantage of the man’s temporary muteness. ‘We are determining which members of the Sedgwick Players had an opportunity to administer the poison.’
‘I believe you said traces of potassium cyanide were found in the wine glass?’ said Algernon, having recovered the use of his voice.
Inspector Deacon nodded. ‘I did.’
‘The wine glass, it was left in the folly, I suppose?’ said Algernon, stroking his beard.
‘It was not,’ the inspector said. ‘It was discovered in the drawing room at Sedgwick Court.’
‘Oh? Might I ask where exactly it was found?’
‘On a bookcase. An attempt had been made to conceal it behind a vase.’
‘Oh?’ Algernon looked slightly perplexed, and then: ‘I see.’
‘What do you see, Mr Cuffe?’ asked the inspector, giving him a sharp look.
‘Nothing,’ said Algernon quickly. It is quite probable that he had not intended to expand on his answer, but a quick look at the inspector informed him that more was expected of him. ‘Really, it’s nothing, Inspector. It is only that I was thinking how stupid or careless the murderer must have been to leave the wine glass in the house to be discovered.’
Inspector Deacon refrained from comment, being of the opinion that this was not in fact what had made such an impression on his companion. Really, the fellow was being as vague and elusive in his answers as Henry Rewe, which was saying something. However, even if he were to press the man further, he thought it unlikely that Algernon Cuffe would speak truthfully or elaborate. Instead, he decided to revert to the question of opportunity. On this matter Algernon proved surprisingly obliging, for he said without prompting:
‘I think we all had an opportunity to administer the poison, Inspector. All except, perhaps, for Giles Kettering.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I should perhaps mention that I had a perfect opportunity to dispense the dose myself. You see, I had to hold up the wine glass and w
ave it out to the audience. What is more, I had to slip an artificial pearl into the glass. With a quick sleight of hand, I daresay I could have administered the poison without being observed.’
‘I am certain of it,’ agreed the inspector gravely.
Algernon Cuffe looked at him somewhat apprehensively, but did not speak.
‘Is there anything else that you wish to tell me, Mr Cuffe?’ inquired the inspector, becoming a little bored with the interview, ‘anything that you think might help us with our investigation?’
‘I cannot think of anything, Inspector,’ said Algernon, rising from his chair to leave. ‘But I’ll do my best to rack my brains to see if I can think of something.’
He crossed the room purposefully and Sergeant Lane sprang up from his seat and opened the door for him. On the act of leaving, however, Algernon wavered for a moment and looked back, as if undecided. After a moment’s hesitation, he strode back to the inspector and said:
‘One thing I do know for certain, Inspector, is that Miss Belmore didn’t do it.’
With that, he left the room and Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane were left to look out of the window at the retreating figure.
‘My money is on him,’ said the sergeant. ‘He’s got the right temperament for murder, I’d say. I certainly wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. A nasty temper, he’s got, and no mistake.’
If he had expected to receive a comment on this observation, Sergeant Lane was to be disappointed, for the inspector remained resolutely silent. The sergeant gave him a sideward glance and Inspector Deacon, who had been busy meditating, gave him a rueful smile.
‘I was just wondering, Lane, whether the man doth protest too much with regard to Miss Belmore’s innocence,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-five
Murder in the Folly Page 25