‘Yes, a strange little man,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘He contradicted himself repeatedly, if you remember, sir?’
‘I do indeed, Lane. I wonder if the poor chap was frightened? Hello?’ said the inspector breaking off from what he was saying, following a tap on the door. ‘Who is this?’
‘The police surgeon is keen to move the corpse to the mortuary, sir,’ said Constable Bright, entering the room rather timidly. ‘He’s finished his examination of the body and says if you want to see it in situ you’d better hurry.’
The policemen found Walter Drury’s corpse in the back garden of the property, stretched out full length on the lawn not far from the garden gate which led on to Lovers’ Lane. He was lying half on his front, as if he had rolled over in sleep. The cause of death was obvious, even to the most casual of onlookers, of which the inspector and sergeant were definitely not.
‘He was killed by a blunt object to the back of the head,’ observed Sergeant Lane.
‘Yes. The poor devil didn’t have much of a chance to put up a fight,’ agreed the inspector, crouching down beside the body. ‘Still, at least it was quick. He may never have known the identity of his murderer or the fact that he was being attacked, come to that.’
‘If he was caught off guard, as it were,’ mused his subordinate, ‘it could just as easily have been a woman who did it, as a man.’
‘You’re quite right,’ concurred the inspector, standing up to survey the garden. ‘The same thought had crossed my mind, Lane. And it is too much of a coincidence not to be connected with Mrs Stapleton’s death.’
‘I don’t reckon this murder was premeditated though, do you, sir?’ said the sergeant. ‘It’s nothing like the other one, where he slipped some poison into her glass. That would have required some planning. This one looks as if it might have been done sudden like, in a fit of anger.’
With which observation, they returned to the house and entered the drawing room, where Brown, the manservant, was sitting on a chair nursing a half empty glass of brandy, which he hastily put down on a table beside him.
‘No, don’t get up, Brown,’ Inspector Deacon said quickly, as the man made as if to stand. ‘You’ve had the most awful shock; much better to remain seated. This is a dreadful business, I know, but I’m sure you understand that we need to ask you a few questions. We won’t keep you any longer than necessary.’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled the unfortunate servant.
The inspector studied him closely. The poor man, with his ashen face and thinning hair, looked close to tears. The inspector wondered idly what would happen to him with his master dead, and hoped he had sufficient savings to enable him to retire from service for, to his mind, the man did not look well or a day under seventy. He comforted himself with the thought that Walter Drury, with his prudent, financial brain and no kin that he was aware of, had no doubt left his faithful old domestic well provided for in the form of a decent legacy.
‘When did you last see your master?’ the inspector inquired.
‘Yesterday morning, sir, just before Mr Drury left for work. I … I didn’t see him again.’ There was a break in the old servant’s voice.
It occurred to the inspector that it would be as well to get straight to the point. In an ideal situation, he would have liked to ask Brown a number of questions concerning his employer, but it was obvious that the poor man was not up to being interviewed for any length. To that purpose, the inspector said:
‘According to the medical evidence, your master was killed between midnight and two o’clock in the morning.’ The old servant shuddered, and the inspector cursed himself for not having phrased his sentence more tactfully. ‘Do you know what he might have been doing out in the garden at that time of night?’
‘He always took a walk around the garden before he turned in,’ replied the manservant. ‘It was a habit of his. He used to say the night air cleared his head and helped him to sleep.’
‘I see. And was this fact common knowledge, do you know?’
‘Among his acquaintances, it would have been, sir. The time he took his constitutional varied, of course, because sometimes he retired early, and sometimes he retired late. But whatever the time, he always took a walk around the garden. I never knew him not to.’
Inspector Deacon caught Sergeant Lane’s eye. It was apparent they were having the same thought. Whoever had killed Walter Drury had lain in wait for him in the garden, aware of his evening ritual.
‘Is the garden gate kept locked,’ inquired the inspector, ‘the one that leads out in to Lovers’ Lane?’
‘No, sir, not as a rule,’ admitted the servant. ‘The master didn’t see the need.’
So, anyone, thought the inspector, could have crept into the garden to await their prey. He had already noted that the garden was a very fair size for such a property and contained a great deal of dense shrubbery and bushes, not to mention trees, behind which the murderer might have hidden. A thought struck him, and he said:
‘It was rather late for Mr Drury to be doing a round of his garden, wasn’t it? Midnight, or even a couple of hours later. Very late, what with him having to go to work the next day, I mean?’
‘I suppose it was,’ admitted the manservant, ‘though the master tended to keep late hours, and of course,’ he added, almost as if it were an afterthought, ‘he was entertaining last night.’
‘Entertaining?’ inquired the inspector, his ears pricked. ‘Why didn’t you say anything before? Do you mean to tell me Mr Drury was expecting a visitor last night?’
‘Why, yes, sir. As I’ve mentioned, Mr Drury always dined in Bichester during the week. He normally had only a cold supper in the evening, which I laid out for him on a tray, and which he ate in his study. He seldom used the dining room except for entertaining. And more often than not, he took his breakfast with me in the kitchen.’
‘I see,’ muttered the inspector, somewhat surprised by these domestic arrangements. ‘But yesterday it was different, you say?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. My master advised me that he was expecting a visitor and could I leave him something laid out on a tray which was enough for two and which he could heat up later in the stove.’ He leant forward and said quietly. ‘He knew as how I meant to visit my sick sister yesterday. He didn’t want to put me out; awful considerate that way, he was. Of course, I offered to remain and wait on him and his guest but he said there was no need.’ The manservant hung his head dejectedly. ‘If only I’d stayed, I might have been able to save him.’
‘It won’t do thinking like that,’ said the inspector, rather brusquely, afraid that the man was on the verge of becoming melancholy. ‘It doesn’t do any good. Tell me, the meal you left out, was it eaten?’
‘Yes, it was; every last crumb of it. It was a steak and ale pie with some boiled potatoes and vegetables. He liked a proper pie with a thick crust on it, did my master. It was a great favourite of his, though I say it myself.’ The manservant paused to stare at his hands, and the inspector wondered whether he was recalling making the pastry for the pie. ‘I put out a board of cheeses as well,’ continued Brown. ‘I thought as how it would go well with the gentlemen’s port.’
Inspector Deacon’s head shot up in one swift movement.
‘Gentlemen’s port, you say? Your master was expecting a gentleman visitor?’
‘Yes, sir. He wasn’t much of a ladies’ man, as you might say, except for the late Mrs Drury, that is; he was devoted to her.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ hazarded Inspector Deacon, ‘that you are aware of the identity of Mr Drury’s guest?’
‘But of course, sir,’ answered the manservant, looking surprised. ‘It was Mr Rewe.’
‘Rewe,’ exclaimed Sergeant Lane, as soon as the butler had departed. ‘Didn’t Mr Drury visit him on the evening that it became known that Mrs Stapleton had been poisoned?’
‘Yes. It was also the day that we interviewed Mr Rewe,’ said the inspector, grimly.
‘During which he a
dmitted taking the wine glass,’ said Sergeant Lane excitedly, ‘and gave us some cock and bull story about wanting to teach Miss Quail a lesson?’
‘The very same,’ replied his superior. ‘He also told us, if you remember, that he had no intention of telling us the truth.’ Inspector Deacon gathered his papers together. ‘Grab your hat, Lane. Let’s see what our young poet has to say for himself this time.’
‘Mr Drury, dead?’ muttered Rose, stretching a hand out to grab the arm of a chair lest she fall. ‘What can it mean?’
‘That someone is intent on killing off the Sedgwick Players,’ replied her husband, ‘that’s what. No,’ he said, holding up his hand as his wife made to protest, ‘I don’t mean to be flippant, darling. I can’t quite take it all in, that’s all. I mean to say, what could anyone have had against poor old Walter? He was such a harmless little man, and as straight as they come. Why, I can’t imagine him in any other profession than as the manager of a bank. One knew one’s money was safe with Walter, which is saying something given the current times.’
‘He must have known something,’ said Rose, ‘or at least had a suspicion regarding the identity of the murderer. The more I think about it, the more I am inclined to believe that it must have had something to do with Mrs Stapleton’s –’
‘Begging your pardon, your lordship, your ladyship,’ said Manning, who had entered the study unobserved. ‘Mr Rewe and Miss Belmore are here to see you; something about a wine glass, they said.’
‘Very well, show them in to the drawing room,’ said Cedric. ‘We’ll be along in a minute.’ He waited until the butler had disappeared, before turning to his wife.
‘Do we tell them about poor Walter? I daresay it isn’t common knowledge yet. The chief constable telephoned me as a sort of courtesy. It was jolly decent of him, but I’m not sure old Deacon would have approved.’
‘I don’t think we should say anything,’ said Rose, after deliberating. ‘One or other of them might let something slip.’
‘Surely you don’t think either of them had anything to do with Walter’s murder?’ exclaimed Cedric, clearly horrified by the suggestion.
‘I think it quite likely,’ said Rose, ‘that one of them is the murderer.’
‘Not Miriam,’ Cedric exclaimed, before catching his wife’s eye. ‘And surely not Henry; he and Walter were the best of friends, don’t you know.’
‘What I do know,’ said Rose quietly, ‘is that one of the Sedgwick Players is a murderer; not once, but twice, and we must do our utmost to ensure they are not put on their guard.’
Despite her fine words, Rose experienced some pangs of conscience when Miriam and Henry entered the drawing room and the latter made some casual reference to the bank manager. These soon passed, however, as both the young people appeared determined to come to the point regarding the purpose of their visit.
‘I’ve told Henry … Mr Rewe, the conclusion we reached regarding the wine glass,’ began Miriam, without preamble. On this occasion, the girl appeared in full command of her emotions, for the cold aloofness had returned. It was with a sense of considerable unease that Rose noticed that Miriam and Cedric appeared at pains not to catch the other’s eye.
‘Well, what have you to say on the matter?’ Rose said, a little more brusquely than she had intended. Her remark had been directly primarily at Miriam, but now she turned her attention to Henry Rewe. ‘You found the wine glass hidden in the waste-paper basket, didn’t you?’ Henry nodded, though the expression on his face was one of almost disbelief. ‘At the very same moment you made your discovery,’ Rose continued, less harshly, ‘you happened to catch Miss Belmore’s eye. You remembered then that you had seen her pick the wine glass off the floor where Ursula had dropped it.’ Rose crossed the room and stood before the fireplace, her back against the marble. ‘A little while afterwards, you heard Miss Belmore say that she thought I believed Mrs Stapleton to have been murdered.’ Rose turned her attention to Miriam. ‘I remember at the time I was rather afraid your voice had carried and that the others had heard you mention the word ‘murder’.’
‘You are quite right, your ladyship,’ affirmed Henry enthusiastically, ‘though for the life of me I don’t know how you did it. Made a guess like that, I mean. I daresay it was rather foolish of me, but I was worried what your servants would think if they discovered the wine glass in the basket like that. I thought it would be much better if they found it on the bookcase.’
‘What was foolish of you, Henry, was to think I could be guilty of Ursula’s murder,’ said Miriam. Though her words were scornful, there was some warmth in her tone. ‘I suppose I should feel grateful that you should do such a thing for me, but …’ She faltered, as if she did not know quite how to finish her sentence.
‘But it is Algernon you love?’ Henry said. He sounded wretched.
Miriam hesitated a moment before she said: ‘Yes.’
A silence filled the room. Rose hardly dared glance at her husband for fear of the expression she would discover on his face. Instead, she decided to steer the conversation back to the matter in hand.
‘And then when I announced that the constable was of the view that Mrs Stapleton had been murdered …’ she said.
‘I was dreadfully afraid,’ said Henry. ‘It was stupid of me to take the glass, I know, but –’
‘You didn’t know how else to shield Miss Belmore?’ finished Rose.
‘Yes.’ Henry hung his head, as if he were aware that it had proved a useless gesture.
‘I don’t suppose,’ said Cedric, contributing to the conversation for the first time, ‘we are any the wiser in knowing who took the wine glass from the folly and brought it to the house?’
‘No,’ said Rose. ‘When we know that, we will know the identity of our murderer.’
‘Hello?’ said Cedric. ‘What’s that noise?’
For a kerfuffle of sorts appeared to have broken out in the hall. Certainly, Rose thought she heard the sound of hurrying feet and Manning protesting in vain. A moment later, and the door of the drawing room was burst open unceremoniously.
‘I say, what’s the meaning –’ began Cedric.
‘I tried to stop them, your lordship,’ said the butler. ‘But they weren’t having any of it.’
‘Please accept my humblest apologies, your lordship.’ Inspector Deacon stood in the doorway, Sergeant Lane at his shoulder. He quickly surveyed the room and his glance fixed on Henry Rewe. ‘I was afraid our bird might have flown, but I see he is here.’
‘I have already told you,’ said Henry sulkily. ‘Walter was alive when I left him. I had no reason to kill him.’ He was seated in front of Cedric’s octagonal table in the library at Sedgwick Court. He leant his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands, making rather a dejected figure. ‘We were by way of being friends, Inspector,’ he mumbled. ‘He meant more to me than my own father.’
Rose caught Inspector Deacon’s eye and dropped her gaze. Henry Rewe had insisted that she be present during the interview, for it appeared that, after the business with the wine glass, he thought her in possession of some divine power. So far, however, she had made a pretty poor showing, merely listening to what Henry had to say for himself. The evidence against him, though mostly circumstantial, she considered rather damning.
‘Did Mr Drury mention anything?’ she inquired, aware that Inspector Deacon’s eyes were on her. ‘By that, I mean he must have made some reference to Mrs Stapleton’s murder?’
‘He said only that it would be all right, and I had nothing to fear. You see,’ Henry lifted his head to glare at the inspector, ‘I was dreadfully worried the police were going to arrest me for Ursula’s murder.’
‘You were very foolish to tamper with the evidence, Mr Rewe,’ replied the inspector reproachfully.
Henry pointedly ignored the policeman by turning in his chair to address Rose.
‘He seemed awfully distracted, Walter that is. He had invited me to dinner, but I had the distinct impression that
he rather regretted his decision and wanted me gone.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Inspector Deacon.
‘Well, if you must know, Inspector,’ said Henry, glancing at him over his shoulder, ‘he kept looking at his watch. I also caught him gazing at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was not like him at all.’ Henry scowled. ‘Really, he seemed irritated by my presence. The previous evening –’
‘The previous evening? You spoke to him then?’ asked Rose, for whom this was news.
‘Yes. It was then that I told him about the wine glass. He wanted to know why anyone from Scotland Yard should wish to interview me. He hadn’t heard that Ursula had been poisoned, you see; it was a dreadful shock for him, as it is for me now to know that someone has killed him.’ He glanced up at the inspector, a hopeful look on his face. ‘There hasn’t been some sort of ghastly mistake, has there? I can’t quite bring myself to believe he is dead. Perhaps it was his manservant, Brown, that you found in the garden?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Rewe,’ said Inspector Deacon, feeling he was doing the servant in question a slight disservice. ‘It was Mr Drury that was discovered in the garden all right; his manservant has identified the body.’
‘Perhaps Mr Drury said something to you that evening that struck you as strange?’ suggested Rose.
Henry paused a moment to deliberate and then said: ‘I think he was about to say something and then changed his mind.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was surprised that the police wanted to interview me, like I said. He said, ‘why didn’t they interview’, and then stopped abruptly, as if he thought he’d said too much.’
‘I wonder to whom he was referring?’ said the inspector.
‘He might have been referring to himself,’ suggested Rose. ‘He was a great friend of Mrs Stapleton’s, after all. It stands to reason, therefore, that he might have expected you would want to speak with him before you interviewed Mr Rewe.’
Murder in the Folly Page 27