‘The figure Henry saw in Walter Drury’s garden last night was Algernon, of course,’ said Rose. ‘Mr Cuffe confessed as much. He knew at all costs he must speak with his cousin. Mr Drury had spent the evening with Henry, during which the young man had done nothing but say how frightened he was that he would be arrested for Ursula’s murder. Walter demanded that Algernon tell him the truth. Initially Algernon claimed he was innocent, but Walter did not believe him. He threatened to ring up the police. Algernon pleaded with him and there was an argument. Rather foolishly, given Algernon’s character, Walter turned his back on him and was killed for his efforts.’
‘I feel I rather misjudged Mr Drury,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘I thought him quite an odd little man. But, in his own way, he was quite remarkable.’
‘Do you think it was Walter’s death that made Algernon confess?’ mused Cedric.
‘Yes,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘The fellow was full of bluster, but one could tell the fight had gone out of him. Walter Drury was his greatest friend, and the only person who knew his real identity. I am quite certain he never set out to kill him. Besides, as to confessing, once he realised we knew he was Dudley Stapleton, he appreciated the game was up.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Rose entered the study the next morning at the very moment Cedric put down the telephone receiver. There was nothing very strange in this fact, and she would no doubt have thought nothing of it, had it not been for the rather furtive manner in which her husband had swung round to face her, or his somewhat guilty expression, which suggested that he had been engaged in no ordinary colloquy. It was distinctly odd and, for the first time during their marriage, Rose had the uncomfortable sensation that she had disturbed something of an illicit nature.
‘To whom were you speaking?’ she demanded primly.
Cedric looked rather taken aback by the question, and was obviously at something of a loss as to what to say. There followed an awkward silence.
‘Won’t you tell me?’ Rose said at last, trying to keep the emotion and suspicion from her voice.
‘If I do,’ said Cedric quietly, as if he were picking his words with care, ‘I will upset you, and I do not wish to do that.’ He passed a hand through his hair. ‘For some reason, you seem to have quite taken against her.’
‘Miriam! You were speaking to Miriam Belmore?’
‘What if I was?’
‘I see.’
‘Rose, I didn’t mean that, I –’
But it was too late for apologies and explanations, because Rose had turned tail and fled the room, pulling the door to noisily behind her. It had been an instinctive reaction but, as soon as she walked into the hall, she regretted it, for it occurred to her that she had acted rather foolishly, unwisely even, and that it would be far better to return to the study and have the matter out with her husband. There was no doubt some perfectly innocent explanation for his odd behaviour.
She might well have done just that had she not remembered, in that instant, the look of mortification on Cedric’s face at being discovered about his task. With her heart pounding, she leant against the wall, her hand on her chest, as she attempted to regain her composure, grateful that the hall was unusually empty of servants. She heard the sound of a door opening and instinctively looked at the door from which she had emerged, wondering if Cedric had decided after all to come after her. It was not that door that was being opened, however, but the green baize door that led to the servants’ quarters. Not wishing the servants to observe her troubled state, and without giving it much thought, she darted into the nearest room, which happened to be the library.
She was brought up short, however, by the sudden realisation that the room was not empty as she had first supposed. For, in front of the fireplace, regarding the picture hung on the wall above it, was a familiar figure of above average height. Rose gave a startled exclamation and the figure turned around.
‘Inspector Deacon,’ said Rose. ‘I thought you had gone.’
‘I had, your ladyship, but then I remembered that I had left some of my papers on the desk. It was when I was interviewing Mr Cuffe. I jotted down some notes and I thought it as well to pick them up and have them with me.’
‘Oh. Where is Sergeant Lane? Isn’t he with you?’
‘He took the opportunity to visit your servants. I believe he has made rather an impression on your cook; she has promised him a copy of the recipe for her spiced apple cake for him to give to his mother.’
‘I see,’ said Rose. She put a hand to her head and the inspector took a step forward.
‘I say, are you all right, your ladyship? You look a little queer, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘I didn’t expect to find you here, that’s all.’
Later, Rose wondered whether she would have spoken as she did next, had she not been in such a confused and agitated state. Had she not surprised Cedric, she most probably would have left the inspector to his task, and bid him a hasty farewell due to the lateness of the hour. Instead, before she could stop herself, she found herself alluding to the last time she had seen him at Madame Renard’s flat.
‘We were in that little makeshift kitchen, do you remember? We were washing up the tea things. You were going to say something to me; ask me a question, I think. I have often wondered what you meant to say. Of course, it was a long time ago and I daresay you can’t remember, I …’
She allowed her sentence to falter, rather alarmed by the expression that had appeared on Inspector Deacon’s face. For it was clear that he was rather taken aback by her question; he had suddenly averted his gaze to stare at the floor, two bright spots of colour appearing on his cheeks. A silence followed and Rose, aware that she had made some awful faux pas by alluding to a delicate matter, cursed herself, fervently wishing she could take back the words she had so foolishly uttered, realising that she should never have given them voice.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you,’ she said miserably, mortified by her own actions. She turned and made as if to leave. ‘If you will excuse me, I –’
‘Rose,’ Inspector Deacon said.
The intimacy implied by the use of her Christian name arrested Rose in the act of leaving, her hand on the door knob. He had her attention now, but she was aware, as soon as she turned back, that he could not bring himself to look her in the eye. The colour had risen rapidly to his cheeks.
‘I think you know what I was going to ask you,’ he said quietly. ‘I cannot repeat it now, for both our circumstances have altered. If I could, I –’
‘Are you there, sir?’
Rose felt the door move sharply against her hand, the force propelling her slightly towards the wall. A moment later Sergeant Lane appeared, a hand-written recipe in his hand. ‘I beg your pardon, your ladyship, I did not see you there.’ He gave her a curious look.
‘I was just telling her ladyship that we must be leaving,’ Inspector Deacon said quickly. ‘All my notes were there,’ he said, gathering together his papers. ‘They were just where you said they’d be, your ladyship, in the desk where your servant had put them for safekeeping. Well, Lane, I think that is everything. We had better get going.’
‘Yes,’ replied his subordinate. ‘We mustn’t be late, sir, not with your wedding tomorrow; the future Mrs Deacon would never forgive me.’
‘You are getting married tomorrow, Inspector?’ Rose was amazed that her voice sounded like its usual self.
‘Yes, he is, miss …your ladyship,’ answered Sergeant Lane. For he had noticed that for some reason the inspector was experiencing some difficulty in finding his voice; he had opened his mouth to speak, but no words had come out. ‘Of course,’ Sergeant Lane continued, conversationally,’ it won’t be such a grand affair as your own wedding. There won’t be pictures of it in the society pages. But everyone at the station is looking forward to it all the same.’
It was only on the point of leaving that Inspector Deacon seemed to find his voice.
‘U
ntil we meet again, Lady Belvedere.’
‘Will we?’ asked Rose, rather doubtfully, though she held his gaze.
‘Oh, we’re certain to, miss,’ said Sergeant Lane. ‘You have a knack, if you don’t mind my saying, for being where there’s a murder, and we’re employed to deal with them. I don’t doubt we’ll meet again under similar circumstances.’
‘I hope so,’ muttered Rose, as she watched them leave. ‘That we meet again,’ she clarified, ‘not that there will be another murder.’
With that, she turned back into the hall, somewhat deep in thought, wondering what the future would bring.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Harkup, Kathryn, A is For Arsenic, Bloomsbury Sigma, 2015
Shakespeare William, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The folly at Sedgwick Court is loosely based on the Pantheon and Temple of Flora follies located in the grounds of Stourhead in Wiltshire, England, owned by the National Trust.
Murder in the Folly Page 30