‘And yet you seem quite happy to lose many,’ retorted Raymond. ‘No,’ he said as Hallam made to object, ‘I think we have tried Lady Lavinia’s patience quite enough, I shall join you in this search of yours, Atherton. Two of us should make light work of it.’
Hallam, conscious that he had indeed wasted a great deal of time, did not protest though he was clearly riled by the older man’s tone. As for Lavinia, she was now of the view that the two men should be left to resolve their own differences. Other than warning the masked stranger if he should still happen to be hiding in the gardener’s shed, she had no intention of playing a further part in what was evidently a private quarrel. Besides, it seemed to her on reflection highly unlikely that the man would still be there. From the grimy window of the shed he would no doubt have seen Hallam return to the house and have taken the opportunity to make good his escape. Not that she did not intend to make absolutely certain, because she did.
The torches were soon acquired. The two men made their way quickly across the terrace, down the stone steps and into the garden, the beams from their instruments lighting up the way before them and lending to the night air a slightly eerie feel. Lavinia held back a little, out of necessity rather than from inclination, the awkward style of her skirt making it difficult to negotiate the steps.
As Raymond had predicted, with the aid of the torches, the two men made light work of searching the garden. The task was made easier by the area being only thinly furnished with anything that constituted a hedge or a bush behind which a person might hide. Their attention turned next towards the garden gate and the gardener’s shed. Hallam headed for the stone steps that he had found so precarious in the dark, while Raymond set off to explore the hut.
Lavinia, meanwhile, stood poised beside the fountain in trepidation. For she was filled with a sudden and awful conviction that she had made a mistake. The masked stranger was still in the garden. He had crept into the gardener’s shed. He would be discovered in possession of his ill-gotten gains and it would be her fault. Not certain what to do, she inched further forward, her eyes never leaving the shack. So absorbed was she in her scrutiny that she was only vaguely aware that Hallam had called out.
‘Hello? I say, Franklin, this gate’s unbolted. I daresay the fellow we’re looking for is long gone.’ He opened the gate and went out into the lane beyond, holding up his torch as if it were a lantern. ‘There’s no one here.’
A moment later and he was back in the garden. He caught sight of Lavinia, who was now crouching behind the hedge which concealed the entrance to the gardener’s shed. As he drew level, she clutched at his arm and said between breaths:
‘Did you find him?’
‘No,’ replied Hallam, a trifle curtly, disentangling his arm. ‘I say, where’s Franklin? Surely he’s not still in that hut? Not much to see in there, I’d have thought.’ He chuckled. ‘Easy enough to tell if anyone’s hiding behind a flower pot. I wonder what’s keeping the fellow?’
A similar thought had crossed Lavinia’s mind and together they approached the shed. Hallam wrenched open the door and held up his torch. The light fell upon an assortment of flower pots, seedlings and garden tools. In the far corner, among the darkest shadows, a kneeling figure was revealed.
‘Franklin, is that you?’ Hallam said, aware that his heart was thumping, for there was something rather peculiar about the way the figure had remained motionless at their entrance, almost as if he had not heard them.
Lavinia let out a startled cry and clutched blindly at Hallam’s sleeve. The sound seemed to recall the figure to life. Slowly it turned and stared at them with blind, unseeing eyes. A torch lay rather uselessly in its hand, its light now feeble, but sufficient to pick out the cornflower blue of its costume.
Lavinia breathed a sigh of relief. It was not the masked stranger, as she had feared, but rather Raymond Franklin. She did not know why he had been motionless, but now he moved, albeit slowly and in rather an ungainly fashion. It was only then that she realised there had been a reason for his crouched position. He had been stooping over something. She clung to Hallam’s arm, her nails digging painfully into his flesh. He winced and together they took a step forward into the shed.
She had been struck by the brilliant blue of Raymond Franklin’s costume. Now it occurred to her that it had not been Raymond’s costume which had caught the torch light. There was someone else in the shed! Someone who was lying prostrate on the ground and wearing the exact same shade of costume as Raymond Franklin.
‘Iris!’ cried Lavinia, instinctively taking another step forward.
Raymond held up his hand as if to stop her. Lavinia stared at the hand in question, mesmerised, registering the fact that it was covered in some substance that looked very akin to blood.
‘She’s dead,’ Raymond muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
‘What?’ demanded Hallam, leaping forward.
It was then that he saw the blood; not only the smear on Raymond’s hand that Lavinia had seen, but also the dark crimson stain on the body itself. He swallowed hard and recoiled, not quite believing the ghastly image that presented itself to his horrified eyes. The next moment he had recovered sufficiently to stagger forward.
‘You’ve .. you’ve killed her!’ he snarled, launching himself at the man who stood between him and the body. ‘You’ve killed her. She … she told me you would!’
Chapter Fourteen
It seemed to Lavinia that everything happened very quickly. Hallam leapt forward, took hold of Raymond Franklin by the lapels of his frock coat, and pinned him, none too gently, against the wall of the gardener’s shed. His victim stood gasping. He neither resisted nor retaliated. His attention instead appeared drawn to his own hand, which he held up and stared at stupidly, as if he did not recognise it as being his own. Lavinia observed all this by the light from Hallam’s torch, which he had passed to her to hold before he had charged forward to apprehend Raymond. The girl herself was trembling violently, her hold on the torch unsteady, so that the rays from it swung wildly and erratically; sometimes the two men were illuminated by the light and at other times they were in shadow. Raymond’s own torch had been knocked in the scuffle and lay broken and discarded on the floor where it had rolled.
Lavinia screamed, a high, shrill cry that seemed to cut through the night air like a knife. She started, barely conscious that the noise had come from her own lips, so foreign and ghastly did it sound to her ears. It had the desired effect, however. Hallam loosened his grip on his adversary’s lapels and Raymond took a step forward. In the stillness that followed, they all heard the unmistakeable sound of running footsteps racing down the stone paths and gravel, and saw the sky made bright with additional torchlight, great beams of which were focused on the grimy window of the gardener’s shed. A moment later and Lavinia felt strong arms grab her by the shoulders and lead her outside the shed, where she leant her back against its wooden wall and breathed deeply. She was only vaguely aware that the man who had come to her rescue wore a dull gold mask, for he left her as quickly as he had appeared, evidently in order to go back into the shed. She was, however, soon joined by his companion, whom she recognised at once.
‘Ceddie,’ she cried between breaths, clinging at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Ceddie, it’s awful. He’s killed her; he’s killed her!’
Even though he was still wearing his mask with its ridiculous nose, she was conscious that her brother was staring at her uncomprehendingly. It was patently clear he did not understand what she was saying; she might as well have been speaking gibberish. She felt an irrational frustration sweep over her. It reminded her oddly of when they had been children and Cedric had failed to grasp the elaborate rules of some game of her own invention that she had insisted on playing. She said in something of an exasperated tone:
‘Raymond Franklin. He’s killed his wife.’ And then, when Cedric remained looking at her stupidly: ‘He’s killed Iris; Iris is dead!’
With a quick backward
glance at her, Cedric left his sister leaning against the wall of the shed and stumbled inside. There he found Commander Wrenfield crouched over a shape on the floor. Hallam still held Raymond Franklin, though this time by the back of his collar.
‘She’s dead all right,’ said the commander, as Cedric approached. ‘Killed by a couple of blows to the back of the head, I’d say. That billhook appears to be the weapon. It was lying by the body. The cut on her head is pretty deep, which explains the amount of blood. A bit of a mess our murderer made of it, though I suppose the poor woman didn’t know much about it. She’d made the mistake of turning her back on her murderer, or perhaps he crept up behind her and caught her off guard.’
It was only after he had made this initial assessment that the commander bothered to glance in Raymond’s direction.
‘Lord Belvedere, I’d be grateful if you could arrange for a couple of your servants to watch over this man till the police arrive.’ He coughed. ‘I’ll telephone to the police myself, my lord. There’s a fellow I know at Scotland Yard. Atherton, take this man to the house and then I’d like you to come back. You can tell me where we are with apprehending the fellow in the gold cravat.’
‘It’s all right, Commander, I’ll take Franklin to the house,’ said Cedric, rallying a little. ‘He happens to be a friend of mine,’ he added, as if he felt obliged to provide an explanation.
‘Is … is Iris really dead?’ said Raymond, speaking for the first time in a dull voice.
It seemed to those that observed him that he was emerging from some form of a trance, as if he had been a long way away and was only now returning to the present and the awful reality that faced him.
‘I … I thought she was. Of course, I hoped I was mistaken, that it was some sort of awful dream,’ he continued, in the same bemused manner.
‘I wouldn’t say another word if I were you, Franklin, there’s a good fellow,’ said Cedric, patting the man’s arm. ‘Not until your solicitor has arrived, that is. It’s all right, Hallam. You can let go of his coat. I’ll take him from you now. Franklin will come with me.’
‘He’ll try to escape,’ said Hallam, a savage note in his voice. ‘The man’s a damn coward.’
‘Things are not always how they appear,’ said Cedric, speaking from experience. ‘Though I admit things look pretty black –’
‘The man has just murdered his wife!’ protested Hallam.
‘Hallam –’
‘You heard the commander,’ Hallam said petulantly with a break in his voice. ‘Iris … she wasn’t even given the chance to put up a fight.’
‘His lordship is right,’ said his superior quickly. ‘This is a matter for the police. We’ve other matters to deal with. I appreciate the deceased was a friend of yours, Atherton, but you need to pull yourself together, otherwise you’ll be no use to anyone, least of all the deceased. Now, did you find the man with the gold cravat?’
‘No,’ said Hallam despondently. ‘There was no sign of the fellow.’ It was then that he recollected the state of the garden gate. ‘I say, sir, I found the gate unbolted. I reckon the chap made a run for it. There was no sign of him in the lane and, of course, he’d had something of a head start because it was pitch black and I had to go back to the house for a torch.’
He thought it wise not to mention his conversation with Raymond Franklin on the landing, which had delayed proceedings considerably. With a degree of wretchedness he acknowledged that he had been rather tardy in carrying out his instructions. It struck him forcibly that perhaps he was even responsible for the masked man having slipped through their fingers. If he had only been quicker leaving The Retreat and had not stopped to talk to Lavinia, but delved into the garden undeterred by the darkness, he might well have discovered sooner that the gate was unbolted. What would it have mattered if he had stumbled and fallen in the process? If he had persevered and managed to descend the steps to the garden gate he might quite possibly have discovered the thief lurking in the lane and been able to apprehend him. He could have wrestled the secret papers from his grasp. Even now he might have been covered with glory which, while it would not diminish in any way the natural horror he felt at Iris Franklin’s death, might have deadened his feelings of angry impotence.
Instead he felt, rightly or wrongly, that he carried the death of Iris on his shoulders. While he had not exactly agreed to Raymond Franklin accompanying him on his search of the garden, he had not objected when the man had suggested that he do so. Indeed, he had provided the fellow with the perfect opportunity in which to commit his crime. As he reluctantly surrendered his prisoner to Cedric’s charge, he knew only that he had made a wretched mess of it all. He was a poor specimen of a fellow and it would serve him right if Commander Wrenfield dismissed him from his employment. He could hardly blame the fellow.
It is quite possible that Hallam might have continued along this train of depressing thoughts and self-loathing had his, and the others’, attention not been drawn to the occurrence of another ear piercing scream, this one more terrifying and chilling than the last. The earl abruptly released his grip on Raymond Franklin’s arm and the man stumbled as if Cedric had been the only thing holding him up. Hallam, already in an agitated state, began shaking.
It was only Commander Wrenfield who had the presence of mind to dart out of the shed to ascertain what had necessitated such a cry. Once outside he encountered Lavinia, who had remained hovering outside the gardener’s shed. He identified her immediately as the origin of the scream.
‘Well?’ demanded Commander Wrenfield of the trembling figure. ‘What is the matter?’
Lavinia opened her mouth, as if she meant to answer him, and then closed her lips, pressing them firmly together as if nothing would prise them apart. She gave the impression to her companion that the effort required to put into words what had frightened her was too great, that what she had seen was too terrifying.
Commander Wrenfield, his patience sorely tried, took the girl by the shoulders and shook her firmly.
‘Come, what has frightened you? You’d feel a lot better if you told me.’
This time Lavinia answered him. She raised her head and said in a voice barely above a whisper, so that the man was obliged to incline his head slightly in order to catch her words:
‘A ghost. I … I have seen a ghost.’
It was as if she had been lying at the bottom of the sea where it was quite dark and oddly comforting, and had suddenly found herself hauled up unceremoniously to the surface to be left splashing and spluttering. At least that was how Rose felt; she was a fish that had been caught on the end of a fisherman’s line and thrown on to a deck where she was both stranded and gasping for breath. The temptation, of course, was to keep her eyes closed and hope that she would be tossed back into the sea, to return to the reassuring warmth of the waves.
‘Miss, wake up, miss,’ said a young voice she recognised. ‘I’ve brought you a nice cup of tea. Mrs Farrier said as how you might want some hot soup, but I said as how I thought as you wouldn’t, it being bad for the digestion when you’ve just waked up and what with the baby to think of.’
‘You were quite right, Edna,’ Rose said, rubbing her eyes. ‘A cup of tea is just what I could do with.’ She propped herself up on one elbow and blinked. Strands of music drifted up to her from the floor below. ‘What time is it?’ she enquired, a note of alarm in her voice, suddenly afraid that her absence had been noted and that she should have been down in the ballroom hours ago.
‘It’s all right, miss,’ said her lady’s maid, arranging the pillows and cushions so that Rose could sit up in bed comfortably. ‘It’s just after half past two. I thought as how I’d wake you in plenty of time for you to have your cup of tea in peace. There’s nothing as bad as having to rush and gulp it down because, likely as not, you’d scald your tongue.’ She paused to look critically at the teacup. ‘Still, if I was you, I’d blow on it; the tea, not the cup. That’s what my mother always does to cool it down. She says it works
a treat.’
Rose refrained from following Edna’s advice. Instead, she cast a look around her bedroom. Edna followed her glance and said:
‘If you’re worrying about your dress, you needn’t. It’s hanging up in your dressing room. I gave it a bit of a press while you was sleeping.’
‘That was very good of you, Edna,’ said Rose, yawning.
She was tempted to close her eyes again while she drank her tea. Little by little, however, the hot liquid revived her and she allowed herself to be led to her dressing table where Edna reapplied her make-up and tidied her hair.
‘There, you’ll look as pretty as a picture when you take off your mask, which is more than can be said of some. Hello?’ With a startled cry, Edna dropped the pot of face powder, the contents of which spilled over the dressing table, producing a shadowy film on the glass. ‘What was that?’
‘It sounded like a scream,’ said Rose, not unfamiliar with the sound.
‘It came from the garden, I’m sure of it.’
Edna tore across the room, pulled up the sash window, which was already partially open, and leaned out in rather a precarious fashion.
‘I can’t see nothing,’ she observed. ‘This room’s too well-lit to see anything as is happening outside, but,’ she screwed up her eyes in concentration, ‘it looks as if whoever it is has torches.’
‘Perhaps there has been an accident,’ said Rose, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘Quick, get me my dress, Edna. I must go down and see what has happened. Someone may have fallen over in the dark.’
‘Well, if they have, there are others who can attend to them,’ muttered Edna. ‘You don’t want to be rushing around in your condition, miss; you’ll do yourself a mischief.’
Attired in her regency gown, Rose descended the main staircase and made her way through the ballroom to the French windows. She glanced at the hands of the grandfather clock as she passed. It was only a few minutes until the final unveiling. All about her the chatter was animated, competing with the music from the band as the guests waited in excited anticipation for the conclusion of the evening.
Murder at the Masquerade Ball Page 13