‘I suppose he might have been listening to gossip. Perhaps he thought he might hear some mention of the papers.’
‘Anyway,’ said Cedric, ‘I bet he couldn’t believe his luck when the guests descended on The Retreat.’
‘He may have encouraged them to do so,’ suggested Rose.
‘I say, I hadn’t thought of that,’ exclaimed her husband. ‘Anyway, we all remembered seeing him in the room. In fact, he was one of only a few people we were quite certain had been present.’
‘Doesn’t it strike you as rather odd,’ mused Rose, ‘that if he was the thief, as you suppose, he chose to wear such a distinctive costume? You don’t think it possible that he wasn’t the thief after all?’
‘Well, if he wasn’t our thief, it’s quite possible he was our murderer,’ said Cedric, and he explained about the discovery of the man’s clothes and mask in the gardener’s shed. ‘In fact,’ he continued, on reflection, ‘it’s quite possible that he was both.’
‘The murderer and the thief?’
‘Yes. Did I mention that we found the garden gate unbolted? It’s fair to assume our thief left by that way. But first, I think we can agree that he meant to change out of his costume. It stands to reason that he would because he’d have looked pretty conspicuous going about the streets in that get-up. Anyway, let us suppose that in the process of undressing,’ Cedric said, getting into his stride. ‘our thief is disturbed by Miss Casters. Iris Franklin will no doubt tell us what the woman was doing there. Now, a fellow like that wouldn’t have had any scruples about committing murder. He’d have wanted to leave as quickly as possible with the stolen documents before the theft was discovered. Well, Miss Casters is in the way and he kills her with a billhook. He then makes a dash for it leaving behind his mask, scarlet waistcoat and gold cravat.’
‘But he was also wearing a voluminous cloak, a hat with an ostrich feather and a great pair of boots,’ pointed out Rose. ‘If he did not wish to draw attention to himself, what did he do with them?’
‘Oh, I can answer that,’ said Cedric, a triumphant look on his face. ‘The police discovered them this morning. They found them stuffed into the hedge that runs along the far side of the lane.’
In her mind’s eye, the scene played out in Rose’s head. She imagined the thief calmly disposing of his incriminating garments in what she perceived to be rather an orderly fashion, prior to his setting off down the lane at a brisk trot. It seemed to her that he had illustrated a remarkable degree of coolness and calculation by stowing his garments in the hedge. Though if the man in question were a professional thief or assassin, as was generally supposed, then it was perhaps hardly surprising that he had shown the presence of mind to do such a thing. Certainly he had not lost his head and gone to pieces.
It was then that a most bizarre thought struck her. Really, she admonished herself, it was too ridiculous for words. Nevertheless, she was left with a most peculiar image in her head and the knowledge that her heart was suddenly beating very fast.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Of course,’ said Cedric, a note of savagery in his voice, ‘as soon as I am able, I shall arrange for it to be pulled down.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Rose, sharing some of her husband’s natural revulsion for the premises.
Cedric had walked over to the window and stood gazing down at the gardener’s shed, of which only the top was clearly visible. Partially concealed from view, traces of the original gloom that had surrounded it earlier in darkness still lingered, giving it something of an ominous air.
It had been the scene of a violent death and, though the shed was mundane and innocuous in itself, Rose reflected that, for as long as it existed, it would forever be associated in their minds with Hilary Casters’ murder. Indeed, she feared that, even if the shed were raised to the ground as Cedric intended, each time they took a stroll in the garden their eyes would invariably stray to the fateful corner. They would be drawn to regard it, as if an invisible thread were directing their gaze. For them, it would always hold an awful fascination.
Despite the warmth of the morning, she shuddered. Meanwhile, still with his back to her, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers, Cedric said, almost under his breath:
‘Who would do such a thing? That’s what I should like to know. There’s something particularly repulsive about it, don’t you think? That someone should be killed at our ball while all the other guests were dancing and having fun. I –’
‘Darling, don’t go over it,’ said Rose quickly. ‘It doesn’t do any good.’
Yet she knew, as she studied the figure standing defiantly by the window, that despite her words her husband would continue to torment himself with images of the frightful scene that had occurred on their property. Knowing his character as she did, she could have expected nothing less, and she liked him the better for it.
She had spoken hurriedly and it was only now that her mind turned to reflect on Cedric’s first sentence. Her eyes widened and she gasped with surprise. A little while earlier they had toyed with the idea that the thief might also be the murderer. At the time, she had believed that neither of them had given the theory much credence. For surely, she reasoned, the identity of the murderer was hardly in question. Not only had Lavinia and Hallam discovered Raymond Franklin stooped over the corpse in a most compromising position, but Iris Franklin’s damning words, coupled with her agitated state, had seemed to corroborate the generally held assumption that her husband was the murderer.
Rose took a deep breath before she put the question that hovered on her lips.
‘You believe Raymond Franklin is innocent?’ she said quietly, ‘Yet all the evidence suggests –’
‘Oh, I know how it looks,’ Cedric said, turning away from the window. He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. ‘It looks pretty black for Franklin, all right. Everything seems to be stacked against the fellow and I daresay, if I didn’t know him any better, I’d think him to be as guilty as hell, like the rest of them.’
‘But you don’t believe he killed Miss Casters?’
‘No.’ He met her quizzical look and seemed to falter. ‘That’s to say,’ he continued, feeling the need to qualify his answer, ‘I don’t quite know what I believe. Oh, I’m putting it very badly, I know, but what I am trying to say is that I don’t feel tolerably certain that Franklin is the murderer. It’s true that I haven’t known the man long. I daresay I’m hardly qualified to make a judgment as to his character. But he’s given me some pretty sound advice in the past about one or two of the books in the library at Sedgwick. I consulted him in a professional capacity. It was before he married Iris and was still required to earn his own living. But,’ he added, slightly lamely, ‘he seemed to me a jolly decent sort, not the type of chap to murder a woman in cold blood.’
‘I’ve met several murderers whom I rather liked,’ observed Rose. She was thinking, in particular, of a man who had been a pleasant and affable house guest and a woman whom she alone knew was a murderer. She looked up and noted that her husband was giving her a quizzical look.
‘Surely there is no need to worry,’ she said, a little flustered. ‘If, as you suppose, Mr Franklin is innocent of the crime, he has nothing to fear.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Cedric gravely, ‘I’m afraid he may have a great deal to fear.’
‘What do you mean?’
Cedric stood up and began to pace the room.
‘It’s rather difficult to explain, but it’s this Wrenfield and Innes partnership that worries me. I daresay on paper it looks all right, but in practise it’s all wrong. I’m not saying the commander isn’t a jolly good fellow in his own way. In fact, I imagine he’s very capable in his line of work. He’s not one to rush to conclusions, not like Innes who I very much fear regards the solving of this murder almost as a fait accompli.’
‘If the chief inspector were in charge of the investigation,’ Rose said meditatively, ‘that might be a cause for c
oncern. But, from what you have told me, the commander intends to lead both investigations.’
‘Yes, but therein lies the rub,’ exclaimed her husband. ‘I don’t believe Wrenfield cares a fig about finding Hilary Casters’ murderer. It’s the theft of the papers that concerns him. There’s a great deal at stake if he doesn’t find them. He doesn’t want the chief inspector to go trampling over his own inquiry, that’s all. The last thing he wants is for Innes to muddy the waters in respect of his own case. That’s why he’s insisted on leading both investigations. And he was pretty adamant, you know, that it should be him who telephoned the police. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I believe he wanted to make sure Innes was assigned to the murder case. Another inspector might not have been so willing to relinquish control. I mean to say, it’s dashed irregular.’
‘And Chief Inspector Innes has quite made up his mind that Mr Franklin is the murderer?’
‘Yes. You should have heard him this morning. It was all I could do to persuade him not to arrest the fellow.’
‘You believe he won’t explore any other lines of inquiry?’
‘Not he! I’m not one to do another man down, and I daresay in the normal course Innes would have made a pretty good job of it, but with Wrenfield in charge of the investigation,’ said Cedric, returning to his original theme, ‘I’m afraid he’ll be less diligent, particularly as he appears certain of Franklin’s guilt.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s pretty rum for old Franklin, of course. Puts him in a dashed awkward, not to say dangerous, position. And to cap it all, the man seems to have gone to pieces. Hardly surprising, I suppose, given the circumstances. I mean to say, it’s not every day one’s secretary is murdered and one’s wife accuses one of trying to kill her.’
He caught his wife’s eye and, in spite of everything, they laughed, each confident in the knowledge that nothing like that could ever happen to them. For a brief moment, it felt like a momentary reprieve from the horror in which they found themselves. They clung to it hungrily, as if it were a little breath of fresh air that had entered a hot and stuffy room, before it slipped inevitably from their fingers and they were returned to contemplating the present.
‘I’m awfully afraid Franklin will lose his head and confess to the crime,’ said Cedric, all sign of levity gone from his voice.
‘Where is Mr Franklin?’
‘At his club. Given Iris Franklin’s accusation against him, he could hardly have returned to Sycamore House. If nothing else, it would have caused a great deal of unpleasantness for the servants.’
‘And he could hardly have stayed here, not with Iris still in the house,’ mused Rose.
‘Innes was none too happy about the arrangement, I can tell you. Indeed, if it had been up to him, instead of Wrenfield, the man would still be under lock and key. But, fortunately for Franklin, the commander’s tolerably certain he’s not the thief. He searched him as soon as it was discovered the papers were missing, you see. I kicked up a bit of a stink about it at the time, but luckily for Franklin he didn’t object.’
There was the sound of bare feet running down the corridor outside and the next moment the bedroom door had swung open and Lavinia appeared, dressed in a pair of peach coloured satin pyjamas. She glanced only briefly at her brother and his wife before she collapsed unceremoniously on to the bed.
‘Thank heavens you’re awake, Rose darling. I could hardly sleep a wink. Why, Ceddie, you’re already dressed! I suppose you’ve been up for ages?’
‘Hours and hours,’ replied her brother, a touch mendaciously. He took a step towards her and stopped. ‘Good heavens, what’s happened to your hair?’
‘How beastly of you to notice,’ replied Lavinia, making a face. ‘But if you must know, it was the fault of that ghastly wig I was wearing. It absolutely flattened my hair and when I tried to brush it this morning it stuck up all over the place. Eliza’s had no end of trouble trying to tame it.’
‘Well, she hasn’t done a very good job of it; you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
The siblings’ good natured bickering brought a smile to Rose’s face. If nothing else, it was a reminder that, no matter how dreadful the situation in which they found themselves, the ordinary and mundane had a habit of filtering through the cracks to remind them that life had a habit of returning eventually to its usual pattern. For now, the squabbling was a welcome distraction; it would still be there long after the events of the ball became no more than a distant memory.
Lavinia, meanwhile, put a hand up to her hair and pulled at a few stray strands absentmindedly. She was too preoccupied with other thoughts to give a suitable retort to her brother’s remark. In her head, she flitted from one tragic image to another. The awkwardness of her wig and the cumbersome nature of her Georgian gown were now forgotten. Instead, vivid little pictures sprang up before her in her mind’s eye, as if intent on haunting her. She was back in the darkened garden once more. Hallam and she were craning their necks, and there was Raymond Franklin, kneeling over the dead body of the woman dressed in blue. Into the gloom Iris Franklin appeared like some ghostly spirit, peering in at the window of the gardener’s shed. Lavinia shivered as she recalled these scenes, remembering, above all else, her own paralysing fear.
It was with a tremendous effort, therefore, that she took a deep breath and attempted to rid her mind of her ghastly recollections and view what had happened with the dispassionate curiosity of anyone reading about it for the first time in the newspapers.
‘Isn’t it awful about the murder?’
Lavinia’s voice was artificially bright as she raised a delicate eyebrow. The effect was spoilt somewhat by the fact there were still traces of powder on her face and other remnants of the previous night’s outlandish make-up. There were also tell-tale dark smudges under her eyes.
‘I’ve always been of the opinion that Iris rather brought things on herself,’ she said, her voice continuing to sound a little false. ‘But one simply can’t help feeling sorry for her in this instance. I mean to say, it’s a trifle disconcerting having one’s husband murder his secretary in mistake for oneself.’
‘It would have been a great deal worse for Mrs Franklin had he succeeded in his quest,’ Cedric replied dryly, though his tone was serious in stark contrast to his sister’s.
Lavinia opened her mouth as if she intended to make another frivolous observation and then closed it when she noted the expression on her brother’s face.
‘Look here, Lavinia, it’s no use pretending to be flippant. It’s all very well you speaking to us in this foolish fashion, but you simply can’t go about saying such things to other people. Rose and I know you don’t mean half the things you say, but the chief inspector isn’t to know that.’
Lavinia scowled, but said nothing.
‘This is no subject for jokes,’ Cedric said more gently. ‘A young woman has been brutally murdered.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Lavinia said quietly, suitably abashed. ‘You needn’t speak to me as if I were a child.’
‘Well, stop behaving like one and talking utter rot. Really, Lavinia, you mustn’t go about saying Raymond Franklin is the murderer. Nothing has been proven against him.’
‘But Iris told Rose –’ began Lavinia, before Cedric cut her short.
‘I don’t care what Iris said. She was in a highly agitated state when Rose discovered her. She had just glimpsed a dead body through the window of the gardener’s shed. I doubt she was thinking straight.’
‘You’re only saying that because Raymond Franklin is by way of being a friend of yours,’ said Lavinia angrily. She had lost some of her ruefulness. ‘You don’t really believe he’s innocent any more than I do.’
She had touched a nerve, and Lavinia knew it, though it occurred to her that she had perhaps overstepped the mark. Certainly the strained and awkward silence that followed suggested that she had. Her brother was far from believing absolutely in Raymond
Franklin’s innocence and her words had only confirmed what he already knew. That the whole world was likely to believe his friend guilty, and that it would be an uphill struggle to prove that he was not.
It was then that Rose intervened. Initially she did it only to diffuse the situation and bring to an end the uncomfortable silence that filled the air like an unpleasant vapour. Later she realised that she had acted because she could not sit back and watch Cedric and Lavinia wrangle over the probability of Raymond Franklin’s guilt as if it were a purely objective matter. While she, herself, was far from believing in the man’s innocence, she was aware that all the odds seemed to be stacked unjustly against him. If nothing else, there seemed to be a prevailing assumption of his guilt before the investigation into the case had even begun. That such a view should be the starting point of any inquiry seemed to her desperately unfair. The onus should not be on Raymond Franklin to prove his innocence but rather on others to demonstrate his culpability.
The sinking feeling that had begun to form in the pit of her stomach grew. She was reminded of Cedric’s earlier words alluding to his fear that there would not be a thorough investigation into Hilary Casters’ death. Other more powerful and overriding factors prevailed which would in all likelihood adversely affect the manner in which the murder case was investigated, not least the irregular way in which it was to be handled.
She was conscious too of the fact that at no point during their various conversations had Cedric suggested that she should investigate Hilary Casters’ death. This would have been odd had she not known the reason. She stared down at her swollen stomach, knowing it to be responsible for her husband’s silence. Fast on that thought came the certain knowledge that neither the commander nor the chief inspector would welcome any contribution by her to their investigations. Yet, it was not in her nature to step aside and watch an unsatisfactory and flawed investigation unfold. The detective in her rose up and rebelled. A murder had happened in their midst, in their very garden. She could no more turn away and let others investigate it than she could refuse to eat. There was no alternative but that she should undertake her own investigation into Hilary Casters’ murder, irrespective of whether the commander and the chief inspector would value or accept her contribution.
Murder at the Masquerade Ball Page 17