The Murder at Sissingham Hall
Page 19
‘But somebody did notice that they were unlocked,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, Angela,’ said Rosamund. ‘Why did she have to mention it? I do wish she hadn’t said anything.’
‘I think she wishes it too,’ I said. ‘She certainly intimated something of the sort, but Sylvia and I were there when she made the discovery, and Mr. Pomfrey and the doctor arrived shortly afterwards, and by that time it was impossible to hush it up.’
‘Why on earth didn’t I remember to lock them when I left?’ burst out Rosamund in exasperation. ‘Then everything would have been all right. Neville would have been locked safely in the study and nobody would have even dreamed that there was anything suspicious about his death. It would have been put down as an accident and nobody would have had any reason to look more closely into it.’
Despite myself, I could not help but agree with her. Angela had been right when she had said it was unpremeditated, but it had very nearly been the perfect crime. Rosamund’s quick thinking had led us to believe that it must have been committed between a quarter to eleven and eleven o’clock, and we had all been puzzling over how it could have been carried out in such a short time. It had not occurred to anybody that in fact it could not, and that the murderer must have returned to the scene of the crime later that night in order to lay the false scent. It had certainly been an ingenious idea to take the second set of keys from the desk drawer and replace them the next day. Had there been time to lock the French windows too, then we should all have accepted the accident theory without question, and nobody would have spotted that the scene of the incident was somewhat unconvincing. The whole thing was brilliant in its simplicity—or would have been but for Hugh MacMurray’s midnight visit to the study and Joan’s interruption the next morning.
‘But Rosamund, what about Gwen?’ I asked. ‘Was that you?’
She looked at me uncomprehendingly for a second.
‘Oh! Yes, that was me too. Such a shame—I really didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. She saw me go into the study after dinner, you see.’
‘Did she tell you so?’
‘Yes. At first she didn’t realize what it was that she’d seen, so said nothing. It was only later that she understood and confronted me with it. It was rather awkward, as I’d told the police I hadn’t gone anywhere near the study that evening, at least not before I went along there with you. Didn’t you hear her hinting about it last night at dinner? I was terrified she was going to come out with it in front of you all, but luckily she didn’t.’
‘She accused you after you followed her into the drawing-room, then?’
‘Yes. She had somehow deduced that if Hugh wasn’t responsible for the voice through the door, then you and I must have been lying about it and Neville could have been killed earlier. Since she had actually seen me going into the study she put two and two together and came to the conclusion that it must have been me who did it. And by the way, darling,’ she went on, ‘if someone like Gwen can make that deduction then the police certainly won’t be far behind.’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘What could I say? I denied everything as charmingly as I could. I said that I had proof of who really did it, but that I couldn’t tell her about it until I’d spoken to Inspector Jameson, as I was worried that the local police wanted to pin the crime on Hugh at all costs since he was the easy target and I didn’t trust them not to tamper with the evidence. Of course it was a thin story, but it was the best I could come up with there and then, and she was so relieved at the prospect of Hugh being released that she swallowed it without question. I said I would tell her all about it the next day, but in the meantime I thought she ought to go to bed and get some sleep. I remembered that she had once told me that she took Veronal and luckily I happened to have some of the stuff about me—the doctor gave me some after Neville died, you know. I went over and poured her a brandy and put some of it in the glass, and she took it then went off to bed like a lamb.’
‘That was a big risk to take. What if it hadn’t worked?’
‘I’m sure I should have thought of something, but I had nothing to lose, you know. She was threatening to tell the police—although if Hugh hadn’t been arrested I’m sure she’d have tried to blackmail me instead. She’s the type.’
At that moment the reality of it all finally dawned on me in a rush, and I felt my heart plummet into my boots. Bobs, Sylvia, even Rosamund herself—they had all been right, and now I had to admit it to myself. For eight years or more I had been nurturing a vision of Rosamund that was quite false. She was not the angelic creature of my imagination: in fact, she had proved herself to be quite the contrary. Had I not always known that she would never have stood for a life of poverty and insignificance? I had allowed her to abandon me, laughing, for a rich man whom she did not love, and yet for years afterwards I had continued to see her essential selfishness as somehow charming, as part of her appeal. What a fool I had been! And now here she was, telling me carelessly that she had murdered her husband because she was bored and he had refused to set her free to marry another, still richer man.
Rosamund was looking at me steadily.
‘You have gone very pale,’ she said. ‘Have I shocked you terribly?’
I swallowed.
‘I—I must confess that you have shaken me rather,’ I managed finally. A thought came to me. ‘But why did you tell me all this, Rosamund? What do you want me to do? Surely you can’t expect me to keep quiet about it. For anything else you could rely on my discretion, but this—this is too much.’
‘Yes, I expected you would say that,’ she replied. ‘And I knew you wouldn’t want to keep it quiet, but don’t worry—no-one will ever find out. I shall see to that.’
My mind was in a whirl and I did not understand what she meant at first.
‘Then why did you tell me?’ I repeated.
‘Oh Charles, you know I was never any good at keeping a secret, and yet this was a secret that absolutely had to be kept! But I was bursting to tell somebody, so I chose you.’
As she spoke, she took a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it. She held it out and I recognized it as the note I had written earlier—a lifetime ago now, it seemed.
‘By the way, what did you mean by this?’ she asked.
‘Why, I meant what I said,’ I replied, although I was not at all certain now that it was true. Did she think that the offer of friendship I had made in the note extended to keeping quiet about a murder?
‘But what exactly did you say?’
I was becoming more and more puzzled.
‘I don’t understand. I said I was sorry for my mistake of this morning, and that I was going to leave the house to save further embarrassment for all concerned. In fact, I just came in here to find my pen, and then I should have left immediately.’
‘Ah,’ she nodded.
‘Why do you ask?’
She laughed.
‘You’ll think it absurd of me, Charles,’ she said, ‘but my first thought on reading your note was that you were going to do something silly.’
‘What on earth—do you mean kill myself?’ I was astounded.
‘Oh yes.’ She looked down at the paper. ‘“And now, it seems that the only thing for me to do is to free you from my unwelcome presence,”’ she read. ‘“When I am gone, I hope that you will think of me kindly.” You must admit that does sound rather as though you were about to do away with yourself.’
I laughed incredulously at the thought that my simple words could have been taken in such a way.
‘Of course I wasn’t going to do away with myself,’ I said. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘Yes, it did seem odd. The only reason I could think of was that you were so devastated at the idea of losing me that you didn’t want to live any longer, but I didn’t really believe that was possible. I know I’m conceited, darling, but even I don’t normally expect men to go around killing themselves for the love of me. Still—’
She hesitated.
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘Well, it did occur to me that your suicide would be rather convenient for me.’
TWENTY
I felt my blood run cold.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you see? It would tie up everything so neatly. Everyone would think that it was you who killed Neville, then were overcome with remorse and took the easy way out! And this note would be the final proof.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. My voice was an unnatural croak.
‘Oh but it’s not!’ she said. ‘It’s such a beautiful plan, don’t you think? Nobody could deny that you’re the perfect suspect—especially since you’ve already been tried for murder in the past. Everyone knows that we were once engaged and that you were still in love with me. They’ll think you wanted to get rid of Neville so that we could be together again. So you killed him, then later on came along to the study with me and pretended to hear his voice through the door so that we would all think he was still alive. Then you crept downstairs in the dead of night and rearranged things to make it look like an accident. A few days later I rejected your advances, and you killed yourself out of despair and remorse. Oh, it’s perfect!’
She laughed and clapped her hands.
I could not believe my ears. Rosamund had just admitted to murdering her husband, and now she was twisting her own confession round to fit me!
I suddenly remembered something, and shook my head.
‘It won’t work,’ I said. ‘You have already told the police that you heard Sir Neville’s voice through the study door. I told them I heard nothing.’
She waved her hand dismissively.
‘I’ve already thought of that. I shall tell them that I must have been mistaken, and that I was just repeating what you had told me he said. At the time I had no reason not to believe you, of course, but I started to get suspicious when you changed your story later on and said that you hadn’t heard anything at all.’
‘Well then, how am I supposed to have got back into the house after leaving through the French windows?’
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something. Perhaps you stayed outside all night and then sneaked back in early the next morning, as I had thought of doing. Or perhaps there’s a third key that we don’t know of. I’m sure something can be arranged.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Rosamund. Nothing is going to be arranged. I have no intention of confessing to the murder of Sir Neville. Why, the very idea is ridiculous!’
‘Angela knows, you know,’ she said, as though I had not spoken. ‘She came to me before lunch and said that Hugh was going to be released, and that it was time to put an end to this nonsense once and for all before anybody else got hurt, or arrested. She wanted to persuade me to confess. She said that they’d most likely be lenient with me but I don’t see how they could be, do you?’
‘Had she known it was you all along?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She had had her suspicions but was only convinced of it after I poisoned Gwen. She knew about the Veronal I got from Dr. Carter, you see.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Why, I denied everything, of course, and she had to go away in the end. I wanted time to think about what I should do next. I knew they wouldn’t arrest me even if they suspected I did it. You see, there’s still no proof of anything, and until they can find that then they can’t arrest anybody. I went to my room to try and think things out. It seemed to me that the best thing for everyone would be for the police to go away leaving the mystery unsolved. That would be unsatisfactory but at least we should all be free, and that was the most important thing.’
‘But then why did you come here to confess to me, Rosamund? As you say, the mystery would have most likely remained unsolved had you kept the secret to yourself.’
‘Because you wrote me that note,’ she said. ‘As soon as I read it I knew it was the answer to all my prayers. Why, it solves everything.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you remember what you wrote? Here, take a look.’
She handed me the note and I glanced at it, uncomprehending.
‘“I write in the hope that you will forgive me for what I have done, although you could hardly be blamed for thinking it unforgiveable”,’ she quoted. ‘Don’t you see? You have as good as confessed to killing Neville. At least, that is how the police will see it.’
I laughed incredulously.
‘Don’t be absurd! That’s not what I meant at all,’ I said, but a feeling of dread ran through me. Could it be true? Could my attempt to excuse myself for having made those clumsy advances earlier be interpreted as an admission of something far more serious?
‘It’s not absurd at all. I know what you meant, but it’s so beautifully vague that it could equally be taken as a confession by anyone else who read it. Oh, Charles, I can’t tell you how delighted I was when I read it!’
I stared at her, aghast, the memory of the words I had written only that morning still fresh in my mind. She was right. I thought I had been begging her pardon for one thing, but anybody reading the note who knew nothing of the matter could easily interpret it in quite a different fashion—as a confession to murder, in fact.
‘You seem to have forgotten one thing,’ I said. ‘I’m the one who wrote the letter, and can explain exactly what I meant by it.’
Then she smiled at me, and it was a terrible, beautiful smile.
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘But you won’t be here to explain, will you? You must have realized that by now.’
I looked and saw that she had taken something out of her pocket, which she was examining with detached interest. It glinted in the afternoon light and was so small that at first I thought it must be a child’s toy.
‘It’s a beautiful little thing, isn’t it?’ she said, when she saw me looking at it. ‘Neville gave it to me a few years ago. I don’t know why on earth he thought I should need a gun. Still, you never know when these things might come in useful.’
‘Are—are you going to shoot me?’ I managed at last.
‘Of course I’m not going to shoot you!’ she replied, eyes wide. ‘You’re one of my oldest and dearest friends. How could I possibly do such a thing? But—’ she paused, as though searching for the right words. ‘It would make me so very, very happy if you would do me this great favour—the greatest of favours, in fact.’
She walked slowly towards me and gazed into my eyes. The sunlight beamed through the window, turning her red-gold hair to flame and casting light upon her faultless complexion. At that moment, as she stood there in front of me, she was more beautiful than I had ever seen her, and I caught my breath. She took my hand and spoke, and as she did so I seemed to hear a buzzing in my ears as her words wove a spell around me, mesmerizing, captivating me.
How could I live, she said, knowing that the woman I loved was unattainable, was loved and possessed by another? What a glorious thing it would be to lay down my life for her, and for my best friend whom I had loved since childhood! She had never meant to kill her husband—of course she had not. It had been a huge mistake, and one for which she would have to pay with her life one way or another, unless I were brave and generous enough to come to her rescue. In the past eight years I had proved how bold and resourceful I was by going to Africa and attaining success and fortune. But in that country my character was forever stained by the disgrace of my trial for murder—and why should I want to return there anyway? It was a parched, barren place, devoid of life or interest. Nor would it do me any good to settle in England, as I should forever be reminded of the woman I had lost, and be forced to bear the pitying glances of my friends, which would not be lost upon me however much they tried to hide them. No, much better to end it all now, in the knowledge that by doing so I should be leaving great happiness and relief behind me. Better, surely, to die and be remembered for great things than to live forever under a cloud of misery and suspicion?
I cannot describe fully the effect her words had upon me, or why I should have been influenced in such a manner, but in some mysterious way she had bewitched and befuddled me into accepting her words as true. At that moment I really believed her when she said that my life had no value except as a currency to be exchanged for her own. How could I have thought otherwise? How could I have thought that she would ever be mine? She was too far above me and destined for much greater things which only I could make possible. I drew myself up a little. My purpose was clear. I had been called to Sissingham to make the ultimate sacrifice and save the woman I loved from an awful fate.
I felt her press something into my hand with a caress and looked down to see that it was the little pistol. I stared at it as her words went on, casting their hypnotic spell. I could no longer hear what she was saying, but it did not matter as I was no longer my own master and I felt myself nod in assent. Immediately, I began to experience the oddest floating sensation; it was almost as though my mind had detached itself from my body and was observing the whole scene from above. From my new vantage point I saw Rosamund indicate that I should sit down at the desk. My corporeal self obeyed, a dazed expression on its face. She gestured encouragingly. Was I imagining things, or was there a glint of cruel triumph in her eye? My mind, freed from its shackles, wanted to cry out a warning to my body down below, but no sound emerged. I watched helplessly as my earthly self slowly lifted the gun to its temple and prepared to squeeze the trigger. For one eternal second there was a terrible silence and time seemed to stand still, then all was noise and confusion as someone knocked my wrist upwards and firmly removed the gun from my hand. There was a shriek and the room was suddenly full of people and voices shouting and I was myself once more, sitting rooted to the spot and unable to act as Rosamund, screaming loudly, struggled with Inspector Jameson and a constable while Angela Marchmont vainly tried to persuade her to remain calm.
I don’t remember what happened immediately after that, because all went dark.