The Shrouded Walls

by Susan Howatch

  “Quite,” I said.

  Mr. Charles looked at me uneasily and then quickly looked away. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat again, “your husband did in fact catch up with Rodric and tell him that someone had killed Robert Brandson and that all the evidence pointed to the fact that Rodric had murdered him. Rodric was all for returning to Haraldsdyke and confronting the person he suspected of murder, but George begged him to be more prudent and eventually Rodric appeared to acquiesce and agree to go into hiding. George suggested they should make a faked death for Rodric for two reasons. First because Rodric would find it easier to flee the country if everyone thought him beneath the Marsh, and second because his mother wouldn’t have the same compulsion to clear his name—and thus perhaps jeopardize her own safety—as she would if he were alive and in exile. George said he knew it was a cruel thing to do, but he reasoned he was doing it as much for her own good as for Rodric’s; Mrs. Brandson had long been estranged from her husband, you know, and this would have given her a motive of sorts for his murder; if suspicion were diverted from Rodric it might well have fallen upon her.

  “George told Rodric to travel to Vienna and go to his house there for food and lodging. George said he would return to Vienna and meet him there as soon as the inquest was over, and in fact he did leave Haraldsdyke as soon as decency permitted and hurried overseas once more, even though Haraldsdyke was now officially his, subject to the one contingency he later fulfilled by marrying you. Robert Brandson, suspecting Rodric of being in league with Delancey and Vere of being incompetent in handling money, had evidently decided to entrust his wealth to your husband.

  “Now when George returned to Vienna, Rodric wasn’t there. He searched high and low for him, had inquiries made and so on, but he couldn’t gather together any evidence that Rodric had even left England. Naturally this made George very suspicious—especially when he remembered how Mary Moore, poor child, had come to him before he had left England with a wild story of seeing Rodric at Haraldsdyke after Rodric’s official death in the Marsh. George had dismissed the story at the time, but now he began to wonder. Supposing Rodric had changed his mind after they had parted, walked back to Haraldsdyke leaving his horse and hat by the mere as evidence of his death, slipped into the house by the back stairs and gone to the rooms of the person he suspected of murder in order to confront that person with the truth. And supposing that person had managed to kill him, hide the body and later bury it in secret so as not to disturb the convenient story of Rodric’s accidental death in the Marsh as he was guiltily fleeing from the scene of the crime—”

  “But Mr. Sherman,” I said, interrupting, “who is this person whom Rodric—and now my husband—suspect of Robert Brandson’s murder?” He looked at me as if surprised I had not already guessed, and made a gesture with his hands. “Who else but your brother-in-law Vere?”

  The candle flickered in the dark as a draft breathed from the casement frame, but the silence was absolute. I stared at Charles Sherman.

  “George suspected Vere from the beginning,” he was saying. “As soon as he returned to England he began to search for evidence and two days ago he found it and rode that same night to Rye to ask for my help. We agreed Vere must be guilty, and worked on a plan to trap him once and for all. We reasoned that Vere had cause enough to kill his father—since his father was threatening to go to the Watch at Rye, Vere’s whole future and livelihood were at stake. It was vital to him that his father should be silenced. Also Vere had the means and the opportunity to poison Mary, he knows about poisons which kill weeds in the soil and improve the agricultural qualities of the land, he probably has a stock of such poison somewhere on the estate. He could have tampered with the tea Mary drank—George tells me it was Vere who carried the tray upstairs from the hall.”

  “True ... So you and my husband are planning...”

  “What we hope will be a successful trap. We arranged that I should ride over here at dusk today and Axel would meet me at the gate and smuggle me up the back stairs to this attic where he would show me the evidence he had uncovered. We realized we would have to wait till after the funeral before putting our plan into action, as everyone would be too busy on the day of the funeral itself, but then at last when the funeral was over, who should arrive at Haraldsdyke but your brother Alexander! It at once seemed as if everything was doomed to failure, for George knew that if Alexander were once to speak to you alone, you would tell him every detail of the suspicions you had outlined in your long ill-fated letter which was never posted. Then Alexander would be sure to create havoc by making some unpleasant scene. George knew that he himself only needed another twenty-four hours grace, and he was quite determined that no one should interfere with his plans at that late stage. It was easy enough to keep you apart till morning, but when morning came George knew he had to act. In desperation he took some of Mrs. Brandson’s laudanum, went down to the kitchens and ordered tea. When it was ready he took the cup from the kitchens, put in the laudanum and gave it to the footman to take to your brother’s room.”

  “And then I panicked,” I said dryly, “And not without cause.”

  “No indeed,” Mr. Charles agreed. “Not without cause ... But before George followed you to Rye he left that same ill-fated letter of yours to your brother in the library where he knew that Vere would be sure to find it; apparently Vere usually goes to the library to write any correspondence connected with the estate or else to read the newspaper in the hour before dinner. When George brought you home, he told me he was careful to tell Vere to inform Alice that you would be sleeping alone in your apartments tonight. Then after putting you for your own safety in Rodric’s old room, he returned to the library—and found the letter had been moved slightly and the hair he had placed on it had fallen to the floor. So it was plain Vere had seen it. We were almost sure that on reading the letter Vere would decide that you knew too much for his peace of mind; in particular you knew about Vere’s past involvement with Delancey, and this you remember, was not common knowledge. It was supposed that Rodric, not Vere, was the smuggler and the traitor. We thought Vere would try and kill you and put the blame on your husband. According to George himself, one of the servants saw you ride off with young Ned to Rye this morning—it would soon be common knowledge within minutes, and everyone knows Ned’s reputation. Later they would think your husband had killed you in a rage.”

  My eyes widened. “You mean—”

  “But of course,” said Mr. Charles, “You’re not sleeping alone in your room, as Vere supposes. You’re safe here in the attic with me, even though your husband intended that you should be safely behind the door of Rodric’s room.”

  But I was not listening. There were footsteps in the corridor, light muffled footsteps, and the next moment the door was opening and Axel himself was entering the room.

  I stood up, covered with confusion, and sought feverishly in my mind for an explanation. Axel saw me, turned pale with shock and then white with rage, but before he could speak Charles Sherman intervened on my behalf.

  “George, I regret to say I’m to blame for this for your wife heard me and came upstairs to investigate. I thought it best to tell her a little about the situation so that she could assist us by being as discreet and silent as possible. I feared that if I kept her in ignorance she would have had a perfect right to complain very loudly indeed at my somewhat clandestine presence in her household.”

  Axel was much too adroit to ask me angry questions or to censure me in the presence of a stranger. I saw his face assume a tight controlled expression before he glanced away and pushed back his hair as if such a slight gesture could release some of his pent-up fury.

  “I apologize for leaving the room, Axel,” I said nervously, “but I thought the footsteps I overheard belonged to Alexander and I decided—wrongly, I know—to try to talk to him.”

  “It’s unfortunate,” he said without looking at me, “but now you’re here there’s little I can do to alter or amend the situat
ion.” He turned to Charles Sherman. “Everything is ready and everyone has gone to their rooms. We should take up our positions without delay.”

  “Which positions do you suggest?”

  “If you will, I’d like you to go to my apartments. You can hide yourself in the dressing room on the other side of the bedroom beyond the bed. I’ll be at the head of the stairs and will follow him into the bedroom and block his exit into the sitting room should he try to escape. We’ll have him on both sides then.”

  “By God, George, I hope your plan succeeds. Supposing he didn’t in fact read the letter? Or supposing he read it and decided not to act upon it in the way we anticipate?”

  “He must,” said Axel bluntly. “He’s killed three times, twice to protect the original crime from being attributed to him. He won’t stop now. Let’s waste no more time.”

  “No indeed, we’d better go at once.”

  Axel turned to me. “It seems I dare not trust you out of my sight,” he said dryly. “You’d better come with me.”

  In the doorway Mr. Charles stopped, appalled. “Surely, George,” he began, but was interrupted.

  “I would rather have my wife where I can see her,” said Axel, still refusing to look at me, “than to run the risk of her wandering about the house on her own and spoiling all our careful plans.”

  I said nothing. I was much too humiliated to argue, and I knew his lack of trust was justified.

  “And remember,” he said quietly to me as Mr. Charles went out into the corridor, “you must be absolutely silent and do exactly as I say. I don’t know how much Charles told you, but—”

  “Everything, within the limits of what he termed ‘delicacy.’ ”

  “Then you’ll understand how vital it is that nothing should interfere with our attempts to set a trap. I presume I may trust you not to scream no matter what happens.”

  I promised meekly to make no noise under any circumstances.

  We set off down the passage then, and as Axel carried a single candle, its light shaded with his hand, I was able to see the way without trouble. At the top of the back stairs, however, he extinguished the flame and put down the candlestick on the floor.

  “Follow me closely,” he whispered. “We’re going to the landing. If you’re frightened of not being able to keep up with me or losing me in the dark, hold the tails of my coat and don’t let go.”

  I smiled, but of course he could not see my smile for we were in total darkness. We started off down the stairs, my left hand on the bannisters, my right holding one of his coattails as he had suggested, and presently we stood in the passage below. When we reached the landing a moment later it seemed lighter, probably because there were more windows in the hall than up in the attics, and I was able to make out dim shapes and corners. Axel led me to the long window on one side of the landing and we stepped behind the immense drawn curtains.

  We waited there a long time. I felt myself begin to sway slightly on my feet.

  Beside me Axel stiffened. “Are you going to faint?”

  I looked coldly through the darkness to the oval blur of his face. “I never faint.”

  In truth I was shivering and swaying from excitement, nervousness and dread rather than from the arduousness of standing still for so long. I leaned back against the window to attempt to regain my composure, and then just as I was standing up straight at last I again felt Axel stiffen beside me. Following his glance I peered through the small gap in the curtains before us.

  My limbs seemed to freeze.

  A shape, muffled in some long pale garment, had emerged noiselessly from the dark passage and was crossing the landing to the stairs. Presently it reached the hall and disappeared. From far away came the faint click of a door opening and closing.

  I wondered where it had gone, but dared not speak for fear of breaking that immense silence. We went on waiting. And then at last the door opened far away and closed again and the next moment the pale shape emerged into the hall and came silently up the stairs towards us.

  I might have been carved out of stone. My limbs were quite still and the only moving organ in my body was my heart which seemed to be banging against my lungs with an alarming intensity. I was aware only of thinking: this is a murderer walking to meet his victim. And; I am the person he intends to kill.

  The figure reached the landing. There was nothing then except the shallowness of our breaths as we waited motionless by the slightly parted curtains. A moment later the shape had passed us and had begun to move down the corridor towards our rooms. It carried a gun, one of the guns used for shooting game, a gun such as the one which had killed Robert Brandson.

  “Follow me,” Axel’s order was hardly louder than an unspoken thought. “But not a sound.”

  He moved forward noiselessly.

  The door of our apartments was open. I saw a flicker of white enter the bedroom and for a moment to obscure the light of the single lamp burning by the window. Someone seemed to be asleep in the bed, but the light was uncertain, a mere dim glow from the table several feet away. And then as I watched, the figure in white raised the butt of the gun and began to bludgeon the shapeless form in the bed.

  My hand flew to my mouth, but even as I stood still in horror I saw the door of the dressing room open slowly, and as Axel reached the threshold Charles Sherman stepped out to stand opposite him across the room.

  The white figure with the gun ceased the bludgeoning, having no doubt realized as suddenly as I did that the figure in the bed was an illusion, a clever trap.

  There was a moment when time ceased and the scene became a tableau. Then at last: “So it was you who killed my father, Alice,” said Axel, appalled.

  She did not scream.

  All I remember now is the great stillness, the silence as if the whole house were suffocated by the shrouds of the mist outside. Even when Alice dropped the gun and began to move, she made no noise but seemed rather to glide across the floor, her white robe floating with an eerie grace so that it seemed for one bizarre moment that she was a ghost, a mere evil spirit seen on Hallowe’en. The gun fell softly onto the bed and made no sound.

  Both men stepped forward simultaneously, but Alice was too quick for them; as I watched I saw her hand flash out towards the dresser, grasp a small phial which stood forgotten among the ornaments and wrench off the cap with a quick twist of her strong fingers before raising the phial to her lips.

  It was the potion Dame Joan had given me, the potion overlooked by both Axel and myself in the distraction of Alexander’s arrival the night before.

  Alice drank every drop. Even as Axel shouted her name and sprang forward to stop her she had flung the empty phial in the grate, and after that there was nothing any of us could do except stare at her in shocked disbelief as she smiled back into our eyes, then the poison gripped her like a vice and she fell screaming towards the death which she had first intended for me.

  I had never heard a human being give such screams or twist her body into such contorted shapes. I stood watching, transfixed with horror, unable to move; and then suddenly all the world heeled over into a bottomless chasm and I did not have to watch her any more.

  For the first time in my life I fainted.

  Eight

  “She substituted that potion, of course,” said Axel. “Dame Joan wouldn’t have given you poison without Alice egging her on, and Alice did not even know you intended to see her mother that day. But later when her mother told her about the potion Alice must have seen a chance to dispose of you and so she substituted a jar of poison. Then when you apparently ignored the potion and remained alive she must have decided to club you to death by force—especially after she had heard the contents of the confiscated letter you wrote to Alexander and knew you believed Mary and were convinced Rodric was innocent of the crime. You were a great danger—not so much to her, but to Vere who was a more obvious suspect. So you had to be killed, quickly, before you could make any further attempts to display your suspicions to the wor
ld.”

  It was on the afternoon of the next day. We were in our own private sitting room and outside beyond the window a pale November sun was shining across the sweeping expanse of the Marsh. Downstairs Alice was laid out in the horrible yellow morning room where Mary had lain before her burial, and Vere was still shut in the room with his wife as if his poor grieving presence could somehow bring her back to him from beyond the grave.

  “I ought to have realized that Alice, not Vere, was the murderer,” I said. “If your father was killed because he was threatening to expose Vere’s association with Delancey’s smuggling, Vere could hardly have killed him because he didn’t know his father had found out the truth. When I overheard that conversation between Vere and Alice it was Alice, not Vere, who knew that Rodric had denied being involved with Delancey and had accused Vere of being the guilty one, and Alice who knew that Mr. Brandson more than half believed Rodric despite his earlier conviction that Rodric was guilty. I suppose that after Alice dragged Mary out of the saloon and pretended to go to the nursery to see the children, she must have slipped back to the saloon to eavesdrop on the entire quarrel. Then she would have realized that to save Vere from serious trouble she would have to kill Mr. Brandson before he could act on his suspicions, and then would have to try to make a scapegoat of Rodric.”

  “She succeeded very well in some respects,” Axel observed wryly. “Rodric had left his gun in the library after the quarrel; the weapon—the perfect weapon for involving Rodric—was waiting for her as soon as she herself entered the library. When Rodric left, my father went upstairs to talk to Esther to discover how much she knew, and while he was gone Alice must have entered the library from the saloon, picked up the gun and waited for him to return. Perhaps she waited behind the door and struck him as he came into the room ... I suppose it was this use of force that made me think of the act as a man’s crime. I never stopped to consider that Alice with her broad shoulders and strong arms was physically quite capable of committing the murder.”