Seven Steps to Murder

by Benjamin Ford

  We both crane our necks upwards. The atrium into which the staircase is built goes upwards a full storey above the next floor and is topped off with an impressive stained-glass window. Against the darkening sky outside, it’s difficult to see what the stained-glass depicts. My guess would be some religious iconography. When a flash of lightning illuminates it – accompanied by a near instantaneous crash of thunder – I can see I’m not totally wrong, but also not entirely correct.

  “Are they who I think they are?” I say in awe.

  Equally awestruck at the revelation, Herbert manages little more than a muted squeak.

  High up above us, picked out with near reverence in the multi-coloured fragments of glass, cradled in the joined hands of both the Devil himself and Jesus Christ, are three young men: Herbert, Cuthbert and another – whom I take to be the deceased third brother. They are much younger representations, but even composed of stained-glass, the two brothers are unmistakable.

  “Who’s the third man?”

  Herbert’s voice almost chokes as he says: “That’s Albert, our brother.”

  I nod. “I thought as much. He died in the war, didn’t he? Wasn’t that what Cuthbert said earlier?”

  Herbert looks bereft for a moment. I think he might be about to cry, so I put my arm around his shoulder.

  “Were you close brothers, back then, the three of you?”

  “Yes,” says Herbert after a moment or two of continued silence. “There once was a time when the three of us were inseparable. Just as brothers should be.”

  “What happened?” I ask gently.

  “War, that’s what happened. The war came, and war can make enemies out of close friends, and even out of brothers.”

  It’s not much of an answer, but instinct tells me it’s all I’m going to be told. I could press for more information, but I know it would be fruitless. Herbert’s not going to tell a complete stranger the secrets of his past, so I let it pass and change the subject.

  “What do you make of the others here tonight?

  Herbert smirks. “Scoundrels, the lot of ‘em I shouldn’t wonder.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Am I to be included in that presumptuous conclusion?”

  “I don’t know. Are you a scoundrel?”

  “Are you?”

  Herbert chuckles, wiping the dampness from his eyes. “You already know I’ve been in prison. I don’t think you can be much more of a scoundrel than that.”

  I have to agree. “And the others?” I gasp suddenly. “Was it you who invited them?”

  The smirk returns to Herbert’s face. “Hardly. I didn’t even know this house existed until I received my invite.”

  “Oh. It must have been one of the others then. Who do you suppose it could be?”

  Herbert shrugs. “I haven’t a clue. I honestly don’t know all of the people here tonight, and of those I do know, well let’s just say there’s more than one who’d like to see me back in prison.”

  I am intrigued by Herbert’s impression of how the others view him. Will he tell me more? I decide to be wary of pushing too hard for information. “I take it that you know M. Rashid? Were you in prison with him?”

  Herbert nods emphatically. “Oh yes. Now there’s someone with an axe to grind. You’d best watch your back with that one.”

  Curious, I ask: “What was he in for?”

  Herbert looks at me, his face a mask of seriousness. “He killed a man; in self-defence he told the courts. He told me otherwise, which puts me in a somewhat vulnerable position. If that information gets out, he knows it was me who blabbed, and he’ll come for me.”

  “Who did he kill?” I ask, intrigued by this salient fact about our companion. “Should the rest of us here be concerned?”

  “All I’ll say is that we should all lock our doors tonight, if we’re to spend the night here, and if we have to share a room – God help the poor blighter who has to bunk up with him!”

  In spite of the seriousness of his concern, I can’t help laughing at Herbert’s words.

  “It’s no laughing matter, young man,” he adds in his overtly serious monotone, and I feel suitably chastised.

  “You’re quite right, of course. I’m sorry!”

  Herbert is gracious in his acceptance of my apology.

  “So” I continue, hoping I’m not pushing my luck, “why did you burgle your brother’s London home?”

  Herbert shrugs in a non-committal manner. It’s as if he doesn’t really care what the reason was; like it’s immaterial. “Does it matter what my reason was? I burgled him; I was caught; I paid the price for my crime. And now it would seem that I am forgiven.”

  “Do you really think so? Do you think that’s why he invited you here this evening?”

  Herbert takes a deep breath and nods. “What other reason could he have?”

  I grasp hold of Herbert’s arm. “But haven’t we already decided it wasn’t him who asked us all here? Have you changed your mind on that?”

  Herbert shrugs again. “I don’t know anymore. If it wasn’t my brother, and it was one of the others, then which of them knows each of the rest of us?”

  It’s my turn to shrug now. “Who else do you know? Obviously your brother and M. Rashid. But who else amongst us?”

  “Well Mrs Draper was Bert’s housekeeper in London. She was the one who caught me red handed. Dr Runcible I know: he was the family doctor when we were growing up.” He pauses, perhaps a little too long. “And that’s it, really, other than Major Simmons.”

  “So you don’t know Mrs Hardcastle?”

  “Nor you; no.”

  “So,” I say with a meaningful pause, “that means one of us here must know everyone else. And if we find out which person that is, then we find out who sent out the cards.”

  “Who out of the group do you know then, Wilbur?”

  I turn to Herbert sharply and say without hesitation: “No-one. I can honestly say I’ve not met anyone here before this evening.”

  “Now isn’t that a queer thing then? Perhaps, even though you don’t know anyone here, someone knows you, young man?”

  I nod. “It’s possible, I suppose.” I sigh theatrically. “It’s all just a big mystery really, isn’t it?”

  Herbert agrees. “And I don’t like mysteries,” he mutters. “They never turn out well in novels, do they?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I leave Herbert at the bottom of the stairs. He rejoins the others, but I decide to continue my exploration of the house. I continue to be intrigued and excited by the architecture of the building. It’s been designed by someone with a keen eye for detail – even though some of the taste is perhaps questionable.

  The stained-glass roof over the stairs, for instance, might well be impressive, but it’s also rather lacking in taste and borders ostentation. It’s not pleasing to my own aesthetic, but then I don’t have to live here.

  The staircase itself is grand. The dark wood balustrade is ornately carved with woodland motifs; trees and other plants alternate with animals – badgers, foxes, deer and birds of varying kinds. It must have taken a very skilled and experienced woodcarver an awful lot of patience and time to carve each piece by hand, and there is little doubt in my mind that this house cost a huge amount of money. It’s had a lot of love and attention lavished upon every inch of its interior, and probably its exterior too.

  At the top of the initial flight of stairs is a landing, with the stairs continuing in two separate directions. A large Georgian styled window with stone mullions spans the middle third of the landing, framed on either side by a pair of tapestries depicting woodland scenes and religious iconography expertly intertwined. They are fascinating pieces, but I pass them by, intent on exploring the upper floor of the house.

  I hear footsteps behind me, and turn to find Rashid following me. I heed Herbert’s words of warning and keep a discreet distance between myself and this ex-con.

  “They are impressive, are they not?” he says, indicating the tapest
ries. “They are works of art, pure and simple. They belong in a museum.”

  I concur with his assessment. “This house is a treasure trove. I think everything here must be an antique, or at the very least worth a small fortune.”

  Rashid narrows his dark eyes at my comment. “Are you planning on robbing our host?”

  I laugh at the ridiculous notion. “I’d rather think that would be more your field of expertise!”

  “I saw you talking with Herbert. Was he talking about our time in prison together?”

  I can tell Rashid is fishing for answers, desperate to learn precisely what it is that Herbert told me. Well, let him wonder. I’m not about to cozy up to a criminal and take sides with one against another. I’ve never had to deal with criminals before, but I think I’d rather be in the company of a thief than a killer.

  “Did he tell you why he was in prison?”

  Obviously Rashid doesn’t want to let the matter go. Why is he so desperate for me to confirm that Herbert revealed his secret? Is it so he might judge me an added threat and do away with me in the night?

  Rashid continues in his soft voice: “He and I shared a cell for three months. He told me more than he thinks. I don’t know if he’s aware that he talks in his sleep.”

  Despite my reticence, I am actually intrigued. “What sort of things did he say in his sleep? Did he confess to burgling his brother, for instance?”

  Rashid laughs. “Oh he did much more than just burgle his brother. Did you know that they had another brother?”

  I nod. There’s no point in denying a flat out fact like that. “He was called Albert, and he died in the war.”

  “Indeed he did. Are you also aware that two of the brothers served together under the command of a Captain Julian Simmons when Albert Waterfield died?”

  “The Major?”

  “The very same.”

  I don’t understand why you’re telling me this, M. Rashid.”

  Rashid has a very sly look about him. He’s definitely not to be trusted. “I want to make certain that any facts you are told are told truthfully.”

  I wag a finger at Rashid. “You’re up to something, aren’t you? It was you who invited us all here, wasn’t it?”

  Rashid smiles. “Now why would I invite along a number of people whom I do not know, and more to the point have no interest in getting to know?”

  I ponder the question for a moment. “Because you want to accuse either the Major or Herbert of something, and you want witnesses?”

  “I have no need of a witness to my accusation, mon ami. I have made my accusation already, and received a full confession. Alas, if you were hoping that it was I who invited you here, then I must disappoint. I am as in the dark about the motive behind bringing us here as you.”

  “It’s becoming quite frustrating,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who has a hundred better things I could be doing right now.”

  “Such as?”

  I’m not about to tell this stranger how I prefer to spend my free time. “Well, anything would be better than being stuck on this rock with half a dozen or so people I don’t know, for reasons also unknown.”

  “I agree, mon ami, but stuck here for the night we are, and so perhaps we should make the best of our situation.”

  I am forced to agree. “So, are you and Herbert planning a heist together?”

  Rashid’s eyes light up and he laughs heartily. “Ah, so that is what he told you. He was not as clever as I. He was caught when he tried to rob his brother; I was not. Until I arrived here, I did not even know he was going to be here tonight. So alas no, we are not planning a robbery together.”

  I lean in close to him. “You have your eye on that Fabergé egg though, don’t you?”

  Rashid turns to me. “Do you imagine that I am the only one who has noticed it? I should think not. It is probably the sort of thing Herbert would try to steal. It is small, and will fit easily into a pocket – or a clutch!”

  He smiles at my surprise. “Oh, my dear fellow, do not presume that burglaries are the province of only men. There are two women here tonight who have also had their eyes on that fabulous piece, and I would put it past neither one of them to attempt something before morning.”

  Try as I might, I cannot imagine Mrs Draper trying to steal from Cuthbert Waterfield. Perhaps one of his vintage bottles of wine – although, judging from the way he put the wine away at dinner, I’d lay that particular potential crime squarely at the Major’s door – but not the exquisite egg.

  But then again, who knows? I don’t know her after all, and first impressions can always be deceiving. It would be foolish to put anything past the woman.

  In fact, it would be foolish to put anything past anyone here at the house. After all, someone still sent out the invitations!

  Rashid steps back to admire the paired tapestries. “These are particularly fine, do you not think?”

  I have to admit that they are very fine indeed. Up close, it’s easy to see the exceptional needlework that has gone into crafting the tapestries. I cannot begin to fathom how long they must have taken to make. “Are they very old, do you think?”

  “Early last century, I shouldn’t wonder. Possibly not the most valuable examples on display in this house, but they tell a story.”

  I step back to gaze upon them fully. I’m obviously not seeing what Rashid can, and I shake my head in bewilderment. “What story?”

  “They depict aspects of good and evil, from Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden to wars across the centuries.”

  I frown, and squint at the tapestries. I cannot see the wars depicted. I cannot even see Adam and Eve. All I see is trees and animals.

  But then I see them; not in the main parts of the tapestries, but in the narrow borders made of golden thread. Eve stands at the top of one, reaching out to Adam who strides atop the second. On the inner edges, up the full height of each tapestry, is embroidered the tree from which the apple hangs, a forbidden fruit, and from the apple on each tapestry springs the serpent, coiling itself around the legs of Adam and Eve, and then splitting off around the remainder of each work of art to form soldiers fighting and slaying one another – Romans, Roundheads and Cavaliers, and soldiers from a great many different nations and ages – before becoming graves marked with crosses along the bottom of each tapestry which then gradually merge back into the roots of the apple tree.

  I am awestruck. “I hadn’t noticed that imagery around the edge. It’s simply stunning.”

  Rashid nods. “A work of art such as this should be on display in a museum for all to see, not squirrelled away in a private collection. That is what I think about a great number of private collections.”

  I turn to him. “Is that why you burgle the houses of the rich? To divest them of their treasures so that they can be viewed by the public?”

  Rashid laughs, and shakes his head. “No, mon ami, that would be foolish. The works of art would be returned to their owners quicker than I could steal them if that was my plan. It would be a waste of energy. No – I steal and sell to the highest bidder so that I can live, and then when I have enough money I legitimately buy works of art and donate them to art galleries and museums.”

  I suddenly feel slightly more respect for this man. It doesn’t alter the fact that he’s a convicted criminal who profits from his crimes. He has paid for some of his crimes, but there must surely be others for which he has gone unpunished, and criminals should be punished for all crimes, not just those of which they are found guilty.

  Still – I have to admire the tenacity of this small foreigner, whose sole motive for burglary (above the need to make money from his ill-gotten gains in order to survive) is to allow the public to admire and experience the joys of works of art. No matter how he achieves this, I suppose it should be commended in some small way.

  As I stand here admiring both the artistry before me and the guilty passions of the man beside me, another flash of lightning outside illu
minates the gardens below. They are a part of the estate that I’ve yet to explore even minimally, but this brief elevated view affords me the chance to see that ordered elegance extends to the outside as well.

  My attention, however, is distracted by a flash of movement over to my left. Out in the rain-lashed gardens, someone is running off into the distance. Once the lightning dies away, plunging the gardens once more into darkness, I grasp Rashid’s arm.

  “Did you see that?” I gasp.

  Rashid removes my hand irritably. “Did I see what, exactly?”

  “Someone outside?”

  Rashid snorts derisively at the suggestion. “Why would anyone be out there in this weather? They’d have to be absolutely mad!”

  I agree, but nevertheless, I am certain I saw someone outside. As the seconds tick by whilst I await another burst of lightning, Rashid jostles my arm.

  “Come on, we should have a look around on the next floor.”

  For a moment, I don’t want to move from the window, but then rational thought kicks in. Rashid’s right – no-one in their right mind would be out in this weather.

  I turn and follow him up the remainder of the stairs on the left.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It has to be said, the bedrooms at West Cliff House – in the west wing at least – aren’t quite up to the elegant standards of the rest of the property. They’re perfunctory and staid, lacking in the character we have so far witnessed.

  The first three rooms that Rashid and I take a look at are neutral in colour and, though tasteful in decoration, bland beyond belief. Cream walls and chocolate carpets are matched with equally boring beige bed linen. The furniture is also dull.

  The next two are a little more jazzed with cherry carpets that pop with vibrancy and pale pink walls that might actually be white reflecting the bright carpets. There is also cheerful floral bed linen, indicating that these rooms would usually be allocated to female guests.

  The final two rooms are more masculine; a deep blue for the carpet and white walls, and bedding of matching blue and white, with white furniture. Whist the pink rooms remind me of a country garden, these two remind me of the sea.