Seven Steps to Murder

by Benjamin Ford

  “Is she dead?” queries the doctor.

  I nod, with a slight shrug. “There a pile of shattered wood at the bottom of the cliff, where the steps used to be. We could see what looks like a body in amongst the wreckage. I believe Mrs Hardcastle was wearing red last night?”

  Mrs Draper nods. “I thought she looked like a scarlet woman, but didn’t like to say anything. Oh my God, is she really dead?”

  I sigh despondently. “It’s hard to say, as there’s no way down to the beach, but with all that wood on top of her body, and from the distance she must have fallen, I’d say it’s inevitable that yes, she’s dead.”

  Mrs Draper buries her head in Waterfield’s chest. We can all hear her sobbing. I hadn’t been aware that the two women were close, and yet Mrs Draper is crying as though she’s just lost her best friend. Is it a woman thing, I wonder? Does the fairer sex cry more freely when someone has died, even if they didn’t know that person?

  “Should we go and check?” says Herbert. “She could be concussed or unconscious. She might be alive, but have broken bones.”

  Dr Runcible seems to agree. “If she lost consciousness before hitting the beach, her body might have been limp enough to survive the impact.”

  Mrs Draper looks up, wiping her eyes, which fix upon the doctor with desperation. “Oh, do you really think so?”

  “Oh yes,” says Runcible. “I saw such things in the war. It was like witnessing a miracle.”

  “Come along then, Herbert,” says Waterfield, striding from the room. “We shall go and check.”

  Herbert points to the window, where it’s clear for all to see just how much it’s still raining outside. “Have you seen the weather, Bertie?”

  Waterfield turns sharply. “Do stop calling me that. And yes, I have seen what the weather’s like outside, but this is my property and if someone’s hurt then it’s my responsibility to see if I can help. And you’re my brother, so I choose you to come with me.”

  Rather reluctantly, Herbert accompanies Waterfield from the room. The others follow, and after first checking on Rashid, I join them all in the hallway. Waterfield and his brother collect waterproof coats from the closet to the side of the front door, and then they brave the elements outside.

  I close the door after them, and turn to the others, who I think would have stood there in the driving rain, watching from afar. “Come on,” I say with a weak smile. “We’ll know more when they return. Until then we can do nothing, and the rest of you getting wet won’t help matters.”

  “Oh my dear boy,” says Mrs Draper, finally noticing my wet clothes, “you’re absolutely drenched. You should come with me. I’m sure Mr Waterfield won’t mind if you borrow some of his clothes. Not that they’ll be a perfect fit, mind, but at least they’ll be dry.”

  I smile my thanks. “I’ll fetch M. Rashid. He’s soaked through too.”

  I can tell from the expression on the woman’s face that she’s not pleased with this prospect. Can it be that she bears ill-will towards Rashid from his past misdemeanours against her former employer? It wouldn’t surprise me – she strikes me as that sort of person. But will she really allow a person – even one she actively dislikes – catch his death from wearing cold wet clothes?

  “Well, I suppose you’d better bring him! I expect Mr Waterfield’s clothes will fit him better than what he’s currently wearing.”

  This is true enough. Rashid’s clothes are so ill fitting that they must have been borrowed – or stolen – from someone else. They surely cannot have come from his wardrobe. I return to the drawing room, where Rashid is still slumped disconsolately on the fireside chair.

  I stand beside the chair and place my hand upon his shoulder gently. “M. Rashid; why don’t you come upstairs? Mrs Draper’s going to find us something dry do wear.”

  Rashid looks up at me, and I can see the distress in his eyes. After all the death he must have witnessed during the war, how can one woman’s demise have affected him so much? It has to be because they knew one another before all this. “Do – do you think she suffered?”

  I shake my head, even though I have no clear idea yet whether someone falling so far would have felt anything upon impact. Would a person die instantly? Would they lie there in agony for a while before passing? Would it be a short while, or dragged out for agonizing hours? In the end I just say: “I’m certain that Doctor Runcible was correct when he said she’d have probably passed out on the way down.”

  “So you think she is dead?”

  I nod. “You saw, as well as I, just how far she’d have fallen.”

  “What if she was lower down on the steps when they collapsed?”

  Rashid has a point, but my rational mind points out that if she’d been further down then more of the steps would have fallen on top of her, and her body probably wouldn’t have been visible at all. I add, almost as an afterthought: “If more of the steps had fallen on top of her, then the weight and force would have killed her. Either way, she’s surely dead.”

  Drying his eyes, Rashid agrees with my assessment. “Well, I hope she did not suffer. I saw enough such horrors in the war. I could not bear the thought of someone as nice as Mrs Hardcastle dying painfully.”

  “Forgive me for asking, M. Rashid, but I get the impression you knew Mrs Hardcastle already. Did you?”

  He shakes his head so emphatically that I am unconvinced of his honesty, but I leave it at that. He’s clearly upset, and questioning his truthfulness won’t make matters any better. I pat his shoulder. “Come on; let’s go and get changed.”

  Rashid stands and follows me upstairs. Mrs Draper stands at the doorway to Waterfield’s suite and ushers us in, almost as though she’s afraid of being caught by our host.

  “Are you sure Mr Waterfield won’t mind us borrowing some of his clothes?” I ask.

  “I think he’d mind more if you died of pneumonia in his house. Come along, I’ve laid out a couple of pairs of trousers and shirts for you. Bring your wet things downstairs again when you’ve changed, and I’ll hang them up next to the Aga. They’ll dry in next to no time there.”

  She departs, allowing Rashid and myself some privacy whilst we strip. The trousers are a little too long in the leg for both of us – Waterfield being upwards of six feet – and although the waistline for Rashid is just about fine, I’m going to need a belt. Since I wasn’t wearing one with my wet outfit, and Rashid was with his, I ask to borrow the belt, which he hands over to me silently.

  He’s shirtless, and as he turns around again, I see welts across his back which makes me suck in my breath sharply. “My God, what happened to your back?” I ask tentatively. I’m not sure he’ll give an answer as he quickly covers up his wounds with the white shirt laid out by Mrs Draper. “Did you get those in prison?”

  He shakes his head solemnly. “I was caught stealing food when I was in the Foreign Legion. I was rightfully punished for my crime, and I have stolen nothing since.”

  I am dumbfounded that prison seems to have taught him little. “Guess they don’t take kindly to thieves in the Foreign Legion then?”

  “No. Most of us were ex-convicts and murderers, but there are rules to be followed, even in the Legion. If you break them, you must pay the price. Mine was twenty lashes, and being staked out in the sun.”

  He turns to face me. “I should have joined many years earlier, and then I would not have been in half the trouble I was in.”

  “From what I understand, it was because of the trouble you were in that you joined in the first place.” I touch his back gently, and he flinches slightly. I can’t decide whether the wounds still hurt him or whether it’s more an emotional reaction. “Sorry,” I say and withdraw my hand.

  He shrugs. “It is all right. The fact that you saw my scars reinforces the fact that, no matter my desire, I must not steal from this house, or I have learnt nothing.”

  “Thou shalt not steal. It’s one of the Ten Commandments, after all.”

  “As is thou shalt not
commit murder, and eight others. And yet, I feel that more than one of those commandments will be broken here this day – though not by me.”

  I look at him curiously. “You know something that you’re not saying, don’t you, M. Rashid?”

  He looks at me. “Perhaps more than one of us here knows more than they are saying. There are many secrets being harboured here at West Cliff House, probably by each and every one of us.”

  I frown. “Are you saying you think one of us here is a killer? Do you think Mrs Hardcastle was killed deliberately?”

  Rashid takes a deep breath. “Murder is a very ugly word, Wilbur Cunningham. It should not be used to accuse lightly. But yes, one of us here is a murderer. I know this to be true. As for whether Mrs Hardcastle was murdered – well that depends.”

  I frown at his words. “On what?”

  “On whether or not she knew any one of the secrets that the rest of us harbour.”

  “Do you harbour any other secrets, M. Rashid?”

  “Other than those I have already divulged?” Rashid smiles solicitously. “I am very sure that I do.”

  I’m almost afraid to ask my next question. “And what of me? Do you think that I am hiding any secrets?”

  Rashid nods, his face suddenly solemn. “Oh yes, without question you are withholding certain facts from us, mon ami. Otherwise, I feel you would not be here along with the rest of us. As to what your secrets are – well, that remains to be seen.”

  He chuckles at my discomfiture, and then motions to the door, gathering his wet clothes. “Come, let us go. The others will most likely be back by now. We should rejoin them.”

  I watch him leave the room, suddenly uncomfortable in the company of these strangers. Rashid believes that at least one of us here is a killer. It remains to be seen which of the others will admit to it before another person dies.

  I just pray that the next dead person isn’t me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Upon my return downstairs I find that everyone has gathered in the drawing room. Mrs Draper is seated on the settee, her hands to her face crying plaintively, whilst old Dr Runcible tries his best to calm her. Surprise, surprise – Major Simmons has a drink in his hand. He’s stood over by the fireplace along with Rashid and Herbert, whilst our host paces back and forth by the full-height windows, wringing his hands in abject despair. He’s looking out into the rain and quite clearly cannot bear to face the rest of us.

  “Did you find her?” My forthright question is simple enough, and yet not one person seems able to respond. The thorny silence tells me all I need to know. “So – she’s definitely dead then.”

  Dr Runcible looks up from comforting Mrs Draper, his face a mask of fury. “Show a little respect young man!”

  I hold up my hands defensively. Perhaps my tone had been a little harsh.

  “As it happens, we couldn’t get close enough to find out,” says Waterfield, finally ceasing his pacing long enough to turn to the group. “That must have been quite a storm to have brought down the steps like that.”

  “Well, it was fairly ferocious,” I say succinctly.

  “I’ve had much worse storms than that before now, and the steps have survived every time.”

  I purse my lips. “Well, perhaps the number of storms those steps have endured was enough to make this the one to buckle them.”

  “That’s as maybe, but I’m still not convinced by it.”

  Rashid jabs animatedly at the window. “You have seen the evidence. Are you denying that there is a body at the foot of the cliff?”

  Waterfield shakes his head solemnly.

  “And do you honestly think it is anyone other than Mrs Hardcastle?”

  Again Waterfield shakes his head at Rashid’s question.

  “So what are you not convinced by?”

  Waterfield fixes Rashid with an unblinking stare. “I’m not convinced that the steps were demolished by the storm. All right, it’s possible that they were weakened by all the previous storms over the years, but when you were all coming up them yesterday, did any one of you feel that the steps were in danger of collapse?”

  We all exchange glances, and then shake our heads.

  “Well I’ve gone up and down those steps every day since I’ve lived here at West Cliff House, and I’ve got to know the feel of them over the years. If they’d become weakened enough for last night’s storm to cause a collapse then I’d have known about it.”

  Major Simmons takes a large gulp of the drink he’s nursing. “You appear to be implying that someone deliberately sabotaged the steps.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that I am.”

  Herbert asks his brother what no-one else dares. “Do you think it was someone here?”

  I catch Rashid’s eye. It seems he might know more than he’s letting on. He’d said that someone in the house was a murderer, and now it seems he’s not alone in his supposition.

  Waterfield nods. “Yes. I must confess the thought crossed my mind.”

  The atmosphere in the room changes dramatically. With one of us potentially branded a killer, suddenly we each regard everyone else with more than a modicum of suspicion. An expert killer can hide themselves in a crowd of strangers, and no-one would suspect them.

  Mrs Draper shies away from the comforting touch of Dr Runcible. Clearly even the good doctor isn’t above suspicion.

  “You could be wrong,” I say, my tone calm as I do not want to be labelled a potential killer. “The steps could have been destroyed by someone else. I said that I saw someone outside last night. It’s possible that it wasn’t Mrs Hardcastle that I saw. Perhaps there was someone else here; someone about whom we know nothing. I mean, if Mr Waterfield here didn’t invite us, then someone did. What if that person was here and had planned to trap us all here by destroying the steps?”

  Waterfield doesn’t seem convinced. “What – you mean he did so when Mrs Hardcastle was on her way down them?”

  I nod. “We don’t know what his motives are.”

  “Or her!” says Major Simmons suddenly, placing his emptied glass down on the sideboard. He pours himself another Scotch. “We mustn’t preclude the possibility that the person who fraudulently invited us here might be a woman!”

  Rashid nods emphatically. “I am certain we each has experience of how duplicitous a woman can be.”

  “Now you wait just one minute!” snaps Mrs Draper in extreme annoyance.

  Dr Runcible holds onto her arm. “I’m sure M. Rashid doesn’t include present company, my dear.”

  Mrs Draper extricates her arm and stands sharply. “Well he should make his meaning clear. At the moment he’s coming across as a misogynist bachelor, and if he keeps on like that, he’ll stay a bachelor!”

  “I am most apologetic, Madame Draper, I meant no disrespect,” says Rashid solemnly. “I am certain most women are not duplicitous, as I am also sure there are deceitful men out there – perhaps amongst us here, even. But my own personal experience with people of a duplicitous nature has been with the fairer sex.”

  Mrs Draper nods. “And my own opinion is that people of the most duplicitous nature are in fact men. So you and I seem to be at an impasse in that argument.”

  Dr Runcible clears his throat. “Well, whilst you both decide to disagree on the true nature of duplicity, we still have a dead woman on the beach; a beach that we cannot reach. What do you propose we do about the situation?”

  “We should telephone the police,” says Mrs Draper. “They can retrieve poor Mrs Hardcastle’s body, and also rescue us.”

  There is a murmur of assent, and we all turn expectantly to Waterfield. He looks at us each in turn, a look of fascinated dread on his face, and then turns back to the window.

  “There’s no telephone, is there?” I venture softly.

  Waterfield shakes his head. “I bought West Cliff House as a refuge in which to escape from the outside world. I have no wish to be disturbed by the goings on of others. I have never before had need of a telephone.”


  “What about emergencies? You must have made provision for them?” snaps Herbert irritably. It’s clear that the brothers not only don’t get along, but also don’t really know one another that well.

  Waterfield turns his attention from the window to the room once more. “What possible emergency could there be here that would require outside help?”

  “Well, what if you injured yourself or were taken ill?”

  “Then I would suffer alone. If I die here, then it’s because it’s my time.”

  Mrs Draper snorts derisively. “Very pragmatic, and very foolish. So what about if someone falls to their death on the collapsing steps outside?”

  “Well, that’s unlikely to happen, as the steps are very sturdy and well built, and I seldom have visitors.”

  “And here we are – in that very scenario!”

  I nod in agreement to Mrs Draper’s outburst. “I cannot believe you have no way at all to communicate with the mainland. You must have a radio or something!”

  Waterfield sighs deeply, and then nods. “There is indeed a radio. I haven’t ever needed to use it.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” Rashid’s exclamation of exasperation is echoed by the rest of the group. “Why on earth did you not say so before? Where is it?”

  “It’s in my study.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Through the library.”

  Dr Runcible shakes his head. “When we were looking for Mrs Hardcastle earlier we checked in the library. There is no other exit, and certainly no study.”’

  Waterfield moves towards the door. “There’s a secret panel, made to look like one of the bookcases in the library.”

  I don’t know if any of the group is as excited as me at the thought of a secret room, but I lead the way as we follow close behind our host as he leads us to the library.

  The entrance is the double doors to the side of the stairs that were closed upon my arrival. Waterfield throws them open with a flourish, and they bang against the walls on either side. The library is no less impressive than any other room in West Cliff House. Its curious vaulted ceiling is painted with a fairly faithful recreation of the ceiling from the Sistine Chapel, with a rather lithe looking Waterfield in place of Adam and a woman I now know to be his beloved Annie in place of Eve. It’s so ostentatious that it sheds new light upon our host’s vanity.