Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  Rose trudged back from South Lodge deep in thought. She made her way through the grounds that had so bewitched Sergeant Bell when he had looked out through the library window to take in the view. The gardens and parkland usually had a similar effect on her, but this morning her thoughts were elsewhere. In truth, they still lay with Mrs Masters huddled on the settee in her shawl and blanket, her head propped up with cushions and a pillow. On reflection, it seemed to Rose that, despite an unpromising and faltering start, she had learnt a good deal from Mrs Masters. The murdered man had been a decent, likeable fellow, who was unlikely to have accrued many enemies during his lifetime. It was true that this assessment of the man’s character had been provided by his widow, and that quite understandably Mrs Masters may have wished to paint her husband in an overly favourable light. However, the obvious affection that she had felt for her husband could not be denied. Her appearance, shrivelled and pathetic, ever on the verge of tears, had given credence to her words, and Rose had found herself genuinely moved. And it would be easy enough to corroborate, this description of the man’s character. All that would be required was to have a word with the maid, Biddy. So it was not this that worried her, that absorbed her thoughts or brought a crimson flush to her cheeks. What occupied her mind as she walked was how she might tactfully convey to Inspector Newcombe that he tread gently in his questioning of Mrs Masters, not that the man didn’t have far more experience in such matters than she did herself.

  Rose bit her lip and slowed her pace; her mother, had she been there, would have said that she dawdled. Really, it was no good trying to convince herself that her concern focused only on Mrs Masters’ wellbeing. The truth of the matter was that she was apprehensive. The policemen were probably already ensconced in the library at Sedgwick Court, and she would be obliged to inform the inspector that she had taken it upon herself to interview the murdered man’s wife.

  ‘Was that Miss Spittlehouse on the telephone?’ enquired Harold Whittaker of Archie Mayhew when the young man had returned from his telephone call.

  ‘Yes,’ said Archie rather absently. He resumed his seat and took up his copy of the trust deed that the two of them had been reviewing. However, he found it difficult to tear his thoughts away from the conversation he had just had with Daphne. How he was going to be able to concentrate on something he found interminably dull at the best of times, he didn’t know. Really, these trust deeds were such dreary things, the thought that he might have to draft such documents for the next thirty years or so was quite unbearable …

  ‘Archie, are you all right?’

  Uncle Harold’s words brought him up with a start. He was alarmed to discover that the older man was looking at him rather peculiarly. Even in his distracted state, Archie was painfully aware that the solicitor was regarding him rather more intently than was usual. It was a strange look; he was not mistaken. It was not his uncle’s usual concerned way of looking at his nephew, a mixture of genuine anxiety and rather bitter disappointment. At least that was always what it seemed like to Archie. This was the look he gave him when he had made a mistake in naming the parties to a document, or when he had been particularly rude or insolent to a client.

  Archie had intended to say nothing about the content of his telephone conversation with Daphne until he had had time to think what best to do. Far better to be quiet and thought wanting, than to open his mouth and blurt out something that he could not take back. Yet it seemed that his mouth thought otherwise, for the words came tumbling out as if of their own accord.

  ‘No, I’m not as it happens. Miss Spittlehouse has just told me something quite extraordinary. Rather distressing in fact. I can’t quite believe it to be true.’

  ‘Archie, my dear boy, what is it? She hasn’t thrown you over?’

  Harold Whittaker was almost out of his seat. His voice held the expected note of pity, but also something else that Archie couldn’t quite put his finger on. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have said that it was relief.

  ‘No, she hasn’t done that.’ Archie gave rather a bitter laugh. ‘It hardly sounds believable. If I didn’t know Daphne better, I’d have said she’d made it up as a bit of a joke.’ Archie paused a moment to pass a hand across his forehead. ‘Apparently her servant has been murdered. Masters, I think she said his name was.’

  ‘No! Oh, how terrible for the poor girl. No wonder –’

  ‘It happened last night, at the bonfire.’

  ‘What?’ There was a touch of fear in Harold Whittaker’s voice. ‘Oh, how awful.’

  ‘There was talk of a body in the office this morning by the juniors; I didn’t really think anything of it. But you said you thought something had happened last night, don’t you remember, Uncle Harold? You said you were all herded off to Sedgwick Court to watch the firework display and you had to give your name.’

  ‘But my dear boy, I didn’t think it had anything to do with a murdered body,’ protested the solicitor. He averted his gaze to look out of the window, which overlooked the high street. ‘At the Sedgwick bonfire festivities you say?’ he spoke slowly, as if he were mulling it over in his mind. ‘Dear me, how frightful. And to think I was there.’

  ‘Yes you were, weren’t you?’ Archie looked at Harold Whittaker rather strangely. ‘I did wonder what you were doing there. I meant to ask you. I didn’t think you set much stall by fireworks, you never did when I was a boy if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it was all the talk about it in the office yesterday,’ said the solicitor hurriedly, though to Archie’s keen eye he appeared somewhat flustered. ‘What with shutting up the shop early, I thought I might as well see them for myself.’

  ‘I wish you’d said,’ Archie sounded rather riled. ‘I would have asked for a lift. I suppose you did drive your car?’

  ‘Miss Spittlehouse’s servant, you say,’ said Harold Whittaker, returning to the first part of their conversation. ‘Well I never!’

  ‘Yes. It appears that someone mistook him for Major Spittlehouse. He was wearing the major’s jacket, you see.’

  ‘Good Heavens! Is Major Spittlehouse all right?’ Harold Whittaker looked as if he had had a very bad fright. The colour had quite drained from his face and he was now clutching the table.

  ‘You haven’t lost a client, if that’s what you are worried about,’ said Archie rather coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing his uncle blush.

  ‘Well, of course not. How can you think such a thing?’ Harold Whittaker sounded indignant.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It’s this business. I can’t tell you what a shock it was to me, when Daphne told me. Of course, I had never met the fellow but –’

  ‘It’s quite understandable old chap,’ said Harold Whittaker indulgently. ‘It’s quite natural that you should feel upset on Miss Spittlehouse’s account, very natural indeed.’ He put the document that they had been perusing aside. ‘I daresay this old trust deed can wait a few hours. It’s not going to go wandering off, now is it?’ He gave a weak laugh. ‘There’s a pile on my desk of other matters that require attending to, quite as urgent as this one. What say you pop in to Sedgwick and pay Miss Spittlehouse a visit? It’ll put your mind at rest and Miss Spittlehouse is certain to appreciate it. I am sure the office can manage to operate without you for an hour or two.’

  ‘No,’ said Archie, rather more loudly than he had intended. ‘I don’t want to see her.’

  Harold Whittaker looked quite taken aback. Really, he couldn’t understand young people these days. If he had not been so preoccupied with his own thoughts, he might have asked Archie why he did not wish to comfort the woman to whom he was engaged, particularly if it meant leaving the office. Equally, Archie Mayhew on his part, if he had not been brooding, might have wondered why Harold Whittaker was so eager to be alone. And if he had gone so far as to study his uncle closely, he would have noticed that for some quite inexplicable reason his hand was shaking.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘You wen
t to South Lodge and spoke with the deceased’s wife?’ said Inspector Newcombe.

  The question was a rhetorical one, for Rose had just given him a comprehensive summary of her interview with Mrs Masters. She stared at the policeman and bit her lip. It was rather difficult to tell how he had taken the news, that was to say, whether he was very annoyed or merely a little surprised. After a minute of wondering, his jaw clenched and there was the sound of a slow intake of breath gradually released. With a sinking heart she realised that inwardly he was furious, and only with considerable effort was he managing not to give any obvious outward sign. If she was left in any doubt as to the accuracy of her assessment, a quick glance at Sergeant Bell, whose face was far more expressive of feeling than his superior’s, showed that he was of a similar view. For his eyes were like saucers and he was regarding the inspector with a mixture of anxiety and interest, awaiting the inevitable explosion which was yet to materialise.

  ‘I do appreciate that it probably wasn’t my place to do so and that you would much rather I hadn’t,’ Rose said rather quickly. ‘But you see I wanted to discover from my mother how Mrs Masters had spent the night. I felt it had been rather an imposition on her, taking in the woman who was a stranger, as she had.’ This explanation was not altogether a truthful one, and Rose watched the inspector’s face apprehensively, wondering whether he would accept her excuse, and look more leniently upon her behaviour.

  The expression on the policeman’s face suggested otherwise but, if Inspector Newcombe’s intention was to admonish her, he clearly thought better of it. Perhaps he was conscious that he was a guest in her house, enjoying her hospitality, or that he had given her permission to assist him with their enquiries. Or perhaps he simply had more pressing matters to attend to. For whatever reason, when he spoke next he merely asked:

  ‘You didn’t mention the jacket or the possibility that her husband may have been murdered in mistake for Major Spittlehouse?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ replied Rose hurriedly, grasping at the olive branch. ‘Mrs Masters was most dreadfully upset as you’d expect. It was obvious she had been very fond of her husband. It had been only a few hours since she had been told of his death, and that he had been murdered at that. To tell her that he might have been killed in mistake for their employer … well, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

  ‘Still, it will have to be done,’ said the inspector rather grimly, ‘particularly if what you said about those letters is true.’

  ‘Oh, it is, I am quite certain of it,’ said Rose earnestly. ‘Mrs Masters didn’t strike me as the type of woman who would exaggerate or tell lies. She is not one given to talk, I’d say. She really would much rather not have mentioned it at all. But you do see, don’t you, Inspector, why I couldn’t say anything about the jacket? Masters really wasn’t the sort of servant to wear his employer’s clothes. She’ll be awfully upset to learn that he was wearing the major’s jacket when he died.’

  ‘Well, I daresay there was a reason why he was, which will reveal itself in due course,’ said the inspector rather grudgingly. ‘If this woman is as fragile in her emotions as you say, we’d better wait a while before we question her.’ He rose and began to pace the room. ‘As it happens, I’d like to speak to the major first. I’d like to know if he had any enemies. If we tell him we believe he was the intended victim, he might be a bit more forthcoming than he was last night, when he was in shock and worried about his sister.’ He returned to the desk and began to gather his papers together. ‘And I’d like him to tell us about these poison pen letters. What was in them, that’s what I’d like to know. It was a pity they were hand delivered. I’d have liked to have learnt from the post mistress if he was the only person to have been sent one.’ He looked over at the sergeant. ‘You go and have a word with the servants here, Bell. Happen as not one or two of them might have heard something; if anyone else had one of these letters, I mean. In my experience it’s not the sort of thing that those who receive them want to broadcast, but it’s the food of gossip for their servants. In a small village like this you’d expect it to be common knowledge. If it isn’t, and it appears Major Spittlehouse was the only recipient of these letters, well, then it’ll lead me to believe the major was probably being blackmailed.’

  While Sergeant Bell went to interview the servants, realising there would be a delay of sorts before the major arrived to be interviewed, Rose made her own excuses and left the library. On enquiry, she was informed by Manning that Lord Belvedere had gone to see one or two members of the Bonfire Committee. She felt herself rather at a loss as to how she might best occupy her time until Major Spittlehouse arrived. It occurred to her that she might think of the questions she would like to put to him. Though he might still be slightly riled with her, she thought the inspector was likely to permit her to attend the interview. The gardens initially drew her, appealing to her as an ideal setting for such an activity. However, she had already been out in them that morning and she hesitated a moment feeling indecisive.

  Her mind drifted to Sergeant Bell, and she imagined him in the servants’ hall trying to secure information from her servants. While they might very well be tempted to gossip to him left to their own devices, she thought it likely Mrs Farrier would soon put a stop to such tendencies. Rose had learnt that, as a rule, senior servants did not like police to be in a house, and she thought it probable that Sergeant Bell had yet to learn the fine art of interrogating servants successfully. She thought fondly of Sergeant Lane, who had had such a wonderful knack of ingratiating himself with the cook and female staff of any house, and then her thoughts drifted almost inevitably and seamlessly to Inspector Deacon and the last time she had seen him in Madame Renard’s flat …

  Rose brought herself up short. She must have something more tangible to do than pose questions in her mind to ask Major Spittlehouse later. Her butler, Manning, was rather a good gossip, or at least he had been before he had succeeded to the role of butler, a position which had been vacated by the formidable Torridge following his retirement. Was it appropriate, she wondered, to gossip with one’s butler? It had been different when she had been a guest in the house and Manning had been the under-butler. Then she had occupied a relatively lowly position in society and Manning had deemed her approachable to ask for directions, being rather nervous at the time of addressing Lady Lavinia Sedgwick.

  Rose had just decided that she would ring for Manning, as her priority must surely be the investigation rather than propriety, when Edna came into vision. It seemed that fate had intervened and she requested that the girl join her in her boudoir.

  ‘Oh, miss. Oh, m’lady. There’s such a to do downstairs. Mrs Farrier’s been like a bear with a sore head all morning. She’s had all the maids cleaning the place top to bottom. Says the children have left marks from their sticky little paws everywhere. It’s that black treacle toffee, that’s what it is. It’s a devil to wash off the walls and get out of the tablecloth.’ She giggled. ‘Some little rascal even trod a piece into the carpet in her sitting room, deliberate like. It must have been when you were talking to them because they weren’t allowed in there otherwise. Mrs Broughton says they’ve even been into her pantry and helped themselves to sugar and pork pies. Ever so cross about it, she is.’

  Edna had paused for breath and Rose realised that, had the circumstances been different, had yesterday not ended in tragedy, she might well be laughing at the children’s exploits. Cedric had been right to hold the firework display at Sedgwick Court; the children had obviously enjoyed themselves immensely. She wondered whether it would be enough to wash away the taste of death when they learnt of the murder.

  ‘Lord Belvedere and I very much appreciated all your efforts last night. I am sorry it created so much additional work for you all.’

  ‘Oh, none of us really minded,’ said Edna, ‘save for Mrs Farrier and Mrs Broughton of course; rather set in their ways, they are. It’s nice to see the young ’uns enjoying themselves and it makes a bit of
a change for the rest of us.’ She took a step or two forward and lowered her voice to a loud whisper. ‘Is it true what they’re saying, miss? That there was a murder last night and that’s why there is police in the house?’

  ‘I am afraid it is, Edna. Major Spittlehouse’s manservant, Masters, was killed.’

  ‘No! Someone thought it was him, only I hoped it wasn’t. Ever such a nice man he was. Biddy will be that upset. Adored him, she did. Said she would have liked him to have been her father, ’cause she never knew her own, growing up in an orphanage as she did.’

  ‘Mrs Masters said Biddy would be upset.’

  All the while Rose had been pacing the room, stopping every now and then to adjust the position of ornaments, wondering how best she might approach the subject of the poison pen letters.

  ‘You’re going to find out who murdered him, aren’t you, m’lady?’ asked Edna anxiously. ‘I know he weren’t gentry but he were a good man. I’d hate to think his killer might go unpunished.’

  ‘You know that I don’t only concern myself with the deaths of the aristocracy,’ said Rose. ‘Of course I will do my very best to find his murderer. In fact, it seems to me he is the most deserving of justice of all the deaths I have investigated. Now,’ she continued, grabbing her opening, ‘if you’d like to help me catch his murderer, perhaps you could answer a question for me?’

  ‘Oh, anything I can do to help, m’lady, you’ve only got to ask,’ replied Edna with great sincerity.

  ‘Well, sit down and I will.’

  ‘Mrs Farrier won’t be best pleased if she finds me sitting in your boudoir. She’ll think I’m taking liberties, she will.’

  ‘Well, I should like you to do as I ask, and if Mrs Farrier has words with you about it, you must tell her I requested it.’ The little lady’s maid perched on the edge of a chair, sitting very upright. ‘Now, Edna, I daresay you may think this rather a strange question, but do you by any chance know if anyone in Sedgwick has received some rather unpleasant letters?’