Murder on Bonfire Night
Page 25
‘That is as maybe,’ said Inspector Newcombe rather gruffly, a vision of the grieving widow still firmly in his mind. He didn’t like the way Miss Spittlehouse spoke of her servant, he didn’t like it at all. He felt aggrieved for the poor woman and it made him speak more brusquely than perhaps he ought. There was little sign now of a smile upon his face as he said: ‘But it seems she spoke the truth. That’s to say you discussed the matter with Lady Belvedere and you gave thought as to whether you should mention it to us. And you decided to, if what Lady Belvedere says is true and I’ve no reason to doubt your ladyship’s word.’ Here he paused to give a brief nod in Rose’s direction. ‘Very commendable, I’m sure. But there is no getting round the fact that it gave you a motive, Miss Spittlehouse, though it sounds awful to say it out loud. It’s not something that bears thinking about, a sister trying to do away with her own brother, especially one who as good as brought her up.’
‘You are not suggesting I tried to murder Linus last night, Inspector?’ cried Daphne, considerably taken aback by the abruptness of the inspector’s words and the change in his manner towards her. There was a note of anguish in her voice and she had gone very white.
To Rose’s mind the woman was clearly horrified at the suggestion. Yet had not she herself made such a supposition? And hadn’t Daphne as good as admitted that there was some truth in it? Was this all an act, she wondered; the pale face, the way Daphne had leapt up from her chair as if in horror and disgust? And hadn’t she herself been in some way complicit? For hadn’t she provided Daphne with advance notice of what the police might suspect?’ She was reminded that Daphne’s voice had been very clear. She had looked Inspector Newcombe directly in the eye. He in turn had given her a penetrating look. But Daphne had not flinched or looked away. Instead, she had returned his gaze, and the colour was coming back slowly to her cheeks. Was it Rose’s imagination, or had the corners of the woman’s mouth turned up slightly into something resembling a brief smile. Really, she didn’t understand Daphne at all.
‘No, I am not, Miss Spittlehouse,’ said Inspector Newcombe. ‘I don’t doubt for a minute that you are innocent of trying to kill your brother. Lady Belvedere has already put forward a very convincing argument as to why you are unlikely to have been the culprit. No,’ he paused and leaned towards her, ‘I don’t think that at all.’
If the inspector’s words had been meant to comfort her then he had failed most miserably in his aim. For Daphne’s face was now deathly pale and her lip trembled. She sank back into her recently vacated chair and Rose wondered whether she was about to give way to weeping or even about to faint. Certainly there was a desolate air about her now. Rose stared at her curiously. Why had Daphne reacted so? What could be worse than being accused of trying to murder one’s own brother?
‘You think I had an accomplice, don’t you? You think Archie meant to kill my brother and killed Masters by mistake,’ cried Daphne, as if in answer to Rose’s unspoken question. ‘Well, you are quite wrong, Inspector. Archie would never agree to do such a thing even if I were to ask him, which of course I wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, I don’t think Archie Mayhew was your accomplice, Miss Spittlehouse,’ said the inspector watching her closely. ‘Far from it. I won’t say it didn’t cross my mind and that you had a perfectly good motive for wishing your brother dead. But when all is said and done, so did Mr Mayhew.’ He leaned forward again and smiled. ‘No, Miss Spittlehouse, I think it much more likely that Archie Mayhew tried to kill your brother of his own volition.’
‘Archie wouldn’t,’ said Daphne, close to tears. ‘It’s hateful for you to say such a thing.’
‘I’m afraid, in my line of work, there are a lot of things we have to do and say that seem unpleasant to those who are not thus employed,’ said the inspector dryly.
‘Do you have any evidence to support your theory that Mr Mayhew is the murderer, Inspector?’ asked Rose.
Inspector Newcombe stared at her and frowned. Her interjection was not welcome; it was written clearly enough on his face. Daphne, however, looked up and caught her eye. There appeared a glimmer of hope in the woman’s face. She had been desperate but now she looked less wretched. Rose ploughed on, spurred on by goodness knew what.
‘I appreciate that Mr Mayhew may have had a motive and therefore is a suspect,’ said Rose, ‘but is there any particular reason to suppose that he is the actual murderer?’
‘I should have thought you could have answered that question most satisfactorily yourself, Lady Belvedere,’ Inspector Newcombe said, a little brusquely. ‘It was you after all who drew our attention to the fact that the murderer did not know Major Spittlehouse particularly well. That is to say, he recognised a man as having vaguely the same build as the major and wearing his jacket but in the dark could not distinguish his features from that of his servant.’ The inspector turned his focus to Daphne, who was watching the exchange between the two of them most avidly. ‘I do not suppose, Miss Spittlehouse, that Mr Mayhew knew your brother well? My understanding is that they had only met on a couple of occasions, and only then in the course of business. Mr Mayhew is employed by Messrs Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker in Bichester, isn’t he? I believe he helped draw up some legal document or other for Major Spittlehouse.’
Daphne nodded dully but said nothing.
‘Mrs Masters was most emphatic that Mr Mayhew had never been invited to Green Gables. She made a particular point of mentioning it. It stands to reason then that your young man would have had no cause to ever have set eyes on Masters. It would be easy enough therefore to mistake one for the other in the dark, two men who looked approximately alike and one wearing the other’s jacket. A simple mistake to make, I’d say.’ The inspector gave her something of a sympathetic look. ‘We have checked and, apart from some minor legacies, you are the sole beneficiary under your brother’s will, Miss Spittlehouse. In the event of your brother’s death, you will inherit your family’s fortune. It will make you a very wealthy woman.’
The inspector was not so heartless as to add that it would also make her a very attractive marriage proposition to any young man seeking social and financial advancement with little effort. He neither said nor inferred that it would also provide the necessary inducement for a young man of astounding good looks and charm to consider marrying a woman somewhat older than himself who possessed neither beauty nor a particularly pleasing or sparkling personality. The inspector did not say anything of the sort, but it was still in the minds of the other three people in the room. Sergeant Bell thought it as he scribbled down his notes in a neat hand; Rose thought it as she glanced over at the other woman with something akin to pity; and Daphne most definitely felt the implication, for her cheeks flushed pink and she stared down miserably at a little patch of carpet beside her feet. The room had suddenly become quiet and no one seemed inclined to speak. It was as if each were expecting the other to break the silence.
After a while, a little sound emitted from Daphne’s lips. It was like the noise of the wind caught for a moment in a handful of leaves, picking them up lightly and then scattering them as they fell. Daphne Spittlehouse looked as if she had experienced the same shock as one of those discarded leaves. For a moment her eyes were wide and very clear and then she blinked and her eyelashes appeared to flutter in that same breeze. Rose watched as the woman tried desperately to compose herself. It was Daphne’s mouth that betrayed her in the end, not the expression on her face, for the words came tumbling out before she could stop them.
‘He didn’t know about the terms of my parents’ will. I didn’t tell him.’ She spoke in a small voice that seemed to gather momentum and with it conviction. She said more firmly: ‘I kept it from him.’
‘Are you quite sure of that, Miss Spittlehouse?’ the inspector’s voice was sceptical.
‘Oh, yes, quite certain,’ Daphne said, in something of a breathless voice.
She tried to put that awful telephone conversation with Archie out of her mind. She had accused him o
f … Yes, but he hadn’t admitted anything, had he? Perhaps her thoughts had been playing tricks on her, making her believe things that were not there. She had suspected that her brother had spoken with him. While it was true that Archie hadn’t denied it as such, had he actually admitted it? She couldn’t remember. Daphne tried desperately to recall their conversation but it was an impossible task to perform under the watchful, suspicious eye of the inspector. She thought on balance, however, he hadn’t. And, besides, she clung on frantically to the belief that Linus would not have told the policemen if he had spoken with Archie; she was sure of it. He would think of it as washing their dirty linen in public and he would be loathe to do such a thing. He would hate it like poison. For once she rejoiced in her brother’s character.
But, even as she felt the wave of relief wash over her, there appeared another cloud. What about Archie? Would he say anything? He was so young, and his feelings so transparent, that they revealed themselves freely and with such vividness in his face. She felt a sudden almost maternal protectiveness towards him. He did not have the bitter experience of life that came with age. He would not realise that they were trying to trap him in to making a confession. He would answer their questions truthfully and with an earnestness that came with youth. She bit her lip. She must speak with him before they interviewed him. He had told her that it was better if they did not meet. But really there was nothing to stop her telephoning. She could telephone him at the office again but, twice in one day, wouldn’t they think it suspicious? And she would have to speak to that awful Miss Simmons, who disapproved of her, and perhaps Archie would refuse to come to the telephone. There was nothing to stop him from saying he was too busy with work. Perhaps she could send him a letter. If necessary, she could pay a boy to hand deliver it to his lodgings this evening. But was it wise to put what she had to say in writing? What if the police were to discover it? Would her words come back to haunt her or, worse still, help to put a noose around poor Archie’s neck? If only …
Something had made her look up. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed something or other that was different. The drawing room door was open when before it had most definitely been closed. And Biddy was standing in the doorway, wearing an apron that looked as if it required pressing with a hot iron. Daphne bit her lip. What ridiculous things one thought about. Had she not more important matters to contemplate than her maid’s uniform? It occurred to her then that none of them had heard the girl knock or open the door. It was quite possible that the girl had neglected to tap before entering. But the hinges of the drawing room door creaked a little. She had mentioned the fact more than once to Linus. Biddy must then have opened the door very gently and looked in, peeking around it and taking in the scene. And now the maid stood there on the threshold between the hall and the drawing room, wringing her apron in her hands, twisting it this way and that so that it would require now more than just a good press with an iron. The others had spotted her and, under their collective and enquiring gaze, Biddy released the door handle guiltily and put a hand out to the doorframe instead so that she might steady herself before she spoke.
‘Begging your pardon, madam … sirs. A gentleman is here to see you, ma’am. It’s a Mr Mayhew and he says it’s ever so important.’
There was the sound of a sharp intake of breath. It took a moment for Daphne to realise it was her own. Biddy’s words were going around and around in her head, the significance of what she was saying all too obvious. And, ridiculously at a time like this, when she was aware that all she should really be thinking was how ill-timed Archie’s visit was, and what she could do to mitigate the damage, she could not rid herself of the thought that Biddy must be very stupid. Why else had the girl not called her aside and whispered in her mistress’ ear, as a good servant would have done? There was a reason why Biddy did not answer the door to visitors, why she was kept downstairs to undertake the more menial tasks.
‘Splendid,’ said Inspector Newcombe, smiling affably at the little maid before Daphne had a chance to speak. ‘Show the gentleman in.’
Chapter Twenty-six
If Daphne had hoped that Archie had been shown into the library while Biddy delivered her message, she was to be disappointed. It became all too apparent that the little maid had just left the visitor to stand unceremoniously in the entrance hall while she announced his arrival. For, at the inspector’s words that the newcomer be invited to join them, Biddy had half turned in the doorway and beckoned to someone standing at the other end of the hall. With flaming cheeks, Daphne watched the spectacle unfold, hardly daring to breathe. To make matters worse, Archie entered the room still clutching his hat rather awkwardly in his hands. As a vent for her acute embarrassment, the mistress of the house glared furiously at her careless servant, who hastily relieved the visitor of the outdoor article. It was only when Archie had been safely divested of his hat that Daphne realised that instinctively she must have moved forward. For she was standing a few feet from the door but she did not remember either rising from her seat or advancing the necessary steps. Her arms were outstretched, as if she had been preparing to greet the visitor in an intimate fashion, and she lowered them quickly, her hands clinging to the fabric of her skirt instead. She looked down and noticed her fingers were trembling.
‘Archie …’ She had spoken impulsively and the name had been uttered in a high, rather anguished voice that she hardly recognised as her own. She cursed herself furiously and bit her tongue.
‘Darling …’ Archie said, in something of a hesitant fashion, a look of puzzlement on his face.
Daphne stifled a cry. For only then did she realise from the way he looked about the drawing room in rather a furtive manner, taking in the presence of the strangers, that Archie hadn’t known she had company. Biddy hadn’t told him! When he had entered the room he had assumed that he would find her alone. Certainly he had not expected the police to be in residence, or Lady Belvedere for that matter, and his face, unprepared for the need to conceal emotion, reflected clearly the horror that he felt at such a discovery. He stood motionless in the room while Daphne tried to assuage herself of the anger and helplessness that she felt in respect of the situation by looking contemptuously at Biddy’s retreating back.
She had a sudden urge to weep, from frustration if nothing else. Everything was going wrong. Oh, if only Masters had been there to answer the door, this would never have happened. He would have shown Archie into the library and not breathed a word about his presence to the inspector. But Masters was dead and the inspector had as good as said that he suspected Archie of killing him. Had she had more time, Daphne might have persuaded him that his theory was ridiculous. But now it was too late. And they hadn’t even had to send for Archie, for he had come to Green Gables of his own accord. Worse still, he had been taken completely unawares. He had not been expecting the inspector to be there. He had had no time to prepare his answers. They would not fall glibly from his tongue with his usual charm.
Daphne turned away. She could not meet Archie’s gaze. She could not bring herself to see the panic in his eyes. He was young and naïve and wildly optimistic but, understandably, he would now be afraid. And they would take advantage of his fear, would take his words and twist them so that he could not remember what he had said and what he hadn’t. Perhaps he would think that she had betrayed him, that her telephone call had been meant to lure him into a trap. She couldn’t bear it if he should think that of her. Anything would be better than that. She took a deep breath and turned back, her cheeks flushed. She hoped that he was aware of the desperation in her eyes, that he would realise the need for caution.
‘Archie, what are you doing here? You must go at once. The inspector is interviewing me.’ Even to her own ears she sounded like a school mistress admonishing a naughty child. Archie did not move. He remained where he was, as if frozen to the spot. She lowered her voice so that it was barely above a whisper, though she could not hide the urgency behind her words. ‘You must go.’
‘All right,’ said Archie, though the suggestion did not appear to appeal to him much.
‘That’s the idea. That seat, if you please.’ The inspector chuckled pleasantly, as if what he had to say next was in jest. ‘After all, we don’t want the two of you conferring, do we?’
Daphne sat down miserably and Archie took the proffered chair. The inspector had chosen the seats well, for the two lovers were at a little distance from each other and could not easily converse without first turning around in their seats and thus making it obvious. Two solitary figures with a physical gulf between them.
Watching the spectacle, it occurred to Rose that Archie was no less unhappy about the situation than Daphne. She thought the young man looked afraid, though he was doing his best to conceal the fact. However, he had a nervous habit of rubbing the side of his nose and, when he stared across at the inspector, he passed his hand through his hair in something of a harried fashion.
It was the first time that Rose had laid eyes on Archie Mayhew and she observed the young man with considerable interest. For this was the fellow with whom Daphne was so enamoured that she had ignored etiquette and forced her acquaintance on a stranger in order to further her cause. No ordinary, common or garden acquaintance either, Rose thought, not now she was a countess, if only by marriage. But that had not stopped Daphne, in her desperation, applying to her to petition the major on her behalf.