Shadows & Lies

by Marjorie Eccles

  And it was then that her daughter disconcerted Aspasia Cashmore even more than she had already done. “If you think I am going to be a party to blackmail, Mama, I assure you, you are quite mistaken.”

  What had meeting Hannah, after all, accomplished? Crockett asked himself, thoroughly disgruntled. Everything in the world, of course, from Hannah’s point of view. Very little from his own, at least in terms of direct evidence. The mystery of Hannah Smith was solved but the bigger question – who had killed Rosa Tartaryan? – remained. And yet he felt a pricking in his thumbs that told him he was close on the heels of the murderer, all the more frustrating because the solution felt so tantalisingly to be just beyond his reach.

  He viewed his list of suspects despondently. Two. That is, if you counted Jordan, against whom nothing could realistically be proven, or even suspected, who could scarcely have had any reason for killing Rosa Tartaryan, other than a brainstorm.

  And the other …

  Sir Henry was reputedly possessed by dark moods. He’d been out in the woods at the same time as Rosa. He had a motive of sorts – but was it enough, sufficient for him to think of committing murder? Probably not, in fact highly unlikely, if it was a mere question of bringing to light his son’s illegitimate child. Crockett couldn’t, however, discount the effect on him of the shame and disgrace brought on the family name if it were rumoured that they had tried to cover up their late son’s indiscretions in the way they had – by denying knowledge of Hannah, by keeping mother and child apart. And now that the child was known to be legitimate, the censure would be greater. That Sir Henry himself had been involved in any such arrangements may not be true, but did that matter? Scandals had been generated by much less. No smoke without fire. It would be like manna from heaven to the society gossips. To a man like Sir Henry, who saw himself as a man of honour – and had evidently always acted that way, no matter how volatile his temper – disgrace in the eyes of the world would hurt him as nothing else could. And by extension, the same would apply to Adele, his wife, and to his daughter, Sylvia: a ruined reputation was social suicide. Crockett thought he might very well have been persuaded to take the ultimate step.

  But to accuse a man of murder, you had to have more than suspicions, and as yet there was nothing. No witnesses, nothing in the way of material evidence …no clues, except, perhaps, the doubtful silk scarf.

  He chewed over the facts again and again, without getting any further. The medical evidence, for instance, showed that the body had lain for some time after death before being moved and put in the stream – and why that had been necessary seemed inexplicable. And in any case, where exactly had the murder been committed? Both house and grounds had been gone over and had revealed nothing, though the search had been necessarily superficial. Finding a bloodstain or two, a concealed weapon, would have been impossible in grounds so extensive, in a sprawling edifice like Belmonde Abbey.

  Crockett rubbed his face. He wasn’t easily cast down at any time, but his wasn’t the sort of case he was used to. Give him the straightforward sort of villainy he had to deal with in the Smoke, something you could get your teeth into. There were undertones and nuances here he couldn’t understand. Just thinking about them gave him a headache.

  And then he received that extraordinary letter, forwarded by Meredith.

  A feeling of melancholy premonition hung over Sebastian as he drove down to Belmonde. He should have been – was, he corrected, and smiled, despite his gloom – happier than ever before in his life, gloriously happy. The time was fast approaching when he would be taking up his new career, and Wagstaffe was more encouraging every time they met. The sense of euphoria this had brought had caused Sebastian to throw caution to the winds and ask Louisa to marry him. To his delighted astonishment she had accepted his proposal with joy. It was almost as if it were something she had been waiting for and had nearly ceased to expect …for she had had the problem of combining her future as a doctor with that of a wife already arranged and settled to her satisfaction in her mind. They would be married as soon as she was qualified and he was settled into his new life. He had telephoned to tell his family, and they had accepted the news with resignation, if not with unparalleled joy. They were, after all, very fond of Louisa. His grandmother had gone further – asked him to come down so that she could pass on her own ruby and diamond engagement ring for Louisa and discuss the transference of the sum she had intended to leave Sebastian on her death to his own bank account.

  But despite this the cloud, somewhat bigger than a man’s hand, which had settled on him since the revelations of what Sylvia had done to conceal Harry’s mistress – and his son – would not lift. Sebastian couldn’t endure to let matters stand at that. He had at last taken charge of his life and it had given him a new assurance. He had better clear the air by going down to Belmonde, and look sharp about it. He made hurried arrangements with Louisa and set off on the tedious trek, no light undertaking at any time. It had been a very cold and uncomfortable journey, despite his leather coat and his fur-lined boots. There was a thin covering of snow when he arrived.

  As he passed the place where he had first seen the woman he now knew to have been Rosa Tartaryan, he was stirred by the same frisson of unease. His feeling then that she had been there because of Harry had turned out to be correct – only she’d been the wrong woman. All his ideas had been turned on their head. After the shocks about Sylvia delivered by Crockett that day in his rooms – the whole scene was burned forever into his memory; he could still smell Sylvia’s perfume, see the flames curling round the coals in the fireplace – he had been further stunned when Crockett had told them of his suspicions regarding some letters Sir Henry had received. He could no more accept the inevitable conclusion, that his father — his father! — had murdered Rosa because of them – than Sylvia could. She had become almost hysterical at the very idea and swore she had acted entirely off her own initiative. It was true that Monty had helped her to find Rosa, but their father knew nothing of what she had done.

  When Sebastian reached the house, he saw Monty’s motor car drawn up beside the front door. He hadn’t known his uncle was to be here, and wasn’t sure whether he welcomed it or not.

  Adèle and Monty. Something he hadn’t wanted to think about, over the last few days. He had always known his mother had for Monty a little tendresse, as Sylvia might have put it. But those few, speaking moments in the street, under the lamplight, had left him in little doubt that there was more to it – perhaps a great deal more – than that.

  Then he remembered the little scene between them both in the stable yard, just after the body had been discovered, which had not left quite the same impression. And suddenly remembered something else, too. He put his hand into his pocket – the same tweed jacket he had been wearing that day. Yes, it was still there, the onyx cuff-link he had picked out of the ferns around the pool in the grotto. One of a pair, along with the matching cravat-pin, that Adele had given Monty some time ago for Christmas. The same Christmas he had given her a Liberty scarf and a decadent-looking hair ornament in the shape of a naked woman with mermaid’s tail and long, winding hair.

  When Crockett saw the letter which had been sent to Meredith, he had to make an effort to recall who the Cashmores were. Of course. The women who had left Belmonde immediately after the murder, the ones the servants had recalled as that terrible old woman and her downtrodden daughter. The tone of the letter was, however, anything but downtrodden, though the idea of a spinster lady like Dora Cashmore knowing so much about motorcars was slightly comical. Meredith had with confidence declared that no other such vehicle as she had described was owned by anyone in the vicinity – but one as recognisable as that would surely have been seen and remarked on by someone, somewhere. He would make enquiries. Crockett’s own enquiries quickly revealed that Monty Chetwynd did in fact own an 18 h.p. Siddeley, its coachwork painted yellow to order.

  It was already dark, and viewed from outside, the scene through the drawing room
window was like a tableau, caught by the camera obscura, the figures elegantly disposed in the pretty, delicately coloured room, lit by the golden light of the silk-shaded lamps. They were having tea. Monty leant with one elbow on the mantel, his teacup and saucer balanced in his other hand. Lady Emily sat stiffly upright in a chair by the brightly burning fire. His mother, presiding over the teacups, was graceful as a fashion plate in a soft wool midnight blue dress, high-waisted, trimmed with a fall of ecru lace, with several ropes of pearls round her long, slender neck. Every inch the fashionable socialite, with her dark, sparkling eyes and that subtle smile with a its hint of wilfulness. But when he entered the room, amid cries of surprise and welcome, he immediately detected signs of strain in her. Despite, or perhaps because of this, she still looked very beautiful.

  She poured him a cup of tea and offered lemon, the rings sparkling on her fingers as they moved prettily amongst the china. Sebastian, who would rather have had brandy after his freezing journey down, nevertheless accepted the hot tea gratefully. Today there were crumpets, and buttered toast.

  “Why did you not bring Louisa with you?” asked Lady Emily, prepared, now that the engagement, which she could do nothing to prevent – and perhaps didn’t wish to, now – was a fait accompli. For once, she looked her age. Her hand actually trembled a little as she lifted her teacup, but she still smiled charmingly from under her royal fringe.

  “Oh, she has lectures.” His mother’s eyebrows rose a little, but she smiled. Sebastian was pleased that there had been so little opposition from her. Louisa had always been a favourite, and he knew she had long ago accepted it had never, after all, been certain that Sebastian would do the sensible thing and marry well. If he could turn down such an attractive proposition as Violet Clerihugh, there was no hope for him.

  Everything seemed the same. Tea and civilised conversation. A bright fire and comfortable chairs. Yet the very air breathed tension.

  “Would you like me to play some Debussy?” asked Adele, when the tea had been disposed of and removed. A little music was a ritual after tea, when everyone sat back for digestion and a little relaxation. Monty nodded, but Sebastian shrugged: he didn’ t care for impressionist music. “Try this prelude,” she said, smiling at him. Her slender fingers moved across the keys and the precise, clear, yet haunting notes dropped like the first cold drops of a storm into the room.

  Afterwards, in the silence, Sebastian cleared his throat and braced himself. “I came down on the spur of the moment,” he began, “because something has happened which you will have to know about.”

  The wind was taken out of his sails when Monty said drily, “Dear boy, if you’ve come down to tell them about Sylvia’s little indiscretion, you might have saved yourself a journey.”

  “Monty has told us everything,” Adele said, speaking rather fast, before Sebastian could get his breath back at that understatement, to say the least, of Sylvia’s actions. “Who would have a daughter like Sylvia? Causing such trouble!”

  Sebastian thought a good deal of it had been caused by Monty, too, in his abysmal choice of companion-housekeeper for Hannah, but a glance at his uncle’s face, wearing that ironic, yet decidedly closed expression at the moment, forbade him to say so.

  “If I were Algy,” continued his mother, “I’d take her up to Scotland to that shooting box place he has there, where she can do no harm, and make her live on nothing but porridge.” Adèle’s conversation was often flippant, a cover for emotion. With a further touch of bravado, she added, “And now she’s presented her father with a little heir – not hers of course. I wonder when we shall see him? Soon, I hope.”

  “I believe his mother is taking him up to Yorkshire to see – her family.”

  “Yorkshire?” But Adele said no more, only made a little reprise of the last bars she had been playing on the piano.

  Footsteps sounded outside. Sir Henry came in, followed by the unexpected appearance of Inspector Meredith, red-faced and stout in his navy blue uniform, and behind him the flashy London detective, cockily assured as usual. Adèle sat, still as a statue, her hands motionless.

  “These gentlemen,” said Sir Henry, “inform me they have more to say on the subject of that murder and wish to speak to us all.”

  “I thought everything about that had already been said,” Monty drawled.

  “Begging your pardon sir,” said Crockett, “but much has happened since I was here last, concerning your family. Perhaps it needs explaining before we start.”

  Sebastian looked at his mother. “There’s no need for that, Mr Crockett. My uncle here had already told them everything before I came.”

  “Then that should make my task easier.”

  “What task is that, Inspector?” asked Monty.

  “The task of – shall we say, unmasking – the killer of Rosa Tartaryan.”

  A silence you could cut with a knife followed his words. It seemed to Sebastian that the thin, shivery notes of the Debussy prelude still splintered the air.

  “Please sit down, gentlemen,” Adèle said, recovering herself, “and tell us how we can help, though I don’t see how we can. The woman was a blackmailer, you know, and blackmailers might expect to come to a bad end.” For some reason, her transatlantic vowels were suddenly more apparent.

  “Whatever she was, she is dead, and deserves your pity, Lady Chetwynd.” She had the grace to look ashamed, coloured very slightly and looked down at her hands. “My business here is to find out how she was murdered and who did it.”

  There was a certainty and a confidence about Crockett that silenced further comment.

  “How do you propose to do that?” asked Sir Henry at last.

  “Supposing we forget the statements you all made earlier,” he answered agreeably, “and work on a supposition I’ve put together. Nothing laid down in tablets of stone, you understand, just a hypothesis.” He clasped a leg around his other knee, an awkward posture he apparently felt quite comfortable with. “Let’s start with the supposition, Mr Chetwynd,” he went on, addressing Monty, “that you arrived at Belmonde much earlier than you did – several hours earlier, perhaps. That you left your motor car under the trees just off the road, where the ride begins that leads into the woods, and then walked to the house and entered unannounced. Where Rosa Tartaryan – and you, Sir Henry, were waiting, and also —”

  Sir Henry began to bluster, but Monty signalled him to be silent. His own eyes, watchful as a cat’s, never wavered.

  “— and also, Lady Chetwynd.”

  Sebastian stared at his mother. She had grown quite white. “What makes you say my mother was involved in anything like this?”

  “Oh,” Crockett said “The matter of a scarf, found near the body.”

  “I lost it,” Adele said, “days before, when I was out walking in the woods.”

  “Is that so? Well, never mind that for the moment. Where was I? Oh yes, Rosa. She was a young woman of strong character, you know, and she lived and worked for the liberation of her country. It’s a well-known fact that the Armenian exiles here are always short of money for their cause, and Rosa’s commitment to her beliefs was so strong she was prepared to do anything to get hold of some. How and why she was blackmailing you, Sir Henry, is no longer any concern of mine. Only that she was – and that it may have proved the motive for her death.”

  “Never have I heard anything so preposterous!” blustered Henry.

  “We shall see.” Crockett smiled, still master of the situation, and enjoying it, but his voice hardened as he went on. “The medical reports state that Rosa had suffered an injury to the side of her head, but the cause of her death was manual strangulation. After she died, she was left where she was for some hours, before being removed to where she was found, in the stream by the bothy. I suggest she died in this house, that she was brought here purposely to meet her death. I believe it was planned. Did you not kill her, Sir Henry, because she was becoming outrageous in her demands, and then with your brother’s help, carry her
to the stream and dump her there like so much rubbish?”

  “I did not kill her for that or any other reason,” Sir Henry said, his face congested, his dark brows drawn together. “Yes, I will admit that I foolishly paid money to her, thinking that would hush up the matter of my son’s illegitimate child. I did not know the full circumstances then, but I was prepared to do what I could to support both mother and child. As it is, now, I shall acknowledge him as my heir, and be proud to do so.”

  “Well said, Sir Henry. But the fact remains that someone killed Rosa. Deliberately put their hands around her throat and strangled the life out of her.”

  “No!” said Adele, in a voice which, though low, was heard by everyone, “It wasn’t like that at all!” Her face had grown ashen. Her breath came fast and shallow. “It was an accident.”

  Sebastian went to her, knelt and took her hands. “Mother.”

  “Adèle!” At the same time as Sebastian spoke, the warning came simultaneously from Sir Henry and his brother. Her husky voice trembled with the force of her emotions, but she was not to be stopped. “She came as you said, Inspector – she was brought here with false promises – an offer to help her with enough real money to ensure she would keep silent …”

  “Be silent yourself, Adèle, or you may be sorry,” said Monty. Henry looked beside himself. Lady Emily’s face had gone as grey as her hair.

  “I will tell them, Monty. I will. There’s to be an end to it. I don’t want to live a life founded on lies any longer.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I can’t stop you. But let us not get carried away. Let’s take it calmly, what?” He patted his pockets for his cigarette case and not finding it, walked stiffly to the credence table by the door and took a Turkish cigarette from the silver box there. He held up the box to Adele, who waved it away, before lighting his own cigarette and drawing deeply on it. The smoke went down the wrong way. He began to cough and could hardly give up. “Excuse me …a glass of water,” he gasped, and hurried from the room.