As they looked at her, again she lifted her glass. “Each of you has committed the perfect murder.”
24
Clive Danskin took a step forward. For a moment, Rachel thought he would grab Leonora Dobell by the throat, but Rolland seized him by the arm.
“Steady, old chap. We don’t want any unpleasantness.”
“Unpleasantness?” Danskin’s face was crimson with rage. “Did you hear what she said?”
“Yes, I did, and it’s very bad form. The four of us have been brought here under false pretences. It’s a disgrace. But no sense in losing our tempers. Or our heads.”
“Henry is right.” Sylvia insinuated herself between the men and Leonora Dobell. “This is no time for speeches, or protestations of innocence. Leonora, you and I should take a walk in the gloaming. We have plenty to chat about.”
“Very well,” Leonora said. “Let me repeat, I have no wish to cause any offence. Please accept my sincere apologies if I’ve done so inadvertently.”
Danskin snorted. Rolland gave a crisp nod, and lit another cigar. Everyone turned to Rachel. Her face was a mask. She didn’t move a muscle or utter a word.
“Come on,” Sylvia said, leading their hostess out through the French windows. As the others watched, the two women joined the main path and kept on walking until they disappeared from sight.
*
“My God.” Rolland mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “After that performance, I need a snifter. Will you join me?”
He poured himself and Danskin another brandy. Rachel shook her head. The atmosphere was heavy with smoke, heat, and mistrust. For a quarter of an hour, nobody spoke. As an evening’s relentless drinking had its inevitable effect, first Rolland excused himself for a few minutes, and then Danskin.
On his return, the silk stocking salesman broke the silence. “Sylvia will knock some sense into the old crone. Got a smart head on her shoulders, that lady.”
Rolland loosened his bow tie, eyeing Rachel with naked curiosity. “You’ve kept very quiet. What do you make of all this tomfoolery?”
“Is it tomfoolery?” Rachel said. “What really happened in that bungalow by the shore? Your mistress was pregnant, no doubt demanding that you leave your wife and children, and make an honest woman of her. Did you kill Phoebe in a fit of rage during a lovers’ quarrel? Before panicking, and taking flight?”
Rolland clenched his fists, straining visibly to remain calm in the face of provocation. “That evening was a nightmare. I was in a blue funk, who wouldn’t be? Yes, I did make a dash for it. Stupid, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve always stuck to the same story. I found Phoebe’s body. Her husband killed her. He confessed and committed suicide to save the hangman a job. Open and shut.”
He banged his glass down on the table to emphasise the point. Rachel turned to Danskin.
“Why would I kill a stranger?” the salesman asked. “Utterly ridiculous. And quite intolerable. I’m a victim in this whole brouhaha.”
“The prosecution accused you of wanting to start a new life. To flee from the past. And… whatever ties were shackling you.”
“Poppycock! My marriage was a dead letter. This week my solicitors wrote to my wife’s. Divorce proceedings are under way. As for the other ladies mentioned in court, they were ships passing in the night. It’s a lonely life out on the road. You simply wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand more than you realise,” Rachel said. “My life hasn’t been entirely sheltered from misfortune. And I have a vivid imagination.”
Rolland had regained his composure. “Since we’re speaking about your past, I take it you deny murdering your own father?”
“I can swear to that,” Rachel said. “As for the Judge, if hating him was a crime, they should lock me up and throw away the key.”
“Remarkable.” Rolland looked as if he might applaud. “Unusual to find a woman so direct.”
“Perhaps that is just as well.”
As Danskin tittered, Rolland shifted uneasily. “I don’t like to speak about our hostess behind her back, but… ah, Sylvia is coming.”
They looked out on to the paved area. The sun was setting. They saw Sylvia striding towards the Hall. She was alone, and her lips were compressed in a tight line. Rachel caught the two men exchanging a worried glance as Sylvia entered the room.
“On your own?” Danskin asked with a show of unconvincing bonhomie. “What on earth have you done with the lady of the manor?”
“She wanted time to reflect on our conversation,” Sylvia Gorrie said.
Was this some form of coded message? Rachel had that impression from the men’s reaction. A faint nod of assent from Rolland, a ruminative throat-clearing from Danskin. Nothing was said.
“Dashed bad form,” Rolland murmured after helping himself to another drink. “Inviting people for a house party, only to accuse them of getting away with murder. And then abandoning them.”
“I’ll say!” Danskin said. “Never heard of anything like it. I know Leonora Dobell is a criminologist, but really! I hope you gave her a damned good talking-to, Sylvia. Woman to woman.”
“I can assure you that I left her in no doubt,” Sylvia said.
“What exactly did you say?” Rachel asked.
“Just a moment,” Sylvia said. “Let me pour myself a brandy.”
“Allow me to do the honours,” Rolland said. “Rachel, can I tempt you?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Go on,” Danskin urged. “A small one won’t hurt. It’s been a funny old evening. Time to let your hair down.”
“Very well.”
Rachel’s sigh as she allowed Rolland to present her with a drink was heartfelt. Sylvia was giving herself time to make up a story, and the men were helping her to do just that.
Sylvia took a sip. “Ah, that’s better. I told Leonora that she’d behaved shabbily. Telling one’s guests that they should have been hanged isn’t just bad manners. It’s an actionable slander.”
“Precisely,” Rolland growled.
“What she wrote about Henry and me was upsetting but not defamatory. I rather expected that she would make a handsome apology.” Sylvia was warming to her theme. “If I’d thought that she intended to accuse me of murdering my husband, I’d never have set foot in this godforsaken old pile.”
“Amen to that,” Danskin said. “I’ve a damned good mind to pack my bags and catch the first train back to civilisation.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Rolland said. “Feel sorry for the husband. A cripple whose family has owned this place for generations, forced to watch it fall to pieces while his wife squanders his fortune and pretends to be some sort of expert in crime.”
“What did Leonora say?” Rachel asked.
“She seemed taken aback by my strength of feeling.” Sylvia shook her head. “She told me that whenever she’s here at Mortmain, she goes out for an evening stroll. It helps her to clear her mind. She said she’d mull over what I’d said while she walked.”
“Not much to think about in my book,” Rolland said. “I expect a handsome apology, and won’t settle for less.”
“Hear, hear,” Danskin said.
Sylvia turned to Rachel. “I notice that you like to ask questions, but you give nothing away. Your hostess suspects you of killing your own father. Aren’t you outraged? Or do you just play very good poker?”
Rachel shrugged and said nothing. Taking another taste of brandy, Sylvia took a step towards her. “I’ve heard that since coming to London, you’ve got mixed up in one or two criminal investigations of your own.”
“I can’t deny it.”
Henry Rolland was losing patience. “You’re an enigma.”
“I’m afraid,” she said, “that there is less to me than meets the eye.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Sylvia said. “I’d love to talk to you, Rachel. Just the two of us women together.”
Nodding in the direction of the open French windows, Rac
hel said, “That’s what you said to Leonora.”
Sylvia gazed out into the gathering darkness. “She’ll be back presently.”
“Forgive me.” Rachel stretched in an elaborate yawn. “I need to go upstairs and rest for a while.”
“I’ll be here when you’ve refreshed yourself,” Sylvia said.
“Don’t wait up especially for me.”
“Oh, I will.” Sylvia’s tone was cold and insistent. “Of course I will.”
*
“Sylvia Gorrie is hand in glove with Rolland and Danskin,” Rachel said. “They pretend to be strangers, but I’m sure they’re in cahoots.”
Cliff, Hetty, and Martha were in her room, in defiance of every social convention. Hetty asked, “What do you think Sylvia has done with Leonora?”
“Nothing, is my guess. Sylvia Gorrie is many things, but she is not lacking in subtlety and she’s certainly not stupid.”
“But if Leonora doesn’t come back to the house?”
“She will.” Rachel considered. “Unless Rolland or Danskin have something else in mind.”
“There are no wild animals at Mortmain Hall,” Martha said.
“Is anything wilder than a human being intent on murder?” Hetty asked. “The cliffs are dangerous. Was it wise to leave the three of them on their own, so they can plot together?”
“There was no alternative.” Rachel grimaced. “The three of them are already suspicious. Despite protestations to the contrary, none of them was surprised to find me here. As far as I’m aware, Leonora didn’t tell them she’d invited me. Even so, they knew I’d be here at Mortmain Hall.”
“Only one way they could have found out,” Cliff Trueman said.
Rachel nodded. “Exactly.”
Hetty was frowning. “What do you…?”
Someone knocked on the door. A soft, almost timid knock, but persistent. Rachel looked at the Truemans, and they looked at each other. She got up and walked to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Gladys, ma’am.” The voice was faint and tremulous. “Mrs Dobell’s maid.”
Rachel opened the door a fraction. “What’s the matter?”
She saw a woman in her fifties, overweight, pasty-faced, and trembling with anxiety.
“It’s Mrs Dobell, ma’am.”
“What about her?”
“It’s pitch black outside; not even she would be out walking this late. But she’s nowhere to be found.”
*
“We’d better organise a search party,” Rolland said. “The lights from the Hall will help us look around nearby, but not if we go through the trees. Do you have flashlights?”
Gladys nodded. She’d followed Rachel and the Truemans to the morning room, where they found Sylvia and the two men deep in a conversation which came to an abrupt halt as soon as the newcomers arrived. Rachel explained that Leonora wasn’t in her room, and there was no sign of her anywhere else in the house.
“I’ll run and fetch them,” Martha said. “Cliff, Hetty, you come too. Shall we rouse some of the others?”
“Let’s not have the whole place in uproar,” Rolland said. “I’m sure we’ll find her safe and sound, demanding to know what all the fuss is about.”
Martha opened the door. “Come on, Gladys, show us where the lights are kept.”
As the four servants left the room, Danskin said, “Forceful young woman, that. Shame she’s so badly scarred. Otherwise, she’d be quite something.”
Rachel glared at him, but held her tongue.
Rolland said, “It may be dark, but it’s still warm outside. We’d better show willing, but my guess is that this is a storm in a teacup. Leonora has gone for a longer walk than usual, and she’ll be back before long.”
“You must have given her plenty to think about,” Danskin said to Sylvia.
Sylvia’s elegant shoulders moved in a dismissive gesture. “Our hostess has a lot on her mind. Ailing husband, crumbling house.”
“What are you suggesting?” Rachel asked.
“When we talked, she seemed abstracted. Even though she’d just accused me of murder. Of course, she’d had plenty to drink, but her behaviour tonight was bizarre. It made me wonder if she was seriously disturbed.”
“It would explain a great deal,” Rolland said.
“You think she may have harmed herself?” Danskin asked.
“We can’t rule anything out,” Sylvia said. “With any luck, my fears are misplaced. Ah, here come the servants.”
Flashlights were handed out. Rolland took it upon himself to direct operations, dividing the party into three. Hetty and her husband were to check the tip of Mortmain Head. Danskin would lead Martha and Gladys along the south side of the promontory. Rolland, Sylvia, and Rachel would take the north side.
Rachel lingered in the room as the searchers moved outside. She whispered to Martha, “They want to keep an eye on me.”
“What do you think has happened?”
“It doesn’t look good.” She hummed a couple of bars of the old hunting song. “From a view to a death in the morning. We weren’t meant to know she was missing until tomorrow.”
She caught up with her colleagues, and they walked forward together in silence, shining their lamps to make sure they didn’t trip over a bramble or stone. When they joined the main path, Sylvia said she and Leonora had parted at that point.
“Which direction did she go in?” Rolland asked.
“That way, I think.” Sylvia sounded uncharacteristically hesitant as she pointed towards the clump of trees. “I must admit, I wasn’t paying attention. She’d knocked me sideways by suggesting that I had a hand in the death of my husband.”
“You and she were out for a while,” Rachel said. “You told us about your conversation, but surely more was said?”
“I tried to make her see reason.” Sylvia chose her words with care. “She was playing a game with people’s lives. I said she’d upset me, but I didn’t want to pick a fight. We went round the houses, but that was the gist.”
They reached the trees. The wind had sculpted oaks and wych elms into unnatural shapes. Tonight their leaves were hardly disturbed by a breeze. Twigs cracked beneath their feet. An owl hooted. A fox scurried into the undergrowth at their approach. Of the lady of the house, there was no sign.
“Mrs Dobell!” Rolland called. “Are you there? Leonora! Are you all right?”
Nothing.
Beyond the trees stood the rotunda, open to the elements. During the day, one could look out over miles of sea from the stone bench inside. Now it was empty.
Rachel’s lamp caught a dark smear on the bench. “Look at that.”
“What is it?” Rolland asked.
Rachel bent down and touched the mark. “It’s not quite dry.”
“It’s only a tiny stain.” Sylvia sounded unsure of herself. Almost nervous. “Could be anything.”
Rachel put her finger to her lips, and sniffed. “Blood, I’d say.”
“Come on,” Rolland said. “As you say, Sylvia, it’s something and nothing. Perhaps Leonora has had a minor accident. Grazed herself.”
Leaving the gazebo, they walked to the cliff’s edge. Their lights picked out a narrow path which headed downwards. Rachel guessed it connected with the other cliff path she had passed in Leonora’s company, the one that led to the caves.
“We shouldn’t go down in the dark,” Sylvia said. “It’s simply not safe. We’ll have to get help.”
Rachel had moved to the brink. She shone her flashlight over the drop and said, “We won’t need to go far.”
“What do you mean?” Henry Rolland demanded.
Rachel took a couple of steps along the path. “There’s a body down here.”
Sylvia looked over the edge and gasped. “Good God. Leonora!”
Rachel inched down, taking care with every step. The crumpled form had come to rest on a narrow ledge of rock jutting out above the sea.
“Watch out, for God’s sake!” Rolland made no
move to follow her.
“She must have fallen over,” Sylvia said in a wondering tone.
“Is she moving?” Rolland asked. “That isn’t such a long drop. Even if she’s broken a few bones, even if she’s unconscious, she may still be alive.”
Rachel glanced back at them. She needed to make sure that neither of them was following her. A single push in the small of the back was all it would take, and she’d go tumbling down the side of the cliff to her death.
Her light shone on the faces of Sylvia and Rolland. They were rooted to the clifftop. Their expressions were strained, expectant.
Rachel crouched down and bent over the body. “She’s dead.”
Rolland swore. Sylvia seemed to choke back a cry of horror.
“Poor woman,” she said. “Are you… are you sure?”
“I’ve checked her pulse,” Rachel said. “Nothing.”
“How terrible,” Sylvia said. “To think we were talking such a short time ago.”
“It’s not Leonora,” Rachel said.
“What?” Rolland and Sylvia spoke in unison, voices cracking with disbelief.
Rachel looked up and saw their faces, peering down in astonishment.
“This is Nurse Cope.”
25
“Where is Leonora?” Trueman demanded.
The three servants had assembled once again in Rachel’s room. Time no longer had meaning. Nobody in Mortmain Hall would sleep tonight. The police were first on the scene, in the burly form of a hapless young constable more familiar with petty larceny than murder. Reinforcements arrived later. An elderly sergeant took statements from the guests and staff while an inspector from Scarborough presided over the examination and removal of the body.
Leonora Dobell had vanished. The servants were speculating excitedly that she’d quarrelled with Bernice Cope and attacked her in a fit of rage, pushing her over the cliff before making a dash for it. The police had roused Felix Dobell from his slumbers, but he’d become tearful and incoherent at the news of his nurse’s death. Gladys was trying to care for him. He’d barely asked about his wife.
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