Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

“Sylvia denies having said anything that would have driven Leonora to murder,” Rachel said.

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “According to Sylvia, Leonora must have bumped into the woman and quarrelled with her. She killed her, and ran away in a panic. None of the vehicles has been stolen, so she must have escaped on foot.”

  Trueman groaned. “Madness.”

  “If that’s the case, surely she can’t get far,” Hetty said. “Not on foot.”

  “Sylvia pointed out that she had her bag with her,” Rachel said. “Perhaps she has money to pay for a taxi and train.”

  “What if Nurse Cope’s death was an accident?” Martha said.

  “The bloodstain in the rotunda suggests otherwise.”

  “We’ve heard what Mrs Gorrie thinks,” Trueman said. “Can you be sure she’s not the guilty one?”

  “No,” Rachel said. “The same old idea keeps whirling round in my brain.”

  “Namely?”

  “Considering murder as a fine art. Imagine a picture painted by two different artists. They belong to different schools, and their brushstrokes have nothing in common. Both are talented, but since their work overlaps, it’s impossible to be clear who is doing what.” She shook her head. “Or why.”

  *

  Breakfast was provided late and in desultory fashion by servants preoccupied with scandalous theories concerning their absent mistress. Felix Dobell was confined to bed, while the police prowled around as if suspecting that Leonora was lurking somewhere on the premises, in a yet-to-be-discovered secret passage or room. One constable with a poor grasp of architectural history had asked if Mortmain Hall possessed its own priest’s hole.

  The police had told the guests not to leave the Mortmain estate until further notice. Nobody was under arrest, and they were free to wander around the peninsula, but they should be ready to answer further questions at any time.

  Already the sun was beating down. The clamminess of the atmosphere was hard to bear. Flinging open the windows in the dining room made no difference; there wasn’t a breath of air. In such sticky and oppressive weather, nerves frayed and so did tempers.

  Clive Danskin devoured several rashers of bacon as well as two pork sausages and a mound of scrambled eggs. No one else had much of an appetite. As she picked over a grapefruit, Sylvia Gorrie embellished her theory. Leonora was mentally unbalanced, she said, and excessive drinking had tipped her into an abyss of homicidal fury. Rolland and Danskin agreed. This was a wretched affair. They could only hope that the woman was arrested at the earliest opportunity.

  “Why do you think she killed the nurse?” Rachel asked, pouring herself a second cup of coffee. A short doze had been enough to sharpen her up, and she’d already sent Trueman to the Dobell Arms to tell Jacob about the nurse’s death.

  “Jealousy,” Sylvia said. “The poor woman was devoted to Felix; anyone could see that.”

  “Perhaps the nurse had her eye on becoming the next Mrs Dobell,” Danskin suggested.

  Rolland addressed Rachel. “Still playing your cards close to your chest, my dear? Surely you realise you’re among friends. We’re all in the same boat.”

  “Murder suspects?”

  His grunt was dismissive. “The police officers don’t strike me as the brightest buttons, but even so. None of us had reason to wish the woman harm.”

  “Leonora accused each of us of having committed a perfect murder,” Rachel said. “Surely that is motive enough?”

  “Tommyrot,” Rolland said. “Two of us were acquitted. I was never charged. You have never even been suspected of committing a crime.”

  “Perhaps,” Rachel said, “that is because I’m clever rather than innocent.”

  Sylvia pushed away her plate. “This is getting us nowhere. The last thing we should do is bicker. Rachel, it’s time for us to have a serious conversation. I’ve felt for some time that you and I have a good deal in common.”

  “Leonora used to say that to me.” Rachel paused. “In fact, perhaps that’s what she had in mind.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps she wanted to commit the perfect murder too. The psychology of crime obsessed her. Suppose she wanted to understand the experience. To see what it felt like.”

  “Absurd.” Rolland banged his knife on the table. “For a start, none of us is guilty of anything. Far less murder. Anyway, I can’t imagine any crime less perfect than this one. If she wanted to throw the nurse off a cliff, it shouldn’t have been so difficult to make sure the body landed in the sea.”

  “Wait a moment,” Danskin said. “Rachel might be on to something. Remember how much the woman drank last night. She may simply have made a terrible hash of things.”

  They heard a tentative knock, and a ginger-haired constable they hadn’t seen before put his head around the door.

  “Miss Savernake? Sorry to interrupt, but Inspector Tucker would like to see you.”

  *

  Inspector Tucker was a tall, spare individual with a disconcerting resemblance to Mr Milne’s Eeyore. After a night without sleep he looked haggard as well as miserable. In his rural bailiwick, an outbreak of drunkenness and a couple of bicycle thefts constituted a crime wave. The last thing a man trudging towards retirement needed was to be knocked off his stride by murder at a big house.

  He began without preamble. “Our local force is hard pressed at the moment, miss. Barely thirty-six hours ago there was a fatality at a zoo in the area. You may have read about the case. A dreadful accident, but there are still questions to be asked, an inquest to be held. This is a peaceful corner of England. Law-abiding. We’re not accustomed to such things.”

  “I’m sure,” Rachel said.

  “The chief constable has called in Scotland Yard. Their man is already on his way. Inspector Oakes.”

  “Ah.”

  “I understand you are already acquainted with him?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And indeed the commissioner?”

  “We have met.”

  “I’ve read the statement you gave the sergeant last night. Is there anything you’d care to add?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Naturally, I’d assist if I could.”

  “If I may say so, miss, it is your duty.” He gave her a look of undisguised curiosity, and Rachel wondered what Scotland Yard had told his chief constable about her. “Can you really cast no further light on the death of Nurse Cope?”

  “It came as a shock. I only met the woman briefly but she seemed devoted to her patient.”

  “Not to her patient’s wife, however?”

  “The antipathy was mutual. I mentioned in my statement Mrs Dobell’s disapproval of Nurse Cope’s treatment methods, her use of henbane and other poisons. But she didn’t seem to suspect Nurse Cope of deliberately wanting to harm her patient.”

  “Indeed.” Tucker fiddled with his tie. “Nevertheless, your fellow guests suggest that a few hours later, perhaps influenced by alcohol, she was responsible for Nurse Cope’s death.”

  “At first glance, they are right,” Rachel said. “The trouble with first glances is that they never take in the whole picture.”

  *

  “Gentleman to see you, ma’am.”

  Gladys accosted Rachel as soon as she left the inspector. Overnight, the maid had aged, fresh lines furrowing her brow. Her complexion was the colour of chalk.

  “Young fellow with fair hair? Brimming with energy and rather full of himself?”

  “That’s the one, ma’am. Says he knows you. Sounds almost like a Yorkshireman. Name of Flint.”

  “Can we talk in the library?”

  “Yes, the other guests are in the morning room. That Mrs Gorrie said she wanted to have a word with you as well, when you’re free.”

  “Between you and me, that’s a pleasure I’d prefer to postpone. Can you fob her off?”

  Gladys had taken a dislike to Sylvia, confiding in Martha that she found her stand-offish. “Leave it to me, ma’am. I’ll show the
gentleman straight into the library.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but what do you think has happened to Mrs Dobell? I’m at my wits’ end. I can’t help being afraid something terrible has happened. I mean not just to the nurse, God rest her soul.”

  “I can’t offer you much comfort,” Rachel said gently. “How is Mr Dobell?”

  “Poorly, ma’am. The doctor should be here soon to take a look at him.”

  The maid was on the verge of tears. Rachel dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief, and the woman scurried away with muffled words of gratitude.

  Rachel took a seat in the library, and when Gladys ushered him in, Jacob sat down beside her. As soon as the door closed behind the maid, he spoke with the glee of a pot finally seizing the chance to call a kettle black.

  “Trueman tells me you’re a suspect in a murder case. Careless of you, Rachel. I’m disappointed. Was it really wise to allow yourself to be put in such a position?”

  His effrontery made Rachel laugh. “Don’t be selfish. Surely I’m due a little excitement of my own?”

  “Treat me as your father confessor. Miss nothing out. I’m all ears.”

  “In any case, you’re not above suspicion yourself. Perhaps you slipped out of your inn last night to do the foul deed.”

  “The front door to the inn is locked at a quarter to eleven, and the window of my little room is stuck fast. I almost sweated to death in the heat last night.”

  “It’s not the most watertight of alibis.”

  “The police have already turned up at the Dobell Arms. A constable was questioning me when Trueman brought your message.”

  “Did you mention that you’ve met Leonora?”

  Jacob grinned. “It slipped my mind. He told me not to leave Mortmain until further notice. Everyone has to stay put till the cavalry comes, in the shape of Scotland Yard. Their detectives will be questioning us in more detail later.”

  She exhaled. “The Yard have sent their best man.”

  “Oakes?” He whistled softly. “Why him, I wonder?”

  “My fault, I suppose. The commissioner has heard that I’m a guest here. He’s taking no chances. Just in case I’ve started killing members of the medical profession.”

  He laughed. “Let’s hear what you’ve been up to. I swear not to write anything down. I’ve left my pencil and notebook back in my room.”

  “You’re learning.”

  In her clear, concise fashion she described the previous day’s events, culminating in the discovery of the corpse. “I must be slipping. One should always expect the unexpected, but stumbling across Nurse Cope’s body knocked the wind out of my sails. I expected to find Leonora.”

  “Quite a confession,” he said. “I thought you anticipate everything.”

  “Murderers are opportunists, remember. They seize the moment. Nobody can foresee every step they take. And yet…”

  “Go on.”

  “Several people at Mortmain Hall had good reason to murder Leonora. Bernice Cope was one of them. Given her access to poisons, she had the means at her disposal to commit the crime and disguise the death as natural causes. If she had designs on Felix, she had a compelling motive.”

  “You don’t believe this talk about the nurse having a secret lover?”

  “Nobody has seen him.”

  “Even if he does exist,” Jacob said, “Bernice may have planned to drop him if she saw the chance to marry money. Perhaps her story was a blind. She set her cap at Felix while pretending that she was already spoken for.”

  “Certainly, if Felix lost his wife he’d be likely to turn to his nurse, just as he did before. The difference is that now he’s twelve years older, and in poor health. The old spark hasn’t flickered out, but it’s dying, and so is he. If Bernice had married him, she’d soon have become a widow. Free to do as she pleased. The mistress of Mortmain Hall.”

  “You’re sure about that, in legal terms?”

  “Don’t forget, I read the Dobell Family Deed of Settlement. A new wife would be in exactly the same position as Leonora. A tenant for life.”

  “Legal jargon.” Jacob rolled his eyes. “What does it mean?”

  “The heir’s widow doesn’t own the property. She can’t pass on the estate under her own will. For as long as she lives, however, for practical purposes she is able to do as she pleases.”

  “A strong motive, granted,” Jacob said. “But Nurse Cope was the one to die.”

  “Precisely. It’s the wrong way round.”

  “Leonora is a strange woman. Did she kill the nurse out of blind hatred, or because she was afraid that if she didn’t, Bernice would dispose of her? Or did Leonora simply shove her over the cliff during an argument which got out of hand?”

  Rachel frowned. “Curious that this death coincided with the presence of three individuals who have been suspected of murder. To say nothing of myself. If the crime was premeditated…”

  “Perhaps she was simply trying to sow confusion. You said yourself, nobody has a cast-iron alibi. Sylvia could have committed the crime while she was outside. Rolland and Danskin were both out of the room during her absence. You had time on your own after you left them, and before Gladys raised the alarm.”

  Rachel patted his hand. “On my word of honour, I didn’t kill Nurse Cope.”

  His grin was broad. “You believed me when I denied murdering Louis Morgans. I’m glad to return the compliment. As a bonus, I’ll share my theory with you.”

  “This is why you’re my favourite journalist.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t get too cocky. It’s just that I despise the rest of Fleet Street. Now tell me what you suspect.”

  Jacob leaned forward. “The legal process obsesses Leonora, has done since her father’s trial. She’s not afraid to take risks, her behaviour in the Clandestine Club proves that. What if she’s concocted a scheme which makes her appear guilty, but enables her to escape punishment and proclaim herself as the victim of a miscarriage of justice? Exactly like Sylvia Gorrie, Henry Rolland, and Clive Danskin.”

  “Ingenious.”

  Jacob relaxed in his chair, beaming broadly. “Thank you.”

  “Tell me what you’ve been getting up to since I last saw you,” Rachel said. “And then why don’t you interview the other three guests, and see if you can trap them in a few damning admissions?”

  “You like my theory?”

  “I love it.” She sighed. “Not that I believe it for a minute.”

  26

  Jacob asked the remaining guests if he could speak to them separately, but Sylvia Gorrie insisted that they would talk to him together or not at all.

  “Answering questions from a reporter isn’t the same as helping the police with their inquiries. You have no right to march into this house demanding a statement from any of us, and I’m surprised the police have allowed it. Does the owner of the house know you’re here?”

  “Mr Dobell is resting in bed.” Jacob was unabashed. “Waiting for a nurse to arrive to take over the dead woman’s duties. I’m anxious to talk to him, to see if he can cast any light on this tragedy, but naturally his state of health comes first.”

  “In other words,” Sylvia said, “your answer is no.”

  “Miss Savernake was happy to talk to me on her own.”

  “That is a matter for her. I dare say she’s unfamiliar with the wiles of Fleet Street. I can’t even understand why you’re so interested. A member of this household has died in circumstances suggesting that she slipped and fell down the cliff. For all the world, it looks like an accident. As for us, we are merely innocent bystanders.”

  “But Mrs Dobell is missing, isn’t she? And she and the dead woman had a… fractious relationship.”

  “You’re evidently better informed than we are, so I don’t see…”

  “I’d be happy to interview each of you outside, if that’s what you prefer on such a sunny day.” Jacob was nothing if not persistent. “Or
down at the Dobell Arms, if you prefer.”

  Sylvia glanced at the other two guests, and said, “I’ll give you five minutes. These gentlemen can add or subtract to what I say as they think fit. That is our best offer, Mr Flint, take it or leave it.”

  Jacob took it. Her version of events contained the bare minimum of detail, and she refused every invitation to speculate on where Leonora Dobell might be. The two men said as little as possible. He detected no obvious lies, but no mention was made of Leonora’s allegation that the three of them had actually committed murder. Predictable to a fault.

  He’d worked in journalism long enough to know when to abandon an attempt to squeeze blood from a stone, so he wandered out into the grounds of the Hall, venturing as close to the cliff edge as the police allowed. But there was nothing of interest to see.

  Rachel was waiting in the rotunda as arranged. She was silent, lost in reflection, and without exchanging a word they set off together towards the Dobell Arms.

  Rachel was lithe and fit and her stride was brisk. In the hot and heavy atmosphere, it was all Jacob could do to keep up with her. Why couldn’t she be content with a leisurely amble, allowing them to drink in the views? She always seemed to measure herself against a hidden clock, urging herself forward relentlessly. It was almost as if she suffered from some terminal malady, and felt she had little time left to achieve all her goals.

  Her sunglasses and hat made an effective mask. It was impossible to gauge her mood. He knew better than to disrupt her train of thought, contenting himself with an occasional surreptitious glance at her figure. The sundress suited her; although the design seemed simple, he supposed it had cost a fortune. Her skin was pale, her dark hair lustrous, her legs long and shapely. He would have loved to slip his hand in hers, just in a companionable way. But he knew he must restrain himself.

  Why had she dismissed his reading of Bernice Cope’s murder? Admittedly, the theory left questions unanswered. But did any other explanation make better sense of the mystery? What on earth was Leonora up to? His thoughts kept coming back to the Clandestine Club, when their eyes had met for a fleeting instant before she fled and left him to Daisy’s tender mercies.