by T E Kinsey
‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said calmly and quietly.
Perhaps their acting skills had taught them to read emotions, or perhaps Lady Hardcastle had about her such an air of impending bad news that all but the most closed of minds would have spotted that all was not well. Whatever the case, the two actresses stopped talking at once and the smiles tumbled from their faces.
‘You look like something dreadful’s happened, dear,’ said Zelda.
‘I’m afraid it has,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It would have been more proper to tell you all together, but I don’t think it should wait.’
‘We can get the others,’ said Euphemia, standing up.
Lady Hardcastle waved her back to her chair.
‘No, dear, stay where you are. I understand you were both quite close to Basil Newhouse.’
‘“Were”, dear?’ said Zelda. ‘Oh my goodness. What’s happened?’
‘I’m so terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but he was found in the churchyard this morning by the village constable. I’m afraid he was dead.’
The actresses looked as though they’d been physically struck. Euphemia began to cry, her body shaking with silent sobs. Her friend put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
‘Was it his heart?’ said Zelda. ‘He was starting to have trouble with the stairs, you know. But he was fine when we left him at the pub last night. Drinking and yarning with the locals, he was. Right as ninepence.’
Lady Hardcastle sat in silence for a moment. Eventually she seemed to make up her mind that there was no gentle way to break the news. ‘He was murdered,’ she said.
Euphemia stopped sobbing at once and stared at Lady Hardcastle with her mouth hanging open. Zelda was similarly stunned.
‘There must be some sort of mistake,’ said Zelda. ‘It was his heart. He wasn’t well. No one would have wanted to kill him.’
As unsensationally as she could, Lady Hardcastle told the two women how Mr Newhouse had been found.
Predictably, perhaps, the two women were aghast when they learned of the connection with their moving picture.
‘Who could possibly have done such a horrid thing?’ said Euphemia. ‘Basil was such a lovely man. He looked after me. After us all. Especially Zel. He was like her dad.’
Zelda hugged her closer. ‘He was, my dear,’ she said. ‘No decent person could have done it.’
‘He didn’t seem like the sort of man who would have any enemies,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
I could see what she was doing, and it was a gamble. One of the best ways of getting people to tell you things that they might otherwise prefer to keep hidden is to make a false statement and give them the chance to disagree with you. Even the most reticent of people love to contradict you when they think they know something you don’t, and they love explaining exactly why you’re wrong. In this case, though, it probably wasn’t a falsehood – Basil Newhouse had seemed to me to be a perfectly charming man who would have made few enemies in his cheerfully gregarious life.
‘I’ve never met a soul who didn’t think the world of old Basil,’ said Zelda. ‘He was kind, generous, and easy-going. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he wouldn’t stand by and let anyone else hurt one, either. He was a true gentleman.’
It was much as I suspected, then – Basil Newhouse had been well liked by one and all. It made the argument I’d overheard between him and Euphemia seem all the more incongruous, but I didn’t think this was the moment to ask about it.
‘I’m so terribly sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You have our deepest sympathy. We shall leave you to yourselves for now, but don’t feel that we’re abandoning you to your grief. If you need anything at all, we’ll do whatever we can.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ sniffed Euphemia, who had begun to cry again.
‘Would you like to tell Mr Cheetham?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as we stood to leave. ‘I can pass on the news if you can’t bear to do it, but it’s up to you. Perhaps it would be better coming from his friends?’
Zelda thought for a moment. ‘No, dear, would you do it, please? I don’t think I could get the words out.’
We left them to assimilate the terrible news in private.
Lady Hardcastle took coffee alone in the dining room while I hovered in the hall waiting to intercept Mr Cheetham as he came downstairs. Dora glared daggers at me as she passed but said nothing. On another occasion I might have given her a piece of my mind for being so rude, but I didn’t have any to spare. My mind was otherwise engaged.
Dewi was more cheerful. Despite his reputation for being a little surly, he was always pleasant to me.
‘Mornin’, Miss Armstrong,’ he said as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’ve seen to Mr Cheetham but I can’t get no answer from Mr Newhouse’s room. I could just go in, I suppose, and I would if it were Sir Hector – he don’t mind, see? – but you never know with folk who aren’t born to it, like. Some of ’em are a bit embarrassed at havin’ servants about the place.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘You did the right thing. Go and see Edna – I’m sure she’ll have a few things that need doing.’
He smiled. ‘Usually fetchin’ things off high shelves,’ he said. ‘“Y’ere, I wishes I ’ad longer arms,” she goes. Sometimes I’m no more use than a pair of steps.’
His impression of Edna was uncannily accurate and I laughed in spite of myself.
‘I’m sure you come in handy for lifting heavy packages, too,’ I said.
Mr Cheetham appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Off you trot, Dewi,’ I said. ‘I need to nab Mr Cheetham.’
Dewi duly trotted off.
‘Did I hear my name?’ said Mr Cheetham as he stepped off the last stair.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘I was just telling Dewi I needed to catch you before you went into breakfast.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ he said.
‘I’ll let Lady Hardcastle explain. She’s waiting for you in the dining room.’
‘Right you are. He’s a good lad, that Dewi.’
‘He is, yes.’
‘One thing’s been puzzling me, though. His name. How do you spell it?’
‘D-E-W-I,’ I said.
He looked blankly at me. ‘But he calls himself “Duh-wee”,’ he said incredulously. ‘How on earth . . . ?’
‘It’s a Welsh name, sir,’ I said as I led him to the dining room door and ushered him in. ‘We have our own way of spelling things.’
‘Well I never. Good morning, my lady,’ he said. ‘Miss Armstrong here tells me you want to see me.’
‘I do, yes,’ she said. ‘Come on in, Armstrong, and close the door.’
‘I was just saying it sounded ominous. It’s not sounding any better.’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s not good at all. Sergeant Dobson, one of our local policemen, called on us this morning to tell us that your friend Mr Newhouse was found dead in the churchyard.’
Mr Cheetham was as stunned as his actresses had been.
‘A detective and a police surgeon from Bristol were summoned after a preliminary examination of the body by the local men. I’m sorry to have to tell you it was murder.’
‘But how . . . why . . . who . . . ?’
‘The why and the who elude us for the moment, but as for how . . . He was stabbed through the heart. A witch’s doll was nearby, dressed as Mr Newhouse, with a pin through its own heart.’
‘My moving picture,’ he said. ‘They’re trying to ruin me. He was killed just like the Witchfinder. Oh, poor Basil. This is all my fault. I should never . . . ’
‘It’s not your fault, Mr Cheetham,’ said Lady Hardcastle kindly. ‘But what makes you say so? Why would anyone have it in for you? And why would they attack Mr Newhouse if you were the object of their hatred?’
‘There’s a number of people with a grudge against me,’ he said. ‘Aaron Orum, for one – he insists I stole his idea, you know. And those Hughes cre
atures. They’ve been trying to close me down for months. It could be one of their acolytes.’
‘But what good would killing Mr Newhouse do any of them?’
‘Bad publicity, my lady,’ he said forcefully. ‘They want to close me down, to stop me from bringing my art to the world. What better way than to start a scandal around the picture. Questions will be asked in the press. “A man has died. How many more will die as a result of this evil picture?” I’ll be ruined.’ He sat heavily in one of the dining chairs. ‘Ruined.’
I slipped discreetly out to fetch a pot of tea. Ruined or not, he was going to feel less despondent about it with a nice cup of tea inside him.
Chapter Six
The three remaining ‘film folk’, as Lady Hardcastle had dubbed them, were closeted together in the morning room for a couple of hours. We left them to it, but after they had been in there for some time, Lady Hardcastle urged me to try to find out what was going on.
I had often cursed Jasper Laxley, the man whose house we rented, for having such deep pockets and high standards. If only he had skimped a little on the building then the walls might have been thinner and earwigging on guests considerably easier. As it was, I had to use the old servants’ trick of lingering by the door with a tray so that I could appear to be on some important serving errand if they should open the door suddenly and find me walking away. Despite this none too subtle subterfuge, I was still unable to hear what was going on.
For the most part I could make out only the general hum of conversation but I did hear Euphemia exclaim, ‘Well, I think it’s too dangerous!’ before the sound of approaching footsteps forced me to step away and pretend to be about my business.
They emerged into the hall, with Mr Cheetham looking a good deal less comfortable and confident than we were used to.
‘We’ve had a chat,’ he said, ‘and we’ve decided that, as the old circus phrase has it, “The show must go on”. We’ll be opening up the village hall again this evening with our planned second programme. We’ll be showing The Witch’s Downfall as well, in honour of Basil.’
My own opinion was that the villagers would be horrified by Mr Newhouse’s death and would think a rescreening of the moving picture a most disrespectful act. I could well imagine that some of them would be terrified by the idea of a murderer on the loose and wouldn’t want anything further to do with The Witch’s Downfall or with anyone involved in it, lest a similar fate befall them.
Lady Hardcastle, too, frowned momentarily, but said, ‘I’m sure it’s the right thing to do. He wouldn’t have wanted the actions of some madman to spoil your collective achievement.’
Mr Cheetham looked pleased at this, although the two ladies seemed less certain.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’ll say a few words, you know – make it into a proper tribute.’
‘That would be fitting,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And perhaps—’
But her next suggestion was cut off by the insistent ringing of the doorbell.
I answered it to find the well-dressed young woman we had previously seen in the pub in the company of Aaron Orum. She was alone this time, but as impeccably turned out as before in another exquisitely cut suit. Her hat was especially daring. It appeared to be a gentleman’s bowler, with a broad ribbon around the crown, tied in an exuberantly large bow and holding a peacock feather in place. This was a woman who liked to make an impression.
She presented her card. ‘Good day,’ she said. ‘I understand Mr Nolan Cheetham is staying here. I should like to see him, please.’
I looked at the card. Miss Dinah Caudle, it told me, was employed by the Bristol News.
‘Shall I tell him what it’s about?’ I asked with as much innocence as I could muster.
‘The murder of one of his company,’ she said bluntly.
I checked the weather. It was shaping up to be a bright enough day, if a chilly one. ‘Just a moment, please, miss,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if he’s available.’
I closed the door. Journalists, I thought, can wait outside, especially journalists who palled around with people who were so obviously antagonistic towards our guests.
I turned back to the little knot of people who had been standing behind me during the brief exchange at the door. It seemed unlikely that Miss Caudle wouldn’t have been able to see them all. I handed Mr Cheetham the card. He examined it briefly.
‘Do you know her?’ he said.
‘I saw her in the pub on Monday afternoon,’ I said. ‘She was the woman I told you about, the one with Mr Orum. But we weren’t introduced so I had no idea that she was a journalist.’
‘A journalist,’ he said. ‘That puts a different slant on things altogether. If he’s walking out with a journalist . . . well, one or other of them must be up to something.’
He didn’t seem at all comfortable with this conclusion.
‘It could just be a coincidence,’ I suggested. ‘That she’s a journalist, I mean. She is extremely attractive. He might just be with her because she looks good on his arm.’
‘Aye, maybe you’re right,’ he said uncertainly. ‘It’s certainly part of his bohemian image, is that – hanging around with pretty young girls. Pretty, young, rich girls if he can manage it. They’re always good for a few bob to fund his latest project.’
‘She certainly gives every appearance of being rich,’ I said. ‘It must have taken a procession of wagons to bring her wardrobe.’
He seemed to relax a little. ‘She might not be up to anything, eh? I suppose I’d better see her. Set her straight. I don’t reckon as how I can stop her from writing whatever sort of sensational nonsense she wants about poor Basil’s death, but I can give our side of the story, at least.’
‘The drawing room would suit you best, I think,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ll keep out of your way unless you want . . . ’
‘Want what, my lady?’ he said.
‘I was going to say “a witness”,’ she said. ‘But it suddenly sounded so melodramatic. I’m sure she’s utterly trustworthy, but I wondered if it might be reassuring to have a third party present who could verify the details of your conversation in the event of any dispute.’
He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘’Appen you’re right at that,’ he said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, like.’
‘I was thinking Armstrong might fit the bill. Neither of us has any real reason to be there, but she’ll be more inclined to ignore Armstrong. She’d have to make polite conversation with me.’
‘Right you are, then,’ he said, and made his way towards the drawing room.
I reopened the front door. Being left on the doorstep, even in the watery November sunshine, hadn’t lifted Miss Caudle’s spirits at all. She glared at me as I said, ‘Please come in, Miss Caudle. Mr Cheetham will see you in the drawing room.’
She said nothing as she followed me through the hall and into the drawing room. I waited inside for her to pass and then closed the door. She looked as though she was about to say something to me – ask me to leave, perhaps – but she was distracted by Mr Cheetham’s warm greeting.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Caudle,’ he said genially. ‘How wonderful of you to come round to express your sympathy. My colleagues and I greatly appreciate it.’
Her eyes narrowed. She clearly didn’t appreciate this attempt to catch her off balance. ‘It must be a terrible time for you,’ she said. ‘It’s devastating enough to lose a friend, but to have your moving picture blamed for it . . . well. One can only try to imagine how awful you must feel.’
‘Shall we sit?’ he asked.
As they made themselves comfortable in two of the armchairs, Miss Caudle gave me an impatient look. It was obvious that she would prefer that I wasn’t there, but she knew she had no real power to expel me while she was in someone else’s house, especially not when one of the houseguests apparently wanted me there. I ignored her stare and stationed myself in the corner of the room by the bookcase.
‘Are they blami
ng my picture?’ asked Mr Cheetham mildly.
‘It’s only a matter of time before they do,’ she said. She opened her handbag and took out a leather-bound notebook, embossed in gold leaf with her initials. She rummaged in the bag for a short while longer and produced a black pen with a red-topped cap. She removed the cap and looked up at Mr Cheetham, poised to begin writing.
‘Why would they “blame” my picture?’ asked Mr Cheetham. ‘I produced a work of entertaining fiction, not a manual for murder.’
‘Come now, Mr Cheetham,’ she said as she began to take notes. ‘Everyone will soon know that Basil Newhouse died in exactly the same way as his character in your picture.’
‘Exactly the same way, Miss Caudle? Are you suggesting that he was killed by witchcraft?’
She frowned again. Or continued to frown, at any rate. It seemed that disdainful disapproval was her default expression. ‘You know very well what I mean,’ she said. ‘And you know very well what people will say. There will be a small constituency who genuinely believes that supernatural forces were at work. But there will be a larger and more vocal group who will see your work as a corrupting influence that inspired a madman to act in this terrible way.’
‘But you’ll be setting them straight, I’m sure,’ said Mr Cheetham with a smile. ‘The Bristol News doesn’t go in for sensationalism.’
‘We report the news, Mr Cheetham. And we shall also report such opinions as are expressed by our readers and the population at large.’
Hmm, I thought, snooty and pompous. What a winning combination.
‘You’re a news reporter, then?’ asked Mr Cheetham. Somehow he seemed to be the one conducting the interview.
‘Well, no,’ she said, seeming slightly flustered for the first time since I’d encountered her. ‘Not exactly. I write mainly for the society pages. And for our women readers. But I also report on the arts, and I believe that moving pictures are going to be frightfully important. I intend to make sure that they get all the coverage they deserve.’