“The grave, yes. Am I correct in deducing that Robert Bell was your brother?”
“My dear brother Bob.” A glaze of moisture came over her eyes. “My family. All the family I had in this world until he was murdered.”
I said as gently as I could, “If you are speaking of what happened a year ago, that was an accident, surely.”
The mouth twitched and she said with bitterness, “Yes, call it an accident. Dismiss it. Just an orphan boy who happened to stray into the line of fire. An unfortunate incident, not worth canceling the shoot for. They didn’t. My brother wasn’t killed outright, you know. He was hit by scores of pellets, and in terrible pain, but it was inconvenient to call a doctor or take him to a hospital while the shoot was in progress, so they had him carried to the nearest cottage and left in the care of an old woman of eighty who tried to comfort him with hot milk. The shooting party went back to slaughtering pheasants. Three hours after the shoot was over a footman was sent to the cottage with a flask of brandy. That was all the interest that any of them took. Sometime after midnight my poor brother died of his wounds. Do you know what they were doing in the Hall that evening? Singing around the piano.”
“Such insensitivity!” I said, trying to show sympathy without sounding insincere. “I’m profoundly sorry. One can only assume that nobody realized how serious the injuries were.”
She let out a harsh, indignant breath, “If he had been one of theirs—a brother or a son—do you suppose they would have abandoned him like that? Bob’s death need not have happened. They were responsible. And they knew it. They buried him in secret without an inquest. The servants were instructed never to mention it, or they would be dismissed. He wasn’t even buried in a proper coffin. One of the estate woodmen was given the task of making a box from unseasoned timber.” She pressed her lips together. “I can’t bear to think of it.”
I said in a futile attempt to assuage the bitterness, “They provided a decent stone for him.”
“Pardon me, they did not. I paid for the stone when I learned how my brother had died and been left in an unmarked grave. I had it delivered here without any indication of who had sent it. Each of them assumed that one of the others had ordered it in a fit of conscience. So it was erected as a headstone, and touched nobody’s conscience at all. You saw how the grave was overgrown.”
Still trying not to antagonize her, I remarked, “Then the words on the stone were your choice. Gone, but not forgotten.”
She gave a laugh bereft of any amusement. “What restraint I showed! My first thought was to have the truth engraved there. ‘Cruelly struck down and allowed to die.’ But my plan was already made, you see. I couldn’t put it at risk.”
“Your plan?”
“The Drummonds and their friends made the mistake of believing that Bob was alone in the world. They thought he could be buried and forgotten.”
“So the words on the stone are not without point,” I commented.
“They didn’t know of my existence. Bob wasn’t one to talk about his past—it was too painful.” She sighed, “You see, as children we were separated after both our parents were called to God. On top of the grief, we had to endure loneliness. Sometimes cruelty. Yet we kept in touch. Don’t ask me how—it was God’s work. We were only young children, but we refused to be cut off from each other. The tie of blood was too strong. As the elder child, I felt responsible, even after we had both grown up. So I knew that Bob had gone to work on the Desborough estate, and when my birthday came and I heard nothing from him, I was worried. I came here to see him and no one would tell me what had happened to him. Their lips were sealed, but I could see in their faces that a tragedy had happened. Finally by sheer persistence I found the old woman in whose cottage he died. She was brave enough to tell me the dreadful truth. It was almost a relief to know for certain. Yes, I traveled back to London feeling gratified. Can you understand that?”
I nodded.
She said, “Later it turned to grief, of course, and self-pity. Then anger. Outrage. Blind fury at those monsters who had conspired to cover up their crime. It was a crime, you know, failure to report a death.”
“I’m sure that is so.”
“The greater crime was letting him die. The law might not hold them responsible for that, but I did. I blamed them. The outrage didn’t diminish. If anything it grew as I learned what it truly means to be alone in the world. I lived with my anger for a time. I tried to subdue it, I really did, and eventually I succeeded. I achieved a sort of calm by planning vengeance. I vowed to kill everyone who had conspired in Robert’s death, every member of that house party including the chaplain who buried him.” She paused, I suppose to see the effect of this statement.
The effect upon me was that I remained outwardly impassive whilst privately thanking my stars that all my shooting last year had been done at Sandringham and Balmoral.
She continued in the same toneless voice, “I was saved the trouble of disposing of Lord Frederick Drummond. He was gored by a bull.”
“That much I know,” said I.
“Five others remained. I set myself the task of finding out everything I could about them. As a first step, I contrived to meet Marcus Pelham and gain his confidence. He had not been one of the party, but he was worth cultivating because he took particular interest in his sister’s social attachments.”
“Indeed he did.”
“I learned from Marcus what I hoped to hear—that another shooting party was to be held at Desborough.”
I gave a nod. “And did he tell you that I was to be the principal guest?”
“That was a mishap I had not foreseen,” she said without realizing how tactless a remark it was. “Alarming at first, I confess, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw the opportunity it presented.”
“In what way?”
“Well, an unexplained death in the house would put Lady Drummond and her brother into an appalling quandary. They would want to avoid the matter becoming public knowledge.”
“For reasons which you need not go into,” said I.
She gave me an unsympathetic glance. “I contrived a mysterious death with shocking possibilities of scandal—an actress who collapses at the dinner table in front of the Prince of Wales. Everyone’s instinct would be to conceal it from the police and the press, to behave as if nothing had happened.”
“Which everyone did,” said I. “And now I discover that there was no dying actress, unless you have a twin sister.”
“I don’t. There was no dying actress. There was an actress pretending to die.”
“Extraordinary behavior!”
“It was necessary. It enabled me to test the water, so to speak, and discover how everyone would react. And it removed me from all suspicion.”
“This is all very cunning and ingenious,” said I, “but I fail to see how it was done.”
“With a convincing performance,” she said with just a hint of self-congratulation.
“I’ll grant you that—but we had Jerry Gribble’s word later that you died in his arms. Collapsing is one thing, dying is quite another. There must be limits to what an actress can achieve. Jerry was no fool. I can’t believe that he was taken in by this performance of yours. And what of the hospital? They know a corpse when they see one.”
She said with an air of contempt, “We didn’t go near the hospital. You’re perfectly right about Jerry. He wasn’t taken in. So far as he was concerned, we were playing a very artful practical joke on the rest of you.”
“A joke?”
“You must understand that I had planned this for months. I first met Jerry at a cricket match.”
“I know.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a chance meeting. I contrived it. I set out to win his affections, which was all too easy.”
“If I may say so, you’re extremely single
-minded.”
She let out a short, audible breath. “He didn’t inflame me with passion, I assure you. I yielded to him simply to get myself invited to Desborough Hall. Before we arrived I persuaded Jerry to conspire with me in the practical joke I mentioned. He knew how much you enjoyed a good hoax. The idea was that I would pretend to collapse at dinner on that first evening. Jerry would take me off supposedly to the doctor. Later he would return and say that I had died in his arms.”
“Strange sort of joke,” I commented.
“Yes, but the next night I would start my haunting. I would come back as a ghost. Don’t you remember the talk of ghosts that first evening? We would have no end of fun scaring the living daylights out of all of you—or so Jerry believed. Of course I had no intention of dressing up as a ghost, but I gather that Jerry succeeded in convincing you that I was dead. I arranged to meet him the next morning at one of the stands where you were due to shoot later on. He told me proudly that everyone was taken in. I resisted the temptation to say that the joke was on him. I simply shot him and put the gun in his hand.”
“And left a piece of newspaper in his pocket.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why did I shoot him? I’ve explained. He was one of that group who allowed my brother to die.”
“I meant why the piece of paper?”
“Ah. The verse. It was something I thought of at an early stage to embroider the plan. I once heard somebody address Jerry as “Your Grace” and that inspired the idea. It happened that Wilfred Osgot-Edge had initials that fitted the line for Wednesday, so I arranged to kill him on Wednesday. It wasn’t difficult to fit in the others.”
“You were taking a risk by leaving clues.”
“Not much of a risk. If anything, it was a diversion from my real motive. Anyone could cut out words from The Times. That gave nothing away. I did it to mystify you all, and you in particular, Your Royal Highness.”
“Me?”
“It’s well known that you relish a challenge, whether it’s racing your yacht or shooting with the best guns in Europe.”
“Granted.”
“You’ve never been known to walk away. I was confident that you would see out the week in hopes of outwitting me. And if you were willing to remain at the house, so would my victims.”
I said, “I hope you’re not implicating me in this plot.”
She ignored me and asked, “What time is it?”
I felt for my watch and incidentally became aware of the disgraceful state my clothes were in. “Just after two o’clock.”
“I can’t remain much longer. I’ve told you what drove me to do these things.”
“What do you propose to do now?”
“I shall dispose of you first—”
“What?”
“Lock you up whilst I make my escape. There’s a room at the top of the tower that I have used from time to time this week. No doubt someone will find you there before the day is out.
“You don’t intend to injure me?”
She said as if such a treasonous thought had never crossed her mind, “Why should I wish to do you any harm? My brother’s death isn’t on your conscience, is it?”
“Emphatically not,” I said, then sensed that I ought to add something. “And I deplore the way he was treated. My dear lady, I can assure you, if I had been one of the party—”
She raised the shotgun a fraction. “Let us go upstairs, then.”
“Is that all you’re proposing to tell me?”
“On your feet, please. I’ll tell you about the others as we go. I want you to open the door behind me and walk down the aisle to the main door. Just to the left of it you’ll see the steps.”
I obeyed, hoping fervently that there wasn’t anyone left in the chapel. When there’s a gun at your back you don’t want unexpected things to happen. The place appeared to be deserted, thank the Lord. I started down the aisle with Queenie Chimes in close attendance. “Am I right in supposing that you masqueraded as a servant?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m well accustomed to acting the role of housemaid. I could come and go as I pleased. Very few of the servants knew each other. I meant to kill Mr. Osgot-Edge in his bedroom, but an opportunity came earlier, when you all played Sardines.”
“How did you know that Osgot-Edge was to be the hider?”
“I was one of the maids who served the punch.”
“And nobody recognized you?”
“Of course not. Nobody gives a servant a second look. I was in apron and cap and that was disguise enough. When the game started and the lights were out, I pursued Mr. Osgot-Edge and stabbed him with a kitchen knife.” The dreadful statement defiled our surroundings, although she had spoken it in a voice as commonplace as if she were reading the liturgy.
I asked about Bullivant’s murder.
She said, “That was simple. I wrote him a note supposedly from Miss Dundas suggesting a dawn assignation at the well. He was so dumbfounded when he saw me that he quite failed to notice the poker I had concealed behind my back.”
“You attacked a man of his strength with a poker?”
“He had no opportunity to use his strength. I said, ‘Look behind you!’ He turned his head and I swung the poker. He fell without a sound. Then I heaved him into the well.”
“Thursday’s corpse has far to go.”
I stopped. We had reached the spiral stairs that led up the tower. “And Amelia—Lady Drummond? You posed as a servant to enter her dressing room and attack her?”
“Yes, that was more dangerous than I anticipated. Move on, Your Royal Highness. Up the stairs, and not too quickly. I had been led to believe by the servants that Lady Drummond took chloral and would be lethargic, to say the least. I intended to use the poker again. It had proved so effective against Mr. Bullivant. However, she was out of bed when I entered the room and she put up no end of a fight. I don’t believe she was drugged. Finally I struck her with the poker and tipped her over the balcony.”
“Why did you kill her? Surely she wasn’t one of the guns?”
“Neither was the Chaplain, but I killed him. They condoned it, you see. They conspired with the others to cover up what they had done. And surely a woman with a spark of compassion would have gone to visit the wounded boy.”
“Yet you characterized her as loving and giving.”
“She was, where men were concerned. Didn’t you know?”
Her remark was so far beneath contempt that I declined to answer it. Instead I said, “So Saturday’s corpse was the Chaplain. How inconvenient that he didn’t fit the epithet by being a wage-earning man.”
She had an answer to that. “As a clergyman he had a benefice, or a living, as it is commonly known. I don’t know how hard he worked, but he did it for a living.”
We had reached the top of the stairs. Ahead was a door. I hesitated. “And is the killing complete? What of the corpse who was killed on the Sabbath day?”
She said, “After all, you are not quite so perceptive as I supposed. Didn’t you take note of the date on the gravestone? My brother was shot on Saturday and died on Sunday. He was the one who died on the Sabbath Day. Bonny and blithe and good and gay. Every word was true of Robert. Yes, it’s all over now.”
But it was not.
CHAPTER 23
I stood facing the door. “Do you wish me to open it?”
“If you please.” Her tone as she fairly barked out the words belied the suggestion that I had any choice in the matter.
As I reached for the handle I told her, “You must make allowances—I’m not accustomed to opening doors.” This was true, but I am conversant with the principle of turning a door handle. I made the remark—in a carrying voice—to announce our presence, and my predicament. It was not impossible that someone was listening nearby. “It’s jammed, I
think,” I added.
“It can’t be.”
“You didn’t lock it, perhaps?”
“No.”
“You are welcome to try it yourself,” I offered. “The handle turns, but the door is stuck fast. Do you wish to try?”
“Put your shoulder to it.”
“Not with a shotgun against my back. If you stand clear, I’ll do the best I can.”
“Very well.” The pressure in the small of my back eased. She said, “I won’t hesitate to shoot if necessary.”
I told myself that if a certain party had overheard us, at least he could be trusted not to put my life at risk. Heroics weren’t in order here. I stepped up to the door and made a show of resting my shoulder against it while glancing back at Miss Chimes. She had the twelve-bore trained on me. She had backed against the curve of the wall two steps from the top and she was totally in shadow except for a pale menacing glint from her eyes.
You will have gathered that the door was not jammed at all. I offered up a short, silent prayer and pushed it open.
The speed of what happened next is impossible to convey. In one sense it was instantaneous and in another terrifyingly slow. The door swung inwards. The room was unoccupied. I stepped inside and to the right in an endeavor to put the wall between me and the shotgun. Then my blood ran cold as shots were fired. How many I could not say, for the echoes in that small space hammered at my eardrums. I flung myself to the floor and covered my face. Bits of shot, stone and plaster spattered about the room.
If anything, the silence that followed was harder to endure than the shooting. I lay hunched and trembling, a trapped beast awaiting the coup de grâce.
I heard no footsteps approach, yet they did. My shoulder was gripped. I opened an eye and saw two feet a short distance from my face. Large feet, wearing black socks. The voice of Inspector Sweeney asked, “Are you hurt, sir?”
I opened the other eye.
“It’s impossible to say. I am numb, completely numb.” I pushed myself up to a kneeling position. “Is she . . . ?”
Bertie and the Seven Bodies Page 21