02 - Murder at Dareswick Hall (11 page)

‘Mr
Crabtree, Mr Crabtree, wake up, something terrible has happened!’

The
butler reluctantly began to rouse himself from his sleep, his head still heavy
from the effects of the whisky he had drunk the night before. As he opened his
eyes and became fully conscious, he was alarmed to find that the person who was
waking him so rudely from his slumber, tearing at his sheets and blanket, was
none other than the housekeeper.

‘Mrs
Hodges!’ he shot up into a sitting position, checking that his pyjama jacket
was properly done up and that he was quite decent. ‘Whatever are you doing?’ A
sudden thought struck him, unforgivable in a butler of standing like himself. ‘Have
I overslept?’ Quickly he looked at the clock on his bedside table to reassure
himself that this was not the case, but no, he still had half an hour or so
before he had to rise. He breathed a sigh of relief and hoped Mrs Hodges could
not smell alcohol on his breath. It was then that he recollected his actions of
the night before, most particularly the way he had been so outspoken in his
condemnation of Lord Sneddon’s conduct. Of course, it had been the whisky
talking, he would never have spoken to a guest of the baron’s like that, and a peer
to boot, if he had been sober. There could be no other explanation for why the
housekeeper saw fit to wake him herself at this hour. Lord Sneddon must have
already been to see the master to complain about his butler’s impertinence.

Meanwhile,
Mrs Hodges was almost sobbing in her distress.

‘Mr
Crabtree, Mr Crabtree, it’s awful, so it is. Young Doris went to open the shutters
and curtains in the downstairs rooms as usual and such, and she was just
emptying the grate in the library when she said an awful feeling came over her
as if she were not alone but being watched by some evil spirit. You know what
she’s like, a fanciful girl even at the best of times. But this time she was
right! She said as how she looked up from where she was crouched dusting the
grate and there he was, seated at that old library table that Miss Josephine
uses as a writing desk. He was seated facing her, or he would have been if his body
weren’t slouched over the desk, his head buried on the table. It gave her such
a fright, it did, not least because she must have walked right past him in the
dark when she went to open the shutters and curtains. Always complaining to me,
she is, that the room’s so dark that she’s always tripping and stumbling over
things –.’

‘Yes,
but I still don’t understand –,’ began the butler, confused.

‘He’s
dead, Mr Crabtree, Doris has just found him dead in the library!’

Despite
her disturbed night, Rose woke early. At first she thought it was because of
the unease she felt in respect of her last conversation with Lord Sneddon. With
the clarifying light of day, when concerns and worries become less, she
realised that she had been too hard on him. That he felt genuine distress and
responsibility for the young housemaid’s death could not be doubted and,
instead of encouraging him to make amends as best he could, she had damned him
and abandoned him to his feelings of hopelessness. She should have sat down
with him and heard him out. She should have used the opportunity at least to
persuade Sneddon to return Isabella’s letters and release her from her promise.

There
was considerable noise coming from downstairs, she realised, doors banging, the
hurrying of feet, whispered voices being shushed, even the sound of weeping.
Perhaps this is what had woken her, rather than her feelings of unease.
Something was definitely afoot. The servants at Dareswick usually undertook
their chores quietly so that the household and guests were almost unaware of
their presence. She wondered what the matter was. For the second time in what
was only a few hours, she donned her peach and cream brocade dressing gown and
ventured out on to the landing where she intended to peer over the banisters
into the hall below, or to detain a passing servant to find out what was amiss.
Instead, she saw Cedric running up the stairs, his face pale, obviously in
shock.

‘Oh,
Rose, how glad I am to see you. I’ve just been down in the library with
Crabtree. Something awful has happened and so he and Mrs Hodges came to get me.
Hallam’s too young to deal with it and the baron hates being disturbed at this
hour even in a time like this, so the butler and housekeeper came to me.’

‘What’s
happened, Cedric?’ asked Rose, apprehensively. Even though she asked the
question, she didn’t want to know, not really, but at the same time she did not
wish to be left in ignorance, fearing the worst.

‘It’s
Sneddon, Rose. I’m afraid he’s dead. It’s all rather awful, you see he’s been
…’ He broke off as Rose began to sob. ‘Oh, I say, please don’t cry. I’m no good
at this. I should have broken it to you more gently. I’m afraid I just didn’t
think. I just came out with the first thing in my head. I was so relieved to
see you, you see. Say you forgive me. I know it must have been an awful shock
and–.’

‘It’s
not that,’ Rose said, clinging on to him, leaning her head on his shoulder and sobbing
bitterly, only vaguely aware of what a mess she must look. They stood there
entwined for some moments, neither saying a word, with Cedric cursing himself
for having broken the news so abruptly. Rose was clearly in shock. He should
have led up to it, at least made sure that Rose was sitting down and perhaps a
glass of water to hand and –.

‘Cedric,
you see, it was me,’ said Rose, finally breaking away from his embrace and
wiping away her tears clumsily with the back of her hand, ‘I killed him, I
killed Lord Sneddon.’

‘Don’t
say anything,’ instructed Cedric as he half led, half dragged her out of the
house and across the lawn, ‘not until we’re definitely out of earshot of anyone
in the house. I’m afraid our voices will carry. We’ll walk on through these
first couple of formal gardens out into the rose garden; they’ve got a
traditional one here, been here some three hundred years I believe, almost as
old as Sedgwick’s.’

It was
some twenty minutes or so since Rose had made her devastating announcement. The
colour had drained immediately from Cedric’s face and he had stared at her
uncomprehendingly for a moment, before his expression had become grim. He had
insisted that they get dressed and go as far away from the house as possible so
that they could decide what to do. Rose had never known Cedric look so serious.
She had followed him obediently and had made no protest even though he held her
hand so tightly that it hurt.

They
did not stop until they had come to the rose garden, where they collapsed onto
an old wrought iron bench, which had been designed more for visual effect than
for comfort. Cedric looked around hastily to reassure himself that the garden
was indeed deserted while Rose sat there almost numb of emotion.

‘Right,
let me think,’ said Cedric, clutching his forehead in his hand. A sudden
thought seemed to strike him and he looked alarmed. ‘He didn’t try and attack
you, did he, Rose? Tell me he didn’t harm you; oh, my God, he didn’t –.’

‘No,
no, he did nothing like that,’ Rose said hastily, clutching his hand. Was it
her imagination or did he seem to draw it away from her as if he were recoiling
from her touch?

‘Well,
we must think. We can say that he tried to attack you, that you had no other
option but to…. But no, that won’t work. He was seated at that damned desk with
his back to the door. That won’t wash. Rose.  Why ever did you do it? I know
that he was the most awful of men, but even so…’

‘But
-.’

‘Of
course, if it comes to it, I’ll say I did it. I’ll take the blame as any
gentleman would, but –.’

‘Cedric,
oh do be quiet for a moment, please,’ implored Rose. ‘What are you saying
exactly? Wasn’t it suicide?’

‘No, of
course not, he was murdered. But you know that. He was stabbed in the back with
a knife, well a gold letter-opener, anyway.  But of course you know that
because you did it.’

‘Oh,
thank God!’ Rose began to cry tears of relief while Cedric looked at her in
disbelief. ‘Oh, you needn’t look at me like that, Cedric. I’m not mad. I didn’t
murder Lord Sneddon. I thought I’d driven him to suicide because I hadn’t been
sympathetic to his plight. He was so melancholy and depressed, you see, when I
last saw him. He was full of remorse because a young housemaid he got into
trouble had drowned herself in the lake here. He was clearly shocked and I did
nothing to alleviate his guilt. I felt disgusted. I wanted him to suffer. I
said there was nothing he could do to put it right, but that he must try. When
you told me just now that he was dead, I just assumed that he had taken his own
life, that he thought it was the only thing he could do to make amends.’

‘Oh, Rose,
darling Rose,’ he drew her to him. ‘How could I have possibly thought you could
have killed Sneddon? I should have known you would never have done anything
like that, do you forgive me?’

‘Of
course I do, silly. It’s hardly surprising, after all I said I did it. But I
feel so guilty. I should have been more sympathetic, I should –.’

‘Nonsense,
Lord Sneddon brought it upon himself as I am sure he did his murder.’

‘Would
you really have gone to the gallows for me?’

‘Yes, I
like to think I would. But I’m afraid I would have felt differently towards you
had you really killed Sneddon. I wouldn’t have wanted to, of course, but I
would have done. It all seems so underhand somehow, to creep up on a man when
his back is turned and plunge a knife in his back when he is seated at a desk. Why,
there’s something awfully cowardly about it, isn’t there?’

‘Yes’.
Rose shivered slightly as she conjured up the image in her mind. She remembered
the distraught man she had left in the library. She wondered whether he had
been planning how to make amends for his past unsavoury acts when the knife had
struck.  She would never know now whether he would have turned out good in the
end; he hadn’t been given the chance.

‘The
police are on their way, my lord, a detective inspector and sergeant from
Scotland Yard, I believe.’ Crabtree looked at the baron apprehensively. Surely
Lord Sneddon wouldn’t have had a chance to speak to his lordship about the
butler’s conduct before his untimely demise.

The
baron hardly seemed to register his butler’s existence. He was too busy mopping
his brow with a crumpled handkerchief and fanning himself with a sheet taken
from
The Times
newspaper. His butler looked at him with concern. His
master was clearly overcome with emotion and he doubted whether he was in a fit
state to be interviewed by the police. Crabtree himself felt singularly green
about the gills. It had not escaped his notice that he must have been one of
the last people to have seen Lord Sneddon alive, besides the murderer, of
course. The thought made him shiver. If he had not been made of sterner stuff,
he would have had half a mind to take to his bed. Goodness knows, his head was still
throbbing from the amount of whisky he had drunk the night before and he felt
quite sick with the worry of it all.

When he
had hurriedly followed Mrs Hodges to the library, where she had stubbornly
insisted on hovering in the doorway and looking out towards the hall, part of
him had half expected to find Lord Sneddon unconscious in a deep,
alcohol-induced sleep. Goodness knew Doris was not the brightest housemaid
Dareswick had ever employed; she was just the sort of silly young girl to
mistake a man asleep for dead. Sadly, however, she had been proved correct. The
little gold dagger protruding from Sneddon’s back removed all doubt that she
was right in her thinking.  The man was dead. And clearly had been murdered at
that.

‘How
can this have happened, Crabtree?’ demanded the baron. ‘In Dareswick of all
places, the safest place in all the world or so I thought.’

‘Indeed
so, my lord, it’s most unfortunate.’

‘It’s a
jolly deal more than that, Crabtree. The man was betrothed to my daughter. She
was going to be a duchess. Poor Isabella. I suppose Josephine is with her now,
trying to comfort her, dear girl.’

‘I’m
afraid not, my lord, you see –.’

‘I say,
Crabtree, you must have forgotten to lock or bar a door or window last night.
That’s how the blighter must have got in. He must have sneaked up on Lord
Sneddon and caught him unawares. Hopefully the poor fellow knew nothing about
it, was dead before he knew what or who had stabbed him.’

‘Indeed,
my lord, I can assure you that I carried out all my checks as usual last night,’
replied Crabtree somewhat indignant. ‘The house was safely locked and barred by
half past seven. As Sidney is my witness, he and I checked and double-checked
each door and window, as is our habit, and all was secure.’

‘Nonsense,
man. How on earth did he get in then, this murderer? You’re surely not telling
me he’s one of my guests or a member of the household, are you? You must have
overlooked some door or window. The police won’t go easy on you, I can tell you,
and neither will I if I find you were to blame for letting the wretch get in.’

The
baron stood and glowered at his butler. Crabtree returned his stare with a look
of indignation. How long this standoff would have continued neither was to find
out, for at that moment Sidney came into the study to announce that the gentlemen
from Scotland Yard had arrived.

‘Show
them in, show them in.’ Baron Atherton waved one arm impatiently in the air at
the footman. ‘I suppose you’d better stay, Crabtree. After all, you were one of
the first to see the corpse, the first if you discount that silly young
housemaid of yours. Doris, is that her name? No doubt crying her eyes out now and
drinking all the best sherry in the house, is she?’

‘She’s
in the servants’ hall with Mrs Gooden, my lord, and drinking nothing stronger
than very weak tea with a good deal of sugar in it for the shock.’

‘Detective
Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane from Scotland Yard, my lord,’ announced
Sidney, ushering in a tall, dark-haired young man accompanied by a man of
similar age but  who, in the baron’s opinion, looked nothing as he imagined a
detective sergeant should look. There was a slight cockiness in his look and
manner that the baron found displeasing, although he approved of the way he
seemed to defer to the detective inspector, who he appeared to hold in high
esteem.

The
baron appraised the inspector. Well dressed and handsome, he should say,
probably a favourite with the ladies. Still, he had a courteous air about him,
knew his place, and his suit was well cut, if not expensive. He supposed he’d
do. And he’d come from Scotland Yard so no doubt he knew his job. He looked a
discreet sort of chap too, hopefully he’d sort out this mess as quickly as
possible, lay his hands on the reprobate who’d done this dreadful deed and
leave them in peace to weather the scandal as best they could.  It wouldn’t be
easy, of course. Lord Sneddon had been the only surviving son of the Duke of
Haywater. He could visualise the gathering of pressmen. In a day or two he
would have to get his gardeners and gamekeeper to patrol the perimeter of his
land to keep them out lest the place become overrun with them. He recalled that
Cedric had been obliged to do the same at Sedgwick Court. He could not bear it
if his beloved Dareswick Hall was for evermore associated in people’s minds
with violent death.

He
shuddered and beckoned them to sit down while he himself half flopped into his
favourite Charles II winged armchair. There was something soothing and
comforting about its high back, as it supported him and held him up in a
sitting position lest he collapse. The inspector seated himself on the edge of a
burgundy buttoned leather sofa, where he was able to sit facing the baron
diagonally. Meanwhile, the sergeant chose a chair which was a little away from
the baron, outside his direct line of vision.

‘I
hardly need tell you, Inspector, what a very great shock this has been to us
all. One minute we’re celebrating my daughter’s engagement to the fellow and
the next minute he’s dead. And killed in my own house to boot. My daughter’s
absolutely distraught, as you can imagine. She’s being comforted now by my
other daughter.’ He was prevented from continuing for a moment by a cough from
the butler, which distracted him, making him lose his train of thought. ‘Crabtree,
I was talking to the inspector, don’t interrupt. No doubt you should have a
word with my butler in a moment, Crabtree was one of the first on the scene, so
to speak.’

‘Indeed?’
Inspector Deacon eyed the butler with interest. He turned slightly in his seat
and caught his sergeant’s eye. Yes. He had not been mistaken, Lane had picked
up on it too. The butler was clearly disagreeing with something that the baron
had said, but what? He had said so very little, only what you would expect a
man to say who found himself in such unpleasant circumstances.

‘I
appreciate this must be a very difficult time for you and your family, my
lord,’ the inspector said soothingly. ‘But as I am sure you understand, we need
to get to work as soon as possible, and I’m afraid that will mean interviewing
everyone in this house including your daughters. The police constables are busy
now scouring the grounds, but it’s just possible that one of your household or
guests may have some vital piece of information that may help us catch the
murderer.

‘Perhaps
we could start with you telling us who was here this weekend. Let’s start with
the members of your family. I understand all your children were present?’

‘Yes,
Inspector. My son, Hallam, is here. He splits his time between Dareswick and
Oxford, don’t you know. Isabella, she’s my youngest daughter, she lives in a
service flat in London. Rarely see her. Can’t say I really approve, but you
know what young girls are like nowadays. Since the war they’ve become
independent and know their own minds.  Likes the bright lights and the bustle
of London, does my Isabella. She finds Dareswick a trifle quiet, whereas my
eldest daughter, Josephine, quite loves the place. Keeps house for me since my
wife died and a very good job of it she does. Don’t think I would ever be able
to tear her from this place, she lives and breathes it. Not that I’d want her
to leave, of course, the current arrangement suits us both very well.’

‘I see.
And it was Miss Isabella who was betrothed to the deceased?’

‘Yes,
indeed,’ said the baron, sadly. ‘Tragic, quite tragic, Inspector. I say, I
really must go and see how my daughter’s getting on. Haven’t seen her yet since
this awful business happened. Don’t know how badly she’s taken it. Don’t even
know if the doctor’s given her a sedative. Has he, Crabtree?’

‘No, my
lord. A sedative was offered but Miss Isabella declined.’

‘She’s
a chip off the old block, Inspector. Made of stern stuff, that girl of mine.
Still, I’d better go and see her. Where is she, Crabtree, in the drawing room?’

‘No, my
lord,’ said the butler looking rather appalled at the suggestion. ‘Mrs Hodges
and I thought the drawing room was located a little too near to the library.
She’s in the upstairs sitting room.’

‘If
you’ll excuse me, Inspector, I’d like to go and see my daughter now. I feel
I’ve been rather remiss’, the baron said, rising from his chair. It was clear to
all those present that he intended what he said to be a statement rather than a
question.

‘Yes,
indeed, my lord. We can talk to you later about your guests. In the meantime, I’d
like to ask your butler here a few questions and I would like to have another
look at the murder scene. We glanced in on it on our way through the hall to
make our introductions. Our men should be almost finished with the room by now,
although I hardly need to tell you that we’ll need to keep it locked.’

As the
baron left the room, the inspector got up and started slowly pacing the room,
going first to the mantelpiece and idly picking up an ornament, looking at it
for a moment and then replacing it and then going over to the baron’s winged
chair where he paused, stood behind it and rested his arms on the back. He
leaned forward slightly, shifting some of his weight to the chair, and looked
keenly at the butler. Crabtree in turn seemed to flinch under such scrutiny and
made as if to avert his gaze.

‘Well,
what is it man, out with it,’ demanded the inspector, not unkindly, but rather
abruptly.

‘I
don’t know what you mean, sir,’ stammered the butler, clearly flustered.

‘Just
now you didn’t agree with something that his lordship said. Your cough gave you
away. You wanted to contradict what he said, but you thought better of it.’

‘I’m
sorry, sir, I’d rather not
–
.’

‘I
don’t care what you’d rather not. This is no time for discretion or to hold
things back. This is a murder investigation. My sergeant here and I need to
know everything, do you hear me, no matter how irrelevant you may think it is,
or,’ Deacon’s eyes seemed to bore into the butler, ‘or incriminating. Is that
it, man? You’re afraid of incriminating someone in this house?’

For a
moment Crabtree said nothing, as if he was trying to make up his mind what to
do and then he nodded, miserably.

‘Miss
Josephine,’ he mumbled, so softly that Deacon was not sure whether he had heard
him correctly. However, a quick glance over at his sergeant showed him by the
surprised expression on Lane’s face that he had not misheard.

‘Miss
Josephine? The baron’s eldest daughter, the one that was not engaged to Lord
Sneddon?’

But
before the butler had a chance to nod or say any more, the door of the study
burst open and an irate Baron Atherton came rushing in, the look on his face
that of a man about to explode, quelling the butler into silence.

‘Where
is she? Where is Miss Josephine? You said she was comforting Miss Isabella. But
the poor girl’s all alone in her room and she says she’s not seen her sister
all morning. I met Mrs Hodges on the landing and the woman was damned evasive,
I can tell you. Wouldn’t answer my questions at all. Why, she wouldn’t even
look me in the eye, she just kept going on about how I should speak to you.
Well, I’m waiting, Crabtree.  Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me that Miss
Josephine was looking after Miss Isabella if she wasn’t?’

The
baron glared at the butler, his face thunderous.

‘M-my,
l-lord I –,’ began the poor man stammering.

‘Actually,
my lord, I think you will find that your butler did not lie to you,’ said
Deacon, coming to Crabtree’s rescue. He held up a hand as the baron tried to
protest. ‘I think, my lord, that you quite naturally and understandably assumed
that Miss Josephine was looking after her sister, because it was the sort of
thing she would do.’ He turned to the butler. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘No,
sir.’

‘But
there is something that you’re keeping from us, isn’t there? Out with it, man.’

‘Yes,
spit it out, Crabtree,’ demanded the baron. ‘Where is my daughter?’

‘I
don’t know where Miss Josephine is, sir, as God is my witness. But there is something
else.’ Crabtree took a deep breath, in anticipation of the storm which was
surely about to erupt. ‘When the maid took a cup of tea to Miss Josephine this
morning, as is her habit, only it was a bit later than usual because of all the
fuss about –.’