02 - Murder at Dareswick Hall (18 page)

The inspector
and sergeant were struck in equal measures by both the Honourable Isabella
Atherton’s beauty and the composed manner in which she entered the room. She
held herself very upright even when she sat down on the chair offered her,
apparently not tempted to slump or slouch as some would have done finding
themselves in similar circumstances. She certainly is a lovely creature, Deacon
thought, as he surveyed her covertly. Apart from the dark smudges under her
eyes and a paleness of skin which he admitted was probably as much due to
powder as to grief, the girl looked calm and collected. There was a certain
frailty about her that Deacon thought some men would find appealing, Lane for
one, he thought. He himself however was not so easily deceived. He saw the way
she eyed him warily and, unless he was much mistaken, there was a glint in her
eye as if she were issuing him with a challenge to penetrate her armour. It was
not lost on him either that, when she entered the study and cast a sweeping
glance over the room, while acknowledging his presence with a graceful tilt of
her head and the shadow of a smile, she had looked straight through his
sergeant as if Lane was not there. A slight furrowing of the brow showed that
Lane was aware of this slight and that she had gone down in his estimations
because of it.

‘First,
I should like to express my condolences at your loss and assure you that…’
Deacon broke off from what he was saying as the woman seated before him raised
a well-manicured hand and smiled at him sweetly.

‘Please,
please Inspector, let us not pretend. You and I are both a little old for
nursery games. I am sure that you have been made fully aware by now that my
engagement to Lord Sneddon had not been entered into voluntarily. I am sure
that that Simpson girl told you that.’

Deacon
saw his sergeant visibly flinch at the way she spoke of Rose. He himself felt
indignant on her behalf.

‘Miss
Simpson told us that she had inadvertently overheard a conversation between
yourself and the deceased, yes,’ Deacon said, looking at Isabella a little
coldly, ‘in which it was apparent that you were being pressured into entering
into marriage with him in exchange for the return of some love letters to a
French tutor.’ Was it his imagination or had Isabella blushed at the mention of
her lover’s profession? Certainly she looked annoyed, although he could tell
she was trying hard to disguise the fact.

‘Oh,
Inspector. How I wish I hadn’t written those ridiculous letters. They were
written in a girlish whim and how I have regretted putting pen to paper ever
since. But yes, Lord Sneddon used them to blackmail me, into agreeing to marry
him. There I’ve said it, such an ugly, hateful word, isn’t it, “blackmail”? And
that blasted girl overheard me imploring him to release me from our bargain.
Why she could not have made her presence known, although I suppose those sort
of girls are always on the lookout for scandal and gossip. No doubt it enlivens
the rather dull, drab little lives they lead. It can’t be much fun can it,
working in a dress shop, probably waiting hand and foot on the most ghastly
people.’

There
was a gleam in Isabella’s eye and an upward turn of her lip, and Deacon was
left with the strange impression that she was almost trying to provoke him. How
very odd, he thought. Usually suspects bent over backwards to try and persuade
him of their innocence, and yet here was this woman willing him to dislike her
even though she was in the vulnerable position of having had a very strong
motive for wishing the victim dead. It did not make sense and he found it
unnerving. It was as if she were playing a game with him despite her fine
speech about not playing nursery tricks. She was of the view, he thought, that
she held all the cards and at the last minute he was afraid that she might
produce something out of the hat. Right now, he felt that he would get some
pleasure in arresting her for the murder of Lord Sneddon albeit the evidence at
this stage was only circumstantial. And because he knew she was bringing out
the very worst in him he tried to curb his feelings and hide his distaste.

Lane,
fortunate in being concealed from Isabella’s view where he sat, was not obliged
to disguise what he felt. A frown had crossed his face and his mouth was set in
a straight line. Every now and then he looked up from his scribbling and glared
at the back of Isabella’s head. Deacon wondered whether she could feel his eyes
boring into her. As a child he had always been sure that a person must be aware
when they were being stared at, that the stare must in some way be physically
penetrating so that the person felt compelled to spin around to see who was
spying on them. Isabella Atherton, however, appeared blissfully unaware of the
looks of animosity being cast her way by his sergeant.

‘I
understand that Miss Simpson gave you the very sensible piece of advice to tell
us about your being blackmailed?’

‘She
did indeed,’ Isabella said, looking distinctly bored. ‘I knew the girl wouldn’t
be able to hold her tongue; that sort never can. But as it happens, Inspector,
I had every intention of telling you all about those awful letters myself.’

‘Did
you indeed?’ Deacon said, not sounding particularly convinced.

‘Yes I
did as a matter of fact.’ Isabella smiled sweetly, clearly amused. Deacon felt
uncomfortable, as if he was being laughed at. He found it a very odd sensation
and decided to change tack.

‘Right
now, Miss Atherton, suppose you tell us when exactly you decided that Lord
Sneddon should accompany you to Dareswick this weekend. Was it a longstanding
arrangement? I ask because it appears no one was aware of the identity of your
guest until he arrived.’

‘Quite
right, Inspector. I kept them guessing, you see. I was rather hoping not to
have to bring Hugh down with me even up to the last half hour or so before we
set off. I was going to bring my girlfriend, Celia, but Hugh would insist that
I bring him instead. It really was very tiresome of him. I’m afraid I really
rather despised the fellow, Inspector. Not very kind of me to say so
considering he’s dead and all that, but there it is.’

‘Understandable
I would have thought, given the circumstances. I take it Lord Sneddon wanted to
marry you for your money?’ As soon as the words had escaped his lips, Deacon
regretted being so abrupt.

‘‘How
very nicely put, Inspector,’ Isabella said sarcastically, all the while smiling
at him sweetly. ‘But, yes, you’re right. He wanted to marry me for my money,
not for my wonderful good looks or my sparkling wit. And to make matters worse
I wasn’t his first choice. I believe he had tried his hand with others before
me, my own sister for one before he bored of her and got that housemaid into
trouble. And then, of course, I rather think he had his eye on Lavinia, but of
course that came to nothing because of all that business at Ashgrove.’

‘Suppose
we stop playing games, you and I, Miss Atherton,’ said Deacon, suddenly
sounding serious. If truth were told he was getting tired of her and had
decided it was high time to cut to the chase. ‘You said yourself we are too old
to play childish games and really this matter is far too serious. A man has
been brutally and cold-bloodedly murdered, a man who you had good reason to
want dead. I understand you were beside yourself at the prospect of marrying
Lord Sneddon. You were a desperate woman and desperate people do desperate things.
I do not think that there is a court in this land who would not understand if
you were to admit that in a moment of madness, you felt provoked into killing
your blackmailer. I am sure you would be treated with some leniency.’

There
was complete silence as the words seemed to fill the room, reverberating off
the furniture. The mood of the room had suddenly become sombre and the
inspector felt the tension could have been cut with a knife, it was so
tangible. He felt himself on tenterhooks lest Isabella should confess; he could
almost imagine that it was on the tip of her tongue to do so. Certainly she was
no longer smiling; she appeared to cease to find the situation amusing.
Instead, she clenched her hands together and bit at her lip as if she were
trying to pluck up courage to say something. To the policemen who waited, it
seemed a very long time before she lifted her head and spoke, although it was
probably in reality only a few minutes, if that. When she at last lifted her
beautiful face, Deacon thought he could detect tears in her eyes and a tremble
about her lips. For the first time he felt pity towards her for the predicament
that she found herself in.

‘You
know about Isabella’s love letters to her French tutor?’ Rose stared at Cedric
in disbelief. ‘You knew that Sneddon was blackmailing her? She told you? Oh,
Cedric, my darling, you mustn’t tell the inspector about it, promise me. It’ll
give you a motive, don’t you see, for wishing him dead.’

‘Hardly,’
said Cedric, ‘but I say, Rose, do keep on calling me darling. It makes me
believe that you can’t think too badly of me for bringing you into all this.’

‘I
don’t, of course I don’t,’ said Rose, alarming herself by finding that she was
close to tears. ‘But Cedric, promise me you won’t say anything to the inspector
about it. I couldn’t bear it if….’

‘Rose,’
Cedric said, drawing her to him. ‘Don’t fret so. There’s nothing to worry about
really there isn’t. I didn’t know anything about this blackmail business until
just now, certainly not before Sneddon was killed. Isabella’s just told Hallam
and me about it. You know, while you were in with the inspector.’

A wave
of relief immediately flooded over Rose. He hadn’t had a motive for doing away
with Sneddon after all, other than just not liking the man, in common with
everyone else. But this feeling was almost at once replaced by another of
anxiety. What was Isabella up to? Why had she told Cedric and her brother about
the letters? There had been no need. The police were hardly likely to broadcast
their existence and Isabella could not think that she, herself, would discuss
them with anyone other than the police, not when she had taken such pains to
make sure that no one overheard their conversation. It made no sense at all.
Isabella had been prepared to marry a man she did not love, no, worse than
that, despised, in order to keep the existence and contents of the letters
secret. And yet at the first opportunity she had told the others about them.
Instinctively Rose felt that something was wrong. Things were certainly not as
they had first appeared.

‘You’re
right, Inspector, of course. I did hate Lord Sneddon,’ Isabella said slowly,
appearing resigned now to telling the truth. ‘I hated Hugh for stooping so low
as to blackmail me into marrying him against my wishes. If nothing else, it’s
common knowledge that he has a gambling habit; I knew within a year of marriage
he would have gone through my dowry and I’d have become destitute, reduced to
living on hand-outs from friends and family. It would have been demeaning even
if I was a duchess. I couldn’t go through with it and I couldn’t see a way out.
Death seemed the only way although, if truth be told, I thought more of my own
than his. I could not bear the humiliation, you see, if those letters ever
became public. He threatened to show one or two to my father. He would have
disowned me, inspector, as no doubt he will disown poor Josephine for running
off with the chauffeur.’

‘Miss
Atherton, perhaps you would like a solicitor present before you say anything
further.’ He didn’t want to stop her flow now that she had opened up and
finally resolved to talk seriously, but out of the corner of his eye he could
see Lane scribbling furiously in his notebook to catch her every word.

‘No,
Inspector, thank you. It’s alright. I know my words are being taken down. But I
want you to understand how I felt, it’s important to me. Silly really, I know,
but there you have it. I don’t want a solicitor here telling me to nod my head
or say nothing.’

‘I
would advise you not to proceed any further without a solicitor being present
to protect your interests, Miss Atherton.’

‘That’s
very good of you, I’m sure, but I’ve already told you I wish to proceed without
one.’ Isabella said, speaking firmly while all the time smiling a sad little
smile. ‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I wished Hugh dead. I visualised killing him
a thousand times in my head. I even thought about the different methods I might
use. Sometimes I thought that it would be absurdly easy to do away with him.
The man didn’t see me as a threat you see. And at other times I worried about
how I’d get away with it until I was left to think that the only option was to
poison myself, while perhaps making it look like Hugh had done it, so I could get
my own back, you understand.’

The
inspector and sergeant exchanged glances, both clearly appalled. It occurred to
Deacon that Isabella might not be quite right in the head. That she could talk
so matter-of-factly about the process she had arrived at to dispose of Sneddon,
quite sickened him.

‘Perhaps,
if you will, you could tell us about last night and the events leading up to
the… eh…incident,’ said Deacon. ‘I understand you women all retired early to
bed?’

‘Yes,
we did, rather. None of us were feeling particularly in the party mood, which
was a shame. I walked up with Josephine. I had rather a headache and I couldn’t
bear the way that my father kept sidling up to Sneddon. Really, Daddy is
dreadful. I could see him almost rubbing his hands with glee. He’s always found
me rather trying, you see. He thinks I’m rather rebellious and headstrong, not
at all like Josephine who’s always been rather a Daddy’s girl, well-behaved and
dutiful. Well, up until now of course. Eloping with the chauffeur rather takes
the biscuit, don’t you think?’

‘You
were saying about last night,’ prompted Deacon.

‘Ah,
well, Hallam was looking daggers at me all night. Oh, how clever of me, excuse
the pun!’ Isabella paused to emit a shrill little laugh. ‘So I thought it best
to just go and leave them all to it. Only, of course, I went to bed far too
early so I couldn’t sleep. When I’m in town I’m never in bed before midnight.
So there it was, I couldn’t sleep. I kept fretting, you see, about Hugh. I
decided once and for all that I really couldn’t go through with it. I decided
to throw myself on his mercy. I had nothing to lose after all but my pride. So
I listened out for the others to come upstairs. I knew Hugh was unlikely to go
to bed early. He keeps later hours in town than I do. So all I had to do was
lie there and wait.’

‘And
then you came down when the coast was clear?’

‘Yes, I
almost collided with that Simpson girl. She was coming up the stairs as I was
about to venture down. I caught sight of her just in time and nipped back into
my room and closed the door. I doubt very much whether she saw me.’

‘Indeed.’
The inspector looked interested. Rose had made no mention of going back
downstairs during their interview. It occurred to him that there had been
rather a few things that she had kept to herself. They would have to ask her
about it when they spoke with her again later. He caught Lane’s eye and
signalled to him to be sure to make a note.

‘Yes,
well, I checked that the coast was clear again. I was afraid that there might be
someone else roaming around, but it was quite quiet, so I decided to take the
chance.’

‘What
time was this?’

‘About a
quarter to one this morning, I think. Strange to think that it was today. I
suppose that means he hasn’t been dead so very long, has he?’ She shuddered at
the thought before continuing. ‘Anyway, I tried the drawing room first and
found it empty. So I tried the library next. I thought he’d be there. It’s
smaller and cosier than the drawing room, you see, and stays warmer. I thought
he and Daddy had probably retired there to take their whisky or brandy or what
not and talk and that Daddy had probably retired to bed leaving Hugh.  Anyway,
as I thought, Hugh was there alone.’

‘How
did he take your sudden appearance?’ asked Deacon, leaning forward.

‘Well
that was what was so strange,’ said Isabella, savouring the moment. ‘He was
delighted to see me. It rather took me aback, I can tell you. I thought I was
going to have to start crying and pulling my hair out before I had any effect
on him. But not a bit of it. He took me in his arms and said how sorry he was
for his behaviour, that he released me from my promise to marry him and how he
wanted to make amends. To tell you the truth, I thought he was rather drunk,
but I wasn’t going to waste the moment. I thought I’d better make the most of
his change of heart in case he changed his mind again in the morning when he
was sober.’

‘So
what did you do?’

‘I
asked for the letters back.’

‘And
what did he say to that?’ It seemed to Deacon that he was waiting for Isabella’s
answer with bated breath. Even Lane had stopped his writing and was staring
fixedly at the back of her head.

‘He
said that his manservant, Ricketts, would be down in a moment and that he would
ask him to fetch them as he was not sure where they had been hidden.’

‘And
did this man appear.’

‘Yes,
only a few moments later as it happened. And a more disreputable fellow one
couldn’t imagine. He passes himself off for a valet, but one would never guess.
I don’t think he knows the first thing about dress. Certainly, if he did, he
did not apply the knowledge to his own appearance.’

‘Yes,
yes,’ said Deacon, impatiently. ‘And what happened next? Did Sneddon send this
man to fetch the letters?’

‘He did.’

‘And?’

‘He
returned with the letters, Inspector, and gave them to me,’ Isabella said with
a triumphant glint in her eye as she proceeded to produce from her handbag,
which only now Deacon noticed was oversized, a great bundle of letters tied
together roughly with string. ‘So you see, Inspector, I had no reason to kill
Lord Sneddon because he no longer had a hold over me. He had released me from
our engagement and returned my letters.’

It
seemed to Deacon that a long time had elapsed between Isabella uttering those
earth shattering words and his brain taking in the full implication of them.
She had had no reason to kill Sneddon! He, Deacon, had been about to arrest her
for murder. He had believed that he was hearing her heart-felt confession when
all the time she had been toying with them for her own amusement. She had set
the scene and built up the suspense and now she looked at him jubilantly,
elated with her success. Initially he had felt relief that she was innocent of
the murder, now he felt only anger at having been treated as a fool. She had
enjoyed the deception, the illusion she was creating. What kind of person was
she, he wondered?

She was
starting to gather up the letters on her lap, no doubt with the intention of
restoring them to her bag. The inspector sprang up and almost snatched them
from her. She looked at him and, for the first time, he saw a look of terror in
her eyes. She half got up from her seat, as if tempted to snatch back the
letters, and then seemed to think better of it and sat back down.

‘Just a
moment, Miss Atherton. I want to just double-check that these are indeed what
you purport them to be. Let me see.’ He glanced at an envelope and then at one
of the letters. “Monsieur C. Lambert”. He took out the first letter and read
aloud: “My darling Claude. I cannot wait until I am in your arms and your lips
are on mine, to feel –.’

‘Enough!’
Isabella almost shouted, her face quite crimson. She put her hand to her face
and began to sob. ‘Must you humiliate and embarrass me so and in front of your
sergeant too.’ She turned and scowled at Lane as if it were his fault. ‘Haven’t
I endured enough with Hugh reading out snippets and laughing at my wretchedness?
I would have thought better of you, Inspector. You can see the letters are what
I claim them to be. You can have no reason to read them aloud other than for
your own amusement and my discomfort. Please don’t read them all, I couldn’t
bear it.’ She put her hand to her chest and took a deep breath. ‘Please give
them back to me, I beg you. I want to get rid of them once and for all. I never
want to set eyes on them again, I want them destroyed. Claude was a fool to
keep them.  He should have thrown them on the fire as soon as he had read
them.’

‘Is
that what you did with his letters?’

‘What?’
For a moment Isabella looked bewildered. ‘Yes…yes, of course. I threw them on
the fire as soon as it was all over.’

‘Which
was not so very long ago,’ said the inspector, ‘looking at some of the dates on
these letters.’

‘Please,’
implored Isabella, ‘let me have them back so I can get rid of them.’ She
stretched out her hand to take them.

‘I am
afraid, Miss Atherton, we must retain them for a while longer,’ said Deacon, not
unkindly. ‘They are evidence of a sort. Although I must warn you we will be
checking with Lord Sneddon’s valet that his account of events corroborates yours.’

He had
put down the bundle of letters on the edge of the desk and turned away. It had
not occurred to him for one moment that she would not accept what he had told
her. Consequently his reactions were delayed. In a moment she had sprung from
her seat, caught up the letters in her grasp and hurled them all into the fire
where the flames engulfed them. She then threw herself beside the fire lest one
of the policemen be tempted to try and retrieve some of the letters from the
flames. So closely did she kneel beside the fireplace that there was a distinct
possibility that her hair would get singed. Sergeant Lane had flung down his
notebook and rather roughly took her by the arm and hauled her from her
position by the hearth. By the time she had been pulled away, and the inspector
had crouched by the hearth and surveyed the fire, there was nothing left of the
letters, not even charred remains.

‘That
was a very foolish thing to do, Miss Atherton,’ said Deacon, coldly. ‘Not only
have you just destroyed some evidence, but you could have got badly burned in
the process.’

‘I’m
sorry, Inspector, really I am,’ sobbed Isabella. ‘But you see I had to get rid
of them. I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone getting hold of them again. You
don’t know what it’s been like for me with Sneddon blackmailing me. I’ve been
in absolute torment. I don’t want to give anyone else the opportunity to
blackmail me again.’

‘They
would have been quite safe with us, Miss Atherton. Ah, well,’ sighed Deacon,
‘it’s no use crying over spilt milk, as my mother would say. You’re free to go,
Miss Atherton, as long as you don’t leave Dareswick. We may well need to speak
to you again. In the meantime can you ask Miss Simpson to join us? I should
like another word with her.’

Isabella
gave a fleeting smile of triumph and was gone.

‘Quick,
Lane,’ Deacon said in an urgent whisper as soon as the door had closed behind
her. ‘I want you to go and get Ricketts and bring him here before she has a
chance to find him and bribe him to back up her story of events.’

‘You
think she’s lying, sir?’ Lane sounded surprised.

‘I
don’t know, but it seems to me that something is not quite right. Of course I
could be imagining it. But I didn’t like the way she played us along. I’m not
sure I’d put anything past that young lady.’

‘You
don’t think she may have spoken with Ricketts already?’

‘No, I
don’t. For one thing, I don’t think she has had the opportunity, and for
another, she had no reason to. If the opinion that I’m forming of this Ricketts
character is correct, he is not the sort of man to go out of his way to help
the police with their enquiries, the opposite in fact would be true, I’d say.
No, I doubt the Honourable Isabella Atherton had any intention of mentioning
the blackmail business to us; until, that is, Miss Simpson told her what she
knew and that she intended to tell us herself. But go quickly, man. I don’t
want her to get to him first.’