02 - Murder at Dareswick Hall (27 page)

‘Josephine
decided to replace the flowers in the drawing room. There were some rather
wilted chrysanthemums in a vase that had clearly seen better days and needed
throwing out. She picked some roses in the rose garden and one of the maids
provided her with an old newspaper and a vase.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well,
I was reading a magazine while she arranged the roses in the vase. She laid out
the newspaper on the floor in front of her and put the dead chrysanthemums on
it. I have to admit that I was only half listening to what she was saying,
something about roses being one of her favourite flowers, I think. Anyway, she
stood back from her arrangement to see how it looked from a distance and gave a
bit of a gasp. It was loud enough to make me look up and ask her what the
matter was.’

‘And
what was the matter?’ Cedric looked torn between curiosity and wanting to yawn.

‘She
said that she had pricked her finger on a thorn, which she had done after she
had finished examining the flower arrangement and was gathering up the wilted
flowers. Then she picked up the newspaper with the dead chrysanthemums and
hurried out of the room.’

‘Is that
all? I don’t see –.’

‘I
think that it was the first excuse she could think of. She had put all the
roses in the vase and had stood back to admire them. She hadn’t been holding any
roses in her hands at the time, so there hadn’t been a thorn on which to prick
her finger. No, she’d just been gathering up the chrysanthemums in the
newspaper, and chrysanthemums don’t have thorns do they? And she’d been in a
hurry to leave the room.’

‘So
what are you saying exactly?’

‘I
think, as she was clearing up, she suddenly caught sight of an article in the
newspaper. I think it shocked her, or at the very least surprised her, and that
she wanted to hurry off and read it somewhere where she could be alone.’

‘And
you think it was this newspaper article that made her decide to pack up her
things and rush off to London as soon as she could?’

‘Yes, I
do. I know it probably seems a bit of a stretch of the imagination and all
that, Cedric, but I think it’s the only explanation for why Josephine did what
she did.’

‘That’s
all very well, but how do we find out if your theory is right?’

‘We
track down the newspaper and locate the article.’

Cedric
was about to pull the bell pull when one of the housemaids entered the room,
dustpan and brush in hand. She looked decidedly flustered when she saw them.

‘Oh,
I’m ever so sorry miss, my lord. I didn’t think anyone would be in here. The
morning room’s not been used much since the mistress died. Miss Josephine and
Miss Isabella prefer the drawing room and the library, they do, although I can’t
see either one of them ever wanting to go in the library again, not after what
happened, like. I’ve told Mrs Hodges that I ain’t ever going to set foot in
there again, no fear. It was me as found him, you know –.’

‘Yes,
yes,’ said Cedric impatiently. ‘It must have been awful for you, Doris, isn’t
it?’

‘Yes,
my lord.’ The housemaid curtseyed rather belatedly.

‘I
wonder if you can help us, Doris. We’re looking for a newspaper.’

‘Oh,
there are lots of those, Mr Crabtree keeps –.’

‘We’re
looking for a specific one,’ said Rose, hurriedly, ‘the one that Miss Josephine
used when she was arranging the flowers to be exact. Do you know what became of
it?’

‘It’ll
have been put on one of the fires by now, miss. It wouldn’t have been fit for
reading, not after it had had water on it and been scrunched up with the dead
flowers and whatnot.’

‘I
suppose that it would be too much to ask if you remember what newspaper it was
and the precise edition?’ asked Rose, rather hopelessly.

‘Oh, of
course I do, miss. It was an old copy of
The Daily,
it was. Mr Crabtree,
he don’t really like
The Daily
, he keeps going on about how inferior it
is compared to the master’s
Times
, so Pearl and me we have to sneak it
in, we do, if we want to read it because he makes that much fuss about it.
Anyway, I knows what edition it is ‘cos it had an advertisement in it about Icilma
face powder that I particularly wanted to keep. I was that cross with Pearl for
giving that particular newspaper to Miss Josephine to use for her flowers
without checking with me first that I’d finished with it.’

‘That’s
all very interesting, Doris,’ said Rose, ‘but we really need to get a copy of
that same newspaper as soon as possible. I don’t suppose that there are any
spares of it lying around, are there?’

‘No,
miss. But they get that newspaper in the house where my sister’s in service.
They might still have a copy of it because I know that young master Geoffrey
likes to use the old newspapers for his
papier-mâché
,
he does. He’s always making model boats out of the stuff, he is.’

‘Where
is this place?’

‘A
couple of miles out of the village, miss. I tell you what, I’ll send Cyril, the
boot boy, if you want. He’s always looking for an excuse to get out of the
house and have a run about.’

‘Good
idea,’ agreed Cedric. ‘Tell him there’s a half shilling in it for him if he
brings back the right newspaper, and a full shilling if he’s really quick.’

It was
an agonising wait for Cyril, although in reality he managed to undertake the
task in no time at all, the promise of a full shilling spurring him on. Cedric
rewarded him handsomely on his return, especially as Doris had confirmed that
he had brought back the right edition.

‘What
exactly are we looking for?’ asked Cedric, as he and Rose pored over the pages
of the newspaper.

‘I’m
not sure exactly,’ admitted Rose, ‘but I think I’ll know when we find it. Let
me see. The article would have needed to be big enough to have caught
Josephine’s eye because she wasn’t looking for it. She would have been scooping
up the dead flowers in it like this, and…oh, wait a minute, I think this could
be it  ...’

‘Let me
see.’ Cedric came over to her so that he could look at it over her shoulder as
she held up the article. Rose read it aloud.

‘“London
Murder Mystery

The
resources of Scotland Yard have been recruited in an attempt to solve the
mysterious crime that occurred at a boarding house in Whitechapel last Thursday
night, when the proprietress, a Mrs Higgins, discovered one of the boarders
dead. The man, thought to be a foreigner, had been brutally stabbed. Despite
extensive inquiries, the police have as yet been unable to narrow their
investigations into any definite channel.’”

‘Oh, I
say,’ exclaimed Cedric, ‘that sounds pretty grim. Are you sure that it was this
article that caught her eye? What possible connection could Josephine have had
with this crime?’

‘I
don’t know. But it took place in London, which is where she went, and the
headline would grab anyone’s attention. I just have a feeling that it was this
one that caught her eye.’ Rose read it again. ‘I wonder…’ Her sentence remained
unfinished as she became deep in thought.

‘Yes,
what do you wonder?’   

‘It’s
just an idea that I have. But I want to think about it some more before I run
it past you.’

‘Well,
at the very least, we ought to try and find out who this murdered chap was,
don’t you think?’

They
made their way to the study, where Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane looked up
in surprise at the unexpected delegation. The policemen heard Rose out as she detailed
her theory about the newspaper article being connected with Josephine’s sudden departure
to London. At the outset both appeared genuinely interested in what she had to
say, although she was aware of Deacon’s growing scepticism as the story
progressed.

‘And
you surmised this all from Miss Atherton saying “Oh” and sounding surprised?’ the
inspector asked, raising one eyebrow incredulously. ‘Did you even see her
glance at the newspaper? For all you know, she just used it to put the dead
flowers on and never even looked at it.’

‘Oh, I
know it sounds a bit far-fetched,’ admitted Rose, suddenly feeling a little
foolish.

‘Just a
bit,’ agreed Deacon, rather curtly.

‘Even
so,’ said Rose, quickly, ‘you will find out who the murdered man was, won’t
you? You’ll be able to do that easily enough. Scotland Yard are already looking
into the murder. It’ll probably only take you a couple of telephone calls to
find out.’ She stood before him excitedly, as if she expected him to make the
telephone call there and then. And he probably would have done, he thought
later, had not Cedric, who had remained silent during the exchange, decided to
choose that moment to put his oar in.

‘I say,
old chap, you might as well. I mean, it’s not as if you’ve got much else to go
on, is it?’

Rose
bit her lip in agitation. She knew that Cedric did not mean to sound unkind or
to imply criticism, but she was awfully afraid that Deacon might take it that
way. His next words confirmed her worst fears.

‘That’s
as maybe,’ Deacon said, wearily, ‘but my sergeant and I have had a very long
day, a couple of very long days in fact, and I’ll kindly ask that you don’t try
and persuade us to prolong it any further.’

‘But –’
protested Rose.

‘Don’t
worry, Miss Simpson, we will look into it, just not this evening. Lane, here,
will telephone Scotland Yard first thing in the morning before we come here,
won’t you, Sergeant?’ It was a decision he was later to regret.

The late
afternoon dragged on. There was little sign of Josephine or Isabella, who kept
to their rooms, Josephine because something was obviously on her mind and Isabella,
well, Rose was not quite sure why she did, other than that she did not wish to
be interrogated by the others over the blackmail business. Or perhaps she just
did not find the company very riveting. The baron was in a foul mood and best
to be avoided. And Cedric spent most of his time with Hallam, trying to lift
the boy’s sagging spirits.  Rose sat on the edge, a casual observer. The second
murder, somewhat surprisingly she thought given that the victim was a relative
stranger and not popular at that, had hit them all hard. It was difficult now
for them not to acknowledge that the murderer must be one of them, although the
baron at least was holding out hope that it might be one of the servants. The
tension in the air was all consuming and oppressive and Rose suddenly found
that she was very tired, as if she had not slept or her sleep had been fitful.
She had decided to have a lie down in her room, having been escorted there by
an insistent Cedric, who refused to go back downstairs until he was certain that
she had securely locked her door behind him. For good measure and because
Cedric had been so adamant about it, she also leaned a chair against the door
lest the murderer should happen to have a key to her room.

She
dozed and let her mind drift over the events of the last few days. Josephine,
pleasant but preoccupied, Sneddon’s unexpected arrival and the reaction that
had caused, Hallam’s concern that Josephine would be upset and then Josephine’s
own apparent indifference.  Her mind wondered to the conversation she had
overheard between Sneddon and Isabella concerning the blackmail, the girl’s
desperate, heartfelt plea that Sneddon not read the letters, and then
Josephine’s reaction to being told that Sneddon was blackmailing her sister
into marriage and the interest she had displayed concerning the original
recipient of the letters. Rose thought of Josephine’s scar, ugly and hidden,
and her sudden disappearance, and the newspaper article that she felt sure had
in some way initiated it.

She
considered Sneddon’s change of heart and his wish to make amends, Isabella’s general
behaviour and how she had confessed to all and sundry about the blackmail, and then
produced the blackmail letters triumphantly and thrown them onto the fire to
prevent them being read or enabling anyone to have a hold over her again. Rose
thought of the baron’s temper and fury, of Hallam’s hatred of Sneddon, of
Isabella’s wariness and downright contempt of her, and Josephine’s abject
misery. She considered the unfortunate Ricketts, sly and scheming, done up in
his ill-fitting suit of livery that could not disguise the man he was. She
remembered the inept way that he had tried to play at being a footman, and the
manner in which Isabella had leapt up from the table to go and change, her
dress as good as ruined as a result of the fellow’s clumsiness.

It all
merged together in her mind; the bits and pieces floating alongside and on top
of each other until she found that it was all piecing together, as if of its
own accord, until she knew what had happened and why it had happened. She sat
up in her bed with a start, her hand clutching at the eiderdown. She knew. She
knew with absolute certainty and clarity, as if the killer had stood before her
and confessed. She knew why there had been two deaths at Dareswick, why the
murderer had seen the need to kill not once but twice. But more importantly, above
all else, she now knew who the murderer was.

Rose
looked at her watch. She had not realised how late it was, or how long she must
have dozed. The police had long departed for the day so there was no
opportunity to talk to Inspector Deacon and tell him what she knew.  Besides,
it all sounded rather fanciful now that she went over it in her mind again to
get it clear. Certainly it would involve a stretch of one’s imagination. What
she really needed was corroboration that her theory was correct or, better
still, a confession. But first she must dress for dinner and go through the ordeal
of the meal, knowing what she now knew. She must share the table with a
murderer and engage in small talk and pretend that nothing was amiss.

She
wondered for a moment whether to tell Cedric but she could well imagine his
look of shocked disbelief. He would endeavour to keep the news to himself if
she asked him to, but she doubted his ability not to betray what he knew by
some small unwitting gesture. Certainly he would be quiet and reflective at
dinner and the news would make him miserable. Rose bit her lip. She would keep
the news from him until tomorrow then, when everyone would know. There was
nothing to be gained by telling him any earlier, and yet she felt afraid to
remain silent, knowing what she did. The murderer had developed a tendency
towards killing, seemingly thought nothing of committing murder to remove an
inconvenient obstruction, and would kill again, she felt sure, unless stopped.
She was uncomfortably aware that, now she knew the truth she was potentially in
danger. She must be on her guard.

The
meal passed uneventfully and would have been in silence had not Cedric and the
baron gallantly engaged in some forced conversation over some very trivial
matter. Every now and then, Rose was called upon to contribute a few words to
keep the conversation from dwindling. The baron’s children, she noticed, hardly
said a word or even looked up from the tablecloth, their faces pale and haggard
looking, their mood restive. As if by unspoken agreement, no mention was made of
the murders, although the memory of them was never far away and seemed to
linger in the room like stale cigarette smoke.

Josephine
came over to Rose in the drawing room after dinner, carrying her cup of coffee.

‘Crabtree
happened to mention that he saw you and Cedric going into the study this
afternoon.’ Josephine seemed anxious, fiddling with her cup and saucer to such
a degree that she almost spilt the contents.

‘Yes,
we had something to tell Inspector Deacon,’ said Rose, studying the girl
closely who, in turn, was refusing to look her in the eye.

‘Oh?’
Josephine, Rose thought, was trying very hard not to appear too curious.

‘Yes.’
And before she could stop herself to consider for a moment whether or not what
she was doing was wise, and because the situation was just so unbearable, Rose
found herself blurting everything out to Josephine, as she had done in the
garden the day before about the blackmail business. ‘I know what made you go to
London, Josephine. And that’s what we told the police. It would be so much
better if you come clean about it to the police yourself.’

‘Oh!’
Josephine’s hand shot to the side of her face, as was her habit. ‘I see. Did
you tell them anything else?’ She added hurriedly. Her eyes, Rose noticed, had
gone very wide.

‘Like
who killed Lord Sneddon and his servant, you mean? No, we didn’t tell them
that. We didn’t know, you see, not then. Only now I do. I suddenly realised
just before dinner who did it and why. And I’m going to tell Inspector Deacon
first thing in the morning. You’d –.’

She
broke off from what she was saying. Too late she realised that the whole room
had gone silent. The gentle hum of conversation that had lulled her into a
false sense of security had stopped abruptly a few moments earlier. Both
Isabella and Hallam were regarding her with interest, and even the baron was
looking at her curiously. Only Cedric seemed oblivious to what she had just
said. Unless she was very much mistaken, everyone in the room except Cedric,
even the servants pouring the coffee, had heard what she had just said to
Josephine.