03 - Murder at Sedgwick Court (17 page)

‘Yes,
sir, but – ’

‘No buts,
please, Sergeant. I’ve had my fill of amateur detectives. They always think
that they’re so much cleverer than us policemen, always sticking their noses in
where they’re not wanted, and more often than not having to be rescued by the
very people they ridicule as being incompetent.’

‘Miss
Simpson’s not like that, sir,’ began Sergeant Lane.

‘Hmm,
isn’t she, Sergeant? But I’ll hazard a guess that she’s not above withholding
information or protecting a suspect that she’s taken a shine to, eh?’

There was
an awkward silence.

‘That’s
the trouble with people who fancy themselves to be amateur detectives,’ said
the inspector more kindly. ‘They can’t look at things objectively, not like we
can. They should keep their noses out and leave us to get on with our jobs.’

‘But, sir
– ’

‘I think
I’ve made myself clear, Sergeant.’ The inspector’s voice had now taken on an
icy tone. ‘I’ll have no more said on the matter, do you hear?’ 

‘Yes,
sir. Oh, there’s one other thing, sir, I almost forgot. After dinner last night
they talked about the maze. Lord Belvedere showed them all a plan of it and explained
in detail the route through. Apparently they were intending to make a bit of a
game of it today, seeing how long it took for each of the guests to get to the
centre of the maze. There was to be a prize for the winner, so I’ve heard.’

‘Now that
is interesting, Sergeant. When we saw the body in situ, I couldn’t help but
think how damned complicated that maze would be to navigate if one didn’t have
a map.’ 

The two
policemen were disturbed from their deliberations by a discreet knock on the
study door.

‘Ah,
good, hopefully we’re about to get some coffee,’ said Inspector Bramwell. ‘Perhaps
even a slice or two of cake if you managed to make a favourable impression on
the cook while you were down in the servants’ hall, eh Lane?’

The sergeant
thought he detected a twinkle in the inspector’s eye, and he blushed. 

The inspector
was however to be disappointed. For although a servant did indeed enter the
room, he came empty handed.

‘Oh, and
what can we do for you, my man? What are you? Footman? Butler?’

‘I’m under-butler,
sir. Manning.’ Every now and then the man glanced nervously at the door, as if
he were expecting them to be joined any minute by someone else.

‘What’s
the matter, man? Are you waiting on somebody, one of the maids or footmen
perhaps? My sergeant here and I are rather parched. We could do with a pot of
coffee and a slice or two of cake. Should we ring the bell or is that something
you can arrange?’

‘Refreshments
are on their way, sir. But if I may have a word with you first?’

‘If you
must, so long as you do not dither about it. We are in the middle of a murder investigation,
if you hadn’t heard.’ The inspector sighed and looked down at his papers.

‘I am
aware of that, sir, which is why I thought it my duty to come and see you.’

‘Oh?’

Inspector
Bramwell looked up from the desk, and for the first time regarded the servant
with something close to interest. The man in front of him was approaching
middle age and was dressed in the usual butler’s attire of black waistcoat and
tailcoat. There was a nervousness about his manner that the policeman found
both disquieting and surprising, given the man’s position as one of the chief
servants of the household.

‘Yes,
sir. Although I am not sure that Mr Torridge will approve of my coming to see
you.’

‘And
who’s this Mr Torridge, when he’s at home?’

‘He’s head-butler,
sir. I’m not sure that he’d think it proper.’ Manning bent forward slightly and
said in a low voice: ‘They don’t hold with having policemen in the house, Mr
Torridge and Mrs Farrier, she’s the housekeeper, sir.’

‘That’s
as maybe. But they can expect nothing else with a murder in the grounds. And
you can tell them from me that we’ll be here for as long as it takes to
apprehend the murderer.’ The inspector glared at the under-butler, his face
even more florid than usual. ‘Now, out with it man, why are you here?’

‘I
overheard talk between a couple of the guests, sir, regarding the murder
weapon. Is it true that it was a silver candlestick?’

‘And what
if it were? What’s it to you?’

‘Do you
know where it comes from?’ interjected Sergeant Lane, before the unfortunate
butler was obliged to answer the inspector’s question. ‘Does it come from this
house?’

‘Yes,
sir, I think it does.’ Manning, spurred on by the interest shown by the sergeant,
turned his attention from the inspector to his subordinate. ‘That’s to say, a
silver candlestick appears to be missing from the dining room.’

‘What? I
thought you fellows kept the silverware and crystal and suchlike locked up in
your butler’s pantry,’ said the inspector, taking exception to being ignored.

‘We do
indeed, sir, the expensive silverware and crystal, that is. But not the ordinary,
everyday silver; there’s just too much of it. The candlestick in question, sir,
was a very run of the mill affair and as such was not locked away but left out on
the sideboard.’

‘So it’s
missing, eh? What does it look like, this candlestick?’

‘I can
show you, sir. It’s one of a pair. If you care to come with me into the dining
room, I can show you the other one. It’s still there.’

‘Well,
what are we waiting for?’

Sergeant
Lane had never seen the inspector move so quickly. For such a heavy man, he was
extremely agile.

They
crossed the hall and followed the butler into the dining room. As they passed
the drawing room, Sergeant Lane glanced at the closed door, imagining the
Sedgwick family and their guests seated anxiously within, or else fretfully
pacing the floor.

The
dining room was a grand affair with its high, strapwork ceiling, wood-panelled
walls and lavish furnishings, and the policemen paused a moment to take in the full
splendour of the room. The butler meanwhile went straight to a large,
bow-fronted Georgian sideboard, placed against the far wall.  He turned to face
the policemen, and indicated a tapered column, silver candlestick.

‘That looks
like the candlestick we found in the maze, don’t you think, Sergeant?’ said the
inspector. ‘An exact copy I reckon. Can’t be absolutely certain without the
other one in front of us to compare it with, of course. But I’d say that object
could certainly do some damage.’ He lifted up the candlestick to feel its
weight. ‘See how sturdy the base is, Sergeant? And you say, Manning, that this
is one of a pair and the other is missing?’

‘Yes,
sir. It’s usually just here, sir,’ he indicated a spot on the sideboard.

‘When did
you last see it there?’

‘Last
night, sir. It was there when dinner was served and also when we cleared away.
I know that because I remember checking to see that all the candles had been
snuffed out and Jack, that’s the second footman, sir, he’d forgotten to put out
the candles on the sideboard. He’d done the ones on the table all right.
Really, he’s the most forgetful lad, whether we’ll be able – ’

‘Right,
so it was here last night after dinner. What about when you made your rounds
before going to bed? Was it still there then?’

‘I
couldn’t swear that it was,’ Manning said hesitantly. ‘You must understand, sir,
that my attention is focused on checking that all the doors are locked and that
the house is secure against intruders and fire and the like. I’d only have
noticed the candlestick if the candle in it was still burning, which obviously
it wasn’t because as I’ve explained already I’d snuffed out the candles on the
sideboard myself after the dinner things were cleared away. But,’ he added
hastily, as he saw the look of annoyance on the inspector’s face, ‘I like to
think that if it had been missing, I’d have noticed it, unconsciously like. I
like to suppose that I’d have gone over to the sideboard to see why things
didn’t look quite right. And then I’d have seen it was missing, sir.’

‘Hmm.
Well, suppose you’re right, that means that the candlestick was taken either
last thing at night after the house was all locked up and everybody gone to
bed, or else in the early hours of this morning.’

‘May I,
sir?’

Sergeant
Lane held out his hand to take the candlestick from the inspector, who was
still clutching it in his plump hands.

‘It’s a
nice piece, sir; solid but not too heavy.’

‘We’re
not here to admire the silverware, Sergeant.’

‘No, sir,
what I meant was that it would not have been difficult to carry this candlestick
out to the maze. It isn’t cumbersome, and you wouldn’t have to be particularly
strong. Don’t you see what I’m getting at, sir? A woman could have carried and
wielded this candlestick just as easily as any man.’ 

 
It seemed to Rose that they had been left by themselves a
very long time in the drawing room. With the exception of Cedric’s all too
brief first interview with the inspector, not one of them had been summoned for
an interview to provide an alibi for the time of Emmeline’s death. As a
consequence, the mood in the drawing room became restive, and Rose wondered
rather cynically whether that had been Inspector Bramwell’s intention. Perhaps
he thought everyone would be more forthcoming, having first been cooped up
together almost beyond endurance. Certainly not knowing what was happening or where
the police were with their investigation was unsettling.

What
little conversation there was became desultory, for no one was minded to open
up in the presence of murder. Most had retreated into their own solitary inner
worlds, doing the best they could to cushion themselves from thinking too
deeply about what had occurred. Nevertheless, the prevalent atmosphere in the
room was one of incredulity. Close on its heels was fear, which seemed to cover
the very surfaces of the furniture, ebbing out into the shadows like a fog.

Glancing
around the room, Rose noticed that the most frightened of them all appeared to
be Jemima. Fear exuded from her like an odour and, unless Rose was mistaken,
the girl was even now trembling, the effect of which was to make anyone
standing close to her feel instinctively nervous and on edge. Vera in
particular gave Jemima one quick, frightened little glance before moving to the
other side of the room. Felix, Rose noticed, had at first been inclined to go
over to Jemima and offer his support, but he had been discouraged by the girl’s
resolute refusal to acknowledge his presence; if anything she physically drew
back from him. She was only in the drawing room now because she had been obliged
to join them, but her general demeanour was that of one who wished to be
alone.  

‘What’s
keeping them from interviewing us, do you think?’ Felix whispered to Rose. ‘I’d
have thought they’d want to get as much information from us as quickly as
possible.’

‘They’re
probably still examining the maze. Dusting for fingerprints and that sort of
thing.’

But Rose
felt the same uneasiness. It’s just the waiting, she thought, it’s not having
anything to do but think.  Cedric’s summing up of Inspector Bramwell was still
ringing in her ears, and she could not help a feeling of foreboding prejudicing
her view of a man she was yet to meet. She stared at the door, willing it to
open. Surely Sergeant Lane had spoken with the servants by now?

‘Not that
they’ll find many fingerprints with his lordship having so considerately wiped
them away,’ Felix was saying. ‘No,’ he raised a hand as Rose made to protest, ‘don’t
worry, I don’t mean to start all that again. But you’re familiar with this sort
of thing, aren’t you, murder investigations, I mean?’

Rose was
about to admit, rather reluctantly, that she did indeed have some experience in
this area when, looking up, she caught Jemima’s eye. They had both been
speaking quietly, huddled together a little way from the others, but even so
she wondered whether Jemima had managed to catch a few words of their
conversation. The girl was watching them closely now, she noticed, her eyes
still red and swollen. After a brief moment’s hesitation, as if she were deciding
quite what to do, weighing up the various alternatives in her mind, Jemima came
over to them. She was still trembling slightly, and Rose saw that Felix was
looking at her anxiously.

‘Do you
know the policemen from Scotland Yard? Have you had dealings with them before?’

Jemima’s
voice was rather breathless. She put out a hand and clung to Rose’s arm. It
reminded Rose of Vera grabbing at her sleeve a few hours previously, and
instinctively she stood back a step or two, but Jemima did not let go.

‘You spoke
to the policeman in the hall earlier as if you knew him. Are they any good
these Scotland Yard men do you know? Will they find poor E-emmie’s murderer?’

Rose
noticed that Jemima stumbled over saying Emmeline’s name, as if it were all
still too raw, too much for her to take in.

‘I can’t
believe it. I still can’t believe she’s dead.’ The girl spoke the words
quietly, barely above a whisper so that both Rose and Felix had to bend forward
to catch her words. ‘I keep thinking that she’s going to walk into the room any
minute and say that it was all a silly game.’

Jemima
began to sob quietly. Felix helped her into a nearby chair and handed her a
handkerchief, all the while looking on rather helplessly. It was plain to anyone
who cared to observe that he did not know quite what else to do. Rose wondered
why he did not take Jemima’s hand, and pondered whether her being there made
him feel awkward or shy. She would have walked discreetly away, only she was
conscious that she had not yet answered the question that had drawn Jemima to
seek them out.

‘I know Sergeant
Lane,’ replied Rose finally, choosing her words carefully, ‘and I hold him in the
highest esteem. But I have never met Inspector Bramwell before, although I
understand from Sergeant Lane that he has a very good reputation for getting
results. Inspector Deacon investigated the two previous murder cases that Cedric
and I were involved with, and he was very good. I expect Inspector Bramwell is
of a similar calibre.’

‘Oh?’ Jemima
stopped weeping and looked up. ‘Why isn’t your Inspector Deacon investigating
this murder if you and Cedric think so highly of him? Can’t Lord Belvedere insist
that he does? I assume the aristocracy can do that, can’t they? I would have
thought they could.’ She sounded indignant as if it were all Cedric’s fault
that Inspector Deacon was not there.

‘It isn’t
up to Cedric, I’m afraid,’ said Rose, trying not to become riled by Jemima’s
insinuation that Cedric was somehow to blame. ‘It’s the decision of the chief constable
as to whether Scotland Yard is brought into an investigation or not and, as it
happens, Inspector Deacon is not in a position to investigate Emmeline’s
death.’

‘Oh? Why
not?’

‘Because
he is indisposed. He was shot in the course of carrying out his duties,’ Rose
said bluntly.

On
receiving this news, Jemima’s eyes became wide with horror and Rose, feeling
guilty, hurried on.

‘It’s not
as bad as it sounds. He wasn’t killed, but he was badly wounded, although he’s
expected to make an almost full recovery. But it does mean that he won’t be
able to investigate this murder.’

’That’s a
pity,’ said Felix, appearing keen to take part in the conversation. ‘Still, if
you know the sergeant, and this Inspector Bramwell has a reputation for being
one of the best in his field, I daresay we have nothing to worry about. I say,
Jemima, are you all right?’

Jemima did
indeed look pale and, if possible, she looked even more distressed than before,
despite Rose’s various assurances concerning Inspector Deacon’s fate and Inspector
Bramwell’s competency to lead a police investigation.

‘Yes, I’m
all right,’ Jemima said slowly, regaining her composure, but she walked away
from them as if she no longer wished for their company.

‘Jemima
really needn’t worry,’ said Rose to Felix. The young man was looking forlornly
at Jemima’s retreating figure. ‘As I said, Sergeant Lane’s assured me that Inspector
Bramwell is very good.’

‘Perhaps,’
said Felix almost whispering more to himself than to her so that Rose was
forced to bend her head towards him to catch his words, ‘that’s the issue.’ 

Before
Rose had an opportunity to ask Felix what he meant, the door opened and Sergeant
Lane appeared. All eyes were immediately turned to stare at him, and the few
conversations that had been in progress faltered. There was a general air of
nervousness and trepidation in the room, now that the endless waiting was over,
as everyone feared what was to follow. Cedric, who all the time that Rose had been
talking to Felix and Jemima had been in whispered discussion with Lavinia,
immediately came forward.

‘I say, Sergeant,
not before time. We’re all feeling a bit like caged bears in here. I’m not
meaning to criticise your police investigation or anything like that, and I’m
not trying to teach grandmother to suck eggs, but I’m rather surprised that we
haven’t been interviewed before now. It can’t help but make one wonder what you’ve
been doing.’

‘I’m
sorry, my lord,’ Sergeant Lane said looking, Rose thought, rather embarrassed.
‘I can assure you we’ve been very busy. We haven’t let the grass grow under our
feet. As I told Miss Simpson, Inspector Bramwell likes to do things a bit
differently from what you’re used to.’

‘Well,
you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Now, which one of us does your Inspector
Bramwell wish to interview first? He said he’d be speaking to me again, but I
expect he would like to interview Miss Wentmore first, wouldn’t he, being as
she knew Miss Montacute better than all of us?’

Jemima,
Rose noticed, looked particularly anxious at this suggestion. She appeared to
have drifted towards Felix and was now holding his hand tightly, as if to give
herself strength. Felix was regarding her with even more concern than before.

‘I don’t
think Miss Wentmore is up to being interviewed yet,’ Felix said quickly. ‘Miss
Montacute’s death has been the most awful shock to her, as I am sure you can
appreciate. Perhaps you might interview someone else first to allow her a
little more time to compose herself and come to terms with what’s happened.’ He
gave the sergeant an engaging smile.

‘Not to
fear, Mr Thistlewaite, is it? The inspector doesn’t want to interview Miss
Wentmore first. No, he has someone else in mind completely.’

‘Good,’
said Felix. He turned his attention to Jemima, who was looking relieved at the
temporary reprieve.

‘No, sir,
as I say the inspector has someone else in mind,’ said Sergeant Lane. ‘The fact
of the matter is, sir, that he’d like to interview you first.’

‘Me?’
Felix could not have sounded more surprised. He made no attempt to leave
Jemima’s side. ‘There must be some mistake, Sergeant. I cannot imagine why the inspector
would want to interview me first.’

‘Even
so,’ replied the sergeant, firmly, ‘he does. This way if you please, sir. We
don’t want to keep the inspector waiting, do we?’

For one
moment Rose thought Felix was going to refuse to go. But if that had been his
initial inclination, he obviously thought better of it. He turned to give
Jemima one last look. For the first time she looked up and appeared to give him
her full attention. It seemed to Rose that something silent and intense passed
between them in that look, something that only they themselves could decipher;
a secret look that meant nothing to anyone else.

Sergeant
Lane coughed and the spell was broken. Felix made for the door to follow the
policeman out. But Jemima, apparently on impulse, intervened. She sprang
forward and then stopped a few steps away from him. Felix hesitated in the
doorway as if unsure what to do. Rose could not make out the expression on his
face, for he appeared to be experiencing a variety of emotions in those few moments.
The whole room had become quiet, seemingly waiting to hear what Jemima had to
say. But in the end she uttered only one word.

‘Felix –
’

‘It’s all
right,’ Felix Thistlewaite said quickly, ‘everything’s going to be all right,
Jemima.’

As soon
as Felix Thistlewaite entered the study, Inspector Bramwell thought that the
young man looked ill at ease. There was something about his freckled face and
unruly hair that suggested that he usually had a nonchalant approach to life
which, when coupled with the beginning of laughter lines, indicated that he was
generally of a cheery disposition. But that could not be said of him today. He
had an anxious look about him, which was accentuated by his fiddling with one
of the buttons on his jacket. The young man was definitely wary. Although
whether there was more to his present demeanour than not surprisingly being a
little overwhelmed by the situation in which he unexpectedly found himself was difficult
to determine. Certainly his attitude was not uncommon.

In Inspector
Bramwell’s considerable experience no one, from whatever walk of life they
might come, knew quite how to behave when faced with violent death. The subject
of murder was not covered in any book on social etiquette. Murder, the inspector
thought, had a tendency to bring out the best in people and also the very worst;
the same, he thought, could be said of war, and involuntarily he shuddered. The
Great War to end all wars did not seem so very long ago.

‘Look
here, Inspector,’ said Felix, as soon as he walked into the room, obviously
deciding to come straight to the point. ‘I can’t for the life of me think why
you have decided to interview me first. I hardly knew Miss Montacute, and doubt
very much if I can throw any light on her death. And I’m certain that I’m not
in receipt of any information that would be important to your investigation. I’m
not meaning to tell you how to do your job, but don’t you think you’d do better
starting with someone else?’

‘All in
good time, Mr Thistlewaite. Although I would be interested in knowing who you
suggest I interview first.’