‘The gallery closes at six, I understand, on Saturday.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t think it was anything like so late. So I hurried on, as best I could, keeping to the wall, until I reached the gallery. It wasn’t easy even then to make sure I was at the right place. I went in and found the assistant. He is relatively new there but he recognised me. He was surprised to see me come through the door on such an afternoon, and alone. He denied seeing Mrs Benedict. We could not understand it. Surely she could not have missed the door and walked on too far? She would soon have realised it, if she had, and turned back. The assistant (his name, I think, is Gray) went to tell Mr Angelis, the manager. He came running from the back office, with a pen still in his hand. I asked again for Mrs Benedict. Mr Angelis confirmed the assistant’s claim. He said she had not been there. He hadn’t seen her at all.’
Miss Marchwood was still clasping and unclasping her hands as she spoke.
‘We were by now all three of us very concerned. We didn’t know what to do. Mr Angelis told me I should stay in the gallery. It was almost six and certainly there would be no more clients in such foul weather. Both he and the assistant would go out and search, locking the door with me inside. They were gone quite some time, half an hour at least. But they could find her nowhere. However, Mr Angelis had found a cab still willing to take a fare. He insisted I take it to Waterloo and catch the train back to Egham. He and the assistant, Mr Gray, would continue to look for Mrs Benedict.’
She fell silent. The Meissen clock ticked on loudly.
‘I didn’t want to leave without her,’ she said quietly. ‘But I couldn’t find her. Mr Angelis said there was no question of my wandering around alone in the fog. I would get lost, too, he said; Gray and he would find themselves searching for both of us. So I came back here and left it all to him.
‘When I reached the house here and told Mr Benedict what had happened, he was very alarmed. You can imagine it. We waited for news of her, hoping all the time to see her arrive home. We were both of us in a wretched state. Neither of us could eat dinner. We had a little soup and – and coffee, I think. The meal Cook had prepared quite went to waste. Of course she understood. The servants, too, were all very upset and worried. They loved Mrs Benedict.
‘Then – very late, it was gone nine o’clock at night – Mr Angelis himself arrived on the doorstep here at The Cedars. He was very distressed. He had been quite unable to find her. Mr Benedict and I were sitting in this drawing room, just waiting, you know, and hoping. When we heard a visitor arrive, so late, we naturally hoped that it was Mrs Benedict, home at last. Mr Benedict leaped up and ran into the hall. I followed behind him, just praying it would be Allegra. But it was only Mr Angelis. There was no Allegra and Angelis’s face told it all.’
She paused and looked down. I waited for her to compose herself. I could well imagine the scene. I knew how I would feel, if it were Lizzie who had gone missing in such a way.
‘Mr Benedict showed great courage,’ Miss Marchwood said. ‘He pulled himself together, brought Angelis in here and insisted he have a glass of brandy to restore his nerves.’
‘Had Angelis informed the police?’ I asked.
‘Yes, at Little Vine Street police station. He did not know what else he could have done. Mr Benedict thanked him for his efforts and for bringing in the police. He said it was quite the right thing to have done. I think Mr Angelis was a little worried . . .’
She broke off and gave me an embarrassed look.
‘Not everyone wants the police brought into their private lives,’ I said, ‘I understand.’
Miss Marchwood gave me a look of gratitude. ‘Yes, that was it. People talk, as you know. But in the circumstances, Mr Angelis had taken upon himself to inform them – you. Then, when he had told us all this, he hurried back to Egham to catch the late train back into London. The cabman, who had brought him from the station to the house, had been waiting all the time outside for him, to drive him back down the hill. It must have been a great expense. But I think I heard Mr Benedict go out and ask what the total fare would be and so he must have paid it. I have never spent such a dreadful night in my life. I couldn’t sleep at all and I know Mr Benedict stayed all night in his study, just waiting. In the morning, Sunday, he went up to London straight away, and went first to Little Vine Street . . . You know the rest.’
She was losing her self-control at last and beginning to shake.
‘I know this is difficult for you,’ I told her as sympathetically as I could. ‘But although we are confident the motive was not robbery . . .’
She gave a convulsive start and stared at me wild-eyed.
‘Mrs Benedict still wore her jewellery,’ I explained. ‘Yet no purse or bag was found. Did she carry one that day?’
‘Purse?’ She shook her head as if she had something lodged in her ear. ‘No purse? But there should be . . .’ The question seemed to have quite bewildered her. At last, with an effort, she said, ‘Yes, she carried a little pink suede drawstring bag. It looped over her wrist with a silk cord. She carried a little money, her handkerchief, a bottle of sal volatile and the brooch in it; that is to say, she had carried the brooch up to town in it. But the brooch had been left with Tedeschi, the jeweller, as I told you. I don’t know why you didn’t find the bag, Inspector. You should have found the bag . . .’ She was beginning to shake again. ‘It should have been on her wrist . . . I don’t know, this is so terrible . . .’
This last detail had broken down her defences. I decided that I should cut short the questioning for the time being, and asked if she would be so good as to call down Henderson, the lady’s maid, so that I could have a word with her.
Henderson proved to be a dumpy middle-aged woman, red-eyed and tearful.
‘It’s a terrible thing, a dreadful thing, sir! I swear I’ve hardly slept a wink since it happened. Who would ever have believed it? Poor Mrs Benedict. She was such a kind lady.’
‘Was she in her usual spirits that morning, when you helped her dress?’
‘Oh, yes, Inspector! In fact, she was in very good spirits. She was looking forward to the trip up to London, I fancy. I put up her hair with extra pins, so it wouldn’t come loose when she was away from the house.’
‘Would you say Mrs Benedict was a happy woman?’
Henderson looked bewildered. ‘Why should she not be, sir? She had beautiful clothes. It was a real pleasure to have the care of them.’
‘Mr Benedict was a generous husband?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. She could have whatever she fancied. She had only to express the wish . . . and he’d buy it for her.’
‘She didn’t have her own allowance?’
Henderson seemed bothered by the question. ‘Well, yes, sir. She had her pin money, to be sure. I couldn’t tell you much about that, sir.’ Her homely face crumpled and tears began to trickle down her plump cheeks. ‘Oh, whatever shall I do now?’
She, like Miss Marchwood, had lost a good place and was now faced with having to find another at a time of life when she was no longer young.
Morris and I made our way back to the railway station on foot, down the hill and across the town. It was pleasant walking and it gave us plenty of opportunity to exchange what information we’d learned.
‘All the servants said they were very happy working at The Cedars,’ Morris told me. ‘They’re very distressed. They were fond of Mrs Benedict, it appears.’
‘I’ve been hearing the same. It makes me wonder . . . How about Benedict himself, their employer? Much sympathy for him? Did you get the feeling he was as popular as his wife?’
‘Plenty of sympathy, sir. Perhaps not much—’ Morris hesitated and searched without luck for a word. ‘I got the impression they have a lot of respect for the gentleman, but are a bit in awe of him, as you might say,’ he concluded. ‘They perhaps don’t like him as much as they liked her.’
There was evidence of a real affection for the lady of the house, but not for the master.
‘And do the staff think the Benedicts had a happy marriage?’
Morris hesitated. ‘Cook called it a “good” marriage. That was the word she used. They said Mr Benedict thought the world of his wife.’
This tallied much with what Henderson had said to me.
‘Did she appear to think the world of him? Did she appear to love her husband?’
Morris reddened. ‘I don’t know about love, sir. How do you tell? I mean, people like that, well, they’re very formal, aren’t they, in the way they talk to one another? They don’t go kissing and cuddling in front of others.’
True, and I couldn’t imagine Sebastian Benedict indulging in such playful behaviour, whether in privacy or not. But no outsider ever really knows what goes on in another couple’s marriage. However, Henderson, the lady’s maid, had not doubted how Benedict felt about his wife. The character of the victim was beginning to fascinate me.
‘How did the staff describe the deceased?’ I asked next.
‘A very quiet, dignified lady, was all they said. She was musical, played the piano very well. She’d sit for hours playing, just for herself.’
The description bothered me. What happened to the spirited, intelligent Italian girl of eighteen, full of laughter, that nine years of marriage to Benedict had turned her into a quiet, dignified British matron, sitting alone in her drawing room, playing the piano for herself? What had extinguished all the fire?
‘How did
you
find the husband, sir?’ Morris asked.
‘A bit of an odd character,’ I confessed. ‘I don’t doubt he loved his wife. He is genuinely distraught. But he seems to have been obsessed by her beauty. I couldn’t help feeling that he would have been almost as upset by the loss of some highly prized painting or statue. It occurs to me, Morris, that, from Mrs Benedict’s viewpoint, it must have been very tedious, not to say depressing, to have a husband who appeared to love you primarily for your beauty, saw you as an objet d’art, and not love you for yourself, with any imperfections you might have. Also, she was very young when they married, eighteen, although they had known one another since she was fourteen. He was fifteen years older than her. The marriage seems to have been agreed between her father and Benedict. Benedict himself hardly strikes me as the type to sweep a young girl off her feet.’
‘You’re thinking she might have had a fancy man?’ Morris suggested.
I am afraid we police officers develop sordid minds. We see too much of human nature’s weaknesses and private vices. I couldn’t have denied the thought had ever entered my head. It had been there since I set eyes on the husband. But I expressed myself more cautiously.
‘She might have been very bored and lonely here in England. The only company she had was that of the woman Marchwood – and she’s hardly a lively sort of person. There are no children. Marchwood was with her nine years and was the lady’s only confidante. If there was anything scandalous in Mrs Benedict’s private life, the companion must know of it and have turned a blind eye to it. She won’t now confess her complicity in a love affair. Or tell us anything else that reflects on her own behaviour. She was engaged to look after Mrs Benedict but Mr Benedict paid her wages, and still does at the moment, it seems.’ I allowed myself a wry grimace. ‘She is quick to tell me how she came to lose Mrs Benedict in the fog. But any other questions won’t, I think, get ready answers.’
‘Very likely you’re right, sir,’ rumbled Morris. ‘Sad thing that, Mr Benedict having to hire a friend for his wife. The staff did not have much to say about Miss Marchwood, only that she’s rather stiff in her way with them. I fancy Cook gets along with her best.’
‘I am not happy about the whole thing, to be honest with you, Morris,’ I muttered discontentedly as we turned into the station yard. ‘Marchwood was too glib in some ways and too reticent in others. She had the explanation of their trip to London and how they came to be parted, all off pat. But she is vague as to times. They left the jeweller’s premises in the Burlington Arcade, she says, a little after four. She quickly corrects that to “almost five”. But that is nearly an hour’s difference.
‘And there is another matter. I can’t help thinking of that oak tree, standing alone.’
‘Oak?’ asked Morris, startled. ‘You mean that one King Charles the Second ordered planted?’
‘King Charles no more ordered it planted than my granny did, but yes, I do mean that tree in Green Park. Most of the other trees in the park are in avenues. So let us say you are right, and Mrs Benedict had an – an amorous interest. Well, if I were her, and I wanted to arrange to meet someone in the park, discreetly, I might suggest a tryst at the oak tree, tucked away at the back of the area and not to be confused with any other tree.’
Morris sucked his teeth and finally offered, ‘There’s this chap, Angelis.’
‘There is, and I’ll seek him out tomorrow. You, Morris, will go to Burlington Arcade and find the jeweller called Tedeschi. Get him not only to confirm Mrs Benedict was there on Saturday afternoon. Try to get him to remember what time she and Miss Marchwood left his shop. Try and find the beadle they asked to call a cab for them, and a crossing sweeper who guided them across the road. Miss Marchwood said the boy had heard them talking in the fog. I would like very much to know exactly what he heard them say. Crossing sweepers generally patrol the same stretch of street watching out for custom. They don’t trespass on one another’s beats. You should find him.’
