The Murder at Sissingham Hall (21 page)

‘He thinks it was probably Veronal,’ said Angela. ‘There was a little bottle of the stuff in her dressing-case. Does anybody know whether she took it regularly?’

‘Yes, she did,’ said Rosamund. ‘She had been having difficulty sleeping for several months, she told me.’

‘Where did the brandy come from?’

‘I gave it to her,’ replied Rosamund. ‘She was completely done in after what happened yesterday, so I poured her a glass. She drank some of it then said she would take the remainder up to bed.’

‘Then she must have added the Veronal when she got to her room,’ I said. ‘I wonder whether she really intended to do herself harm, or whether it was an accident.’

‘We may never know,’ said Angela.

‘Poor Gwen,’ said Sylvia. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Someone will have to tell Hugh.’

‘Need he be told?’ asked Joan. ‘I mean, perhaps we ought to wait.’ She did not say for what.

Rosamund left the room while the point was being decided. With no thought but that of lending her a sympathetic ear, I followed her and found her in the conservatory, absent-mindedly pulling the leaves off a rather ugly aspidistra. I thought how beautiful she looked, even in the midst of tragedy, her porcelain skin beautifully framed by her red-gold hair. She looked up and gave me a smile of the sort she used to give me in the old days, when I thought her smiles were for me alone.

‘Dear Charles,’ she said. ‘You have been such a friend to me over these past few days. I don’t know what I should have done without you.’

I took her hand.

‘I’m awfully pleased if you think I’ve been of any help,’ I said. ‘But really, I don’t see how one could have done anything differently.’

She gazed into my eyes and immediately it was as though eight years had melted away into nothingness.

‘Why wouldn’t you marry me, Rosamund?’ I asked.

She smiled. She knew her power over me had never died; of course she did.

‘Oh Charles,’ she said. ‘It would never have worked between us.’

‘But I thought we were in love.’

‘So we were but we were young and foolish and so
dreadfully
poor,’ she said. ‘Oh, I know they say love conquers all but is that really true? Does it conquer cold and ragged clothes and hunger and misery?’

‘Then you had no faith in me? You didn’t believe I should ever make my fortune.’

‘Oh but I did. I had every faith in you. But I could never have gone with you to Africa, you know that, and to wait at home in England, trusting to an uncertain future, scraping to get by—I couldn’t do that. I was weak, Charles, and you were much better off without me.’

I kept hold of her hand, still. I seemed to have lost my head.

‘And now?’

‘And now what?’

‘Am I still better off without you?’

She gazed at me for an eternity. Her breath came fast.

‘Oh yes,’ she whispered.

‘I don’t believe you,’ I said roughly, then took her in my arms and kissed her. For one long second she responded, then she shook herself free.

‘Don’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s all too late now. Even if Neville had never been in the picture, surely you must see that things have changed. You’ve been away eight years, Charles. Why, that’s practically a lifetime.’

‘Not for me, it isn’t. You are the same to me as you ever were.’

She shook her head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not true. I was never—what you thought I was. The Rosamund you thought you loved is a perfect creature of your imagination. She’s not even human. But I—I’m a real human being, with faults and imperfections just like anybody else and I don’t want to be loved by someone who would expect me to be a sort of goddess. I should only disappoint you, don’t you see?’

‘But—that kiss, Rosamund. Why would you kiss me like that if you didn’t feel the same way about me as I do about you?’

She lowered her eyes but did not deny that she had responded.

‘Perhaps it was a kind of nostalgia. Perhaps I was trying to imagine myself as I was eight years ago, before all this happened. Before Neville. Before—’

‘Before what?’

‘Nothing. I’m sorry, Charles. I never meant you to—I mean, I thought we were friends.’

‘So did I,’ I said.

‘No, darling,’ she said gently. ‘It can’t be that sort of friendship. You know that.’

‘I
don’t
know it,’ I said.

She smiled sadly, turned away and left the room.

‘Rosamund!’ I called after her desperately. I started after her but was brought up short when I bumped into Sylvia. I begged her pardon in a somewhat distracted fashion and she smiled stiffly.

‘What were you talking to Rosamund about?’ she asked, in an unnaturally bright voice.

‘I—nothing in particular,’ I replied, taken aback.

‘I see,’ she said.

‘Sylvia, I—’

‘Really, it’s quite all right,’ she said, still in that same, high voice. She pressed her lips together and hurried away.

‘Sylvia!’ I exclaimed.

Had she overheard my interview with Rosamund? My mind was in a tumult and I could hardly think. What had I done? Had I behaved like a damned fool? Rosamund had always had that effect on me. I felt I needed to find a cool, quiet place to sit until my head cleared, and headed for the library. The room was empty but someone had obviously been in before me, as a newspaper and one or two other papers lay scattered on the desk. I glanced idly at the newspaper, which had been left open at the stock pages, but quickly cast it aside. My eye then fell on a scrap of paper containing a few scribbled notes. I pulled it towards me and stared at it in puzzlement. It appeared to be a list, although it made no sense to me. It read:

Why dark?

Arms

Dog

Keys

‘What on earth—?’ I murmured to myself. I was still gazing at it in astonishment when Angela Marchmont entered the room. She stopped as she caught sight of the paper in my hand.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, in confusion.

‘Is this yours?’ I said, embarrassed. ‘I do beg your pardon but I couldn’t help seeing it.’ I held it out to her.

‘Yes, it’s mine,’ she said. ‘It’s just some silly thoughts I was scribbling down before breakfast. I find the library is a good place to clear one’s head.’

‘So it is,’ I agreed. I hesitated. ‘It’s none of my business of course, but may I ask—if I am correct in understanding this rather mysterious list, you are still thinking about Sir Neville’s murder. Does that mean you don’t think MacMurray did it? You seemed uncertain of his guilt yesterday.’

She toyed for a moment with the rings on her fingers.

‘If only one knew what to do,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘Yes, Mr. Knox, after the events of this morning, it seems quite clear to me now that Hugh couldn’t possibly have done it.’

‘Events? Are you referring to Mrs. MacMurray?’ I asked in surprise. ‘But surely her attempt at suicide merely confirms that they were both in on it?’

‘But why should she attempt suicide? Of course, there is strong circumstantial evidence against Hugh but there is no evidence at all against Gwen. The police have never suggested for a moment that she had any hand in the matter. Why, then, should she try to kill herself?’

‘An upset in the balance of her mind caused by her husband’s arrest?’

She shook her head.

‘No, I’m afraid that simply won’t do. Hugh has been arrested but who is to say whether he will be found guilty or even brought to trial? A thousand things could happen between now and then. There is no solid evidence that he was the guilty party, and I have the feeling the clever inspector knows it. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if the only reason he arrested Hugh was to try and frighten him into a confession. There was every reason in the world for Gwen to be frantic with worry but none at all for her to try to do away with herself.’

‘Then you think it wasn’t suicide at all but attempted murder.’

She nodded.

‘But why should anybody want to kill her? Do you think she knew something?’

‘Yes, that seems to be the only conclusion. I think she must have known or suspected who the real killer was.’

‘Last night, she ran from the table saying that she was going to tell the inspector something,’ I exclaimed, suddenly remembering. ‘I wonder if that is what alerted the killer and spurred him to action.’

‘Yes, I wondered that too,’ she replied.

I was feeling more and more perplexed.

‘But
who
was it?’ I said. ‘It seems as though first one, then another person has been eliminated. Soon there will be no-one left and I shall have to start suspecting myself!’

Angela smiled wryly.

‘Yes, it does rather seem that way, doesn’t it? The problem is the lack of evidence. Even if we suspect who did it, we have no proof.’

I looked at her curiously.

‘I believe you know who did it,’ I said.

She did not reply directly but picked up her list and began tearing it into tiny pieces.

‘There was something I meant to ask you earlier about the night of Neville’s murder,’ she said.

‘Go on,’ I replied.

‘I’d like to know more about what happened when you and Rosamund went along to the study and heard what you thought was Neville’s voice through the door. The police think that it was Hugh speaking but if my theory is correct, he had nothing to do with it.’

‘Then who could it have been?’ I said. ‘Everyone else was in the drawing-room—unless, of course, it was Sir Neville himself, as we originally thought.’ I was intrigued: was Angela reverting to the earlier theory that the crime was committed after a quarter to eleven?

‘Try and remember the voice, Mr. Knox,’ said Angela. ‘Who do you think it was?’

‘Unfortunately, as I have already told the inspector, I don’t remember hearing much at all. I certainly couldn’t tell you who was speaking. I was listening to Rosamund’s side of the conversation, if you see what I mean, and didn’t hear whoever it was on the other side of the door.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Ah,’ she said. An odd sort of expression came over her face.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,’ I said.

‘On the contrary, you have been very helpful,’ she said sadly.

I watched her as she drummed her fingers absently on the desk.

‘It is difficult to know what to do,’ she said at last. ‘But I think I shall have a word with Rosamund. Perhaps she will help me.’

‘You mean she might be able to tell you who was speaking through the door? I don’t think she remembers any more than I do.’

‘Well, we shall see,’ she said.

She went off, passing Bobs as he entered the room.

‘Hallo, old chap,’ he said. ‘This is a to-do, what?’

‘You mean Gwen? Yes.’

‘Funny that she should try to kill herself after old Hugh’s arrest, isn’t it?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ I replied, ‘Mrs. Marchmont has just been telling me the most extraordinary thing.’

I told him about her theory. He whistled.

‘I say!’ he exclaimed. ‘That rather puts the cat among the pigeons, what?’

‘If it’s true, then yes, it means we are back where we started.’

‘I suppose it does.’

‘I think Angela suspects who did it but she wouldn’t tell me who it was. I don’t suppose you have any ideas yourself?’

Bobs shrugged.

‘No idea, I’m afraid. I was sure it was Gale but it seems I was wrong. I’m sure the police will catch whoever it was sooner or later.’

To my surprise, he seemed almost unconcerned. He picked up the newspaper and turned a page, then put it down again. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

‘Something troubling you, old chap?’ I asked.

He roused himself with an effort.

‘Eh, what? Oh, no, no,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking of something, that’s all. I was wondering when the police will allow us to leave, in fact.’

‘But I thought Rosamund wanted us all to stay.’

He looked uncomfortable.

‘Yes, dash it! That’s just it. It’s all very well for her to say that but it makes a chap feel a cad. I’ve told her that but she won’t seem to listen.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it looks rather a shabby trick to be hanging about a woman when her husband has just died. Makes one look rather a vulture, don’t you think?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Of course, it’s one thing when the man’s alive and everybody accepts the situation in a civilized sort of fashion but it’s quite another when he’s lying there cold and dead and people are casting around for someone to pin the blame on.’

I looked at Bobs’s sheepish face and felt the dawning of an awful realization loom upon me. ‘Bobs, are you telling me that you—you and Rosamund—’ I stopped, unable to go on.