01 - Murder at Ashgrove House (30 page)

Rose fled the library, leaving the impact of her words to echo around the
room as if she had shouted them. Both the inspector and sergeant had looked
shocked, although it was the breakthrough that they needed to solve the case.
In a few moments they would be summoning Cedric to their presence and then they
would be arresting him for the murder of his mother. She could not bear to
stand and watch. She would go outside into the garden until it was all over and
he had been taken away. She had betrayed him. He had done what he had done for
her, and then she had betrayed him. Even if she was eventually able to convince
herself that she had done what was right, she would never, she knew, be able to
forgive herself for being responsible for sending the man she loved to the
gallows. And he would know what she had done, they would tell him. She could
imagine the hurt look in his eyes, the disbelief that she could have done such
a thing. She may even have to stand up in Court and give evidence against him.
She could not bring herself to do that, she would rather die than do that. The
thought of having to look across the Court at his shackled and dejected figure,
to have him hear her give evidence against him and perhaps their eyes would
meet and then what would she see in his face? Surely hatred, she deserved that,
but how much worse would it be if she saw only misery?

She crossed the hall which, to her relief, was deserted although she
could hear Lady Withers in the dining room, the door of which was open,
discussing with Stafford her requirements for luncheon.

‘I suppose that we’ll have to have just soup again, Stafford, rather than
a proper meal. Will you speak to Mrs Palmer to that effect for me? I’d rather
have something more substantial, of course, but I suppose it’s not the done
thing after a murder, is it? I suppose we’re all supposed to still be off our
food, which is all very well if one has just got the appetite of a sparrow like
dear Lavinia, but when one enjoys their food like I do it really is rather
trying. But still I suppose it would look rather insensitive to just tuck in. I
wonder if Henry has much of an appetite. One would not expect a man in his
situation to, of course, not when his wife has just been murdered, but I’ve
always found that reading makes one so hungry, don’t you Stafford, and that’s
all poor Henry ever seems to do.’

‘I can’t say I have much time to read, m’lady.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you don’t, Stafford, you work far too hard. Oh, but one
thing before you go, I wasn’t quite sure about those herbs that Mrs Palmer put
in the soup the other day. I’m not very good at herbs, of course, find it
awfully difficult to distinguish one herb from another, but I’d swear that it
was rosemary, and surely that shouldn’t go with anything but pork ...’

Rose hurried on past before Lady Withers had time to finish her
conversation and come out into the hall. The thought of being accosted by Lady
Withers and have her babble on about absolutely nothing, while she all the time
would be wrestling with her conscience at sending Cedric to his death, was more
than she could bear. She prayed ardently that Cedric would employ a brilliant
barrister who would manage to get his death sentence commuted to a life
sentence in prison. Surely there had been ample provocation, wasn’t that a
defence? But even if it was and the barrister was successful, would that really
be a better fate? To spend years locked away, hidden from society, to grow old
without having experienced any of the joys of life …

Rose began to sob, and then, as if to make matters worse, she heard Lady
Withers move towards the door of the dining room. Quick as a flash she darted
into the drawing room which, to her relief, was empty. She let herself out of
the French windows onto the terrace and then set off across the lawn. She did
not have a clear destination in mind, just the absolute desire to get away and
leave everything behind. She thought back over Lady Withers’ conversation with
Stafford. How could she possibly think about food at a time like this? What did
it matter who would be hungry and who would not, who always had a big appetite
and who didn’t? What did it matter if the soup had rosemary in it, what did –

She stopped abruptly. She realised then that she had had a nagging
feeling about everything ever since she had come to Ashgrove. Things had not
seemed as they had appeared at first glance for the very simple reason that
they were not. She had taken everything at face value when really she should
have scratched beneath the surface to get to the truth.

She turned on her heel and fled back into the house, indifferent to who
saw her now. She threw open the French windows into the drawing room with such
a bang that Lady Withers, who had retreated there after her conversation with
the butler, spun around in alarm and knocked into an occasional table,
upsetting a vase of roses; water and flowers and broken lead crystal littered
the carpet. These things barely registered to Rose and she ran through the
room, not even acknowledging her hostess let alone offering an apology.

She sought Stafford who fortunately was just coming out of the dining
room, the dishes and crockery and general debris from breakfast having now been
quite cleared away.

‘Stafford, Mr Stafford, I must see Edna straightaway.’

‘The scullery maid, miss?’ Even Stafford found it difficult to hide his
surprise completely. ‘Why she’ll be in the kitchen, miss, helping Mrs Palmer
start the preparations for luncheon.’

‘I must see her at once, Mr Stafford, it’s a matter of life and death.
The inspector’s about to arrest Lord Sedgwick for Lady Belvedere’s murder and I
know he didn’t do it.’

The butler took in her dishevelled appearance and the desperateness in
her voice and came to a quick decision.

‘This way, miss, through the green baize door. It’s for the servants’
use, as you know, but it’s the quickest route to the kitchen.’

‘My lord, why did you lie about knowing your mother had gone for a walk
with Miss Simpson yesterday morning? Lord Sneddon has told us all about it, so
you might as well tell us the truth. According to him, you had your talk where
you asked him to leave, and he in turn told you about your mother urging him to
ruin Miss Simpson. According to him, my lord, you then stormed off and he
assumed that you had gone in pursuit of your mother.’

‘I went to my room, Inspector, to think things through.’

‘I’m afraid that we know that you did not. We know for a fact that you
must have overheard at least part of the conversation between your mother and
Miss Simpson. We have a very reliable witness who has said as much.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Inspector,’ replied Cedric, beginning to
look uncomfortable.

‘You told Miss Simpson that you admired the way she had stood up to your
mother. You could only have known that if you had been present.’

‘I see, Rose gave me away.’ Cedric sounded absolutely dejected.

‘If it’s any consolation, my lord, we had to force the information out of
her,’ Deacon said, taking pity on the young man. ‘Miss Simpson had absolutely
no intention of giving you up to the police. I think she would have gone to her
grave rather than disclose any information which would implicate you.’

‘Bless her!’ Cedric, despite the situation he found himself in, sounded
elated.

‘Indeed, but I’d still like to know why you lied to us, my lord.’

‘I was afraid that you’d think I did it if I told you the truth,’
admitted Cedric, rather sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid I was being a bit of a coward.
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lied to you, but I swear to you that I didn’t do
it.’

‘That’s as may be,’ the inspector said, grimly. ‘But we have means,
motive and opportunity. We can even place you at the murder scene.’

‘But surely you don’t think –.’

‘I’m afraid that I –.’

‘But, sir,’ interjected Lane.

Deacon held up his hand and looked fiercely at his sergeant. Cedric
meanwhile had gone exceedingly pale and had all but collapsed into his seat.

‘Lord Sedgwick, I am arresting you in connection with the murder of your
mother, Lady Belvedere…’

Their emergence through the servants’ door into the kitchen caused quite
a stir. While the servants were used to seeing Stafford come that way, they had
never seen a guest enter the servants’ hall, let alone come via the servants’
entrance.

‘Mrs Palmer, could you spare Edna for a minute or two? Miss Simpson
requires to speak with her on an urgent matter.’

Edna, who at that moment had her hands in the sink up to her elbows in
vegetable peelings, although somewhat surprised by Rose’s unexpected
appearance, looked more than a little keen to oblige.

‘Begging your pardon, miss,’ Mrs Palmer said, looking completely
flustered, ‘but we’re that short staffed and what with her ladyship changing
her mind every minute as to what constitutes a suitable lunch, I really cannot
spare my scullery maid until after the meal has been served.’

‘Oh, but you must,’ implored Rose, desperately.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Stafford. ‘It concerns Lord Sedgwick, Mrs Palmer. Unless
Miss Simpson can do something to prevent it, our young lord will be led away
from Ashgrove in handcuffs.’

‘Master Cedric in handcuffs! Heaven help us!’ exclaimed Mrs Palmer. ‘Well
don’t just stand there girl, take your apron off, wash your hands and take Miss
Simpson into my sitting room.’ She looked at Edna as if she had disobeyed an
order. ‘And mind you don’t touch anything neither,’ she added looking crossly
at the scullery maid, ‘any breakages will have to be paid for.’

As soon as they were ensconced in Mrs Palmer’s sitting room, sitting side
by side on the settee, the door firmly shut, Rose seized Edna’s little hand in
hers and gripped it so tightly Edna winced.

‘Edna, listen to me, this is very important. Do you remember you
mentioned to me that you had overheard a conversation between Edith, that’s Mrs
Torrington, and a gentleman on the croquet lawn?’

‘Yes, miss. I told you about it and you said as I didn’t need to worry
about it or tell the police.’

‘That’s right, I did, Edna, but I think I may have made a mistake.’

‘Really, miss?’ Edna, Rose noticed, was beginning to look anxious.

‘I assumed, you see, that you had overheard the same conversation that I
had. But I’m beginning to think that you may have overheard a completely
different one entirely.’

‘How do you mean, miss?’ Edna sounded confused.

‘Well, I assumed you were referring to a conversation that had taken
place on Saturday morning just before I met you. That’s the one I overheard
taking place on the croquet lawn. But now, because of something Lady Withers
said, I’m beginning to wonder whether that’s the case. You see, Lady Withers
mentioned to Stafford that she thought that the herb rosemary should only ever
go with pork and I suddenly remembered what you said when you were telling me
about the conversation that you’d overheard, you know, about Mrs Palmer
suddenly realising she hadn’t any rosemary to go with the pork. And we had pork
for dinner on Saturday night.’

‘I’m not sure I follow you, miss,’

‘When did you hear the conversation on the croquet lawn, Edna?’

‘Saturday evening, miss, about six o’clock.’

‘I knew it!’ Rose was elated. ‘I thought because it took place on the
croquet lawn and because Edith was one of the parties to the conversation, we
were talking about the same conversation, but we weren’t. Don’t you see, Edna,
the conversation I overheard took place on Saturday morning not Saturday
evening. Now tell me,’ she clung to the girl’s hand even harder, ‘who was Mrs
Torrington talking to?’

‘Why, Lord Belvedere, miss,’ answered the scullery maid, ‘and it was
awful, miss.’

‘Why, Edna, why was it awful?’

‘Because they were both crying, miss, something dreadful. They were
crying as if their hearts would break.’

Rose hurried through the corridor and emerged out of the green baize
door, much to the surprise of Lavinia, who had just come downstairs, having
breakfasted again in her room. Rose acknowledged her presence briefly and
hurried on. She had some pieces to the jigsaw, now she needed to get some more.
Something vague was forming in her mind, she just needed some more bits of the
puzzle to be able to solve it. She must find Edith and confront her. She
wondered why she had not done so before. And she cursed herself for not
realising the significance of the photograph before. How dense she had been.

She was about to mount the stairs in search of Edith, who she assumed to
still be in her room. However, looking up the staircase, she saw Edith was just
coming down. Rose waited impatiently for her to reach the hall and, as soon as
she had, she whisked her out of the front door onto the drive where they could
not be easily overheard.

‘What on earth are you doing, Rose?’ Edith sounded somewhat alarmed.

‘I want you to answer a question for me, or at least confirm what I put
to you. I want to know who Robert’s father was. It wasn’t your husband, was it
Edith? Lord Belvedere was your son’s father, wasn’t he?’   

When they came back inside, everyone seemed to be about. Sir William was
just coming out of his study, Lady Withers and Lavinia were coming out of the
drawing room, and Lord Sneddon down the stairs. The door of the library opened
and Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane came out, Lord Sedgwick handcuffed
between them.

There was a collective gasp as everyone took in the scene and then
Lavinia began sobbing, casting a murderous glance at Rose, who shrank back
under such a venomous stare.

‘Don’t tell me you have arrested Cedric?’ demanded Sir William, stepping
forward. ‘Whatever are you thinking, man? Surely you can’t think him guilty of
his mother’s murder?’

‘Out of the way please, Sir William. We’re taking Lord Sedgwick to the
police station where he’ll be charged.’

‘No, Inspector, you’ve got it all wrong.’ Rose ran over and stood before
them, trying to stop them from leaving. ‘I’m sorry, Cedric, I’m so sorry. It’s
all my fault that you’ve been arrested. But he didn’t do it, Inspector, he
didn’t do it. I swear he didn’t do it because, you see, I know who did.’

Then everything seemed to go very fast indeed.

‘I did it,’ shrieked Edith, ‘I did it. Let him go, Inspector, I killed
Lady Belvedere, let him go.’

‘Edith!’ exclaimed Sir William, ‘whatever are you saying? Don’t listen to
her, Inspector, I did it.’

‘William!’ wailed Lady Withers, clutching her hand to her heart.

‘No, Inspector,’ said Rose, firmly. ‘None of
them
did it, they are
just trying to protect each other. But I know who did do it, it was –.’

‘Miss Simpson is quite right, Inspector, none of
them
did do it.’
The voice was loud and commanding and cut through the din that had arisen, as
smoothly as a knife. In the silence that followed, every face was upturned to
look at the first floor landing, in particular the figure standing at the top
of the stairs looking down on them. Rose realised that, in the throng of people
downstairs, she had quite forgotten that he alone had been absent. ‘I killed
Lady Belvedere, Inspector,’ he continued, his voice full of emotion, ‘I killed
my wife.’

For a moment no-one moved, and then the sergeant bounded for the stairs.
Although he had hesitated only for a few seconds before making his move, the
delay was enough for the earl who, anticipating what was about to happen and
having made his confession to save his son, made a goodbye gesture, which
indicated also his love, to his two children, and made for his room, locking
the door firmly behind him. Lane banged on the door for all he was worth, but
to no avail. Desperately the sergeant looked around the landing for some heavy
object which might help him to batter down the door. No-one came to his aid,
not even the inspector, and before he could find anything suitable, a gunshot
rang out through the house, bringing the servants running. Even before they had
eventually managed to break down the door, each person present, looking up in
horror at the scene unfolding before their eyes, knew what the sergeant would
find.