Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (38 page)

Florence's thoughts ticked away with increasing speed. ‘How had he come by the beard and hair?'

‘He wouldn't say; only that it was not from George. There'd be no reason not to tell me if he'd bought them at a shop.'

‘For the purpose of posing as the ornamental hermit?'

‘I suppose the police might say he knew of the man's existence from George and somehow got him out of the way.'

Florence hoped her face did not reveal the dread she was feeling. Then came a relieving memory. Inspector LeCrane had spoken of Lillian Stodmarsh's possible killer waiting for a scapegoat before striking again. ‘Did you visit Jim again yesterday?'

Toffee shook her head. ‘I told him I'd get the pearls in the middle of the night. He asked me not to, but I was determined and slipped into her bedroom, leaving the door ajar so there'd be some light. I hadn't taken two steps when I saw she … she was dead. I raced out and went to warn Jim that he was liable to be suspected of her murder too. He was gone.'

‘The false beard and hair?'

‘Also gone.'

‘I think,' said Florence, ‘I can hazard a guess where they came from. When I first came to Mullings as a girl of fourteen, the housekeeper at that time, a Mrs Longbrow, mentioned that Edward Stodmarsh, Ned's grandfather, enjoyed amateur theatricals, which were performed in this house. He later mentioned to me that he had acted the part of Prospero in
The Tempest,
and that old costumes were stored in trunks in the attic.'

‘Then that means,' gasped Toffee, ‘that someone at Mullings provided them and helped him to hide out as the hermit, so that when Regina was murdered …'

She got no further. The door was opened by Inspector LeCrane.

‘I trust you will both excuse me. Miss Jones, I would like you to accompany me to the police station, for no alarming reason. I have someone waiting there who is anxious to see you. And to allay further concerns, that person is not, nor will be, placed under arrest.'

Florence saw the girl's face light up with a wonderful vivacity. ‘Come with me,' Toffee grasped her hand as they both stood, ‘I want you to hear whatever else he has to say.'

Inspector LeCrane said, ‘I hope to return in a couple of hours to find the family assembled so I can update them on how matters stand. I would appreciate your being present, Mrs Norris. Coming, Miss Jones?'

That was at three o'clock in the afternoon. At precisely five Grumidge ushered Inspector LeCrane once more into the drawing room. Gertrude Stodmarsh had not returned from the hospital; recent news of her husband was not good, and she did not expect to return that night. Miss Hendrick was with her. Inspector LeCrane surveyed the expectant faces fixed on his. Ned was standing. The others sat.

‘As I told you this morning, I expected to make a speedy arrest. As it happens, the obvious suspect at that time has been positively cleared. We are, however, well on our way to closure. Mr Cyril Fritch has confessed to the murder of Regina Stodmarsh.'

Madge Bradley swayed, emitting a cry of anguish.

‘He claims his reason for committing the crime was that he has been embezzling money from the bookshop where he works to support his mother's excessive spending and feared discovery when his employer, Mr Craddock, sells it. Mr Fritch knew you were due for an inheritance, Miss Bradley, on Lady Stodmarsh's death, which would enable him to return the money.'

‘I don't … won't believe it!' Madge Bradley was weeping, tears dripping through the fingers covering her face.

Inspector LeCrane smiled thinly, ‘Neither do I, Miss Bradley, but I think he'll stick gamely to his version, until we have him sit in while we question you about the death of Lillian Stodmarsh.'

‘What rubbish is this?' Her hands dropped and Florence saw the vicious glitter of hatred in her eyes that she had witnessed once before, but this time it didn't flash almost too quickly to be absorbed. She then made the obvious mistake. ‘You've no proof.'

‘Perhaps not what might be termed hard evidence, but enough of the circumstantial sort to request an order of exhumation from the Home Secretary. But more importantly, sufficient evidence to have Mr Fritch decide you're not worth hanging for.' Inspector LeCrane nodded towards the two constables hovering in the doorway. ‘Take her away, chaps. You can fetch me later. I'd like to stay for a cup of tea if it's on offer.'

F
lorence had not been so mesmerized by the scene which had just unfolded that she had failed to see the startled look on Ned's face change to one of anguish on hearing what the inspector had to say regarding Lillian Stodmarsh's death. He stared blankly after the figure being escorted from the room and stood as if frozen, even after they heard the front door closing, followed by the sound of a car being started and then driven away into silence. Florence longed to go over and put her arms around him, but she knew it was not her place to do so with Mrs Tressler present to offer comfort.

‘My dear Ned,' said that lady, rising from the sofa, ‘why don't I walk with you to another room, such as your study, where you can have the peace to allow the shock of what you've just heard sink in? I'll then leave if you wish, or sit without saying a word, unless you wish to talk.'

‘Thank you, Grandma,' his green eyes held both gratitude and love behind the blur of tears, ‘but I'll stay here.'

‘If you're sure?'

He nodded and she returned to the sofa. ‘I need to hear all that Inspector LeCrane has to reveal.' He turned to the long, lean figure, now occupying a wingback chair beside the fireplace, angled towards the other seating. ‘May I offer you something stronger than tea, Inspector?'

Florence had never been prouder of Ned, witnessing the steadiness of his voice and stance.

‘That is very obliging of you, Lord Stodmarsh,' was the response. ‘I'll pretend I'm off duty, which in a sense I temporarily am, and accept, if I may, a whisky and soda.'

‘It sounds like you've earned one.' Ned provided a handsome crystal glass, shimmering with amber fire, and settled himself down next to Mrs Tressler.

‘I really had very little to do with solving one murder and discovering that it had been preceded by another.' Inspector LeCrane sipped his drink with obvious enjoyment. ‘That's not self-deprecation. It's a fact. Credit goes to an unforeseen circumstance, which I will come to later, and the contributions of Mrs Tressler and Mrs Norris.'

Ned looked at each in turn, but neither his grandmother nor Florence said anything or showed surprise, and he decided this was not the moment to question the inspector and break his train of thought.

‘On receiving the telephone message this morning alerting me to the stabbing of Regina Stodmarsh, I was ninety-nine per cent certain the murderer would prove to be Arthur James Leighton, who has been on the run for the past several days. He had fled the scene when discovered with a bloodied knife in his hand, standing over the body of an elderly woman in London who had taken him into her home. She had done so because she wished to assist him in pursuing his ambitions as an artist.'

Enlightenment dawned on Ned's face, but again he refrained from interjecting.

The inspector sat very much at ease in the wingback chair. In relaxation he had an elegance well suited to that of his surroundings. He might have been discussing the vintage contents of his wine cellar, or relating some anecdote about a peer of the realm who happened to be a member of his club. ‘It did not take the police involved in the London case long to seriously consider the possibility that Mr Leighton might make his way to Dovecote Hatch.'

‘Jim,' said Ned, ‘godson of George Bird at the Dog and Whistle.'

‘Precisely. He had been named for his father, Arthur James Leighton, but his parents called him Jim from the start. They were, of course, interviewed, and their home watched, but their statement that they were estranged from their son was confirmed by neighbours – putting them lower on the list of likely bolt holes the younger Mr Leighton might have in mind.'

‘But were they otherwise helpful,' inquired Mrs Tressler, ‘in directing you to Mr Bird – suggesting their son might seek sanctuary with him and providing his address?'

‘That was so.' Inspector LeCrane finished his drink and set the glass down on the piecrust table by his chair. ‘One prefers to believe they were doing their duty, as viewed from lives of unflagging respectability, and not acting out of jealousy of the closeness between their son and his godfather. The negative aspect of police work is it inclines one to become cynical.'

‘I'd call it a ratty thing to do, whatever their motive,' flared Ned. Florence was heartened by his becoming caught up in the information Inspector LeCrane was providing. ‘Did the detectives who talked to the parents get the impression they believed in Jim's innocence or not?'

‘It's in the report that they insisted he had been brought up to be a good boy but feared he would get into bad company and be led astray when he insisted on following his dream of becoming an artist. My mother said much the same thing when I told her I wanted to become a policeman.'

‘George will have had faith in him all the way, and will go on doing so however dark things look presently,' Ned said, looking at Florence. ‘Just as you would with me, Florie, if I were in his shoes.' Ned's eyes returned to LeCrane. ‘From how George spoke of his godson it was clear he was not only frightfully fond of him, but thought highly of his character – his decency.'

‘He did, Inspector,' said Florence.

‘I believe, Mrs Norris,' said Mrs Tressler, ‘that you and Mr Bird have it in common that you each accepted a formative role in a boy's life and fulfilled it to the crucial betterment of each.' Before Florence could answer she addressed LeCrane. ‘Are my grandson and I correct in thinking that when Mr Bird was contacted he vehemently asserted his godson was incapable of murder?'

‘That was his position when we sent a man round to the Dog and Whistle. Mr Bird said he had learned of the murder from his morning newspaper and he denied having seen or heard from Leighton since.'

Florence could not hold back a question. ‘Did the detective find him credible?'

‘Yes. He said Mr Bird struck him as the sort of man who'd refuse to lie under any circumstance – that if he and his godson had been in touch his response would have been a refusal to answer the question.'

‘So it would.'

‘But that did not mean Dovecote Hatch was no longer kept under surveillance. The hope remained strong that Leighton might make for it. This theory was strengthened when a man sent to track his former girlfriend's movements succeeded, despite,' LeCrane's lips twitched, ‘her attempts to throw the London chaps off the scent by disguising her appearance and taking a circuitous route that would have done any career criminal proud. She was seen going into the Dog and Whistle, then huddled outside in conversation with George. After which she walked here. That was two nights ago.'

‘Sylvia Jones!' An appreciative gleam appeared in Ned's eyes. ‘What a trump girl! She had to still be in love with him despite his being the one who decided to break things off! What a relief that Lamorna and I became unengaged! I'll cheerfully wait for years, if needed, for Sylvia's sort to come along.'

‘She's known as Toffee amongst friends and acquaintances.'

‘Is she Regina's granddaughter?' Mrs Tressler inquired of the inspector.

‘We have the birth certificates to prove it.' LeCrane's mouth twitched again. ‘Her own and her mother's – the latter being for Sylvia Tamersham Stapleton, born at the ancestral home of the Tamershams on the correct date. And now we come to that sorry individual, Cyril Fritch.'

The three other people in the room waited expectantly.

LeCrane leaned back in his chair. ‘As I mentioned, he had been embezzling from his employer from quite early on in his employment. He did so, he says, to quell his mother's nagging for money, well beyond his slender needs, for holidays and other social events. His job at the bookshop included not only doing the bookkeeping but, when needed, serving in the shop. He would sell a rare costly book without noting the sale in his records. He kept the receipts with the pathetic intention of most embezzlers of returning the money. He was near his wits' end when Madge Bradley displayed an interest in him and eventually, under her guidance, found himself proposing to her. He did not for a minute believe she loved him, which he says was a relief. What he assumed to be her reasoning was that she wanted a husband, any husband, as a means of negating the stigma of being left at the altar. The light he saw at the end of the tunnel was a distant one. Madge would not come into her inheritance from the Stodmarsh trust until Regina Stodmarsh's death, which could be years away, and in the meantime Madge had nothing beyond her yearly allowance. Then the worst possible happened. Mr Craddock decided to sell the bookshop, which would necessitate a stocktaking that would reveal the unaccounted volumes.'

‘I can't help feeling sorry for him,' interjected Ned. ‘For a man of his nervous disposition the shock must have been untenable. I'm amazed he didn't cut his throat!'

‘He said he thought about suicide but hadn't the courage for it, and decided instead to throw himself on Madge's mercy. By now he knew her well enough to be sure she would not wish to see him publicly disgraced, because of its reflection on her, as a woman who had again shown faulty judgement in a man she had agreed to marry. So, on the rainy evening of Sylvia Jones's showing up, he wheeled his bicycle around the corner of the Dog and Whistle and, using his key to open the gate, entered the woodland. He was not seen to do this because the man assigned to watch the pub had his eyes glued to its door, having seen Sylvia Jones go inside shortly before.'