03 - Murder at Sedgwick Court (15 page)

‘Scotland
Yard is being brought in to investigate Emmeline’s death, and Cedric did ask
the chief constable if it might be Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane.’

‘Well,
there you go,’ said Lavinia. ‘It’ll be them.’

But as it
happened, she was only partly right.

Neither
woman was inclined to hurry downstairs to join the others in the drawing room.
Rose found it pleasant in Lavinia’s room, and the old feeling of camaraderie
that they had shared in the dress shop seemed to have returned for some time at
least. She assumed that Cedric was still out by the maze awaiting the arrival
of the police. She very much feared that Vera had been unable to keep herself
from going over to speak to Theo. The result of which was likely to have been
ructions or, at the very least, a chilly reception. How she pitied the count,
stuck as he was in the room between the two.

When
Lavinia and Rose did at last begin to make their way downstairs, they stopped
at Jemima’s door on the way. Rose had previously arranged for Jemima to come
down with them, as neither Jemima nor Lavinia had indicated that they wished to
enter the drawing room alone. Both women anticipated being met with inquisitive
stares.  

Jemima still
looked pale, but to Rose’s relief she appeared more composed than before,
holding herself upright with her head thrown back as if prepared to meet the
onslaught of compassionate looks and stares that would greet her when she encountered
the others. It would certainly be an ordeal, Rose thought, to someone who kept
herself so much to herself. She noticed that Lavinia and Jemima both looked at
each other warily. Rose wondered if Lavinia had overheard her conversation with
Jemima, in particular the girl’s assertion that Lavinia had killed Emmeline.

Despite
her posture, Jemima still appeared hesitant at leaving the safety of her room.
She closed the door behind her gingerly and held back from the other two,
walking in their wake as she had always done with Emmeline. This suited Lavinia
well enough but Rose hung back slightly, not wishing the girl to walk alone. In
such a fashion they made their way along the corridor and across the landing to
the top of the grand staircase leading down to the hall below.

All at
once, Jemima seemed to come alive and dashed to a window, in the process almost
upsetting a houseplant that was perched rather precariously in front of it on top
of an Edwardian, mahogany plant stand.

‘Whatever
are you doing, Jemima?’ asked Lavinia haughtily, her voice rather cold.

‘I’m
sorry,’ Jemima said apologetically, making sure that the plant pot was securely
positioned on its base. ‘I was just wondering whether one could see the maze
from here. It’s silly I know, because even if one can, it’ll only be the
outside hedges, not the inside. But I can’t bear to think of poor Emmie’s body
lying there all alone in the cold. I didn’t even go over to see her, to say
goodbye. I suppose it was the shock. I was afraid to go too close … afraid of
what I might see. But I should have made myself, shouldn’t I? I should have
gone to her, I should – ’

‘Well, I
should consider yourself lucky, if I were you,’ interrupted Lavinia, both
sounding and looking far from compassionate. ‘
I
saw Emmeline’s body and
it was frightfully awful, I can tell you. I saw all the blood and where – ’

‘We’d
better go down,’ Rose said quickly, noticing that Jemima had gone an unhealthy
shade of greenish-white. ‘The others will be wondering where we are.’ She
glared at Lavinia, who merely raised her eyebrows, made a face, and did not
look the least bit repentant.

Silently
they made their way downstairs, this time Rose bringing up the rear. She would
have followed the two other women into the drawing room had her attention not
been caught by the opening of the study door and hearing Cedric’s voice from
within. Her instinct was to go to him, but it was obvious that he had company
and was in the middle of a conversation, odd words of which she could just make
out. She looked at her wristwatch and was surprised by how long she had spent
talking to Lavinia in her room. Unless she was mistaken, the men from Scotland
Yard had arrived.

Rose
decided to make her excuses and loiter in the hall. She realised then how very
much she wanted the men to be Inspector Deacon and Sergeant Lane. If it were
them, then everything would be all right. She had every faith in the inspector’s
police methods and skill at arriving at the truth. And he had considered her an
ally rather than a hindrance, keen to obtain her views. Rose blushed, even
though there was no one there to see her. The thoughts that she had had before
came flooding back. There had been some unpleasantness when Inspector Deacon had
realised that she had withheld some information from him and suggested an alibi
to a suspect. Of course, she knew she had done it all with the best of
intentions. But she could see how he might have been annoyed at the time. And
now he would think she had done it again. Worse than that, he would think badly
of Cedric. They would both go down in his estimations.

The door
of the study opened further and a man came out.

‘Sergeant
Lane,’ Rose said with relief, stepping forward. ‘Oh I am so glad it’s you and Inspector
Deacon that they’ve sent. It would be too awful if it was anybody else.’

‘Miss
Simpson.’ Sergeant Lane looked equally pleased to see her. ‘I wondered whether
you’d be here as soon as I heard that the murder had occurred in the grounds of
his lordship’s estate. I said to myself, so I did, I wonder if Miss Simpson
will be there to give us a hand.’

‘Well,
I’d be very pleased to. Where is Inspector Deacon? Is he in there?’ She
indicated the study with a wave of her hand. ‘With Lord Belvedere?’

‘No, miss.’
Sergeant Lane looked distinctly uncomfortable.

‘What’s
the matter?’ cried Rose, becoming worried. ‘Where is Inspector Deacon? Why
isn’t he here with you? Who’s in the study with Cedric?’

‘That
would be Inspector Bramwell, miss. It’s him that’s been sent down with me.’

‘Not Inspector
Deacon?’ Rose felt fear rising inside her.

She knew instinctively
something was wrong. A part of her did not want to know why Inspector Deacon
was absent. But another part of her wanted to know very much. Even before she asked
her question, she dreaded the answer.

‘Where is
Inspector Deacon, Sergeant? Why isn’t he here with you?’

‘I’m
afraid he was shot, miss.’

Sergeant
Lane’s words hung in the air, and it was a moment or two before Rose could
comprehend what he was saying. And if it hadn’t been for the sergeant’s quick
thinking in grabbing a chair and placing her very gently in it, then she
thought later that she would surely have slumped to the ground as Vera had
fallen, on being told of Emmeline’s death.

‘Miss
Simpson, Miss Simpson, are you all right?’

Out of
the corner of her eye Rose could see Sergeant Lane’s face peering over her full
of concern. His voice sounded anxious. She thought she should say something to
allay his fears, but she could not think of what to say; words seemed
inadequate.

‘I’m
awfully sorry, miss, I daresay I should have softened it a bit. It’ll be the
shock, miss, on top of the murder that happened here. I wasn’t thinking
straight. Of course you’d be upset, knowing him as you did – ’

‘Was he
hurt?’ Rose said at last. ‘When he was shot, was he hurt?’

She saw
the pain and confusion on the sergeant’s face. How ridiculous her question sounded
even to her own ears. Of course he was hurt; he was worse than that. He was
dead, lying on some slab in a mortuary somewhere, or perhaps he was already
buried in the ground, the funeral long over and done with and all the time she
had never known.

‘Yes,
miss, he was hurt bad,’ said the sergeant. ‘He was shot twice. We were
investigating a burglary and … well, I won’t go into all the details. But he
was lucky too. One of the bullets went awfully near one of the main arteries so
the doctor said. If it had gone any nearer that would have been it for him. The
second bullet – ’

‘What … What
are you saying?’ cried Rose as the significance of his words finally sank in.
‘Are you saying he’s alive? He’s not dead? Is that what you are saying?’

‘You
thought … Oh, miss, I’ve made a right mess of this, haven’t I just?’ exclaimed Sergeant
Lane, chuckling in spite of everything. ‘Lord, miss, no. Inspector Deacon’s not
dead. Like I said, he was badly hurt but he’s recuperating and should be as
good as new, except for his leg, that is. It’s likely that he’ll walk with a bit
of a limp and he might need a stick, but there’s plenty of poor blighters you
see worse off than him.’

As if as
one, their minds drifted off to the casualties of the Great War, of which
Rose’s father had been one. The men who had returned with troubled minds or with
missing limbs, who were still common enough sights to remind those who had
survived of the great sacrifices made by a generation of men.

‘You’re
right, Sergeant,’ Rose said quickly, getting up from her chair. ‘I didn’t quite
understand what you were saying, and on top of the murder, well … I’m afraid I
found it just too much. But I am quite all right now. And I’m jolly glad
Inspector Deacon will be all right.’

It
occurred to Rose that she had made rather a spectacle of herself. She was
grateful that the sergeant had been the only person there to witness it.  Thankfully
none of the footmen were present so it would not form a part of servant gossip,
and Cedric and Inspector Bramwell were still in the study in discussion.

‘Do you
see anything of Inspector Deacon while he’s recuperating?’ Rose asked. ‘If you
do, I’d be grateful if you would pass on my best wishes. And Lord Belvedere’s
as well, of course. Cedric will be as upset as I am to hear about him being
wounded.’

‘Yes,
miss, I see a bit of him. He likes to keep his hand in, so to speak, you know,
hear all about the cases that we’re investigating. My guess is that he gets a
bit bored like, stuck there all alone in his lodgings with just his landlady
for company. But hopefully it won’t be too long before he’s back at the Yard.
The place is not the same without him there, so it isn’t.’

‘We, that
is, Cedric and I, were rather hoping you’d both be investigating this murder.
What is Inspector Bramwell like? Is he any good?’

‘He’s got
a fearsome reputation at the Yard, miss,’ replied Sergeant Lane. ‘You don’t get
to where he is without being good at your job. But he’s a lot different from Inspector
Deacon in his manner and how he tackles an investigation so I’ve heard,
although I’ve not had the pleasure of working with him before. He’ll not take
any nonsense and, between you and me, he can be somewhat abrupt, but he gets
the job done.’ 

‘Goodness,’
said Rose, ‘he sounds rather frightening. But I’m awfully glad you’re here.’

‘Oh, he’s
that, miss,’ agreed the sergeant, a twinkle in his eye. ‘I think I’d better
warn you that he’s none too fond of amateur sleuths, so if you have a mind to
investigate this murder yourself you’d do best not to say so to him.’       

‘Well, my
lord, this is a rum go and no mistake,’ said Inspector Bramwell, sitting
himself down heavily in the seat offered him.

He was
quite a bulk of a man and it occurred to Cedric that it might have been wise to
have offered him a sturdier chair in which to take the weight off his feet. The
young earl was doing his best not to show the disappointment he felt on finding
that Inspector Deacon would not be investigating Emmeline’s death.
Unfortunately he had taken an instant and probably wholly unreasonable dislike
to the fellow sitting in front of him.

‘I feel
pretty shaken up about it, I don’t mind telling you,’ Cedric concurred. ‘No
doubt Sergeant Lane has already told you that Miss Simpson and I have had some
experience of this sort of thing. But it’s somewhat different when it occurs in
one’s own home. I still can’t quite believe it’s happened, and the maze of all
places, I – ’

‘Now
then, my lord, I’m sure it’s awful for you and all, but there’s no use crying
over spilt milk or pretending like it’s not happened, because it has.’

‘Oh,’
said Cedric, somewhat taken about by the man’s rudeness. ‘I was just saying that
– ’

‘I’m sure
you were. But we’ve got a murder to investigate and there’s no time to waste.
We need to get down to business, so to speak.’

The
inspector paused to give Cedric a particularly penetrating stare. It gave
Cedric the opportunity to look at the man more closely. As he described him to
Rose later, Inspector Bramwell was of middle age and of heavy build, and had
small, watery grey eyes and a double chin.  His suit and shirt, although both of
reasonable quality, looked a couple of sizes too small for him so that the
buttons on his shirt threatened to come undone, and his stomach bulged over the
waistband of his trousers in a way that was not at all becoming. To make
matters worse, he persisted in continually mopping his brow with his
handkerchief during their conversation, although the study was far from warm,
the fire having not long been lit. The variance in manner and appearance
between Inspector Bramwell and Inspector Deacon could not be greater and Cedric
found it disquieting. He felt his heart sinking.

‘I
understand there was some delay in notifying us of the death,’ the inspector
said at last, ‘but we’ll come to that later.’

Cedric
felt himself go red and turned his attention to studying an invisible fleck of
material that he had just noticed on his trouser leg. He spent a moment or two
engaged in flicking it away, wondering how the inspector would take the news
that in addition to his tardiness in notifying the police of the murder, some
of the evidence had also been tampered with, and he again was the culprit. It
was a moment or two before he looked up and met the inspector’s gaze.   

‘I
daresay I’ll go about this investigation slightly differently to what you’ve been
used to. Inspector Deacon and I do things differently, I’d imagine.  No doubt
he was mindful that the murders he was investigating were at the homes of the
gentry and so liked to tread careful like, so as not to ruffle any feathers.’
The inspector snorted and leaned forward in his chair. ‘I work differently, my
lord. I have no qualms about ruffling feathers. In fact, I rather enjoy it. And
it makes no difference to me whether a murder’s occurred in a slum or an
ancestral home, or whether the victim is a lady of the streets or a member of
the British aristocracy. Me, I treat them just the same. That’s not to say that
I don’t care, because I do. They all matter to me and I’ll do all that I can to
see that those responsible are brought to justice.’ He sat back heavily in his
chair. ‘I do hope I have made myself clear, my lord?’

‘Perfectly,
Inspector,’ replied Cedric, quite at a loss as to what to make of the man.     

‘Right,
now that we have got that out of the way, I’ll ask you about who’s staying here
at Sedgwick. Friends and family, I gather, a proper little country house-party,
am I right, eh?’

Cedric
noticed that the inspector had an irritating habit of jabbing the air with his
finger when putting a question. He decided there and then that he disliked the
man very much.

‘The
people staying at Sedgwick this weekend, Inspector, are myself and my sister,
Lady Lavinia Sedgwick. Miss Simpson, who is a friend of us both is here too, as
are Dr Harrison and his fiancée, Miss Brewster, who are guests, and finally a
number of acquaintances of my sister. Friends made during her recent travels on
the Continent. I’m afraid I know very little about them, except that the woman
who was murdered was Emmeline Montacute, of whom you probably know more about than
I do myself.’

‘Is that
so?’ said Inspector Bramwell. ‘Well, suppose you tell me what you do know about
your sister’s new friends. Let’s start with their names.’

‘Very
well,’ said Cedric rather coldly.

He
considered that it was a significant disadvantage for a man in the inspector’s position
to have such an unfortunate manner about him. His inclination was to be as
unhelpful as possible, but instead he took a deep breath and decided to address
himself to a space just above the inspector’s shoulder so that he was not
obliged to look the man in the eye.    

‘Well,
first I suppose there is Miss Jemima Wentmore. She was a sort of
friend-cum-companion to Miss Montacute, I think; her exact position was never
made very clear. Then there is Felix Thistlewaite. I’m afraid that I don’t know
much about him except that he has a rich old aunt who was paying for him to go
on a sort of European tour before he settled down to work as an articled clerk
at some London legal establishment. Poor devil, his last few days of living the
life of a man of leisure have been completely ruined for him.’

‘Well,
I’d say he was jolly fortunate to have gone on his European tour. Not all of us
have a rich old aunt to treat us,’ said the inspector. He looked at a place a
little distance behind Cedric. ‘Are you getting all this down, Lane?’

Cedric
assumed that the sergeant must have nodded, for he did not hear him reply. He
had forgotten that Sergeant Lane was there and imagined that was the inspector’s
intention. Suspects and witnesses were far more willing to speak freely if they
were not constantly reminded that every word they uttered was being written
down. He wished he could catch Sergeant Lane’s eye for he considered Inspector
Bramwell was unlikely to be the sergeant’s cup of tea.     

‘Anyone
else?’ enquired the inspector, turning back to scrutinise Cedric, ‘or is that
the lot?’

‘There’s
just Count Fernand,’ began Cedric.

‘Count
Fernand?’ said the Inspector snorting. ‘Isn’t he a character out of Dumas’s
The
Count of Montecristo
?’

‘Very
likely, Inspector,’ agreed Cedric. ‘Fernand
Mondego, if I am not mistaken, was
Count de Morcerf.’

‘Well,
and who’s this fellow of yours, my lord, when he’s at home?’

‘I wish I
knew. He’s a count from a far off land, that’s all I know about him. He’s a
dashed evasive fellow when it comes to providing details about himself. Damned
if I know which country he hails from.  When I enquired, when we were first
introduced, why, blow me if the chap didn’t mumble. I didn’t feel I could ask him
again. Awfully bad form you know, Inspector, to show one’s not been listening
to one’s guest, what. But he gets on well with the ladies.’  

Cedric
noticed that the inspector was studying him closely. He wondered whether he had
overdone things a bit and blushed. It occurred to him that the inspector might
not be so much of a fool as he first appeared.

‘So if I
understand you rightly, my lord, you have certain reservations about Count
Fernand?’ Inspector Bramwell did not wait for Cedric to answer but turned
instead to address the sergeant. ‘Take a note of that if you will, Lane. Our
Count Fernand requires some further scrutiny.’    

There
were a few moments of silence as the Earl of Belvedere and the inspector from
Scotland Yard regarded each other. Cedric braced himself to face the verbal
onslaught which was surely inevitable. Inspector Bramwell would require him to
explain why he had deliberately meddled with the evidence and delayed
telephoning for the police. And how he would answer, he was not quite sure. He
had a story to hand that he had gone over and over in his mind but, now that he
had come face to face with the inspector, he felt it wouldn’t do. Inspector
Bramwell was unlikely to swallow it. More than that, he realised, while Inspector
Deacon would have been annoyed, he would have let it go with a reprimand. Inspector
Bramwell was a completely different kettle of fish. He doubted very much whether
he would be so obliging.  

‘Thank
you, my lord. That will be all for the present time.’ The inspector seemed to
stifle a yawn. ‘You may go back to the drawing room and join the others. We
shall of course want to speak to you later. There’ll be one or two questions
that we shall want to put to you.’ He turned his head to look at the policeman.
‘Sergeant, I’d like you to talk to the servants now, hear what they’ve got to
say for themselves.’