‘Obviously you yourself, and the men under you, are alert and doing an excellent job,’ I said. ‘But what if a member of the staff at the house were to see anything suspicious, would he or she go straight to the colonel?’
‘More likely to Mr Seymour, the butler, sir. Then Mr Seymour would take it to the colonel if he thought the matter serious.’
‘Then perhaps, before I leave, I should speak to Mr Seymour,’ I suggested.
So that was how I found myself very shortly thereafter seated comfortably in the housekeeper’s private parlour, with its flowered wallpaper and glowing fire in the grate, tea at hand, and the elusive Seymour, at last run to ground, seated opposite me.
Seymour was a small, neat man, with black hair brushed straight back from a pale forehead. His black clothing was formal to the extreme and he reminded me very much of a small black and white cat. He was watching me with a cat’s wary gaze. I suspected he sensed already I was here about more than the blackmail threats to the colonel.
‘I will be frank, Mr Seymour,’ I said, setting down my cup. ‘I have a second purpose in being here.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ he said blandly.
‘You may even have been expecting a visit from the police, perhaps? I’m not suggesting you are, or have been, involved in anything criminal, please don’t think that. But recent events, of which you can’t be unaware, may have led you to wonder if we would want to speak to you. I am not referring to the blackmail letters received by the colonel. I lead the team investigating a recent murder in London.’
‘I thought as much, sir,’ answered Seymour in a bland butler’s manner. I might have been referring to some unexpectedly inferior wine delivered by the colonel’s regular supplier. He inclined his head. ‘I was surprised when Smithers said Scotland Yard had sent an inspector. I had not expected anyone of that rank to come about the matter of letters the colonel has received. It followed that some other, particularly grave, matter had brought you.’
The butler was not a fool and considerably more a man of the world than the groom. Good.
‘Then we may cut to the chase,’ I said briskly. ‘In your previous place, I understand you worked for some time for Mr Sebastian Benedict, of The Cedars, near to Egham, in Surrey.’
Seymour inclined his head and showed neither surprise nor curiosity at my words. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘For how long were you with Mr Benedict?’
‘For nearly ten years, sir.’
‘It was a good place?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Benedict was an excellent employer.’
‘And Mrs Benedict, the lady of the house? How would you describe her?’ I waited for his answer with some eagerness. This was the whole reason for my being here. I did not want to return to Superintendent Dunn and confess I had drawn a blank.
‘As deceased, sir,’ replied Seymour with an unexpected dry humour. ‘I read of the event you referred to in the newspapers and was very distressed. She was a very pleasant lady.’
‘It is the death of that lady we are investigating, as you may have guessed,’ I continued. ‘We had hoped that her companion, a Miss Isabella Marchwood, might be able to give us much useful background information. But unfortunately, before she could do so, Miss Marchwood was herself murdered, on a train. You read of that too, perhaps?’
Seymour nodded and his watchful look returned.
‘We are therefore casting our net wider in a search for such information. As butler in the household for such a long time, you would have been aware of most things going on, I imagine.’
‘It is my business to know what the staff are doing,’ Seymour answered carefully. ‘It is not my business to enquire into my employer’s private life.’
‘Come now, Seymour,’ I urged. ‘We are trying to find a double murderer here. How many more women do you want to see slaughtered in this dreadful way?’
Seymour flushed and his stiff manner became slightly agitated. ‘None, Inspector! For goodness’ sake, what do you imagine? I had the greatest admiration for Miss Marchwood. She was a woman of the most respectable background reduced to seeking positions as a companion by her straitened circumstances. She gave offence to no one and I can’t imagine why she was killed on that train. There is no possibility, I suppose, that it was a case of mistaken identity? The killer thought she was someone else? Or perhaps a robbery that got out of hand?’
There was definitely a note of desperation in his voice now. Aha! I thought. Mr Mortimer Seymour does know something. It is something he would much rather not have to tell me. But he does have to tell me and I think, when he realises it, he will.
‘There is no possibility. This was a deliberate murder of a specific victim. The lady’s purse was found in the carriage, still containing money. There are other details we need not go into now.’
Seymour sighed.
‘You spoke to me of your job and its duties just now,’ I began. ‘I have a job and duties, too. They are different from yours but place equal obligations on me. I often have to do things I’d rather not do, and ask questions I am embarrassed to put. I am determined to find this killer. I need all the help I can get. But perhaps I can help you a little. I realise that there was a difference in age between Mr Benedict and his wife, that she was not English and quite possibly not entirely happy in her marriage. Would you agree with that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Seymour after a few seconds’ pause.
‘You left the employment of Mr Benedict very suddenly. Mr Benedict was upset about it. He has not employed anyone to replace you.’
Seymour now began to look distressed. ‘Has he not? I am sorry to hear it. I would not have left Mr Benedict in the lurch like that, if I could have stayed. But it had become impossible for me.’
‘Because, like me, you had learned things you had rather not known?’ I asked gently.
He sighed and nodded. ‘I told you, Inspector, that it was not my place to enquire into Mr Benedict’s private life. But, given my position in the household, it was difficult not to become aware of certain things.’ He hesitated, seeking his way forward, and I did not press him. He had decided to talk now and he would.
‘The household staff here report to me,’ he said. ‘You were asking earlier, as I understand, whether anyone who had seen anything suspicious around the stables or the house would have reported it to the colonel; and Smithers told you it would be reported to me in the first instance.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And I’d be grateful if you continued with the pretence that I am here solely about the blackmail threats to the colonel.’
‘It would suit me, too,’ Seymour said frankly. ‘Murder upsets people. I have told no one on the staff here that I was butler at The Cedars. The colonel knows where I was previously employed, because Mr Benedict was good enough to give me a reference. But the colonel’s attention is entirely taken up with the blackmail attempt at the moment and I doubt it has yet occurred to him to match the name of the victim to that of my former employer.’
‘Then we have a pact.’ I smiled at him encouragingly.
Seymour almost smiled back. ‘Thank you, sir. You mentioned Miss Marchwood. She was a religious lady. She somehow or other became involved in some temperance meetings in London. She travelled up to them each Sunday and got to know a Mrs Scott. The – the preacher at these meetings is a Joshua Fawcett. Mr Fawcett often spoke at private gatherings at Mrs Scott’s house. It is in Clapham, I understand. To my knowledge, Mrs Benedict never went to the meetings in central London on a Sunday. But she did go several times with Miss Marchwood to the private gatherings at Clapham. They were by way of an outing for her. She had no interest, I imagine, in the temperance movement. But you are right: she was lonely and unhappy. All of us, all the staff, could see it.’
He sighed. ‘Mrs Benedict was impressed by this fellow, Fawcett. I never met him but I understand he makes a very striking figure. Miss Marchwood was also impressed and let us know about it. She – Isabella Marchwood – was normally a very level-headed woman, Inspector. If
she
lost her sense of judgement regarding this Fawcett, then it is not surprising that Mrs Benedict did the same. Mrs Benedict came to this country as a very young bride. She was inexperienced in the world and – I will be frank – Mr Benedict kept her somewhat cloistered away at The Cedars. I firmly believe his intentions were the best possible. He wanted to protect her from the dangers of society. But by so doing, he left her unprotected against someone like Fawcett; do you understand me, Inspector?’
‘I understand you perfectly, Mr Seymour,’ I assured him. I had put Benedict’s jealous guardianship of his beautiful young wife down to possessiveness. Seymour put a kinder interpretation on it. Either way, it had left Allegra vulnerable.
Seymour raised a hand in a gesture of resignation and then let it fall again. ‘You are a man of the world, Inspector. You can guess what came about. A sordid entanglement. I don’t doubt Mrs Benedict imagined it a great love affair. The poor lady was entirely carried away. She had no thought for the future, where it would lead. Where it
could
lead! And indeed, there was nowhere it could lead but to disaster; but she rushed on headlong.’
A sudden vivid and painful image leapt into my mind: The Triumph of Death, that gruesome masterpiece shown to me by Sebastian Benedict. Like the young men in the painting, Allegra fled from the inevitable towards the false shelter of Fawcett’s arms.
‘If I blame Isabella Marchwood for anything, it is that she did not realise the danger in it either,’ Seymour was saying sadly. ‘We all saw the difference in Mrs Benedict. She was happy, sir. Really happy, and excited, like a child. There were letters . . . Miss Marchwood sometimes carried them, I believe, or posted hers for him for Mrs Benedict. And there were replies from him, which were definitely not posted because they could so easily have fallen into the hands of Mr Benedict. Those Miss Marchwood must have brought by hand. I cannot understand her complicity. She was such an upright woman!’ Seymour flapped his hands again in distress.
‘Such people are often the first to fall under the spell of a man like Joshua Fawcett,’ I told him. ‘They are themselves good and see only goodness in others. But these letters, between Fawcett and Mrs Benedict, you saw them?’
‘Mrs Benedict’s maid Henderson did, Inspector. She twice came upon Mrs Benedict reading them and once found her mistress kneeling before the grate in her bedroom, burning them. Then there was . . .’ Now Seymour reddened and pressed his lips tightly together.
‘Go on,’ I said gently.
‘Mr Benedict will learn of this, I suppose?’ he said, gazing at me hopelessly.
‘I believe he already guesses. It may be he will not learn the details you are telling me. I can’t promise it.’
‘It is a wretched business!’ Seymour burst out. ‘Can you understand now why I left the house so suddenly, why I couldn’t remain once I had been informed?’
‘By Henderson, the maid?’
‘Yes, as I explained, she came to me, as head of the staff, to ask my advice. She did not know what to do. She was worried, frightened . . . Most of the household linen went out to a washerwoman in Egham. But Henderson washed some of Mrs Benedict’s more personal and delicate items. That included her . . . underlinen.’
Seymour was now so miserable that I had to encourage him. ‘I do understand what you are about to tell me, and how difficult it is for you. But, you understand, as the investigator gathering evidence, I have to hear you say it. My guess at what you mean is not enough.’
‘No, Inspector, I do understand that. I am making a statement, am I not? Well, Henderson was distressed at finding – stains – on her mistress’s undergarments, after she had returned from some shopping visits to London. Or so-called shopping visits,’ Seymour added bitterly. ‘Don’t think, Inspector, that I simply packed my bags and ran from the situation without trying to attempt some late remedy. I spoke seriously to Miss Marchwood, pleaded with her! But it was no good. By then she was in too deep, to put it frankly. Mrs Benedict fancied herself in love. She wouldn’t give up Fawcett and Miss Marchwood could do nothing but stand by and let things run on to the wretched end. She was afraid; by then of course she was. She had begun to realise far too late . . . But she
would
do nothing and I
could
do nothing. With much regret, I handed in my notice.’
Seymour fell silent and after a moment, took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘You did all you could, Mr Seymour,’ I soothed the wretched man. His situation had been impossible.
‘I could not speak to Mr Benedict. How could I? It would have been the end of my employment there whether I had been believed or not.’ Seymour waved the handkerchief around helplessly.
‘Mr Seymour!’ I urged. ‘I can only repeat, you did all you could reasonably do.You couldn’t speak directly to either Mr or Mrs Benedict and Miss Marchwood was your only hope. She failed you.’
Seymour tucked away the handkerchief and some of his former stiff manner had returned.
‘She failed Mrs Benedict!’ he said tersely.
How deep Isabella Marchwood’s complicity had run. Not just surreptitious meetings in the parks. Not only girlish love letters. No wonder the companion had been unable to confess it all to the police, or that Seymour’s pleas had come too late. Benedict’s wrath would have known no limits. Isabella’s own reputation would have been in shreds. No one would ever have employed her again. Not only Allegra had rushed on to her doom. The wretched companion had been tugged along in her wake.
