The Murder at Sissingham Hall (13 page)

‘I hope you’re not going to be ill,’ said Joan, with concern.

‘No, no, I’m not ill but I should like to sleep. Don’t worry about me, darlings,’ she said, addressing the sympathetic faces that were turned towards her. ‘The doctor has given me something to make me sleep. A night’s rest and I shall be ready to face whatever lies ahead tomorrow.’

She lifted her chin up in determined fashion and left the room. I felt rather tired myself after the happenings of the day and soon afterwards headed off to bed myself.

That night, however, sleep eluded me. The events of the day whirled round and round in my head and kept me wide awake. It seemed incredible that so many extraordinary things could have happened in less than twenty-four hours. That my host had been found dead in his study was bad enough but that he was suspected of having been murdered and the police called in was still worse! Thoughts rushed headlong through my mind in chaotic fashion and made sleep impossible.

At last, in desperation, I got up, with some intention of fetching a book from the library to while away the small hours. Leaving my room, I made my way down the stairs with the help of the dim light that was left burning all night in the hall. At the bottom of the stairs I hesitated for a moment.

‘Good evening, sir, may I help you?’ came a voice to my right. I jumped guiltily and turned to look into the placid face of the police constable who had prevented me from entering the study passage earlier in the evening.

‘Ah, good evening,’ I said. ‘I was just going to look for a book in the library. I couldn’t sleep, you see. It’s been rather an odd day,’ I concluded somewhat feebly.

‘Very understandable,’ said the constable. ‘I always find that a cup of hot milk does the trick, myself.’

‘Ah—is that so?’ I replied. ‘But I think I shall try the book first.’

‘Each to his own, sir,’ said the policeman comfortably.

Feeling rather foolish, I went into the library, picked up a book without much regard to its contents and hurried back upstairs, bidding the man goodnight as I passed. After trying to concentrate on the book for a few minutes, however, I soon found my eyes feeling heavy—whether because of the book itself or my foray downstairs, and after persevering unsuccessfully for a few more minutes I thankfully turned off the lamp and fell asleep.

TEN

The next day I rose early and went outside for a stroll, eager, I must confess, to see what the police were up to. Jameson and his men had already arrived and were busying themselves about the terrace and the flower beds and lawns close to the house. I struck out towards the ha-ha, from where I could see what was happening without getting in the way and without seeming too curious. I soon found that someone else had had the same idea.

‘Ha! Good morning,’ said Hugh MacMurray. ‘I see you’re keeping an eye on these police chappies, like me. It’s just like a detective novel, what?’

‘Nothing could have been further from my thoughts,’ I replied stiffly. ‘I was merely taking a walk to clear my head before breakfast.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s a good story,’ he said jovially. ‘I say, what do you think they will find?’

He seemed unduly cheerful for a man whose closest relative had just died but then I remembered that he was due to inherit a substantial sum of money and gave him a look of disdain. He appeared not to notice it but prattled on about the lurid penny dreadfuls that evidently made the bulk of his reading. I was relieved when we were joined by Joan, who was giving the dogs their morning walk.

‘I wish the police would finish their work and tell us what is happening,’ she said. ‘I feel somehow as though we are all being closely observed, like—like specimens in a glass jar or something.’

‘Yes, I feel a little the same myself,’ I agreed.

‘One thing I do know,’ she said. ‘The police have been asking the servants about the whisky decanter. It must be an important clue.’

‘How can they prove anything from that?’ asked MacMurray.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps they have found some finger-prints on it, which will lead them to the criminal.’

‘Oh yes,’ said MacMurray eagerly. ‘They can do wonderful things with brushes and powders these days, so I understand. The decanter might look perfectly clean to you or me but just watch when the police get their kit out—a dollop of the old powder and bingo! A whole set of clear finger-prints that were invisible before. The murderer doesn’t stand a chance.’

‘I hope you are right,’ I said.

A police constable moved slowly towards us, scanning the ground closely as he went.

‘I say!’ said MacMurray, as he approached. The man looked up.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.

‘Anything at all we can do in the investigating line? I mean to say, we could look for footprints or something if it would help. I’ve always wanted to do a spot of detecting and—well, anything to help old Neville, of course.’

The policeman smiled indulgently.

‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ he replied. ‘The police have everything in hand. I dare say the inspector will ask to speak to you later.’

He nodded and moved off.

‘That’s a shame!’ said MacMurray. ‘Still, I think I shall stroll over to the terrace and try to find out what they are doing.’ He was as good as his word. I was not especially keen to be associated with the fellow, so I headed back into the house in search of breakfast and dampened my curiosity as best I could by immersing myself in a book until lunch-time.

Shortly after that meal, we were told that Inspector Jameson had requested our presence in the drawing-room at half-past two, as he had something to say to us. Mr. Pomfrey had returned that morning, in his capacity as family solicitor and we found him seated in a comfortable chair, looking rather like a benevolent brownie.

‘First of all, I should like to thank you for your forbearance so far,’ began the inspector. ‘This has been a terrible and tragic event and it can’t have been made any easier by having the police nosing around. But I shan’t keep you in suspense any longer. I’m afraid that our preliminary inquiries show that Sir Neville was indeed murdered.’

Gwen MacMurray gasped. I glanced across at Rosamund, who looked pale but unsurprised. Evidently Inspector Jameson had informed her of the fact earlier.

‘How do you know?’ asked Bobs.

‘There are a number of clues,’ said the inspector. ‘I can’t reveal them all but the most important one is that we have found what we believe to be the murder weapon.’

A shiver ran through the room.

‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘It was a primitive wooden carving of a woman, which stood upon a shelf in the study. Perhaps you have seen it. It had been wiped clean but a tiny knot in the wood had one or two hairs caught in it and there were also unmistakable traces of Sir Neville’s hair oil, as well as—other traces.’

I remembered staring at the very same statue the previous afternoon. It had not occurred to me for a moment that I was looking at a weapon that had been used to kill a man.

‘Then he didn’t hit his head on the mantelpiece at all,’ said Sylvia.

‘Certainly not,’ said Jameson. ‘We believe he was hit from behind as he sat at his desk and then arranged by the fireplace. Some marks were found on the carpet which indicate that something large and heavy was dragged across the room from the desk.’

The carpet was a patterned one, I remembered, which would explain why we had not spotted the marks ourselves.

‘Why have you been asking the servants about the whisky decanter?’ asked Joan. ‘What’s so important about it?’

‘As I understand some of you discovered yesterday,’ said the inspector, ‘a quantity of whisky seems to have been spilt on the carpet—possibly to create a strong scent of alcohol in the study and make it appear as though Sir Neville had fallen after having drunk too much of it.’

‘Might Sir Neville have spilt the stuff himself accidentally?’ I asked.

The inspector turned towards me.

‘We considered that possibility,’ he replied. ‘However, after testing the decanter for finger-prints, we were forced to abandon that theory.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

The inspector smiled.

‘Because there were no finger-prints at all on the decanter. It had been wiped clean, as had the whisky glass.’

There was a pause as the information sank in. I looked across at Rosamund, who was white-faced and breathing rapidly. Poor Rosamund, I thought, having to listen to these sordid details. I caught her eye and she smiled wanly at me.

Angela Marchmont spoke.

‘What about the French windows?’ she asked. ‘I’m afraid I put my grimy hands all over them yesterday but were there any other finger-prints?’

‘The evidence on the outside handle is inconclusive,’ said Jameson, ‘but on the inside one there appears to be only one set—presumably yours, Mrs. Marchmont. I should like to take an impression of your finger-prints, to compare with those on the inside handle, if you would permit me.’

I had opened the doors myself from the terrace the day before. But who had closed them again? It must have been Angela, I supposed.

‘Yes of course,’ said Angela. ‘We shall do that whenever you like. And I suppose it would be helpful to you to take everybody else’s, too. But about the French windows: if only my finger-prints are on the inside, then doesn’t that mean that someone wiped the handle clean before leaving, just as they did with the decanter?’

‘It would seem so,’ replied the inspector.

‘I must say, it’s a damned odd, clumsy way of going about things,’ said Bobs, frowning. ‘If the murderer meant to make it seem like an accident, he didn’t do it very well.’

Jameson nodded.

‘Yes. It very much looks as though he were in a hurry. And that brings us to the time of the deed. I have asked you all to gather here because I believe you can help me narrow down the time at which the crime was committed.’ He looked at his notebook. ‘Dr. Carter says that when he examined Sir Neville, he had been dead for at least eight hours and probably longer. That puts the time of death at no later than half-past one or so. However, we don’t yet know when Sir Neville was last seen alive.’

‘I saw him last shortly after dinner,’ said Bobs. ‘He came to the drawing-room but left soon afterwards. In fact, as far as I know, he went to his study then and never came out again.’

Several people nodded in agreement.

‘At what time was this?’ asked the inspector.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea, I’m afraid,’ replied Bobs cheerfully.

‘It was shortly after nine o’clock,’ said Simon Gale. I was startled to find him sitting close to me, as I had not even realized he was in the room.

‘Are you certain of that?’ asked Jameson. Gale nodded.

‘I am in the habit of noticing such things,’ he said.

Jameson looked at his notes again.

‘Mr. Gale’s account agrees with that of Rogers, the butler, who says he saw Sir Neville entering the study at about that time.’

‘He was alive at least an hour later than that,’ I said suddenly. The inspector looked up.

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course! Don’t you remember, Rosamund? You wanted him to come and play Consequences. We went along to the study and knocked but he wouldn’t come out.’

‘Oh!’ said Rosamund, sitting up straight. ‘Yes, of course. I’d quite forgotten.’

‘Tell me exactly what happened, please,’ said Jameson.

I explained about the game of Consequences and how Sir Neville had refused to take part.

‘What did he say, exactly?’

‘I can’t remember his exact words,’ said Rosamund, ‘but it was something like “No, do carry on, I must finish these papers this evening”. Something like that. He didn’t say anything important. At any rate, one can’t hold a sensible conversation through a locked door, so we gave it up and returned to the drawing-room.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Rosamund. ‘I never know the time. Charles will remember. Or Hugh. You were there, too, don’t you remember, Hugh? We met you coming in from the terrace.’

‘I think it was at about a quarter to eleven,’ I said.

‘And none of you spoke to him after that? Very well, in that case, I think we can say with some certainty that Sir Neville died after a quarter to eleven and before half-past one. Now, I understand that the house was locked up at eleven o’clock, with the exception of the French windows. It therefore seems reasonable to assume that the assailant—or assailants—entered the house that way, especially since Rogers swears that the house keys remained in his coat pocket all the time. We therefore need to discover who it was who opened the French windows to enable the murderer to enter.’

‘We thought it might have been Sir Neville himself,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he was expecting someone for reasons unknown and wanted to ensure that that someone would not be seen when he arrived.’

‘But who could it have been?’ said Joan. ‘Inspector, the theory has been put forward that it was a revenge attack by somebody who had encountered Neville in the magistrate’s court but that simply won’t wash. There are no people of that sort around here. And as for burglary as a motive,’ she continued, ‘why, anybody can see that nothing has been taken. No, that’s no good either.’