The Murder at Sissingham Hall (10 page)

‘Dr. Carter has finished examining Sir Neville,’ he said. ‘He is now with Lady Strickland, who has been persuaded to lie down for a few hours.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Joan.

‘He appears to agree with our view that it was a tragic accident. Sir Neville was found lying next to the fireplace and it looks rather as though he lost his balance and fell backwards, hitting the back of his head on the edge of the mantelpiece as he did so. It may be of some comfort to you to know that death would have been almost instantaneous.’

‘Where is poor Neville? Surely you haven’t left him in the study?’

‘Sir Neville has been carried to his room for now, until he can be—er—removed.’

‘Where are the dogs?’ said Joan, suddenly. ‘Poor things. They won’t have had their walk this morning. I’ll take them out now. The fresh air will clear my head.’ She rose from the table and went out.

‘I think I shall take a walk too,’ I said.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sylvia.

We fetched our coats and went out through the side door. It was a dull day but the chill air was a welcome change from the oppressive atmosphere that prevailed in the house. We walked slowly up and down the terrace, deep in our own thoughts.

‘It doesn’t seem real, somehow,’ Sylvia said eventually.

‘No,’ I agreed.

‘How quickly one forgets about death,’ she went on, almost as though talking to herself. ‘I mean, it’s only about ten years since Ralph died. I was just a kid then, of course. It’s perfectly horrid but one picks oneself up and carries on, doesn’t one?’

‘I suppose one does,’ I replied, thinking about my own parents’ deaths.

‘I hope Rosamund will be all right. I’d like to do something but one feels so desperately helpless. There is nothing one
can
do in such a situation as this—except perhaps be as unobtrusive as possible.’

‘Yes—it must be especially difficult, having guests at a time like this. I shall offer my services of course but if they are declined I think the best thing I can do is to make as discreet and diplomatic an exit as possible.’

Just then, there was a rattle behind us and we turned to find that we were standing outside the French windows to the study.

‘Hallo,’ said Angela Marchmont, stepping out onto the terrace. ‘I was just trying the doors.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to come out through the side door?’ I inquired.

‘I dare say,’ she replied vaguely, gazing intently at the bolt. ‘Ye-es. Difficult to tell when they were last opened.’

‘Not since the summer, I imagine,’ said Sylvia.

‘But I found them unlocked and unbolted just now. That’s rather odd.’

‘Why is it odd? Perhaps Neville unlocked them yesterday and Rogers couldn’t get in to lock them again.’

‘Perhaps. Although it is a little late in the year for that.’ She bent down and peered at the ground. ‘There are several specks of dried paint here but perhaps I did that myself just now. Rather silly of me not to look around outside first.’

‘Why are you so interested in the French windows?’ Sylvia asked.

‘Oh, no particular reason,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. She stepped back inside and banged the doors shut. Sylvia and I looked at each other and with one accord pulled them open again and went after her into the study. We found her looking about her thoughtfully.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

Angela frowned.

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied slowly. ‘But something doesn’t quite add up.’

‘What do you mean?’

She hesitated.

‘I can’t quite put it into words. But I am wondering whether the doctor and Mr. Pomfrey mayn’t have been mistaken about what happened.’

‘Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?’

‘No—no, there’s no reason to suppose anything of the kind. But the story of Neville’s falling backwards and hitting his head doesn’t ring quite true to me—I’m not sure why.’

She moved over to the fireplace and examined it closely. I sniffed the air.

‘There’s a strong smell of whisky,’ I remarked.

‘Yes, there is,’ replied Angela. ‘That’s odd too. One would have expected the smell to have dissipated quickly, had he merely spilt a glass of it. But it smells as though someone had poured an entire bottle of the stuff all over the carpet.’

I looked towards the sideboard standing against the wall. There was a decanter standing on it, which was less than a quarter full.

‘That decanter was almost full two nights ago,’ I said. ‘I know, because Sir Neville himself poured me a glass of it then.’

‘Perhaps he drank it,’ suggested Sylvia.

‘That’s rather a lot of whisky to drink in two days,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Was Sir Neville—er—inclined that way?’

‘I’ve never seen him drink much myself but of course one never knows,’ said Sylvia. ‘Rogers would know, though. Perhaps we should ask him.’

Angela Marchmont was again examining the fireplace. She turned round and appeared to come to a decision.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ll show you what I mean. Perhaps you can help.’ To our astonishment, she lay down on the floor face upwards, with her head towards the fire and her feet pointing away from it.

‘Whatever are you doing?’ said Sylvia.

‘This is how Neville was lying when he was found,’ said Angela. ‘At least, this is how I saw him when I showed Dr. Carter to the study.’

‘Well?’ I said. ‘That seems clear enough. He tripped, fell backwards and hit his head.’

But Sylvia opened her eyes wide.

‘Oh, yes, of course. I think I see what you mean,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s all too pat.’

Angela got to her feet as gracefully as possible and brushed herself off.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘Look,’ said Sylvia. She went over and stood with her back to the fireplace. ‘If you fell backwards and hit your head, what would happen? Surely you would be knocked
this
way and be found in a crumpled position with your feet or, more likely your head in this case, near the fire.’ She demonstrated carefully.

‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘The only way in which you could fall perfectly flat on your back like that would be if you fell backwards as stiffly as a board and your feet slid out from under you—but this carpet isn’t slippery at all.’

‘I see what you mean now but are you sure?’ I said.

‘No, not at all,’ said Angela. ‘That’s why I asked you. I’m all for a rigorous approach to inquiry but I’m afraid I draw the line at cracking my own head on the mantelpiece just to test a theory.’

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

‘I don’t think so. The position of the sideboard would make that difficult.’

‘Maybe somebody moved him,’ I suggested.

‘That’s always possible,’ Angela conceded. ‘But according to Mr. Pomfrey, when the butler discovered the body, he immediately informed Mr. Pomfrey himself, who had the study door locked soon afterwards. I suppose the butler might have moved him but why should he?’

‘Well, that’s another question to ask him,’ I said.

‘Perhaps Neville didn’t die immediately as Mr. Pomfrey said. Perhaps he moved himself into that position,’ said Sylvia. This was not a nice thought but I was forced to acknowledge that it was a possibility. Angela looked doubtful, however.

‘There’s another thing,’ she said. ‘Look at this.’ She indicated a vase that stood close to the edge of the mantelpiece. ‘This is still standing and yet these,’ she waved her hand at the poker and shovel, which were lying scattered, ‘have been knocked over. Surely, if he really fell against the mantelpiece in the way we thought, this vase would have toppled to the floor too.’

I lifted the vase, which had left an imprint in the dust on the mantelpiece and remembered Rosamund’s complaint about the lack of good servants.

‘You’re right. This hasn’t moved at all,’ I said.

Sylvia surveyed the room thoughtfully.

‘What do you think happened, Angela?’ she asked.

‘That’s just it. I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Marchmont. ‘And to tell the truth, I’m not sure that I ought to have come in here at all, or mentioned anything to you. Perhaps, after all, it would be better if we just went away and pretended we hadn’t seen any of this.’

I found the implication disturbing but Sylvia nodded.

‘Yes, perhaps it would,’ she said.

‘But if we suspect any funny business, surely it is our duty to report our suspicions,’ I said.

Sylvia gave me a wry smile.

‘Dear Charles! As direct and honest as ever,’ she said.

Rosamund had said something very similar to me earlier and I frowned. I could not help feeling that I was being laughed at in some way.

‘I don’t see why we need mention this,’ said Angela. I must have looked uncomfortable, because she added quickly: ‘We haven’t actually proved anything, you know—all we have done is to make one or two observations and speculate fruitlessly about what may or may not have happened.’

This was true but still I was not satisfied.

‘All the same, I should be happier if we spoke to the solicitor or somebody about it,’ I said, ‘especially since you seem to be suggesting that something untoward may have occurred.’

‘Why don’t we speak to Rogers first?’ suggested Sylvia suddenly. ‘We can ask him if the—if Neville had been moved. After all, this may all turn out to be a mare’s nest and there’s no sense in raising unnecessary suspicions if we then find out that there is a quite innocent explanation for everything.’

‘I do hope you’re right,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘I should far rather be proved an idiot than—the other.’

Fine sentiments indeed but all our arguing proved irrelevant because the next moment Mr. Pomfrey and Dr. Carter entered the room.

EIGHT

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pomfrey, clearly taken aback to find the study already occupied. ‘We—er—have come to—er—’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the doctor briskly, ignoring the solicitor’s palpable embarrassment, ‘but I should like to examine this fireplace more closely.’ He strode forward.

‘Hm—ah—yes,’ said Mr. Pomfrey, in an agony of discretion. Evidently, finding three guests in the study had not formed part of his plans.

Dr. Carter peered at the edge of the mantelpiece and appeared to spot something. He dabbed at it with his forefinger and sniffed it delicately. ‘Yes—hair oil, I should say. That seems straightforward enough.’

I was momentarily surprised at the revelation that Sir Neville had used hair oil. I had not thought him the type.

‘Did you say that the body had not been moved?’ the doctor asked, turning to the solicitor.

‘That was certainly the impression I received from the butler,’ replied Mr. Pomfrey.

‘I see. Perhaps we should have him in here, to clear up the matter.’

Before anybody could reply, the doctor rang the bell.

‘Is something the matter?’ I asked. Mr. Pomfrey bridled a little.

‘Ah—Dr. Carter merely wished to take a closer look at the scene of the accident, as he has some questions he would like answered. I do not believe there is any real cause for concern, however,’ he said.

Rogers appeared, looking somewhat apprehensive.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ he asked.

‘I think you may, Rogers,’ said Dr. Carter. ‘I should like to hear your account of how Sir Neville was found this morning.’

Rogers swallowed and trembled.

‘Pardon me, sir but this has all been very upsetting,’ he said unhappily.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Mr. Pomfrey encouragingly. ‘Indeed we are all very shocked by the occurrence and are trying our best to discover the exact circumstances of Sir Neville’s unfortunate accident. That is why we require your help. We should like to know exactly what happened this morning.’

‘Well, sir,’ said the old man, ‘The first I knew of the matter was early this morning, when one of the housemaids came to me and said she had found the study door locked and so was unable to enter the room to sweep it. I went along with her to see for myself and it was just as she had said. There was no reply when I knocked, so at first I thought the study must be unoccupied. On further inquiry, however, I found from the servants that Sir Neville had not been seen that morning, nor had his bed been slept in and I became somewhat concerned.’

‘Did it strike you as strange that the door should be locked?’

‘Yes sir, it was very strange and made me very uneasy. I was anxious to get into the study as soon as possible. Eventually I remembered that there were several odd keys locked away in a drawer in my room, so I had them fetched and fortunately one of them fitted. When we entered the study we found Sir Neville lying dead by the fireplace.’ He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Pardon me sir but I am not accustomed to this sort of thing,’ he said.

‘Quite, quite,’ said Mr. Pomfrey sympathetically.

‘If you used a spare key to enter the study, then the usual key must have been missing from the inside of the door,’ I said. ‘Otherwise the spare key would not have worked.’