The Murder at Sissingham Hall (25 page)

‘I was standing by the door and had just started to wipe my finger-prints off the key when the most awful thing happened. There was a knock at the door, and someone tried the handle. I swear, darling, I almost died of fright. I simply froze and waited, thanking my stars that I had remembered to lock myself in. Whoever it was knocked again and said “Neville” in a low voice, so I assumed that meant I hadn’t been seen, and that the person thought the light under the door meant Neville was working late.’

‘That must have been MacMurray,’ I said.

‘Yes, Simon saw him, didn’t he? At the time I had no idea who it was, but I was terrified. I held my breath and listened, and after a few moments heard footsteps walking away. Even then I waited for what seemed like an age before I dared breathe again and get on with it.

‘I had meant to do everything carefully and calmly, but the fright I had just had made me lose my head, I think. Otherwise I’m sure I wouldn’t have made so many mistakes. For instance, I was suddenly seized by the idea that one spilt glass of whisky wouldn’t be nearly enough to convince anybody that Neville had fallen over because he’d been drinking, so in my panic I simply threw the stuff all over the place instead of picking up the decanter with a handkerchief, taking it outside and pouring it out carefully on the grass to make it look as though a lot had been drunk. I’m not sure what made me do it—I think I just had a mad idea that the place ought to reek of whisky. And it was very stupid of me to polish the decanter afterwards, I realize that now.

‘What else? Oh yes, I had to clean the African statue. I picked it up and saw there were a few hairs clinging to it, so I scraped it carefully on the edge of the mantelpiece, to make it look as though Neville had hit his head there. Of course, Angela says that he was lying in the wrong position anyway, and couldn’t possibly have fallen accidentally, but I didn’t know that. I shall be much more careful next time.

‘Once I was certain I had arranged everything as convincingly as possible, I got the desk key out of Neville’s pocket, took the house keys from the drawer and locked the drawer again, in case anybody remembered the spare keys before I had had the chance to replace them. Then I unlocked and unbolted the French windows and left that way, wiping the handle as I went. I crept along the terrace and came back in quietly through the side door, locking it behind me. It wasn’t until I was safely back in my room that I realized I hadn’t locked the French windows, but it didn’t worry me too much—I was sure nobody would notice, and I could always do it the next morning when I put the keys back.

‘I didn’t sleep a wink that night, as you can imagine. I lay awake, expecting that at any moment somebody would discover what had happened and raise the alarm, although of course that was absurd. It wasn’t until morning that the hullabaloo started and I had to steel myself to play my part. Mr. Pomfrey broke the news to me. He was very kind, but I couldn’t afford to feel bad about that—the important thing was not to raise any suspicion. I pretended to allow the news to sink in, and then I was very calm and dignified, and told him that I should like to see Neville alone before the doctor arrived. He was unwilling, but as there was no question then that it had been anything other than an accident, he was forced to give in.

‘As soon as I got in there I ran over to the desk, unlocked the drawer and replaced the keys, which had been wrapped in my handkerchief, then locked it up again and put the drawer key back into Neville’s pocket. I see now that was a mistake to wipe them—just as it was a mistake to wipe the decanter, but as nobody ever suspected that that was how it had been done, it doesn’t matter now. There was one terrible moment when the inspector started asking about the second set of keys and my heart leapt into my mouth, but he didn’t pursue the question, to my relief.

‘I was just about to run over and lock and bolt the French windows when Joan came in, in a great state, so I couldn’t do it. At first I was scared, but once I’d had time to think about it I reflected that if the worst came to the worst and somebody noticed they were unlocked, it would be assumed either that they had been left open by accident, or that somebody had come in from outside. Nobody would ever think that it was someone in the house, because everything had been locked up at eleven.’

‘But somebody did notice that they were unlocked,’ I said.

‘Oh yes, Angela,’ said Rosamund. ‘Why did she have to mention it? I do wish she hadn’t said anything.’

‘I think she wishes it too,’ I said. ‘She certainly intimated something of the sort, but Sylvia and I were there when she made the discovery, and Mr. Pomfrey and the doctor arrived shortly afterwards, and by that time it was impossible to hush it up.’

‘Why on earth didn’t I remember to lock them when I left?’ burst out Rosamund in exasperation. ‘Then everything would have been all right. Neville would have been locked safely in the study and nobody would have even dreamed that there was anything suspicious about his death. It would have been put down as an accident and nobody would have had any reason to look more closely into it.’

Despite myself, I could not help but agree with her. Angela had been right when she had said it was unpremeditated, but it had very nearly been the perfect crime. Rosamund’s quick thinking had led us to believe that it must have been committed between a quarter to eleven and eleven o’clock, and we had all been puzzling over how it could have been carried out in such a short time. It had not occurred to anybody that in fact it could not, and that the murderer must have returned to the scene of the crime later that night in order to lay the false scent. It had certainly been an ingenious idea to take the second set of keys from the desk drawer and replace them the next day. Had there been time to lock the French windows too, then we should all have accepted the accident theory without question, and nobody would have spotted that the scene of the incident was somewhat unconvincing. The whole thing was brilliant in its simplicity—or would have been but for Hugh MacMurray’s midnight visit to the study and Joan’s interruption the next morning.

‘But Rosamund, what about Gwen?’ I asked. ‘Was that you?’

She looked at me uncomprehendingly for a second.

‘Oh! Yes, that was me too. Such a shame—I really didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. She saw me go into the study after dinner, you see.’

‘Did she tell you so?’

‘Yes. At first she didn’t realize what it was that she’d seen, so said nothing. It was only later that she understood and confronted me with it. It was rather awkward, as I’d told the police I hadn’t gone anywhere near the study that evening, at least not before I went along there with you. Didn’t you hear her hinting about it last night at dinner? I was terrified she was going to come out with it in front of you all, but luckily she didn’t.’

‘She accused you after you followed her into the drawing-room, then?’

‘Yes. She had somehow deduced that if Hugh wasn’t responsible for the voice through the door, then you and I must have been lying about it and Neville could have been killed earlier. Since she had actually seen me going into the study she put two and two together and came to the conclusion that it must have been me who did it. And by the way, darling,’ she went on, ‘if someone like Gwen can make that deduction then the police certainly won’t be far behind.’

‘What did you say to her?’

‘What could I say? I denied everything as charmingly as I could. I said that I had proof of who really did it, but that I couldn’t tell her about it until I’d spoken to Inspector Jameson, as I was worried that the local police wanted to pin the crime on Hugh at all costs since he was the easy target and I didn’t trust them not to tamper with the evidence. Of course it was a thin story, but it was the best I could come up with there and then, and she was so relieved at the prospect of Hugh being released that she swallowed it without question. I said I would tell her all about it the next day, but in the meantime I thought she ought to go to bed and get some sleep. I remembered that she had once told me that she took Veronal and luckily I happened to have some of the stuff about me—the doctor gave me some after Neville died, you know. I went over and poured her a brandy and put some of it in the glass, and she took it then went off to bed like a lamb.’

‘That was a big risk to take. What if it hadn’t worked?’

‘I’m sure I should have thought of something, but I had nothing to lose, you know. She was threatening to tell the police—although if Hugh hadn’t been arrested I’m sure she’d have tried to blackmail me instead. She’s the type.’

At that moment the reality of it all finally dawned on me in a rush, and I felt my heart plummet into my boots. Bobs, Sylvia, even Rosamund herself—they had all been right, and now I had to admit it to myself. For eight years or more I had been nurturing a vision of Rosamund that was quite false. She was not the angelic creature of my imagination: in fact, she had proved herself to be quite the contrary. Had I not always known that she would never have stood for a life of poverty and insignificance? I had allowed her to abandon me, laughing, for a rich man whom she did not love, and yet for years afterwards I had continued to see her essential selfishness as somehow charming, as part of her appeal. What a fool I had been! And now here she was, telling me carelessly that she had murdered her husband because she was bored and he had refused to set her free to marry another, still richer man.

Rosamund was looking at me steadily.

‘You have gone very pale,’ she said. ‘Have I shocked you terribly?’

I swallowed.

‘I—I must confess that you have shaken me rather,’ I managed finally. A thought came to me. ‘But why did you tell me all this, Rosamund? What do you want me to do? Surely you can’t expect me to keep quiet about it. For anything else you could rely on my discretion, but this—this is too much.’

‘Yes, I expected you would say that,’ she replied. ‘And I knew you wouldn’t want to keep it quiet, but don’t worry—no-one will ever find out. I shall see to that.’

My mind was in a whirl and I did not understand what she meant at first.

‘Then why did you tell me?’ I repeated.

‘Oh Charles, you know I was never any good at keeping a secret, and yet this was a secret that absolutely had to be kept! But I was bursting to tell somebody, so I chose you.’

As she spoke, she took a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it. She held it out and I recognized it as the note I had written earlier—a lifetime ago now, it seemed.

‘By the way, what did you mean by this?’ she asked.

‘Why, I meant what I said,’ I replied, although I was not at all certain now that it was true. Did she think that the offer of friendship I had made in the note extended to keeping quiet about a murder?

‘But what exactly
did
you say?’

I was becoming more and more puzzled.

‘I don’t understand. I said I was sorry for my mistake of this morning, and that I was going to leave the house to save further embarrassment for all concerned. In fact, I just came in here to find my pen, and then I should have left immediately.’

‘Ah,’ she nodded.

‘Why do you ask?’

She laughed.

‘You’ll think it absurd of me, Charles,’ she said, ‘but my first thought on reading your note was that you were going to do something silly.’

‘What on earth—do you mean kill myself?’ I was astounded.

‘Oh yes.’ She looked down at the paper. ‘“
And now, it seems that the only thing for me to do is to free you from my unwelcome presence
,”’ she read. ‘“
When I am gone, I hope that you will think of me kindly
.” You must admit that does sound rather as though you were about to do away with yourself.’

I laughed incredulously at the thought that my simple words could have been taken in such a way.

‘Of course I wasn’t going to do away with myself,’ I said. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘Yes, it did seem odd. The only reason I could think of was that you were so devastated at the idea of losing me that you didn’t want to live any longer, but I didn’t really believe that was possible. I know I’m conceited, darling, but even I don’t normally expect men to go around killing themselves for the love of me. Still—’

She hesitated.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘Well, it did occur to me that your suicide would be rather convenient for me.’

TWENTY

I felt my blood run cold.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Don’t you see? It would tie up everything so neatly. Everyone would think that it was you who killed Neville, then were overcome with remorse and took the easy way out! And this note would be the final proof.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. My voice was an unnatural croak.

‘Oh but it’s not!’ she said. ‘It’s such a beautiful plan, don’t you think? Nobody could deny that you’re the perfect suspect—especially since you’ve already been tried for murder in the past. Everyone knows that we were once engaged and that you were still in love with me. They’ll think you wanted to get rid of Neville so that we could be together again. So you killed him, then later on came along to the study with me and pretended to hear his voice through the door so that we would all think he was still alive. Then you crept downstairs in the dead of night and rearranged things to make it look like an accident. A few days later I rejected your advances, and you killed yourself out of despair and remorse. Oh, it’s perfect!’