Death at the Wychbourne Follies Read online

  ‘At least Clarice’s tribunal will be out of the way by the time they arrive,’ Lady Ansley said thankfully, when Nell enquired whether any of the guests had yet come. ‘And I know the dinner will be excellent. It’s what happens afterwards that concerns me. Constance is so eager to have her say that she might even begin tonight. I can hardly prevent her.’

  ‘I have good news though, Miss Drury,’ Lord Ansley said, ‘which might compensate for the tribunal. Gentle John is to be freed.’

  ‘That really is a relief,’ Nell said warmly, although the possibility of the Palmers having conspired to kill Tobias Rocke sneaked back into her mind.

  ‘The other news is that Chief Inspector Melbray is returning tomorrow. He wishes to speak to everyone involved in these two cases together.’

  Nell swallowed. ‘Should I be there?’

  ‘Yes, he specifically mentioned you, Nell. And now we should make our way to the Great Hall. The tribunal is about to begin. I’m not sure if my sister fully explained it to you. You do know that table-tipping is involved?’

  ‘Table-tipping?’ she repeated blankly. Wasn’t that a form of séance?

  Lord Ansley was apologetic. ‘I understand that even Mr Trotter is somewhat dubious about it as he considers it most unscientific. Clarice did ask Chief Inspector Melbray if he would like to be present; he was unable to accept but asked to be kept informed of the results. He apparently told her it could be most useful.’

  Had the world gone mad? Nell wondered. Scotland Yard and Alex of all people relying on table-tipping – it was surely on a level with Ouija boards for unreliability and mischief-making. True, both sometimes produced strange results. Such as the pointer spelling out Death, she remembered uneasily.

  ‘You will still take part, I hope, Nell,’ Lady Ansley asked anxiously.

  For a minute she wanted to shout ‘No!’ but she couldn’t upset Lady Clarice by refusing. Instead she braced herself for the ordeal ahead as they all three walked down to the Great Hall. Arthur had already arrived and Mr Peters was busy superintending the placing of the table and chairs. These were suitably positioned near to Sir William’s portrait, Nell noticed, presumably so that he could preside over the proceedings with ease and even pop down if he so chose. Mr Trotter was nervously nudging the furniture inch by inch into the places he thought best for his purposes – whatever they were.

  ‘All looks very creepy to me, Miss Drury,’ whispered Mr Peters, who was busy turning down the lamps.

  Nell longed for the certainties that her work brought her instead of this weird world of spirits. Nothing certain there. She had read enough about such tables actually moving or shaking, whether by human or spiritual hand, to know that positive results were sometimes achieved where no jiggery-pokery with the table could have taken place.

  Lady Clarice was beaming with anticipation; the only one here for whom there were any certainties in this affair, Nell thought.

  ‘Shall we take our places, Mr Trotter? You are ready?’ Lady Clarice asked.

  ‘Why pick Sir William, Clarice?’ Arthur asked as they all obeyed. ‘He looks such an inoffensive fellow from his portrait.’

  ‘It’s not a question of whom we pick, Arthur,’ Lady Clarice said slightly reprovingly. ‘It’s more who chooses us. Sir William is the leader of the Great Hall ghosts and fully deserves the honour. As you must know, Queen Elizabeth created him baronet for his help in cheering her up at times of ill fortune. He haunts this area of the hall and Sir Ralph – a mere knight then – haunts the centre of the hall, where the fire would once have been in medieval times. In his earthly life he earned the respect of the Conqueror, for pleading for the men of Kent to retain their practice of gavelkind over inheritance of property. And then there’s Gilbert—’

  ‘Shall we proceed, Clarice?’ Lord Ansley asked gently. ‘Sir William might be getting restless.’

  ‘Of course. How foolish of me. This is a tribunal,’ Lady Clarice said. ‘But as to why we chose him, Arthur, it is not known whether Sir William died at another’s hand or whether he himself was responsible for a death. That’s makes him so ideal for a tribunal.’

  In Nell’s view, he should be disqualified if he couldn’t make up his mind whether he was murdered or a murderer, but then dismissed such flippancy.

  ‘It depends of course,’ Lady Clarence continued, ‘whether Sir William’s death was a crime of fear or of passion. Consider his unfortunate position. His brother, John, was a violent man and jealous of his elder brother’s title and estates. During a drinking bout John used a heavy tankard to attack Sir William, but whether in violence or in self-defence is not known. One died instantly, the other perhaps of shock, but no records survive to say which. Fortunately, John was unmarried and had no legitimate offspring and so Sir William’s eldest son inherited Wychbourne.’

  ‘Shall we proceed, Clarice?’ Lord Ansley repeated firmly.

  ‘Indeed, yes, Gerald.’

  This group would itself make an excellent subject for an oil painting, Nell thought, with all her companions in evening dress and sitting around this table as though for some fascinating after-dinner game. It was far from that.

  ‘Hands upon the table please, palms flat down,’ Lady Clarice requested.

  With all their hands in place, it was easier to take this as seriously as Lady Clarice and Mr Trotter could wish, easier to believe that this table beneath them was indeed a living object that might move of its own accord. Or should it be at the spirits’ accord? Nell wondered.

  ‘Close your eyes but let all thoughts dwell on Tobias Rocke and Hubert Jarrett,’ was the next command.

  Some minutes passed during which Nell did her best to obey, though her mind did slip to wondering if Gilbert the butler’s ghost might appear to serve cocktails. No sign of him so far.

  ‘Are you with us, Sir William?’ Mr Trotter enquired. ‘Rap once if you are with us.’

  Apparently not for all that could be heard were her companions’ deep breaths, and she felt nothing.

  ‘Sir William,’ he called again. ‘Rap once if you are with us.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Perhaps the brothers are fighting again,’ Arthur murmured.

  ‘Never. John Ansley has never darkened Wychbourne again,’ Lady Clarice said. ‘Gerald, you try.’

  Nell sensed Lord Ansley’s reluctance, but knowing how fond he was of his sister, she guessed rightly that he would not let her down. Lord Ansley cleared his throat. ‘William, we’re still waiting for you.’

  Nothing – no, she was wrong about that. Someone must be pressing really hard on the table because it did seem to quiver. And then a noise – could that be a rap? Was someone applying too much pressure?

  ‘Thank you, Sir William.’ Mr Trotter’s voice had deepened – perhaps Sir William really was speaking through him? Haphazard thoughts raced through Nell’s mind.

  Lady Clarice took a firm hand. ‘Are we to expect Tobias Rocke’s murderer to dine with us this evening? Two raps for yes, one for no.’

  Too far, too far, Nell thought in alarm, even though she realized she was straining to hear if anything happened. Nothing yet. Then something did change. The table definitely moved, not once but twice. One of them must be making this happen, surely. Nell looked around the table, but all six faces looked as scared as she felt. Especially Mr Trotter’s.

  The doorbell rang. The first of the guests had arrived.

  Dinner, despite Nell’s best efforts, was going to be far from lively, with the guests paying more attention to their plates than the demands of social conversation. Ordeal by tribunal had been spared them, but they might be facing worse to come. From her position in the serving room it was a strange assembly in other ways too. Not only Mrs Jarrett but the other guests too were in mourning black (save for Lady Helen in startling purple) and this made the ritual procession into the dining room look truly funereal. It reminded Nell of the eccentric French gourmet Grimod de la Reynière, the first ever food critic who in the late eighteenth centu
ry had given dinner parties staged as funerals, coffin and all.

  Mrs Jarrett, entering on Lord Ansley’s arm, was a tall, dignified figure, her still-beautiful face calm and steady. If she was torn by private grief and tension, there was no sign of it. Her stateliness made Mrs Reynolds, Lady Kencroft and Miss Maxwell look subsidiary figures in this parade.

  Would this gathering further the investigations at all? Nell wondered. It was hard to imagine how it might be possible to unravel the past and disgorge its secrets to the extent Mrs Jarrett obviously hoped. Stick to the recipe before going steaming ahead, Nell warned herself.

  As she entered the comfortable drawing room after dinner with the coffee, a huge fire was being stoked by chief footman Robert and Mr Peters was preparing digestifs. Nell’s task was only to superintend, as luckily Mrs Fielding’s Annie was quite capable of serving coffee alone. The gentlemen took longer than usual before joining the ladies – nervous? Nell wondered – but after they arrived, she watched everyone settling down like an audience awaiting the rising of the curtain.

  What was Mrs Jarrett about to say? Would she accuse someone of being her husband’s murderer? Nell was impatient, with a mix of trepidation and excitement. This was going to be no eulogy in praise of a lost husband. Instead, when Mrs Jarrett rose to her feet to begin, it did indeed seem to Nell more like a play unfolding before her. That’s how she must think of it, she decided. She’d view it with detachment, not deflected by her own reactions.

  Scene: drawing room and coffee. Centre stage: Constance Jarrett, widow of a murdered man. Stage left and stage right: supporting cast. Audience: Nell Drury observing.

  Opening line: ‘You’ve all been so kind in your condolences and in coming here to support me.’ The supporting cast murmured appropriately.

  ‘I do wonder why, however,’ Mrs Jarrett added.

  Nell stiffened. Not what she had expected.

  ‘You, Neville, are opening at the Albion shortly and are in the middle of rehearsals,’ Mrs Jarrett continued. ‘You’re so busy and yet you have come here. Too kind.’

  Neville Heydock looked too taken aback to reply, and Mrs Jarrett swept on. ‘Lord Kencroft, you too are here, although the state normally absorbs all your valuable time. Katie, why are you here?’

  This was like a play. These speeches were planned, but where would they lead? Nell couldn’t even guess.

  ‘I’ll answer that for both of us,’ Lady Kencroft replied instantly. ‘Before the Wychbourne Follies we hadn’t met together for many years. We saw each other only when our paths crossed either on stage or in society. Darlings, we’d say, how wonderful to see you. But the plays closed and we’d walk offstage. And at last came Gertrude’s kind invitation to Wychbourne Court but with that came obligations to support each other – which is why Charles and I are here today.’

  ‘Thank you, Katie,’ Mrs Jarrett replied. ‘I am truly grateful. The reason I am here myself, however, is for other reasons than my needing support. Hubert and I were happily married, which might surprise you all, but we were.’

  ‘Just a minute, Connie,’ Neville Heydock began uneasily.

  They were going off-script and Nell could feel tension rising.

  Mrs Jarrett didn’t pause, though. ‘I therefore intend to find out who killed him and Tobias.’

  ‘Isn’t that a police matter, Constance?’ Miss Maxwell demanded.

  ‘Mine also, Alice.’

  ‘That’s laudable, Constance,’ Lord Ansley intervened, clearly alarmed, ‘but I fail to see what you can do, terrible though this has been for you. If any of us saw anything to explain how that poison was added to Hubert’s food or drink we would have informed the police.’

  ‘That I understand,’ Mrs Jarrett said coolly. ‘What the police cannot discover without our help is the extent of Tobias’s blackmail, an issue that was raised earlier but skilfully avoided in detail.’

  Bullseye! Off-script or not, Nell wasn’t going to miss a minute of this. At last she might be able to confirm those links between photographs and files.

  ‘Excellent idea, Constance.’ Mrs Reynolds clapped her hands, but no one followed suit.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Jarrett replied. ‘I have now realized that Hubert was one of Tobias’s victims, and I propose to tell you why. I hope that now Tobias is dead, that will encourage you all to speak out.’

  Staggering stockfish! Nell held her breath. This might well lead nowhere, but if it did …

  ‘I do fail to see how the blackmail issue is relevant now that Tobias is dead,’ Lord Kencroft retorted.

  ‘It might not be,’ Mrs Jarrett rejoined, ‘but I can see no other reason for Hubert’s death, even though it might be an oblique one. Before he met me,’ she continued, ‘Hubert was a great admirer of Mary Ann Darling. Being young and very foolish he followed her around like a puppy to the extent that she was forced to complain to Mr Edwardes.’

  ‘He was the man who persecuted Mary Ann?’ Neville Heydock asked in amazement.

  So that, Nell thought with relief, confirmed that the photograph of the man lurking in the bushes outside what was probably Mary Ann’s home must be of Hubert Jarrett. At last theories were becoming probabilities.

  ‘He was,’ Mrs Jarrett replied steadily. ‘Tobias discovered this and made that plain to Hubert, knowing that it would ruin Hubert’s chances of a future major career if it was widely known that he was forcing his attentions on Mary Ann Darling. That situation intensified after her disappearance. Tobias asked for favours, small and large. Often months, even years would go by and just when Hubert presumed he was safe, Tobias would rear up again with his sickening demands.’

  ‘Hubert had, I presume, nothing to do with Mary Ann’s death?’ Lord Ansley asked.

  ‘No,’ Mrs Jarrett said sharply. ‘From the time of her disappearance, however, Tobias delighted in spreading the rumour that she must have been murdered in order to alarm Hubert in case his peccadilloes led to his being suspected of killing her; he threatened to tell the police about Hubert’s pursuit of Mary Ann. Once that body was identified as hers, the pressure grew worse. I now believe he did not dare to actually carry out his threats against Hubert. He had too much to lose.’

  There was a silence as Nell could see her listeners taking in the implications of what she had said. Too much to lose?

  ‘Was Tobias suspected of murdering Mary Ann at the time?’ Mr Heydock asked. ‘He had an alibi, I understand, but alibis aren’t always watertight.’

  ‘Once and for all, Tobias was no murderer, Neville,’ Lady Kencroft said, exasperated. ‘Nor to my knowledge a blackmailer. He wasn’t suspected of anything. He was a kind man.’

  ‘Kind?’ Mrs Reynolds shrieked. ‘Katie, and you too, Gertrude, you’ve no idea just how kind Tobias was not. Several of us did and have kept mum about it ever since. You want us to speak out, Constance, so I shall. That kind Tobias invited me, almost ordered me, to his bed, and when I laughed him out of court he pointed out I’d no compunction about hopping into other men’s beds and hence my divorce from Neville.’ She turned to him. ‘Wasn’t that the case, darling Neville. That’s what caused our divorce, didn’t it, darling?’

  What was going on in this obviously meaningful conversation? Nell wondered. One thing was clear. The black cross on Mrs Reynolds’ photograph, and therefore in all probability the other black crosses, did indeed signify that Tobias Rocke’s amorous attentions had been spurned. He had been rejected not just once but several times, and that was too much for that self-important man to accept.

  ‘Yes, that’s what caused it, Lynette.’ Mr Heydock was very white.

  ‘Or was it, darling?’ she replied. ‘Wasn’t Tobias more interested in your gentleman’s gentleman and his role in your life? Wouldn’t have looked good for your career as a romantic dish if he revealed you were a nancy boy.’

  Battered buttercups, so that’s what Arthur had been hinting at when he had talked of secrets from past and present. He’d recognized Mr Heydock’s private life as being
like his own, Nell realized. Her heart went out to him though; he looked completely at a loss as how to deal with this revelation.

  ‘That’s enough, Lynette,’ Miss Maxwell said sharply. Unwisely.

  ‘And how about you, Would-be Dame Alice?’ Lynette asked sweetly. ‘A few questions could be asked as to why you’ve never married and your preference for female company. Such as your devoted Doris. It’s quite fashionable nowadays, but not to the general public.’

  ‘My personal life is no concern to anyone but me,’ Miss Maxwell replied quietly. ‘And Tobias had no interest in that anyway. He was – I admit – applying pressure on me because I obtained my first leading role through unfair means.’

  That explained the photograph at Cannes, Nell thought, wrestling with the revelation of yet another very present secret. Tobias must have intimated that a holiday there would be welcome.

  ‘Fascinating.’ Mrs Reynolds laughed. ‘You should have done what I did. Told him to go to blazes and I hope he has. After he’d spread his nasty little rumours, my career was finished. Tiny character parts if I’m lucky. Thank you, kind Tobias.’

  ‘You’ve married again, though,’ Lady Kencroft pointed out.

  ‘There was no second marriage. There is no Mr Reynolds,’ Mrs Reynolds said simply. ‘Does that satisfy you? I assumed I would marry again after the divorce, but amazingly Tobias ensured that that wouldn’t happen. A greatly exaggerated word in the ear of any remotely prospective husband and he was away.’

  Another mask falling, Nell thought, and a totally different woman emerging from it.

  Mrs Jarrett nodded. ‘Just as with Mary Ann. He threatened to reveal her real name. I believe her father was a very violent man. I don’t know the details, but to escape him she came to London and changed her name. Tobias was very much in pursuit of Mary Ann, Hubert told me, and he rejoiced when Mary Ann very firmly rebuffed Tobias. He took his revenge by being as persistent in his pursuit of her as Hubert was, but he had the added power of being able to scare her with more than his sexual pursuit. Little wonder she needed to escape.’