Murder in the Folly Read online

  MURDER

  IN

  THE FOLLY

  by Margaret Addison

  A Rose Simpson Mystery

  Copyright

  Copyright 2017 Margaret Addison

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from Margaret Addison except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Rose Simpson Mysteries (in order)

  Murder at Ashgrove House

  Murder at Dareswick Hall

  Murder at Sedgwick Court

  Murder at Renard’s

  Murder in the Servants’ Hall

  Murder on Bonfire Night

  Murder in the Folly

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter One

  Cordelia Quail sat back heavily in the sturdy garden chair. The wood gave a momentary groan as it received her ample frame, clothed in generous amounts of silk satin. The woman in question, however, appeared quite oblivious to the potential collapse of her seat and the subsequent threat to her dignity. Her attention, instead, was drawn to the spectacle in front of her. Patting the back of her silk velvet turban in rather a distracted fashion, she surveyed the scene with an appraising eye, her position on the grass lawn affording her an excellent view.

  From her vantage point on the sloping lawn, which descended gently from the makeshift stage and ran down to the lake behind her, she could see one or two small groups of amateur thespians huddled together gossiping, or going through lines. It was not this, however, that swelled Cordelia’s heart and made her stop for a moment in her contemplations to take a breath. Rather, it was the stage itself. A folly or eye-catcher, it was an imposing building of smooth grey stone. Rectangular in shape, it resembled an Ancient Greek temple with a portico of six fluted columns, constructed in the Corinthian style. Topped by a triangulated roof, the great pillars appeared to loom up out of the very earth itself, dominating the immediate landscape. This perception of scale was further heightened by the positioning of the folly on the top of a grass mound, which acted as a plinth of sorts, displaying the edifice to perfection.

  ‘Magnificent,’ said Cordelia to herself in a voice that carried, for she rarely spoke quietly. Certainly, one or two of the actors looked up sharply, and not a little nervously, for Cordelia Quail had a formidable reputation among the Sedgwick Players as a director not to be trifled with. Only vaguely aware of the fear that she generated in the hearts of the younger thespians in particular, Cordelia gave a contented sigh, the action making her chair wobble in a most precarious manner. Yes, the folly was undoubtedly an ideal setting for Shakespeare’s longest play. For the temple lent itself most readily to represent the castle of Elsinore. The acting might be found wanting, but the set could not be criticised. She congratulated herself heartily for her own initiative. For hadn’t it been she who had suggested to Hilda Best, the Player’s honorary secretary, that the woman write to inquire in to the possibility of staging a play in the grounds of Sedgwick Court?

  A frown creased Cordelia’s forehead for a moment and she sniffed contemptuously. Of course, Algernon would insist that it had all been his idea, but then he would. He was like that. It was very small-minded of him, but there it was and there was very little one could do about it. She cleared her throat and dealt with her frustration by glaring surreptitiously at the man in question, who was playing Claudius, trying to find fault in the way he was conducting himself among the younger actors and actresses. Certainly, he was preening himself, as if he considered himself an object to be admired. No doubt he was regaling his attentive audience with tales of the many plays in which he had performed or directed. Though she was too far away to catch his words, Cordelia could well imagine that he was telling them of the rapacious receptions he had received, the standing ovations as the audience demanded that he remain on stage to receive their adoration.

  Cordelia bit her lip and, in spite of herself, admitted rather grudgingly that there was something about Algernon Cuffe that set him apart from the common man. It was predominantly his manner, she supposed, though his height and bearing made him appear regal, which was particularly suited to his present role as King of Denmark. He might have a slight tendency to fat, but clad in ermine and velvet, he certainly looked the part of usurper to Old Hamlet’s throne. Very quickly on the heels of this notion came the thought that she really must remember to congratulate Mrs Simpson on the costumes. What a find she had been for the company. She had done a simply marvellous job of clothing the Sedgwick Players for their parts. By turning her head, Cordelia spared a glance at the woman in question. She was standing at the edge of the lake, holding up a length of shimmering satin, which Cordelia presumed she was considering for Ophelia.

  Somewhat reluctantly, Cordelia returned to her study of Algernon. Inwardly she cursed herself for noticing that his hair was still a fine shade of auburn, the colour it had been when first she had made his acquaintance some seven years ago. Only now, if one looked very closely, could one glimpse the first signs of grey, highlighting the hair like drops of ice on a frosty day. Algernon had grown a full beard to play his character which, in contrast, was a most striking shade of red. The thought idly crossed Cordelia’s mind that he would make a very fine King Henry the Eighth, should he ever be required to play the role.

  Cordelia was brought up with a start. Unintentionally, she had caught the eye of the actress playing Gertrude. Quickly she looked away. Trust Ursula Stapleton to be watching her. Had she seen the way she had been staring at Algernon, Cordelia wondered? Mooning, that’s what the young people called it, and she felt her cheeks grow crimson. Ursula, though rather advanced in years like herself, would no doubt delight in her discomfort. Cordelia saw Ursula lean forward and whisper something in Miriam’s ear. The younger woman, her hair tangled and in disarray following her mad scene as Ophelia, turned and stared at her. Even the awful Prentice twins standing beside them were giggling as if at the same shared joke.

  For one awful moment, Cordelia saw herself in their eyes. They would consider her little more than a belligerent director, a plain aging woman indulging in foolish fancies. Flustered and embarrassed, she clutched at the sides of her chair and averted her gaze, staring instead down at the lawn, marvelling, in spite of herself, at how green the grass was in the late afternoon sunshine. She caught the sound of laughter and her cheeks, still flushed, turned a deeper shade of red. She lifted her head and sought out the identity of the person mocking her. However, no one app
eared to be staring at her, or affording her any attention. Perhaps she had imagined it, or it had not been directed at her. She gave herself a stern talking to. It really didn’t matter much either way, though she still found herself clapping her hands loudly and bringing the break to a close rather sooner than she had intended.

  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Algernon was staring at her in surprise and even the Prentice twins looked taken aback, as if they had been planning to play some odious trick before the rehearsals resumed and realised that they had been denied their fun. None of this troubled Cordelia, however, who noted with something akin to delight that she had now regained control of the situation. For it was to her that the face of every thespian was turned, as they waited on her command.

  Cordelia rose abruptly from her seat, and it was only due to the sudden intervention of an attentive footman that her chair did not topple over. Pulling back her shoulders and drawing herself up to her full height, she spoke to the cast in a voice that carried over the air to the folly.

  ‘Places please, ladies and gentlemen, and that includes you Freddie and Gerald,’ Cordelia said, looking pointedly at the Prentice twins, who looked half minded to saunter down to the lake probably to skim pebbles across its tranquil surface. ‘We’ll do the final scene now, I think. Let me see …’ She broke off and looked down at the script in her hand. ‘Yes … I don’t see why we shouldn’t start at the very beginning of the scene with the entrance of Hamlet and Horatio and proceed on to the end of the play.’

  There was a series of groans and mutterings among the cast, which Cordelia was swift to dismiss with a wave of her hand.

  ‘It is all very well to rehearse this scene in two parts as we usually do, but on the night of the performance itself we shall have to perform it as one continuous scene.’ Cordelia smiled at them encouragingly. ‘And do remember that this is the dramatic ending for which the audience has been waiting. There needs to be passion and a sense of urgency. I want the audience to hold its breath with excitement until the final curtain falls.’

  ‘I didn’t think we were having a curtain as such,’ said Freddie Prentice.

  Cordelia ignored him and threw her arms up in the air in a dramatic gesture. ‘A magnificent sword fight fought between two young men avenging their fathers’ deaths. A fencing match –’

  ‘If you please, Miss Quail,’ interrupted Gerald Prentice, a little more tentatively than his brother, ‘Freddie and I are not in this scene.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Freddie. ‘We’re supposed to be on our way to England to suffer our miserable fate. Or are we actually dead by this stage in the play? I can’t remember, but whichever it is, it’s not very sporting of Hamlet, is it? Arranging that his old school chums be killed in his place, I mean. It’s not their fault if they’re buffoons.’

  ‘They’re not the full shilling,’ concurred Gerald, with increased confidence. ‘But dead or riding the ocean waves, we’re quite definitely not in this scene, Miss Quail.’

  ‘Today, you are,’ Cordelia said firmly, glaring at the twins. Really, she couldn’t count the number of times she had despaired of the young men. Why would they not take their parts seriously? She could, however, blame no one but herself and she admonished herself severely. How clever she thought she had been to cast monozygotic twins as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It hadn’t occurred to her then to consider the boys’ characters. After all, everyone knew they had both been sent down from Oxford for playing some foolish prank.

  ‘You will both play the parts of courtiers and attendants and Freddie, as you appear to have so much to say in the matter, you will also read the part of the lord and … ah, Walter, there you are,’ Cordelia added as she spied a man, small in stature and of middle years, lurking unobtrusively behind one of the middle columns, looking for all the world as if he wished to be invisible. ‘Now, remember, Walter, you have thrown off the mantle of Polonius. You are now playing Osric, a far more outlandish version of the Lord Chamberlain.’

  ‘Yes, Cordelia,’ Walter mumbled, with some reluctance. He made to move to the edge of the stage and hesitated for a moment before turning to face the director. ‘You don’t think it will confuse the audience, do you, if I play both parts?’ There was a forlorn note of hope in his voice that was not lost on Cordelia. ‘I mean to say, will they realise I am playing another character? Won’t they think me Polonius in disguise?’

  ‘Polonius is dead,’ said Cordelia.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ said Freddie, supposedly in a whisper, though Cordelia heard him quite clearly.

  ‘The audience witness him being murdered,’ said Cordelia coldly, glaring at the twins. ‘They also see Hamlet drag his body off the stage. I think we can, therefore, safely assume the audience will be left in little doubt that he is dead.’ She turned her back on them before anyone was tempted to prolong the discussion. ‘And besides, Walter,’ she added, as an afterthought, ‘you will be dressed in a different costume, to say nothing of the fact that you will be wearing a wig.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Walter muttered in a resigned fashion.

  ‘I do. Now … oh …’ Cordelia broke off from what she was saying, aware of a sudden presence at her shoulder. Turning around, she found herself staring up in to the face of Miriam Belmore, with all its stony beauty. Cordelia gave an involuntary start for, not having seen the girl descend from the temple, she had thought her still on the stage with the other players.

  ‘Oh Miriam, my dear, don’t creep up on me like that; really, you did give me the most awful fright.’

  There was no softening of the young woman’s features, no sympathetic look. Instead, her eyes flashed black and she said rather impatiently: ‘Do you require me anymore, Miss Quail? Like Freddie and Gerald, I’m not in this scene; long drowned and all that. And Mrs Simpson does keep beckoning to me. I think she’s found a piece of material that she thinks will be more suitable for my dress. I mean to say, anything would be better than this old rag.’ She looked down disparagingly at her gown and held out the skirt. ‘Coarse cream cotton and it isn’t a bit fitted. Really, Miss Quail, what were you thinking?’

  ‘Now, now my dear,’ said Cordelia in conciliatory tones, ‘remember you are mentally deranged in your last scene. I want the audience to be shocked by your transformation from palace beauty to a mad young woman. Wearing something that resembles a sack will help the audience to realise something is very wrong with you.’

  ‘I’d prefer to wear Mrs Simpson’s pale blue satin,’ Miriam said mulishly. ‘We could tear the hem and make it look quite ragged.’

  ‘We’ll see, my dear,’ said Cordelia, unwilling to be drawn. Really, the girl could be quite trying when she set her mind to it and Cordelia could not quell a feeling of resentment that was welling up inside her. She had been inclined to let Miriam have her own way as far as her costume was concerned because the girl was very prone to sulking, such a very unattractive trait in a young woman, she thought. This time, however, she was reluctant to give way. Perhaps it was the memory of the way Miriam had looked at her in that rude and insolent manner, when Ursula had whispered in her ear. Whatever it was, it made her say: ‘Well, run along to Mrs Simpson now while Hamlet and Horatio are conversing, but I should like you to be on the stage for the fencing scene to play a member of the court. I shall need to know how many courtiers and attendants we shall require to fill the stage.’ As much to put an end to the discussion as anything else, Cordelia turned and regarded the stage. ‘Of course, I shan’t want them to get in the way of the fighting …’

  When she looked back a moment or two later, Miriam had disappeared. Cordelia sighed and looked at her wristwatch. A frown appeared on that part of her forehead not concealed by her turban. Was it really a quarter to four? She had been intending that they go through the scene at least twice. Henry required as much practice as possible, unless he had miraculously managed to improve his swordsmanship, which was hardly likely given his performance at the last rehearsal when he had very nearly
taken out poor Laertes’ eye.

  She was about to clap her hands again when Hamlet and Horatio appeared on the now empty stage and launched into verse.

  ‘So much for this, sir; now let me see the other …’

  Cordelia smiled to herself tentatively. Henry had begun well. He was speaking loudly and with a sense of purpose, not mumbling or shuffling his feet. It was so very necessary in this scene that his character should appear confident, she thought. For was this not the part in the play when at last the prince fulfilled his promise to the ghost?

  The scene progressed. Cordelia clenched her hands and bit her lip. Much to her surprise, Henry was playing the part very well indeed. She had cast Henry Rewe as Hamlet with some misgivings, but today he really was frightfully good, quite a joy to behold. She permitted herself to relax a little, and sat down slowly in the garden chair, arranging her Chinese, silk-embroidered kimono about her, her eyes not leaving the stage. A few minutes later and she was leaning forward in her chair, watching the scene unfold before her. Freddie entered to deliver the lord’s lines, and though he stumbled over the unfamiliar words, she realised with a sudden thrill that she was caught up in the drama. It was almost as if she had never seen the play before, never winced or cringed during a succession of bad rehearsals. With almost bated breath, she looked forward immensely to the theatrical climax of Shakespeare’s play.

  Lady Belvedere proceeded along the earthen path that rose above the lake and wound its way between the firs, pines and weeping willows, which overhung the bank, casting shadows on the ground and reflections off the water. Centuries had flattened the earth so that underfoot the track was as smooth and regular as a man-made road. Only in a few places did the roots of trees protrude, causing an unwary visitor to stumble. The countess, however, did not lose her footing for she was familiar with the path.

  As she approached the folly, the path, bordered by laurels and similar shrubs, followed a sharp incline, which forced the track to weave and twist its way between the rich undergrowth. The branches of the trees above seemed to extend towards her in something of a menacing fashion, their twigs like witches’ fingers trying to claw and pull at her face and clothes. The young woman quickened her pace and darted expertly between the various obstacles. Though the path ahead of her was partially obscured by the rich canopy of trees, she knew that when she turned the corner the side of the folly, which had until that moment been concealed, would emerge, springing up out of its thick veil of leaves in majestic fashion. And though she was fully expecting to see it appear, and for the dappled grey stone to contrast sharply with the greenness of the leaves that framed it, she was still a little taken aback when she spied the temple. Not for the first time did she consider it remarkable that so large a structure could remain hidden from view until the very last minute. Had she approached the temple from the lake instead of the path, as the landscape architect had intended, she knew the temple would have been in constant view, drawing her eye and compelling her to come ashore and explore its depths.