Murder in the Folly Read online

  As she had set off from the house rather later than she had intended due to an unexpected telephone call, she had half worried that she would discover the rehearsal had finished and that the Sedgwick Players had departed from the folly. Now, however, as she stood with her outstretched arm leaning against the cold wall of the temple, having stopped a moment to catch her breath, she caught the welcome sound of voices. Keeping to the wall, she edged her way forward, her fingers brushing over the smooth stone surface as she walked. The wall ended abruptly. Before her lay the temple’s open portico with its six fluted columns, and beyond that Cordelia Quail perched on her chair on the lawn below. If she turned the corner, she would join the actors on the stage. Instead, Lady Belvedere crept away from the folly and descended the grassy bank. She walked slowly and quietly so as not to distract the actors on the stage, grateful for the grass underfoot which deadened the sound of her footsteps.

  ‘The king and queen and all are coming down,’ announced Freddie to his fellow actors on the stage.

  Lady Belvedere breathed a sigh of relief. She had not missed the fencing match after all, and it was this event that had drawn her to the folly that afternoon. She made her way quickly across the grass to where her mother stood inspecting the costumes, a long trestle table in front of her covered in various yards of material, some of which shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

  As she joined Mrs Simpson, she realised that, for all her care, her sudden appearance by the side of the folly had not gone unnoticed. It was evident that Cordelia Quail had caught a movement out of the corner of her eye for she turned to glare at her. On determining the identity of the newcomer, the frown had quickly been replaced by a strained smile. Lady Belvedere, however, was left with the distinct impression that she had intruded upon a private performance and that her presence was unwelcome.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Rose,’ said her mother, encroaching on her daughter’s thoughts. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Now, tell me what you think of my using this bit of fabric for Horatio.’

  Before Rose could comment, both women were distracted from their conversation by the arrival of a footman, who was bearing two Victorian cranberry-coloured wine glasses on a silver tray. This was not unusual in itself, but it was evident that the servant had been hurrying, for he was clearly out of breath. Rather unceremoniously, Cordelia snatched the tray from his hands and marched up on to the stage.

  ‘Ursula Stapleton was making the most frightful fuss because there was no water in her glass,’ Mrs Simpson explained to her daughter in a lowered voice. ‘She demanded that her glass be filled because she has to drink from it in this final scene.’

  ‘Couldn’t she pretend to drink?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Apparently not,’ answered her mother, with a faint note of contempt. ‘It appears that her acting skills do not extend as far as that.’

  ‘Poor Miss Quail,’ murmured Rose. ‘I expect she has far more important things to think about than check whether the glasses have water in them.’

  It was only later that she wished she had kept the wine glasses in sight, had followed their progress across the stage, through the doorway at the back, and into the circular room beyond where the props were stored, and where the troupe rested until they were required on stage.

  Chapter Two

  Rose marvelled at the assortment of clothes and material that covered the trestle table. Rich velvets were draped over luxurious furs, delicate lace caressed pastel silk satins, and leather belts, with brass or celluloid buckles, straddled brightly-patterned cottons and rayon. It all made for rather a dazzling display, the overall effect being one of colour and texture.

  ‘I consider myself very fortunate,’ Mrs Simpson was saying, following her daughter’s gaze, ‘to have such a choice of fabric, I mean.’ She lowered her voice a little before continuing, though it was hardly necessary for the director was some distance away. ‘I must admit that when Miss Quail first asked me if I would consider helping out with the costumes, I was awfully afraid that I would be given some old moth-eaten rags to work with.’

  ‘I believe Mrs Farrier donated quite a few clothes from Sedgwick Court,’ said Rose, referring to her housekeeper. She paused a moment to pick up a pair of faded green corduroy trousers. ‘Yes, these were Cedric’s. He tore them on some brambles; look, here is the tear just below the knee.’

  ‘Well, they will make a very fine pair of breeches for Horatio,’ said her mother, taking the trousers from her daughter, and draping them over the arm of a chair.

  ‘Have you many more costumes to make?’ Rose asked. It was only four weeks until the performance, and she thought her mother looked tired.

  ‘No, only Horatio’s. I’ve finished all the other costumes, except for adding the odd bit of trimming or embellishment, if I have time.’ Mrs Simpson gathered up some of the material and clothes and sighed. ‘Fortunately, I have not been required to make the courtiers’ outfits. Mrs Dobson and a few of the women from the village are making those. There will be quite a lot of them.’ Looking up, she caught a glimpse of Miriam, who was heading towards the stage. ‘Oh, and Ophelia, of course; I quite forgot about her. I intend to make her another costume for her final scene. If Miss Quail is agreeable, that is. The dress she is wearing is not at all suitable. I have my heart set on a full-length gown of pale blue satin coupled with a headdress of wild flowers and leaves.’

  The sound of a fanfare of sorts from a trumpet, blown rather inexpertly by Miss Quail, brought the women’s conversation to an abrupt end. Instinctively, they both moved forward to obtain a better view of what was happening on the stage. Hamlet and Horatio, the latter looking rather out of place in a mixture of Elizabethan and contemporary attire, had walked to one end of the stage and stood before the outer column, fixedly regarding the door at the back of the temple, which led to the circular room.

  The king and queen were the first to emerge from the doorway in all their finery, Algernon Cuffe in his ermine and velvet, and Ursula Stapleton in a Tudor style gown of gold and burgundy embroidered taffeta. They were quickly followed by the man playing Laertes, and also by Walter Drury, in his guise as Osric, who carried a small wooden table. On their heels followed what was obviously intended to represent a small band of courtiers, but was, in fact, no more than the girl playing Ophelia, looking rather petulant, and the Prentice twins, dressed in matching black and red striped doublets and breeches. One of the twins was struggling to carry several foils and gauntlets, and the other was clutching the tray with the two Victorian cranberry-coloured wine glasses.

  ‘Hold the foils by their hilts,’ cried Cordelia, dashing up from her seat. ‘Don’t carry them in your arms like that, you’ll be like –’ The rest of her sentence was drowned out by a loud crash as the foils clattered on to the old stone floor. ‘Pick them up,’ cried the director, quite beside herself. ‘Walter, for pity’s sake, help the boy.’

  Walter Drury put down the table and came forward to help. Together with the offending Prentice twin, he knelt and gathered up the weapons. The other twin deposited the tray and glasses none too carefully on the wooden table and positioned himself behind it, grinning rather unkindly at his brother’s mishap. The foils restored, the play progressed in rather a slow and halting fashion as the table was repositioned between two of the inner pillars and the king and queen and makeshift courtiers circled the two young swordsmen, who had ventured forward and were now standing in the porch area in front of the great columns.

  Against this backdrop of cool grey stone, the costumes of the players showed as a vivid burst of colour, drawing the eye. Rose, who, until her elevation in society, had worked in a dress shop, marvelled at her mother’s skill as a dressmaker and seamstress to create such a visual spectacle.

  ‘To the sides, courtiers, or stand behind the pillars,’ instructed the director. ‘Otherwise the audience will not be able to see the fight. Now …’ Cordelia paused in what she was saying, aware suddenly that the countess and her mother were no longer pos
itioned behind the trestle table immersed in fabrics. Instead, they were a few feet from her, and she beckoned to them hurriedly to stand beside her. It seemed, in her eyes, that her cast now had a proper audience.

  ‘Ah, Lady Belvedere, how good of you to join us,’ she said, when Rose was by her elbow. ‘I know that I speak for the Sedgwick Players when I say what a great honour it is –’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Rose quickly, thinking it was nothing of the sort. ‘In fact, I do hope you won’t consider it to be a nuisance, my being here. I’m just fascinated by the idea of seeing the fencing match. Cedric … Lord Belvedere, has spoken of it a great deal.’

  ‘I am sure he has,’ replied Cordelia, giving her rather an indulgent smile. She leaned her head towards Rose and lowered her voice. ‘Of course, I shouldn’t really say this, your ladyship, but he is awfully good in the role.’

  Rose smiled and blushed, and returned her gaze to the stage. Amid the mass of rich fabrics and brightly coloured costumes, the man playing Hamlet was conspicuous. Dressed entirely in black from doublet to hose, there was something of a melancholy air about him, in keeping with his character on stage. In addition, she noticed, he was looking rather pale and holding the hilt of his foil awkwardly and with obvious reluctance, which surprised her.

  ‘Poor Henry,’ muttered Cordelia, following Rose’s gaze. ‘He’s frightfully good at reciting the soliloquies, but he does so hate the sword fighting.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, Laertes is supposed to be the better swordsman, but it is Hamlet who scores the first hit.’ She moved forward a step or two and raised her voice. ‘Henry, you must at least pretend to fight. If you could chase Laertes around the stage a bit, that should do. Remember, Osric needs an opportunity to say his line about a palpable hit.’

  Henry mumbled something under his breath and moved a step or two towards the man playing Laertes, who darted behind one column, only to spring out from behind another and thrust his foil within inches of the poor man’s chest. Henry flinched visibly, and all but dropped his foil. Fortunately, however, Cordelia Quail’s attention had been drawn elsewhere, for another actor now held her notice.

  ‘Algernon, did you hold up the pearl for the audience to see?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the king rather grumpily. ‘I made quite a good show of it too. You were obviously not watching, Cordelia; too busy shouting at the twins, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Cordelia glared at him, and opened her mouth as if to make a suitable retort, but thought better of it.

  ‘A hit, a very palpable hit,’ cried Walter, amid the tension, though the excited note in his voice sounded rather false. It occurred to Rose that he spoke as much to calm the situation as for anything else, for, as far as she had seen, there had been no actual hit. Certainly, the man playing Hamlet had not appeared to go anywhere near his opponent’s body, let alone touch it with the tip of his foil. If anything, he had recoiled from his adversary and was now clinging to one of the inner columns beside the table.

  ‘Stay, give me drink,’ demanded the king.

  With that, Algernon marched towards the table and, in something of an exaggerated manner, picked up one of the crimson wine glasses. In his other hand, he held out the pearl as if for inspection. ‘Hamlet, this pearl is thine. Here’s to thy health,’ he said, vaguely in the direction of the cowering Hamlet. Cordelia, caught slightly off guard, blew the trumpet rather belatedly and Algernon threw the pearl carelessly into the wine glass. ‘Give him the cup,’ he snarled, waving the wine glass wildly in the air. Walter leapt forward and took the glass, before the contents spilt on to the stage, and stood nursing it as if it was his own.

  ‘I’ll play this bout first,’ said Hamlet, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Set it by awhile.’

  Walter looked about him for the queen, who was standing some distance from him. He tried to catch her eye, but she was fiddling with her hair, a strand of which had become tangled in one of the faux jewels embroidered on her elaborate collar. She should have been standing beside him, not fussing over her costume. He felt himself begin to yield to panic. He would not be able to cross the stage in time for Ursula to drink to Hamlet’s fortune. It was only a few lines away and Ursula, without the will or talent to improvise drinking without a glass, was sure to create a scene. That would then infuriate Cordelia, who would more than likely insist that they do the scene again from the very beginning until they got it right. And that would mean …

  Perhaps the distress was evident in his eyes, or possibly others on the stage were keeping abreast of the script and foresaw the difficulty, and had no desire to prolong the rehearsal any more than he did. Whichever it was, he felt the wine glass being snatched roughly from his hand. Instinctively, for one brief moment, he tightened his grip on the stem.

  ‘Let go, Walter, there’s a dear,’ said Miriam in a sharp whisper in his ear.

  Obligingly, he released his hold and watched as she carried the wine glass to the queen in time for Ursula to say: ‘The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.’

  ‘Good madam,’ mumbled Henry over his shoulder, his attention fixed on parrying desperately as his opponent lunged enthusiastically.

  Ursula raised the wine glass to her lips.

  ‘Gertrude, do not drink,’ cried Algernon, in so loud a voice that all the cast, including Henry, stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him. Ursula appeared a little taken aback, and hesitated a moment before delivering her next line: ‘I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me.’ With that, she glared at Algernon and drank heavily from her glass.

  ‘Ursula, don’t look at Algernon like that,’ protested Cordelia. ‘He is the king and you are defying his command. And don’t make a face when you drink from the glass. It is not until later that you realise the wine has been poisoned.’

  Ursula scowled, but made no comment. Meanwhile, Algernon was holding his head in his hand and muttering dejectedly and aside to one of the columns: ‘It is the poison’d cup; it is too late.’

  ‘Very good,’ murmured Cordelia from the audience. ‘You said that line with great feeling, Algernon.’

  Meanwhile, Rose’s attention was drawn again to Hamlet.

  ‘I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by,’ said Henry, as he made some rather feeble attempt to pursue Laertes.

  ‘Come, let me wipe thy face,’ said Ursula, lowering herself gingerly into a gaudy, gold-painted chair that was intended to represent a throne.

  Henry lowered his foil and ran gladly to the voice, falling on his knees before the queen, and resting his head in her lap.

  ‘I think,’ said Cordelia, quickly, ‘that on reflection it might be better if you remain standing, Ursula.’

  It was possible, Rose thought, that Ursula did not hear her. Certainly, she made no effort to rise from her chair. Instead, with one hand she dabbed absentmindedly at Henry’s face with a cotton handkerchief, and with the other touched her own forehead, as if she felt some dizziness. Henry was looking up in to the woman’s eyes, a flash of something akin to concern or puzzlement revealing itself in his face. Rose stared at the queen more closely. Was Ursula not supposed to be stroking the young man’s hair or patting his cheek? She thought such gestures likely, but instead, the woman appeared distracted. She had removed her hand from her forehead and was clutching the arm of her chair tightly. Her other hand that held the handkerchief made a fist, crumpling the white cotton within its grasp. Instinctively, Rose felt that something was amiss. The woman seemed flushed, her complexion a rosy pink. Of course, it was possible that she was only a little warm encased as she was in her yards of taffeta and three-hooped underskirt, but Rose was of the distinct opinion that the queen looked unwell.

  It was while she was wondering whether she ought to say something to that effect to the director that Cordelia said rather loudly in her ear, but in what was obviously intended to be a whisper: ‘There’s no need to worry, dear Lady Belvedere. It is quite all right. Ursula … Mrs Stapleton, considers this her dramatic scene.’ She sighed. ‘And I’m a
fraid today she is rather overdoing it, even for her.’

  ‘Her performance is very convincing,’ Rose said, and yet still she felt uneasy.

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’ replied Cordelia, sounding surprised and not a little annoyed. ‘I have played the role of Queen Gertrude and I must say I played it rather differently. I pride myself in –’

  ‘Look to the queen there, ho!’ cried Walter. Seemingly on cue, Ursula began to swoon, sliding down in her seat a little.

  ‘No! No!’ cried Cordelia, stepping forward. ‘Ursula, dab at your forehead with your handkerchief if you must, but do not faint until Hamlet’s next line.’

  Ursula’s response to this command was to put both hands to her throat and gasp as if for air. Her frame, attired in the splendour of its Elizabethan gown, shuddered violently. Henry jumped up with a startled cry. To those who looked on, it was as if some ferocious seizure or convulsion had taken hold of the actress, causing her to shake frenziedly and for her muscles to contract involuntarily.