Scallaway's End

Two murders

On arriving in the drawing room, Sturling was pleased to find Cumbridge alone, having a drink and looking out the window. ‘Ah, Sturling!’ he exclaimed. ‘I really was wondering where everyone had got to… thought someone else had been murdered.’ He gave a chuckle.

After talking about a few lighter topics, Sturling cut straight to the point. ‘Last night I heard a movement downstairs,’ he said. Sir looked a little startled.

‘Why, so did I!’ he said. ‘I went to the window and looked outside.’

‘Me too,’ said Sturling. ‘I saw someone leave the house, but I couldn’t make out who it was, there was a tree in the way. Did you see?’

Sir Cumbridge nodded, looking somewhat thoughtful. ‘In the flash of lightning I did get a look at who it was,’ he said. ‘Of course, I couldn’t clearly make them out because of the rain, but if I had to put a name on it I’d have said it was…’

At that moment there was a loud, terrified cry from the hallway. ‘Help! Anybody, help!’ Sprinting out the door, he and Cumbridge were met with Sueducate, who came hurrying from the opposite direction. ‘What the hell…’ Sueducate began, then saw. The maid was leaning against the wall, a hand on her heart.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Cambridge.

‘The knife…’ the maid said faintly.

‘Come in here, sit down,’ said Sturling, and led the maid into the drawing room. They were joined by Symes and Ethel Braithwaite, who came hurrying in wringing her hands.

‘Dear me, dear me, what on earth was all that racket?’ she asked. ‘I can’t stand screaming, I really can’t.’

‘Well, what about the knife?’ asked Sturling.

The maid took a shallow, shaking breath. ‘I was dusting Mr Minkwater’s old hunting room where he keeps his animal furs and guns and whatnot. And… and one of the knives is missing. It’s a big hunting knife, and it was there this morning.’

The room went deathly still. ‘So,’ said Sueducate jerkily, ‘someone in this room has the knife.’ The maid nodded.

Ethel Braithwaite flung her hands in the air. ‘Search me if you like,’ she said, ‘but I don’t have the knife. I can tell you’re all looking at me because I’m the most likely suspect, but I’ll tell you now that I have no intent of stabbing anyone.’ Sturling noted that when put under pressure she sounded less batty and more like her now dead friend.

‘It’s clear enough that no one has the knife on their person,’ said Sir Cumbridge. ‘I know the one, one of Max’s favourites, a big chunky thing, not something you could hide under a coat without being seen. I vote that we search around the place. The murderer must’ve hidden the knife somewhere in a hurry.’

‘The interesting point to note,’ said Sturling, ‘is that, if indeed it is the murderer who has stolen the knife and they want to make another murder, it is highly unlikely to be Ethel Braithwaite.’ They all turned to him. ‘You see,’ continued Sturling, ‘Ethel Braithwaite has her money. If she is the murderer, all she needs now is keep a clean record and she’ll keep the money. Indeed, it would be dangerous and idiotic for her to commit a second murder lest she was caught. No, if there is another murder we practically have proof that Ethel didn’t commit the murder of Mrs Minkwater.’

‘You see!’ said Ethel Braithwaite, relief in her voice. ‘I’m not the murderer, I’ve been framed!’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Sturling. ‘However, it means that you are now the prime target, Miss Braithwaite, as you have the money and everyone else here wants it.’ Ethel’s face fell. ‘I suggest you stay in this room while the rest of us search for the weapon. I suggest you stay here too, while you recover,’ he said, turning to the maid.

‘I’m not staying here to be murdered!’ cried the maid, leaping up.

‘Then join the search too,’ said the lawyer, who was already at the door. ‘We’d better split up.’

While the others went off in various directions, Sturling went to the guest rooms upstairs. As well as searching for the knife, it was also an opportunity to look for more clues. He entered Sir’s room and had a quick look, them moved to the next door down and searched through the neatly ironed suits in Sylvester Symes room, before moving onto the door opposite in Tristian Sueducate’s room. It was while he was searching amongst the hairpins and lipstick cases in Ethel Braithwaite’s room that he heard a loud yell from downstairs.

Thinking that the knife had been found he hurried down the hallway and towards the stairs. The first yell was followed by more, but they sounded to shocked and scared to be finding the knife. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Sturling raced down the stairs.

On the hall carpet lay the body of Sir Cumbridge, the hilt of a large hunting knife sticking out of his waistcoat, and blood seeping onto the carpet. Symes and the maid were standing there, mouths open. Ethel Braithwaite hurried out of the drawing room and let forth a bloodcurdling scream. Footsteps came running from behind Sturling, and Sueducate peered down into the hall. ‘What the…’ he began to say, then stopped, the blood draining from his face. ‘Good God,’ he muttered.

Pale and unsteady, Symes stepped forwards and took a closer look at Cumbridge. ‘The wound’s on the front,’ he said. ‘The man must’ve turned and seen who the murderer was before he was killed.’ He suddenly seemed to notice something, and pounced on something small and white near Cumbridge’s right arm. It was a little wisp of white lace handkerchief.

‘Aha!’ said Symes, eyes glittering. ‘A clue. It must’ve been carelessly dropped by the murderer.’

‘Does it have initials on it?’ asked Sturling.

Symes examined it carefully, though they already knew whose it would be. Symes looked up. ‘EB,’ he said.

*

Sir’s body was carried up to his room and placed on his bed, and a sheet was draped over him. The others would have already rung the police to charge Ethel with murder, but the telephone line was still down. Ethel Braithwaite herself had nearly fainted when the handkerchief had been found, but had managed to stumble away to her room. Symes in particular seemed very ready to accuse Ethel of the crime. ‘She’ll kill us all in our sleep it we don’t do something,’ he said.

Sturling, contrary to the others, didn’t believe that Ethel Braithwaite had done the murder. The dropped handkerchief seemed far too obvious to overlook. From what he knew of Ethel, she was cunning, and carelessness was rarely a trait in cunning people.

The maid had recovered enough to cook lunch, however Sturling rather wished that she hadn’t. The potatoes had been cooked into soup while the soup itself was cold and was a rather strange colour.

The maid herself was looking rather ill. Her face was pale and her eyes had dark circles and red rims. It occurred to Sturling that she had been looking ill when he had seen her poking round Cumbridge’s room.

But it was as she was clearing away his plate that Richard Sturling really had his suspicions confirmed. The maid reached down to clear away his plate, and as she did Sturling saw a fleck of something dark under her fingernail. She took away his plate, but when she returned to take back more Sturling purposely knocked over his water glass.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, as the maid took a cloth and mopped the tablecloth. This time Sturling got a better look. The maid’s hands were raw and pink, clearly they had been scrubbed at with a scrubbing brush. But a spot had been missed on the maid’s finger, and Sturling could clearly see a spot of crimson blood.

As soon as lunch was cleared away and the guests began to depart, Sturling signalled to the maid. ‘Would you mind stepping aside with me for a moment?’ he asked. The maid paled, if that was possible.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong, sir…’ she began to say, as Sturling led her into the library where he had first met Mrs Minkwater.

‘I just wanted to ask a quick question,’ said Sturling, closing the door and turning to her. ‘I noticed that you have a spot of blood on your finger.’

He had been expecting some excuse from the maid, she had pricked her finger perhaps, or it wasn’t blood at all. He had not been prepared for what happened next. The maid looked at her hands.

‘You… you saw?’ she said faintly. Then she broke down into sobs.

‘Was it you who killed Sir Cumbridge?’ asked Sturling.

‘No,’ sobbed the maid, ‘no you don’t understand, it’s not that simple.’ Behind them, the door creaked open.

‘Tell me who killed Mrs Minkwater and Sir Cumbridge,’ said Sturling.

The maid gave a small whimper, then took a shaking breath. ‘I - It was…’

But at that moment there was a bang, and the maid fell to the ground, dead. Sturling spun around in time to see the small handgun used to shoot Mrs Minkwater lying on the ground, and running footsteps echoing down the hallway.

‘Who was that?’ yelled Sturling, sprinting out into the hallway. Ethel Braithwaite came hurrying down the stairs.

‘Oh, don’t tell me someone else has been shot.’ Sturling ran down the hallway the direction the footsteps had come. At the end, the passageway split into two, and from opposite directions Symes and Sueducate came running.

‘What’s happened?’ panted Symes. There was a loud scream; clearly Ethel had found the maid’s body. The three men went hurrying back to the library.

Symes looked from the maid’s body slumped on the hearth to the gun lying smoking on the ground. Then he pointed a shaking finger at Sturling. ‘It was you!’ he hissed. ‘It was you all along! You took the maid aside, you had the gun for safekeeping, you shot her because she knew something.’ He turned to the others. ‘Well, would you know it, the detective’s been killing us all along.’