‘And then our dear friend Daisy gave them just the opportunity they needed to sow the seeds of suspicion when she booked Madame Eugénie to appear in the very village where they had learned that Mr Snelson now lived. Madame Eugénie duly arrived and booked in to her room at the pub, never letting on that she was accompanied by her assistant. Lizzie was smuggled in through the back door, I imagine, and with no one ever entering the room, no one would know that there were two women staying there. If needs be, she’s small enough to hide in the wardrobe.
‘So they put on their show – which as we’ve just seen was pure theatre – and over the ensuing nights, Lizzie would sneak downstairs, wreak a little havoc, and reinforce the accusation of murder by leaving messages on the skittle alley scoreboard. They nearly came unstuck three nights ago when my maid, Miss Armstrong, spent the night in the pub, but by careful use of a spare key to leave her locked in her room and some rather clever misdirection from Queenie who kept everyone busy and out of the way while Lizzie crept back to their room, they were able to leave their message, the one which led the Gloucester police to the evidence in the farm. I have no idea what that evidence was – letters, perhaps, spelling out the plan, or a forged confession – but whatever it was, it was enough to convince the Gloucester detectives that Mr Snelson should be arrested and that they should investigate further.
‘So far, so good, and their plan was proceeding well. Mr Snelson was arrested, there was fresh evidence which might secure his conviction, and it was only a matter of time before they were “in the money” as the saying goes.
‘Even if a word of that were true,’ said Queenie Huggins, a harsh, Black Country twang replacing the dreamy voice we were used to, ‘we ain’t done nothink illegal. Snelson still set that fire, and he still murdered Lizzie’s pa. All we done is help out by speaking the truth.’
‘Ah, well, I’m afraid there’s one extra little part of the story that you don’t know, and which a rather excellent investigator employed by my solicitors managed to dig up for me when I suggested what I thought might have happened. You see, Mr Snelson can’t have killed Mr Bean, because Mr Emmanuel Bean is alive and well and living in Manchester under the name Isaac Goldstein.’
There was a minor uproar and Mr Snelson, who had up to that point been looking rather relieved that things were finally going his way, slumped in his chair and held his head in his hands.
‘Not dead?’ said Queenie. ‘But there was a body in the timber yard. Of course he’s dead.’
‘No, Mrs Huggins, I’m afraid not. I confess I rather let my prejudices get the better of me, and I never trusted you from the start. Once the nonsense about murder started coming out, I set about trying to think of an alternative explanation. Of course, the story might have been true, and Mr Snelson might somehow have managed to get to Gloucester to torch the timber yard with his partner still in it and still get back to Birmingham in time to give himself an alibi. But what if he hadn’t? What if he had been in Birmingham the whole time? So it was either an accidental fire, or an arson attempt by Bean himself which went tragically wrong. But what if it wasn’t either of those things? The only thing that identified Bean’s burnt body was his signet ring. What if that wasn’t Bean at all, but some unfortunate derelict whose body they had chanced upon and which had given them both an idea. The business, we know, was in difficulties, but the insurance premiums were up to date. Bean had been salting away money and had a substantial policy on his own life. What an opportunity this would be to rid themselves of the failing business, to claim on the insurance policies and live a comfortable retirement. And so Snelson was sent to Birmingham to make sure he couldn’t be implicated in any wrongdoing, while Bean put his ring on the tramp’s corpse and set the fire that destroyed everything. All Bean had to do then was to disappear and wait for Snelson to give him his half share of the proceeds.’
‘Well I never,’ said Mrs Spratt.
‘You could say that the spirit was willing,’ said Mr Holman. Faces remained blank. ‘The spirit made a will, you see. He… oh, never mind.’
‘Quite,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a friendly smile.
‘You still ain’t got nothink on us,’ said Queenie, belligerently.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m sure there’s taking money under false pretences, not paying for a room for Lizzie, some criminal damage to Joe’s pub. Oh, and my solicitors also told me about a rather splendid piece of eighteenth century legislation. They tell me that under the Witchcraft Act of 1735, it’s an offence to claim that one can produce spirits. I gather that the two of you can look forward to at least a year in gaol if convicted. And,’ she indicated the assembled throng, ‘we’re not exactly short of witnesses.’
‘Right,’ said Sergeant Dobson, taking this as his cue for action. ‘Mr Nelson Snelson, I am arresting you on suspicion of making fraudulent insurance claims and of… well, I’m sure there’s some offence of falsifying someone’s death and of not properly disposing of a body, too. Meanwhile, Mrs Queenie Huggins and Miss Lizzie Bean, I am arresting you two under the… what was it, m’lady?’
‘The Witchcraft Act of 1735, sergeant dear.’
‘Under the Witchcraft Act of 1735, for making false claims of being able to produce spirits. I’d also like a word about you roughing up Joe’s bar.’
‘I do hope you’re not too disappointed, pet,’ said Lady Hardcastle the next morning at breakfast.
‘No, my lady, not at all,’ I said. ‘The more frauds that are exposed, the more credibility it gives to all the genuine mediums out there.’
‘I’m not wholly convinced that I follow your reasoning, dear, but I almost see your point. As long as you don’t feel that I’ve mocked you and your beliefs, all is well.’
‘You’re utterly blameless on that score, my lady,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m only disappointed that you didn’t let me in on your suspicions a little sooner.’
‘Where would be the fun in that? I do like to spring my little surprises. And I didn’t want to make it seem like I was belittling something you clearly believe in.’
‘You’re very thoughtful,’ I said, ruefully.
‘I am, pet, I am. Now, what shall we do today?’
‘Well, the weather’s cleared up again, how about a drive? I could drive us up to Berkeley and we could look at the castle.’
‘You could drive, Flo? I think you’ll find it’s my turn to drive.’
‘But how would it look if we drove into the village with you at the wheel? What if we met the Berkeleys? We’d never be invited in if they thought you were the sort of wanton woman who drives a motorcar.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve never met the Berkeleys, pet, they don’t know me from Adam. And “wanton woman”? How dare you. I’ve got my strength back, you know, and I know where we keep the carpet beater.’
I harrumphed. I was just thinking of a comeback when the doorbell rang.
‘Off you trot, you demon of the speed,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Go and earn your keep by impersonating a servant and answering the door.’