“I had a hunch you’d be there,” Henry said.
“I hope,” said Vandike, “that James put on a good show of grief, arousing pity and terror, at your exposition yesterday.”
Henry grinned. “He was threatening to turn into a reincarnation of Sir Henry Irving. I had to give him a sharp slap between the shoulder blades, or he’d have started on ‘The Bells.’ However, Nora took him home safely. And they certainly seem to have conveyed my instructions to you efficiently this morning. By the way,” he added, “why didn’t you just get on to me at the Yard?”
“Because I could see how thin my story sounded, and I had a good motive for killing Peter. The Oppenshaws had apparently impeccable alibis, and they are powerful people.” He appealed to Henry. “You know very well that you had to stage this whole charade to smoke them out.”
Henry sighed. “Yes,” he said. “I owe all you people an apology. The whole thing hinged on Barbara’s amnesia about Jeannie’s murder. I had to shock her back into remembering.”
“So,” said Fred Coe, “what happens now?”
As if in answer to his question, there came two sharp reports from the direction of the house. Two gunshots.
Henry jumped to his feet. “Stay here, all of you. I’ll go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
HENRY WAS JUST emerging from the shelter of the trees and into the open green of the park when he saw Barbara coming out of the French windows that led from the drawing room to the terrace. He also saw that she had a shotgun in her hands. He began to run.
“Barbara!” he called.
She stopped and looked at him blankly. Then she said, “They’re both dead.”
“What are you doing with that gun?” Henry demanded harshly.
“I shot—”
“You didn’t shoot them. Barbara, listen to me. You didn’t shoot them.”
There was a long silence. Then Barbara said, “I went straight to the old nursery. I couldn’t face anybody, not after I remembered. Then, a bit later, I heard voices from the drawing room. Father and Mother. Mother sounded hysterical. I came out onto the terrace and watched through the window. I saw Father’s shotgun in there. I knew I had to kill Father, and then of course I’d have to kill her too, because she’d be a witness.”
Henry said, “Where did you get that gun?”
“I went in and picked it up. They didn’t even notice me. I wonder why. So I shot them.”
“Give it to me.”
Listlessly, Barbara held out the shotgun. Henry pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully took the gun by the barrel. He said again, “You didn’t kill either of them.” Raising his voice, he called, “Mr. Timmond!”
With suspicious speed, Timmond appeared from around the corner of the house.
Henry said, “You were watching, as I asked?”
“Yes, sir. And I’m afraid there’s been a dreadful accident, sir. Still, I didn’t come until you called, like you said. There was nothing I could do for the poor souls, in any case.”
“Tell me what happened, Mr. Timmond.”
“Well, sir, Sir Robert was in the drawing room. He had his shotgun that he goes after rabbits and such with, and he was cleaning it. I thought that was odd, because the drawing room’s no place to clean a gun. Then Miss Barbara came running up from the sea path, looking proper put out, and headed for the old nursery. Next thing, Lady Oppenshaw came along.”
“Did she seem upset?” Henry asked.
Timmond considered. “Agitated, I’d say, sir. More angry than upset, really. She went into the drawing room. I was keeping watch, like you said. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could tell there was some big row going on. Lady Oppenshaw was very worked up then, sir, I could see. Sir Robert was very calm and sort of… well, detached, sir. He’d got the gun together again, and then—well, it happened so quick, sir—but it must have gone off accidental. Next thing, there’s a scream and Lady Oppenshaw’s down on the floor. Sir Robert just stood there, looking at her. I came closer, to where there’s an open window. I didn’t know what to do, and that’s the truth, sir. Then Sir Robert said a funny thing. To himself, like. He said, ‘Yes, Tibbett. All over. What a relief.’ And, quite calm, he put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and…well, that was it. They’re both in there.”
“And what about Miss Barbara?”
“When she heard the shots, she came running into the drawing room from inside the house—the old nursery’s just on the other side of it, see? And she stood there looking, and then she took the gun out of her father’s hand and came out onto the terrace and met you, sir.”
Henry turned to Barbara. He said, “You see? Luckily for you, I’d arranged to have someone watching them. Now, as your poor father said, it’s all over.”
Suddenly Barbara began to cry with utter desperation. Henry said, “Mr. Timmond, will you take Miss Barbara to the kitchen and ask Cook to give her a nice cup of tea? I’m going to phone the police.”
When all the formalities had been sorted out, Henry had a quiet talk with Detective Sergeant Hemming. The police contention at the inquest would be that Sir Robert had accidentally shot his wife while cleaning his gun, and in an agony of remorse had then killed himself.
Hemming was convinced that this was the truth, and that the jury would accept it. The verdict on Peter Turnberry was not even mentioned. The miraculous return from the dead of Professor Harold Vandike would be put down to one of his well-known malicious pranks. He was prepared to issue an apology to the members of the search parties who had been scouring the Devil’s Chimney area for him and to make a sizable donation to their cause.
When Hemming and his men had gone, Henry had a long and private talk with Barbara Oppenshaw. Her recollection of Jeannie’s death was now perfectly clear.
“We went down to swim,” she said, “and after a bit I came out of the water while Jeannie stayed in, doing some proper swimming instead of trying to teach me.
“Then I saw Dr. Cartwright coming down the path, and he called me. I went to see what he wanted, but I never really liked him much, and I wanted to get back to the beach. He was trying to show me toadstools and things in the woods—but I slipped away from him. That was when I saw Daddy. He was on the beach in one of those frogman suits. I just had time to see his face before he put on his snorkel mask. Then he went into the water, making for Jeannie. I thought it was some sort of game. I called, but he didn’t hear me. Jeannie saw him coming and waved, and then…” Barbara covered her eyes. “It was horrible. He just grabbed her and held her under. I think I screamed, but I don’t think any noise came out. I was sort of numb. I remembered going back to Dr. Cartwright and asking him quite calmly about toadstools. He’d not seen anything, and he had no idea that I had.
“I said I wanted to go back to the house, so he took me, and Mother said in a funny sort of voice, ‘Where’s Jeannie?’ And I remember now that I thought, I’m not going to tell you, so I just said, ‘She’s having a swim on her own.’ Mother said I should go and lie down, and she gave me a drink and a pill and I went to sleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember anything after leaving the house with Jeannie in the morning. Later on, they told me Jeannie had drowned—and I was just miserable, but the memory of what really happened had gone.
“It’s funny, though. There must have been a subconscious memory, because I never felt the same way about Mother or Father again. All I wanted to do was to get away from here—first to boarding school and college, then to my own flat in London. I always felt guilty about it, because they were both so sweet and kind to me. I suppose that helped to make me…sort of mixed up. I never guessed the real reason.”
Henry said, “You’ve had a frightful experience, my dear, and I’m desperately sorry. But you’re young, and now that it’s all out in the open, you’ll get over it. Just as you’ll get over the moment when you thought you’d shot your parents, even though they were already dead when you went into the drawing room.”
Managing a sort of ha
lf-smile, Barbara said, “Since today seems to be my moment of truth, you’d better tell me about Peter too. I think you’ve guessed already that I was very deeply in love with him. It was only when I realized that he didn’t care about me, but only about my money, that…well, something snapped. I’m afraid I behaved very badly. I was awfully rude to Emmy at your apartment that evening. Please apologize to her for me.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Barbara,” said Henry. “You’ve been through several kinds of hell, and you’ve come out of them intact. Now you must get on with your life and your work.”
“But Father killed Peter, didn’t he?”
“No, Barbara. He didn’t. Pamela did.” After Henry explained that Peter was Jeannie’s illegitimate son and told her how he had been murdered, he hoped that she would ask no more questions. Fortunately she did not.
When Henry and Emmy returned to their room to pack, there was a respectful knock on the door. It was Sowerby, the butler. He carried a silver tray, on which there was a letter addressed to Henry.
“Dr. Cartwright has just left the Manor,” said Sowerby, with the blend of respect and mourning required by the situation. “He asked me to hand you this, sir.”
The letter was undated, but was on Carnworth Manor stationery and marked “2:00 P.M.”
Dear Mr. Tibbett,
If, as I suspect, the whole truth comes to light this afternoon, I am asking Sowerby to give this to you. I freely admit that I was the father of Jeannie Warfield’s child. I freely admit that, at Pamela’s request, I arranged for him to be adopted through Harold Vandike. I had no idea that he was Peter Turnberry.
I also had no idea that Robert Oppenshaw intended to drown Jeannie when he asked me to keep Baba away from the beach that afternoon. I had no idea that in complying with Pamela’s apparently harmless request about the car, I was conspiring in the death of my son.
I freely admit that I gave her the drug which—although I did not know for what purpose she would use it—would render Harry Vandike insensible.
Of course, after Jeannie’s death, I realized what must have happened, and that Pamela had tricked me into being an accessory. As for her other requests—I was utterly in the dark. I thought perhaps she might be cheating on Robert with some other man. Anyway, what I thought or didn’t think has little relevance. I had no choice but to comply.
In view of all this, it is obviously impossible for me to continue in practice as I have done, even if no charges are made against me. I therefore propose to volunteer to serve in a mission hospital abroad, one I have supported financially for some time. I feel it would be a pity to waste what medical skill I possess.
W. Cartwright.
Some months later, Henry and Emmy Tibbett were having a pleasant lunch in London with Barbara Oppenshaw, Harry Vandike, and Fred Coe. This was their first reunion since the Carnworth tragedy.
Carnworth Manor had been sold, and was now a private school for young ladies of ample means. A new Miss Twinkley novel was in the bookstores and the public libraries. It was to be the last of the collaborative series. Fred had found, to his satisfaction, that he could produce plots as well as write the adventures of that intrepid lady. However, he did correspond on medical points with Dr. Cartwright at an address in Bolivia.
Barbara, to everyone’s surprise, had assumed full control of Oppenshaw and Trilby, which was doing very well. The Lydia Drake books, Henry had noticed with some amusement, were now being published by another firm, and new titles appeared less frequently.
He said, “You’re a very honest person, Barbara. I suppose it would be nepotism to publish your own books. But surely your new publishers must know who you are?”
Barbara grinned. “Can you keep a secret?”
“You should know I can.”
“Well, poor old Myrtle was really running out of ideas, and for some reason she seems to have gone off the idea of violence.”
Henry avoided meeting Vandike’s amused eye.
“So,” Barbara went on,“we’ve retired Jack Harvey—he has given up writing and gone to live in the south of France. And Myrtle has taken over the Lydia Drake books.”
“But—”
“Oh, I write them, of course. But she submits them to the publishers, and gets the royalties. I don’t need the money, I write just for fun—and it means that she can keep that nice house of hers.”
“And she still qualifies as a member of the Guess Who club,” said Henry. “When’s the next meeting?”
“We’ve dissolved the club,” said Barbara easily. “After what happened, it seemed macabre to go on.” Suddenly she looked across the table at Harry Vandike. “I’ve been longing to ask you for months, Harry. Where on earth were you when we all thought you’d been killed in Wales?”
With no trace of hesitation, Vandike said, “Oh, here and there. I spent some time with Henry, and some with Myrtle. Then, when I heard they were sending out search parties, I thought it was time to reappear. I’d had my fun by then, and scored off my victims.”
“I see,” said Barbara. “Another of your typically cruel practical jokes.”
“That’s right,” said Harry Vandike.
For more “Inspector Tibbett” and other “Vintage” titles from Felony & Mayhem Press, including the “Inspector Alleyn” series by Ngaio Marsh, please visit our website: FelonyAndMayhem.com
All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.
A SIX-LETTER WORD FOR DEATH
A Felony & Mayhem “Vintage” mystery
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First UK print edition (Collins): 1983
First US print edition (Holt, Rinehart and Winston): 1983
Felony & Mayhem print and digital editions: 2019
Copyright © The Estate of Patricia Moyes 1983
All rights reserved
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63194-219-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Moyes, Patricia, author.
Title: A six-letter word for death / Patricia Moyes.
Description: Felony & Mayhem edition. | New York : Felony & Mayhem Press,
2019. | Series: A Felony & Mayhem mystery | Summary: “An unknown
informant sends Henry Tibbett a set of crossword clues related to a
group of mystery writers, and Henry must solve the puzzle to identify
the murderer among them”-- Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019038721 | ISBN 9781631942181 (trade paperback) |
ISBN 9781631942198 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6063.O9 S5 2019 | DDC 823/.914--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019038721
A Six-Letter Word for Death Page 25
