by Anne Morice
‘What’s that my pet?’
‘Such nonsense, really; it couldn’t matter less, but I’ve been looking everywhere in Grandmamma’s bedroom and I just can’t find those tapes I left for her.’
There was a fractional pause before I heard Betsy say:
‘So sorry, my chick, but I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I’ve no idea what became of them. Never mind! We’ll all have a good look round later on and I’m sure we’ll be able to find them.’
V
(i)
Sophie was reclining on a drawing-room sofa, watched over with tender solicitude by her grandfather-in-law, Dickie Travers, and rather more inscrutably by a black Persian cat curled up at her side. I had often detected a strong feline strain in Sophie’s chemistry and I think the cats must have recognised it too, for she was one of the very few human beings whose attentions they would tolerate.
Outwardly, she was a tiny, doll-like creature with exquisite enamelled looks and a thin, metallic voice to match. She and Piers had been married for three years and there had been more than one miscarriage, so far no children. This was one reason that was often given for their marriage so nearly foundering but I think there were others as well.
I went across to her and she opened her pain-filled eyes and stretched out a miniature claw for the glass I was holding. She then took two sips from it and screwed up her face in disgust, which was hardly surprising. Having failed to find magnesia in any shape or form, I had dissolved an aspirin in water and then stirred in a dollop of toothpaste.
Smiling his benign smile, Dickie had risen to greet me. He, too, was a minor work of art in his way; a specimen of authentic or good reproduction Edwardiana, nurtured and polished in a score of drawing-room comedies.
Whether by accident or design, he had been cast during his early career in a succession of rôles portraying the uppermost crust of the English nobility; and so accomplished had he become in them that, whereas the parts had begun by fitting him like a glove, as time went by the glove had become a second skin.
Nor had age diminished this glory for in his middle years he had enraptured audiences even more with his portly, philosophical dukes than with the languid and frivolous variety of his youth. So undisputed was his pre-eminence in this field that the point had come where every fashionable dramatist with his finger on the pulse had got into the way of creating his earls and marquises in the image of Dickie Travers instead of the other way round.
Sadly enough, according to Toby, my invariable, sometimes reliable informant in these matters, it was his very success in this line which had caused his marriage to break up. Being in such constant demand in Shaftesbury Avenue had meant that he was very rarely available to follow the Stirling drum on its regular and triumphant processions round three of the five continents. Maud did not cease to love and adore him but backsliding in this department was one of numerous defects which she would not tolerate in a husband or lover.
Although now in his seventies and long retired, he was still erect and immaculately turned out, with a wholesome pink face and the most pristine of white hair. On this occasion he was wearing a black and white check suit, which could have been delivered from the tailors that very morning, and his handmade shoes had the sheen of chestnuts straight from their green cases. Since he hadn’t a thing in the world to do except walk round the corner to his club, sit there for a couple of hours and then walk back again, there was nothing specially admirable in so much elegance, but it was none the less quite a joy to the beholder. Moreover there was a certain gallantry in his unswerving good humour, however foolish, and I knew that no matter how grievously he might feel Maudie’s loss, his code would never permit his betraying a hint of self-pity.
‘This poor gel’s ’avin’ a shockin’ go of the collywobbles,’ he informed me, looking fondly at Sophie and playing his usual leap-frog with the consonants.
Sophie obediently gave a slight shudder and then, to my astonishment and gratification, tossed off the remaining aspirin and toothpaste in one brave gulp.
‘Ugh, horrible,’ she complained in her tinny voice, ‘but whatever it is it seems to be working. I think the pain’s going off.’
‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Just lie still and Dr Macintosh will be here quite soon. You must do exactly as he tells you. You may find his approach slightly eccentric, but don’t be fooled. In the field of medical science he is pure magic.’
‘Clever fellah,’ Dickie agreed. ‘Most amusin’. Funny thing. Thought he might be related to a fellah I knew at the Garrick. Fellah called Jock Macintosh. Shockin’ bounder. But he never even heard of the fellah.’
Sophie did not look particularly reassured by this build-up but with miraculous timing the subject of it entered the room as the last echo died away. Evidently, though, he had forgotten the purpose of his visit and the first five minutes were given over to some fairly searching probes into the state of Dickie’s gammy leg. Dr Macintosh then went on to tell us a little about his own ulcer, which was giving him gyp, and followed this up by remarking that he’d been passing the time of day with that extraordinary chap, Pettigrew, whom he’d run into in the hall. However, a moan or two from Sophie eventually brought him round to the subject of an impending miscarriage and Dickie and I left them to hold their consultation in private.
There was no one in the hall but I could hear bellowing booms from the morning-room, where presumably Betsy was entertaining Mr Pettigrew, so I nipped back to the kitchen to get to work on the cheese straws. Robin came in as I was taking them out of the oven and, succumbing to his admiring comments, I allowed him to eat some of the frizzled bits round the edges of the tin.
I then asked him why he had not gone straight to the church, in accordance with schedule, and he replied that he had thought it would be a smart move to park his car in the Rectory drive, so as to make a quick getaway when the time came. He had been unable to place the car in the exact spot of his choosing because there was a little striped, four-wheeled VW beetle, with daisies painted on it, standing just inside the gate.
‘That’s Digby’s contraption,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you know?’
‘So having got as far as this,’ Robin went on, ‘I decided to look in and see how you were getting on, and also check up on any murders which may have taken place since we last met.’
‘Okay, Robin, but I think that joke’s getting a bit frayed now. I admit that I may have magnified things a little, but I still think Betsy is afraid there was something not quite right about Maud’s death, even though she has been at such pains to deny it. Well, that’s partly why, of course. The lady doth protest a thought too much. All the same, whatever mischief there may have been, it’s now quite clear that no one set out to harm Maudie.’
‘Well, that’s something, at least. How do you know?’
I described the set up with the night nurse, adding: ‘So even if Betsy did take rather too much on herself, as Jasper was hinting, it is simply not possible for anyone to have foreseen that Maudie would ring for a drink during the night, that the nurse would have been asleep and not heard her when she did so, and that Betsy wouldn’t have drunk any of the milk from her thermos.’
‘Very logical thinking, but I take it you have not yet abandoned your lovely idea that the milk had been poisoned, although I suppose you are now working on the assumption that it was intended for Betsy?’
‘As to that, I shall keep an open mind,’ I told him. ‘I still think there may have been something wrong with the milk, and obviously Betsy does, too. Not poison, necessarily, but why shouldn’t some well-meaning person have decided to give Betsy a stiff sleeping pill, for instance?’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Just to calm her down a bit. Because she was getting so fussed.’
‘Oh, that’s rather a tame solution,’ Robin said. He had begun to pace up and down the kitchen in a heavily abstracted manner, running restlesss fingers through his wavy locks, though not neglecting to help himself to a couple of
cheese straws as he passed the table.
‘I’ll tell you what, though, Tessa,’ he then announced gravely. ‘If there was something wrong about Maud’s death, it looks as though Betsy must have been responsible. No one else, as you’ve pointed out, could have engineered it by remote control, but just consider how simple it would have been for her! She had only to send the nurse on some fictitious errand to the kitchen, then nip in and poison her mother and Bob’s your uncle. The story about the thermos could have been sheer fabrication.’
‘I’ve thought of that, naturally,’ I said, pretending to take him seriously, ‘but I’m afraid it doesn’t stand up. In the first place there would have been no occasion to question the timing of Maud’s death, if Betsy hadn’t raised it herself. Secondly, she had no motive.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t let that bother you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just keep digging away and you’ll turn one up in the end.’
By an odd coincidence I was to find a first-class, gold-plated one only a few hours later, and with no digging at all.
(ii)
Margot came downstairs wearing a black fur pancake, which looked as though it might originally have belonged to a guardsman and subsequently been remodelled for Davy Crockett. Presumably it was her special funeral hat, for it was unseasonable in a heatwave as well as unbecoming. Nevertheless she succeeded as usual in conveying a marked impression of delicate breeding in her particular brand of dowdiness.
‘Are you going to walk down to the church with me?’ she enquired, eyeing my flour-spattered dress with some disdain. ‘That will be delightful, but you need a wash and brush up first, don’t you?’
‘No, I’m staying here,’ I replied. ‘Betsy can’t face it and I’ve promised to sit it out with her.’
It cost quite an effort to say this, for although I did not find her congenial or sympathetic, Margot had perfected the art of inducing others to take her at her own valuation, which was about as high as you could go. She was so sublimely complacent that one felt almost flattered to be put in one’s place by her and to disobey her commands bordered on downright ingratitude.
‘How tiresome of her! I cannot think why she has to make such a fuss.’
‘Robin’s going,’ I said defensively. ‘He’s just left. And I suppose you’ll have Dickie and the boys to support you?’
‘Evidently not, my dear. Piers thinks he ought to stay with Sophie until the last minute. She’s lying down in Betsy’s room now and feeling very sorry for herself, I gather. As for Digby, I’ve simply no idea where he’s got to. You haven’t seen him, I suppose?’
‘Not lately. I thought he was with you.’
She did not deign to comment on this, but seeing Dickie come into the hall turned her attention to him.
‘Oh, there you are, Father! You and I seem to be the only pair with our wits about us this morning. Really, what a madhouse! Shall we go along now?’
‘Ready when you are, old gel. Just get me titfer.’
I watched them set off together down the drive, two stately, upright figures, both firmly entrenched in their separate rôles, neither of which permitted the faintest whiff of spontaneous emotion breaking through the surface. There was something quite confidence-inspiring in the sight of them and yet, when they reached the gate, I had a nagging feeling that there was something missing from the picture. It was not until I had turned indoors again that I realised what this was, and went out to verify it. Robin’s car was parked away to my left, twenty yards or so inside the drive. Between it and the gate there was an empty space, signifying that the daisy-covered beetle had been driven away.
Gerald Pettigrew, had left some minutes before and I found Betsy alone in the morning-room. She looked chilled and wretched and appeared to have aged several years in the last half hour. Evidently, her grief went much deeper than I had realised and, whatever Robin might say, I was convinced that this time, at any rate, her distress was genuine. Uncertain how to treat the situation, I said nothing and seated myself in the armchair facing hers.
She looked up and smiled bleakly at me once, but for the most part simply stared down into the fireplace, rumpling the great big sensible handkerchief between her hands.
After ten minutes the silence was making me nervous and I suggested it might be a good plan to give ourselves a job of work, such as laying out some plates in the dining-room.
‘Not just yet, my duck. I’d rather sit here quietly and think a few things out. Albert can probably cope with all that. He’s feeling a bit better now, but he preferred not to go to the church. I believe he means to visit the grave on his own; later on, when everyone has gone. He’s a Catholic, you know, so I suppose our services don’t have quite the same meaning for him.’
She reeled all this off in a flat, toneless way, which worried me even more than the former silence, and I said: ‘Should I get you a drink then, Betsy?’
‘What? A drink? Oh no, thank you, my pet. I had one with Gerald, just to keep him company. He wants to talk to us all when the others get back. Did I tell you that? He wants us all to hear about Mamma’s will and so on . . .’
Her voice trailed away to desolate mumble and, assuming my briskest manner, I said:
‘Another ordeal for you, poor Betsy, but I expect it’s sensible to do everything according to the ritual. It’s always easier to get through these bad times when everyone has a script to follow. All the same, he won’t want Robin and me, so we’ll fade out as soon as the others return.’
‘Oh no, you mustn’t do that,’ she wailed, looking more distraught than ever. ‘No, please stay, my love. I couldn’t face it on my own. Besides, Mamma was very fond of you, you know.’
I could not see what this had to do with it, but she was too absorbed in her own miseries to listen to argument; so I threw out a few clichés about how fond I’d been of Maudie and how much better it was for her not to have lived on in pain, etcetera, and promised to stay at least until we had consulted Robin about it.
She seemed to take this as outright consent and smiled at me more peaceably. ‘That’s right, my honey-bun; such a comfort you are!’
Gerald Pettigrew, with the faithful Peter in tow, was the first to return, since he had been unable to get his wheelchair down to the graveside, and at the sound of his voice booming out in the hall Betsy livened up a bit and flapped around offering him food and drink. She was all for pushing him straight off to the dining-room, but he flung out his arm like a driver signalling a right turn, saying that Pete could bring him a nosh and a bottle of the best plonk in the drawing-room as he had some papers to sort out before the balloon went up and considered it advisable to get the business out of the way with all speed, and then get cracking back to London. He explained that he and some of the lads had had one hell of a thrash the night before and such rumpuses were apt to leave him feeling a bit frail these days.
He was covered from the waist down by a thick tartan rug, but his upper half looked far from frail for he had a bullish neck, a round, jovial face with sticking out ears and innocent-looking blue eyes. It was the kind of head and shoulders one would have expected to see on the rugger field, rather than being dragged through life in an invalid chair, and I did not doubt that Betsy’s assessment was correct and that so great were his will and courage that his disability was the last pretext he would have used to procure special treatment.
As she obediently turned the chair in the direction of the drawing-room, he looked back over his shoulder and called out that he would be pleased to see me, along with all the other bods, when they foregathered later on; and that tow-headed husband of mine as well if he could spare the time. Since Betsy, in her flurry or forgetfulness, had omitted to introduce us, I was rather impressed to discover that he not only knew exactly who I was but exactly who Robin was too. On the principle that it is a mistake to underrate anyone, I cautioned myself not to be taken in by the jolly Jack Tar façade.
Margot and Dickie were the next to arrive, with Digby hot on their heels. In the ac
t of removing her ghastly hat, Margot stared at him with icy disfavour.
‘And where have you been, pray?’
‘Well, you know . . . same place as everyone else,’ he mumbled.
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘No, well, I was at the back . . . you know.’
‘No, I do not know. What were you doing at the back? Why weren’t you sitting with me?’
‘Sorry, Mum, but I got in a bit late. Anyway, I saw you. You were . . . you know . . . in the front pew with Piers and Grandpapa.’
It was a pretty safe guess, as Margot probably realised, for she said no more and went on with the job of disentangling the hat. Moving towards the open front door, I met Robin coming in and we stood there talking for a while.
‘How was it?’ I asked.
‘As you’d expect. Rather grim.’
‘You didn’t happen to notice Digby?’
‘Not that I remember. Why?’
‘He’s fairly distinctive; I just thought you might have. He’s supposed to have been sitting at the back.’
‘Really, Tessa, what are you on about now? There was a chap in a wheelchair I noticed, and one or two other oddments of people at the back. I concluded they were local reporters or something, but Digby could have been among them. Does it matter?’
‘No, just curiosity. His car’s back, anyway. Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks. Strictly speaking, I should be on my way. How about you?’
‘I’d leave too, if I could, but it’s a bit complicated. You see . . .’
Betsy emerged from the dining-room carrying a tray of sandwiches and wine. She laid a hand on Robin’s arm, causing the tray to wobble, so I took it from her.
‘Come along, Robin dearie,’ she said, ‘Gerald particularly wants you to stay and hear what he has to tell us and I’d be so very grateful if you would. Tessa, darling, since you’ve got the tray, could you just run up and give it to Sophie for me? She’s lying down in my room. I’d ask Piers but he’s being such a help to me in the dining-room. I’m afraid I’d forgotten all about Sophie and she may be feeling peckish, poor lamb.’
