“No.” Helen Fent had been found taking shelter with Cousin Hettie at Almstone. There were no men in Cousin Hettie’s Eden.
“She says he must have been mad.”
Sloan nodded. That was Helen Fent’s story and she showed every sign of sticking to it. Of course, she might just have had that crémet instead of her husband. Say, if she’d decided to carve or Washby had been wrong about guessing where Bill Fent was sitting.”
Crosby said, “Then what?”
“Then there would have been a post mortem and an inquest,” said Sloan, mindful of the conscientious Dr. Baird, “but it wouldn’t have got much further than an open verdict if you ask me.”
“That chap Miller’s no help either,” went on Crosby. He was getting as bad as the superintendent for gloom. “All he knew was that his father told him that there might be something for him at Strontfield one day.”
“But he didn’t know why?”
Crosby shook his head. “He said to come over, keep his head down and his eye on things. Oh—and to see that old Fitch didn’t want for anything.”
“Old Fitch?”
“Many’s the ladder up to the bedroom window he used to take away first thing in the morning for Master Hector before his father was about.”
“Hector Fent knew about Bill then,” decided Sloan, “but he’s dead too.” He pushed the case papers aside and said prophetically, “We aren’t going to get anywhere here, Crosby.”
“Ah, well,” said the detective constable imperishably, “what’s in a name?”
“You do realize, don’t you, Inspector,” said Mr. Puckle sternly, “that what you have just told me is pure conjecture?”
Sloan, comfortably ensconced in one of Messrs. Puckle, Puckle and Nunnery’s best leather arm-chairs, nodded.
“Of course,” said the solicitor, “an infant—er—in utero at the time of the father’s death can inherit.”
“We wondered.”
“In fact, if the—er—circumstances which you have just—er—postulated should happen to have been the way in which the doctor attempted to solve his—er—dilemma should—er—actually have been so—which naturally I do not for one moment accept …”
“Naturally. But if …”
“… and should the infant be male, of course …”
“Yes?”
“… the only way in which he could be prevented from inheriting the Strontfield property …”
“Yes?”
“… would be by a suit of bastardy brought by Quentin Fent. A successful suit, of course.”
“Of course,” murmured Sloan.
“And for that suit to be successful,” said Mr. Puckle, giving Sloan a penetrating look, “irrebuttable evidence would be required by the Court.”
“Quite,” said Sloan.
“It would seem,” said Puckle suavely, “that that might present difficulties.”
“It might.” That was an understatement if anything was.
“Where, for instance, might we look for evidence of the late Mr. William Fent’s—er—incapacity?”
“Nowhere,” said Sloan bluntly. “Not now. Any medical records in Dr. Washby’s possession would have been amended long ago.” He explained about the blood groups, too.
“Precisely. And with Mrs. Marchmont dead …”
“Mrs. Fent?” put forward Sloan tentatively.
“If she appeared at all,” said the old solicitor dryly, “it would not be for the plaintiff.”
Sloan nodded. Dr. Washby was another who had counted on Helen Fent’s vested interest in silence.
“And as a married woman cannot in the nature of things have an illegitimate child …”
That was something else Dr. Washby had counted on.
“… the—er—burden of proof would fall entirely on Quentin Fent.” Mr. Puckle stroked his chin. “That is quite apart from the fact that under English law a person cannot be required to give evidence against themselves.”
Sloan wouldn’t have been surprised to know that Paul Washby had worked that out for himself too.
“And so this theory of yours,” said the solicitor, “seems at first sight to be only a mere hypothesis …”
“It’s supposition which fits the facts,” said Sloan.
“… but lacking—er—what you might call circumstantial evidence.”
“Two murders,” said Sloan rather shortly.
“Nevertheless,” continued Mr. Puckle carefully, “should Quentin Fent be apprised of these—er—notions of yours, and were he then to ask me to give an opinion on whether a suit of bastardy would succeed, I would, subject to Counsel’s opinion, advise against bringing the action on evidence of such a very—er—speculative nature.”
“I see,” said Sloan, matching the solicitor’s detached manner.
“Theory is one thing. Proof is—er—a horse of a very different colour.”
“And so say all of us,” chanted Sloan under his breath. “And so say all of us.”
“But if it should—er—become a matter for Mr. Quentin Fent”—Mr. Puckle had moved from stroking his chin to polishing his glasses—“he may well decide—er—in all the circumstances to—er—let sleeping dogs lie.”
It was still hot.
“I hope the weather holds for them tomorrow,” said Ursula Renville languidly. “I don’t believe it’s rained for a month.”
“I know it hasn’t,” said Cynthia Paterson. Her self-imposed holiday was long over. It was nearly the end of September now and there was much to be done in all her Constance Parva gardens. “Everything’s very dry.”
“If it’s not one thing it’s another,” remarked Ursula reaching for the tea-pot. “One thing it means is that we can still sit out of doors.”
“Not for so long,” said Cynthia, her experienced eye picking up signs of autumn.
“Well, there’s worse things than that.”
Cynthia Paterson nodded tacitly. “They’ve still got trouble up at the Park.”
“It may be a girl.”
“It won’t,” said Cynthia with conviction.
“You aren’t a witch, you know,” Ursula reminded her, “in spite of what poor Marjorie used to say.”
“Poor Marjorie.” Cynthia still could not think of Marjorie Marchmont without a shudder.
“Nobody seems to know why Paul killed Marjorie and Bill.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t as if he really knew either of them well,” said Ursula, voicing what everyone in Constance Parva was thinking.
“No.”
“And why Bill and Marjorie,” persisted Ursula. “Why not Bill and Helen Fent or Daniel and Marjorie Marchmont?”
“Don’t!” pleaded Cynthia. “It wasn’t ‘Happy Families.’”
“It was murder,” remarked Ursula astringently, “except that no one seems to know why. Or if they do,” she added pointedly, “they’re not saying.”
“No.”
“And with Paul committing suicide like he did, there won’t even be a court case, so we shall never know.”
“No.”
Ursula looked curiously at Cynthia and then shifted her ground a little. “Do you realize if that baby of Helen’s turns out to be a boy she’ll have to bring him up at the Park with no money?”
“That will be a real penance, won’t it?”
Ursula looked up. “Do you know, Cynthia, you said that as if you really meant it.”
“I did.”
“And you sounded just like your father handing out judgement.”
“Did I?”
Ursula laughed uneasily. “Sentenced to twenty-one years’ hard labour bringing up the next heir on next to nothing.”
“It won’t be much fun,” agreed Cynthia.
“And if it’s a girl?”
“I think,” said Cynthia cautiously, “Mr. Puckle says Helen could leave the Park, take her widow’s mite, and try to bring the baby up on that. So you might say it’s six or two threes …”
“Six or tw
o thr … oh, Cynthia,” Ursula sounded quite exasperated, “why can’t you say six of one or half a dozen of the other like everyone else.”
“There’ll be a little bit more than next to nothing, actually,” went on Cynthia. “Now.”
“Oh?”
“I hear that Peter Miller—Peter Fent, I suppose we should call him—is going to farm Strontfield as well as Fallow.”
“To keep it in the family?” said Ursula dryly.
“Mr. Puckle said he thought it might be arranged, and the rent will help.”
“If you ask me,” said Ursula wisely, “we shall be hearing wedding bells there too. Annabel Pollock’s been down for all her off-duty and he’s going to St. Ninian’s for Matrons’ Ball.”
“To keep it in the family?” echoed Cynthia meekly.
“Talking of wedding bells …”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow’s wedding’s still on, I take it …”
Cynthia chuckled. “Oh, yes. Neither Jacqueline nor Quentin would be the first to back down when they heard they weren’t going to get the Park if the baby was a boy. The banns had been called, you see.”
“So what is going to …”
Cynthia actually laughed for the first time in a month. “Quentin starts in Battersby’s Bearings at eight o’clock in the morning a week next Monday. In overalls.”
“There’s more to our Jacqueline than we gave her credit for,” said Ursula. “She’ll make something of that young man yet.”
“There’ll be no development, anyway,” said Cynthia, “unless it’s a girl and Quentin inherits. And perhaps not even then.” Hector Fent’s son had emerged as having strong views on preserving the old pile. “Will Richard mind?”
“I don’t suppose so,” said Richard’s wife serenely. “He’s been working much too hard anyway. Besides, he’s trying to get Daniel interested in golf. More tea?”
Cynthia shook her head. “I must be going.”
“And I,” said Ursula, “must go over and do the church flowers. Delphiniums, would you say, and a few late roses …”
It was still hot in the early evening when Sloan got home. He had been to the adjourned inquests on William Fent and Marjorie Marchmont and come home with his mind still on them. His wife was sitting by the open French windows knitting something white and small.
“How was I to know that Helen Fent was pregnant in time to save Marjorie Marchmont?” he demanded rhetorically.
“You weren’t,” said Margaret Sloan placidly.
“Hang it all, it wasn’t as if she was sitting there knitting little garments … if he hadn’t killed Mrs. Marchmont I’d never have guessed at all.”
“No,” agreed Margaret, “you wouldn’t. So I’d better tell you now, hadn’t I?”
She pushed her knitting forward a little. “The doctor says we’re going to have a constable.”
“What? What?” He leaped forward and out of his chair. “Are you sure?”
“No,” she said calmly, “but he is.”
“Constable nothing,” he growled, his face suddenly suffused with pleasure. “He’ll be commissioner one day or I’ll want to know the reason why.”
About the Author
Catherine Aird is the author of more than twenty volumes of detective mysteries and three collections of short stories. Most of her fiction features Detective Inspector C. D. Sloan and Detective Constable W. E. Crosby. Aird holds an honorary master’s degree from the University of Kent and was made a Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (MBE) for her services to the Girl Guide Association. She lives in a village in East Kent, England.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1975 by Catherine Aird
Cover design by Tracey Dunham
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1066-5
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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