No, that wasn’t right. That didn’t ring true. That spelt panic—and Ruth Lessing was not the kind of woman who panicked. She had better brains than George and could have avoided any trap that he was likely to set with the greatest of ease.
It looked as though Ruth didn’t add up after all.
Chapter 6
Lucilla Drake was delighted to see Colonel Race.
The blinds were all down and Lucilla came into the room draped in black and with a handkerchief to her eyes and explained, as she advanced a tremulous hand to meet his, how of course she couldn’t have seen anyone—anyone at all—except such an old friend of dear, dear George’s—and it was so dreadful to have no man in the house! Really without a man in the house one didn’t know how to tackle anything. Just herself, a poor lonely widow, and Iris, just a helpless young girl, and George had always looked after everything. So kind of dear Colonel Race and really she was so grateful—no idea what they ought to do. Of course Miss Lessing would attend to all business matters—and the funeral to arrange for—but how about the inquest? and so dreadful having the police—actually in the house—plain clothes, of course, and really very considerate. But she was so bewildered and the whole thing was such an absolute tragedy and didn’t Colonel Race think it must be all due to suggestion—that was what the psychoanalyst said, wasn’t it, that everything is suggestion? And poor George at that horrid place, the Luxembourg, and practically the same party and remembering how poor Rosemary had died there—and it must have come over him quite suddenly, only if he’d listened to what she, Lucilla, had said, and taken that excellent tonic of dear Dr Gaskell’s—run down, all the summer—yes, thoroughly run down.
Whereupon Lucilla herself ran down temporarily, and Race had a chance to speak.
He said how deeply he sympathized and how Mrs Drake must count upon him in every way.
Whereupon Lucilla started off again and said it was indeed kind of him, and it was the shock that had been so terrible—here today, and gone tomorrow, as it said in the Bible, cometh up like grass and cut down in the evening—only that wasn’t quite right, but Colonel Race would know what she meant, and it was so nice to feel there was someone on whom they could rely. Miss Lessing meant well, of course, and was very efficient, but rather an unsympathetic manner and sometimes took things upon herself a little too much, and in her, Lucilla’s, opinion, George had always relied upon her far too much, and at one time she had been really afraid that he might do something foolish which would have been a great pity and probably she would have bullied him unmercifully once they were married. Of course she, Lucilla, had seen what was in the wind. Dear Iris was so unworldly, and it was nice, didn’t Colonel Race think, for young girls to be unspoilt and simple? Iris had really always been very young for her age and very quiet—one didn’t know half the time what she was thinking about. Rosemary being so pretty and so gay had been out a great deal, and Iris had mooned about the house which wasn’t really right for a young girl—they should go to classes—cooking and perhaps dressmaking. It occupied their minds and one never knew when it might come in useful. It had really been a mercy that she, Lucilla, had been free to come and live here after poor Rosemary’s death—that horrid ’flu, quite an unusual kind of ’flu, Dr Gaskell had said. Such a clever man and such a nice, breezy manner.
She had wanted Iris to see him this summer. The girl had looked so white and pulled down. ‘But really, Colonel Race, I think it was the situation of the house. Low, you know, and damp, with quite a miasma in the evenings.’ Poor George had gone off and bought it all by himself without asking anyone’s advice—such a pity. He had said he wanted it to be a surprise, but really it would have been better if he had taken some older woman’s advice. Men knew nothing about houses. George might have realized that she, Lucilla, would have been willing to take any amount of trouble. For, after all, what was her life now? Her dear husband dead many years ago, and Victor, her dear boy, far away in the Argentine—she meant Brazil, or was it the Argentine? Such an affectionate, handsome boy.
Colonel Race said he had heard she had a son abroad.
For the next quarter of an hour, he was regaled with a full account of Victor’s multitudinous activities. Such a spirited boy, willing to turn his hand to anything—here followed a list of Victor’s varied occupations. Never unkind, or bearing malice to anyone. ‘He’s always been unlucky, Colonel Race. He was misjudged by his house-master and I consider the authorities at Oxford behaved quite disgracefully. People don’t seem to understand that a clever boy with a taste for drawing would think it an excellent joke to imitate someone’s handwriting. He did it for the fun of the thing, not for money.’ But he’d always been a good son to his mother, and he never failed to let her know when he was in trouble which showed, didn’t it, that he trusted her? Only it did seem curious, didn’t it, that the jobs people found for him so often seemed to take him out of England. She couldn’t help feeling that if only he could be given a nice job, in the Bank of England say, he would settle down much better. He might perhaps live a little out of London and have a little car.
It was quite twenty minutes before Colonel Race, having heard all Victor’s perfections and misfortunes, was able to switch Lucilla from the subject of sons to that of servants.
Yes, it was very true what he said, the old-fashioned type of servant didn’t exist any longer. Really the trouble people had nowadays! Not that she ought to complain, for really they had been very lucky. Mrs Pound, though she had the misfortune to be slightly deaf, was an excellent woman. Her pastry sometimes a little heavy and a tendency to over-pepper the soup, but really on the whole most reliable—and economical too. She had been there ever since George married and she had made no fuss about going to the country this year, though there had been trouble with the others over that and the parlourmaid had left—but that really was all for the best—an impertinent girl who answered back—besides breaking six of the best wineglasses, not one by one at odd times which might happen to anybody, but all at once which really meant gross carelessness, didn’t Colonel Race think so?
‘Very careless indeed.’
‘That is what I told her. And I said to her that I should be obliged to say so in her reference—for I really feel one has a duty, Colonel Race. I mean, one should not mislead. Faults should be mentioned as well as good qualities. But the girl was—really—well, quite insolent and said that at any rate she hoped that in her next place she wouldn’t be in the kind of house where people got bumped off—a dreadful common expression, acquired at the cinema, I believe, and ludicrously inappropriate since poor dear Rosemary took her own life—though not at the time responsible for her actions as the coroner very rightly pointed out—and that dreadful expression refers, I believe, to gangsters executing each other with tommy-guns. I am so thankful that we have nothing of that kind in England. And so, as I say, I put in her reference that Betty Archdale thoroughly understood her duties as parlourmaid and was sober and honest, but that she was inclined to have too many breakages and was not always respectful in her manner. And personally, if I had been Mrs Rees-Talbot, I should have read between the lines and not engaged her. But people nowadays just jump at anything they can get, and will sometimes take a girl who has only stayed her month in three places running.’
Whilst Mrs Drake paused to take breath, Colonel Race asked quickly whether that was Mrs Richard Rees-Talbot? If so, he had known her, he said, in India.
‘I really couldn’t say. Cadogan Square was the address.’
‘Then it is my friends.’
Lucilla said that the world was such a small place, wasn’t it? And that there were no friends like old friends. Friendship was a wonderful thing. She had always thought it had been so romantic about Viola and Paul. Dear Viola, she had been a lovely girl, and so many men in love with her, but, oh dear, Colonel Race wouldn’t even know who she was talking about. One did so tend to re-live the past.
Colonel Race begged her to go on and in return for this politen
ess received the life history of Hector Marle, of his upbringing by his sister, of his peculiarities and his weaknesses and finally, when Colonel Race had almost forgotten her, of his marriage to the beautiful Viola. ‘She was an orphan, you know, and a ward in Chancery.’ He heard how Paul Bennett, conquering his disappointment at Viola’s refusal, had transformed himself from lover to family friend, and of his fondness for his godchild, Rosemary, and of his death and the terms of his will. ‘Which I have always felt most romantic—such an enormous fortune! Not of course that money is everything—no, indeed. One has only to think of poor Rosemary’s tragic death. And even dear Iris I am not quite happy about!’
Race gave her an inquiring look.
‘I find the responsibility most worrying. The fact that she is a great heiress is of course well known. I keep a very sharp eye on the undesirable type of young man, but what can one do, Colonel Race? One can’t look after girls nowadays as one used to do. Iris has friends I know next to nothing about. “Ask them to the house, dear,” is what I always say—but I gather that some of these young men simply will not be brought. Poor George was worried, too. About a young man called Browne. I myself have never seen him, but it seems that he and Iris have been seeing a good deal of each other. And one does feel that she could do better. George didn’t like him—I’m quite sure of that. And I always think, Colonel Race, that men are so much better judges of other men. I remember thinking Colonel Pusey, one of our churchwardens, such a charming man, but my husband always preserved a very distant attitude towards him and enjoined on me to do the same—and sure enough one Sunday when he was handing round the offertory plate, he fell right down—completely intoxicated, it seems. And of course afterwards—one always hears these things afterwards, so much better if one heard them before—we found out that dozens of empty brandy bottles were taken out of the house every week! It was very sad really, because he was truly religious, though inclined to be Evangelical in his views. He and my husband had a terrific battle over the details of the service on All Saints’ Day. Oh, dear, All Saints’ Day. To think that yesterday was All Souls’ Day.’
A faint sound made Race look over Lucilla’s head at the open doorway. He had seen Iris before—at Little Priors. Nevertheless he felt that he was seeing her now for the first time. He was struck by the extraordinary tension behind her stillness and her wide eyes met his with something in their expression that he felt he ought to recognize, yet failed to do so.
In her turn, Lucilla Drake turned her head.
‘Iris, dear, I didn’t hear you come in. You know Colonel Race? He is being so very kind.’
Iris came and shook hands with him gravely, the black dress she wore made her look thinner and paler than he remembered her.
‘I came to see if I could be of any help to you,’ said Race.
‘Thank you. That was kind of you.’
She had had a bad shock, that was evident, and was still suffering from the effects of it. But had she been so fond of George that his death could affect her so powerfully?
She turned her eyes to her aunt and Race realized that they were watchful eyes. She said:
‘What were you talking about—just now, as I came in?’
Lucilla became pink and flustered. Race guessed that she was anxious to avoid any mention of the young man, Anthony Browne. She exclaimed:
‘Now let me see—oh, yes, All Saints’ Day—and yesterday being All Souls’. All Souls’—that seems to me such an odd thing—one of those coincidences one never believes in in real life.’
‘Do you mean,’ said Iris, ‘that Rosemary came back yesterday to fetch George?’
Lucilla gave a little scream.
‘Iris, dear, don’t. What a terrible thought—so un-Christian.’
‘Why un-Christian? It’s the Day of the Dead. In Paris people used to go and put flowers on the graves.’
‘Oh, I know, dear, but then they are Catholics, aren’t they?’
A faint smile twisted Iris’s lips. Then she said directly:
‘I thought, perhaps, you were talking of Anthony—Anthony Browne.’
‘Well,’ Lucilla’s twitter became very high and bird-like, ‘as a matter of fact we did just mention him. I happened to say, you know, that we know nothing about him—’
Iris interrupted, her voice hard:
‘Why should you know anything about him?’
‘No, dear, of course not. At least, I mean, well, it would be rather nice, wouldn’t it, if we did?’
‘You’ll have every chance of doing so in future,’ said Iris, ‘because I’m going to marry him.’
‘Oh, Iris!’ It was halfway between a wail and a bleat. ‘You mustn’t do anything rash—I mean nothing can be settled at present.’
‘It is settled, Aunt Lucilla.’
‘No, dear, one can’t talk about things like marriage when the funeral hasn’t even taken place yet. It wouldn’t be decent. And this dreadful inquest and everything. And really, Iris, I don’t think dear George would have approved. He didn’t like this Mr Browne.’
‘No,’ said Iris, ‘George wouldn’t have liked it and he didn’t like Anthony, but that doesn’t make any difference. It’s my life, not George’s—and anyway George is dead…’
Mrs Drake gave another wail.
‘Iris, Iris. What has come over you? Really that was a most unfeeling thing to say.’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Lucilla.’ The girl spoke wearily.
‘I know it must have sounded like that but I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that George is at peace somewhere and hasn’t got to worry about me and my future any more. I must decide things for myself.’
‘Nonsense, dear, nothing can be decided at a time like this—it would be most unfitting. The question simply doesn’t arise.’
Iris gave a sudden short laugh.
‘But it has arisen. Anthony asked me to marry him before we left Little Priors. He wanted me to come up to London and marry him the next day without telling anyone. I wish now that I had.’
‘Surely that was a very curious request,’ said Colonel Race gently.
She turned defiant eyes to him.
‘No, it wasn’t. It would have saved a lot of fuss. Why couldn’t I trust him? He asked me to trust him and I didn’t. Anyway, I’ll marry him now as soon as he likes.’
Lucilla burst out in a stream of incoherent protest. Her plump cheeks quivered and her eyes filled.
Colonel Race took rapid charge of the situation.
‘Miss Marle, might I have a word with you before I go? On a strictly business matter?’
Rather startled, the girl murmured ‘Yes,’ and found herself moving to the door. As she passed through, Race took a couple of strides back to Mrs Drake.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Mrs Drake. Least said, you know, soonest mended. We’ll see what we can do.’
Leaving her slightly comforted he followed Iris who led him across the hall and into a small room giving out on the back of the house where a melancholy plane-tree was shedding its last leaves.
Race spoke in a business-like tone.
‘All I had to say, Miss Marle, was that Chief Inspector Kemp is a personal friend of mine, and that I am sure you will find him most helpful and kindly. His duty is an unpleasant one, but I’m sure he will do it with the utmost consideration possible.’
She looked at him for a moment or two without speaking, then she said abruptly:
‘Why didn’t you come and join us last night as George expected you to do?’
He shook his head.
‘George didn’t expect me.’
‘But he said he did.’
‘He may have said so, but it wasn’t true. George knew perfectly well that I wasn’t coming.’
She said: ‘But that empty chair…Who was it for?’
‘Not for me.’
Her eyes half-closed and her face went very white.
She whispered:
‘It was for Rosemary…I see…It was for Rosemary…�
�
He thought she was going to fall. He came quickly to her and steadied her, then forced her to sit down.
‘Take it easy…’
She said in a low breathless voice:
‘I’m all right…But I don’t know what to do…I don’t know what to do.’
‘Can I help you?’
She raised her eyes to his face. They were wistful and sombre.
Then she said: ‘I must get things clear. I must get them’—she made a groping gesture with her hands—‘in sequence. First of all, George believed Rosemary didn’t kill herself—but was killed. He believed that because of those letters. Colonel Race, who wrote those letters?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. Have you yourself any idea?’
‘I simply can’t imagine. Anyway, George believed what they said, and he arranged this party last night, and he had an empty chair and it was All Souls’ Day…that’s the Day of the Dead—and it was a day when Rosemary’s spirit could have come back and—and told him the truth.’
‘You mustn’t be too imaginative.’
‘But I’ve felt her myself—felt her quite near sometimes—I’m her sister—and I think she’s trying to tell me something.’
‘Take it easy, Iris.’
‘I must talk about it. George drank Rosemary’s health and he—died. Perhaps—she came and took him.’
‘The spirits of the dead don’t put potassium cyanide in a champagne glass, my dear.’
The words seemed to restore her balance. She said in a more normal tone:
‘But it’s so incredible. George was killed—yes, killed. That’s what the police think and it must be true. Because there isn’t any other alternative. But it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Don’t you think it does? If Rosemary was killed, and George was beginning to suspect by whom—’
She interrupted him.
‘Yes, but Rosemary wasn’t killed. That’s why it doesn’t make sense. George believed those stupid letters partly because depression after influenza isn’t a very convincing reason for killing yourself. But Rosemary had a reason. Look, I’ll show you.’
Sparkling Cyanide Page 16
