‘No, no Mr Smythe,’ the inspector interrupted, ‘DC Jennings wasn’t suggesting anything, just seeking information. It’s his way: gets overcome by zeal sometimes.’ He smiled indulgently at the youth. Felix did not.
‘I should say it was definitely a tone of appeal,’ announced Cedric firmly, ‘an instinctive cry for help to a kindly colleague. Alas it was too late and no such help could be given.’
The inspector nodded and shut his notebook. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all for now. But I should be grateful if you do not return to London just yet as there could be some further questions we may need to put.’
‘Further questions?’ Felix exclaimed. ‘I can’t see that—’
‘Oh we have no intention of returning to London,’ Cedric said smoothly. ‘We have barely arrived and the area is so lovely with much to explore. And in any case naturally we want to do all we can to assist the police in this ghastly business … Call us whenever you wish.’ He added magnanimously.
After they had gone the two friends regarded each other in some dismay. ‘That’s all we need,’ Felix lamented, ‘an appalling killing literally under our noses, both of my talks rescheduled and the police hovering in the wings busily devising fresh questions. It’s too bad!’
‘Most unsettling,’ Cedric agreed, ‘but I suppose they might have cancelled the whole festival; and at least you will still be judging the lilies and giving your talk on Sir William Walton’s Ischian estate … Oh and by the way, there is something I was going to tell you, something Delia Dovedale mentioned just before her unfortunate event. It may brighten your day.’ He gave a sly smile.
‘I doubt it; but go on.’
‘A bit of a coincidence really. Considerable in fact.’ Cedric smiled again.
‘Well hurry up!’
‘I am told she had been expecting two house guests; she was going to introduce them to the delights of Southwold and immerse them in the pleasures of the fragrant marquees on the Common. It just so happens that we know them.’
‘You don’t mean the Mercoli brothers? I thought they were visiting the mad sister in Norfolk.’
‘Still are presumably. No, these are Angela Fawcett and Rosy Gilchrist. They are supposed to be arriving on Sunday I believe – though of course the current situation may have deterred them. Still, worth an enquiry perhaps. You may recall that Angela owes us a luncheon. I am told that The Swan in Southwold is very good.’
Felix was startled and wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or annoyed. As with most people his view of Lady Fawcett was mixed: she could both charm and infuriate; enrage and disarm – frequently at the same time. Undoubtedly possessed of a worldly shrewdness, she would nevertheless display a vagueness bordering on the miraculous. Most people walk through life; some plod and others amble. Lady Fawcett wafted. It was a motion which Felix found both endearing and perplexing; and given the current perplexity he was not sure that he could manage any more. And as for Rosy Gilchrist – well, pleasant enough of course but a bit too sharp for his taste, overly alert. Their relations were cordial but not what you would call close. Besides, did he really want to be reminded quite so soon of that troublesome Venetian experience? Only a few months ago the three of them had been caught up in a most unsavoury debacle – largely of her making he considered – and from which he had barely recovered.
‘Ah well, I’m not sure—’ he began.
‘Good,’ said Cedric briskly. ‘If those two do appear at the Dovedale place then possibly they may learn something of what’s going on. They could be a source of useful information and hear something we haven’t. It’s as well to be ahead of the field.’
What blithering field? Felix thought morosely. All one wants is to do the judging, deliver the lectures, collect the fee and get the hell out back to the safety of London … What had that wretched police youth said – accusation? The cheek of it! He gasped as a thought suddenly struck him: ‘My God,’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t think they were intending to poison me do you – not Delia at all, and somehow she got the wrong cup!’ He stared at Cedric in wide-eyed consternation.
‘Oh I shouldn’t think anyone would want to do that to you,’ his friend reassured him, ‘or at least only on very rare occasions.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Dinner that night wasn’t quite as awkward as Rosy had feared. To her relief they were joined by Hugh’s cousin Mark and his wife Iris. Living close by at Blythburgh they were frequent visitors at the house and obviously fully familiar with the Dovedale ménage. They seemed an amiable pair, and despite the shocking nature of events their presence conferred an air of normality which somehow helped soften the blow of the stark news.
Introductions were made, cocktails taken and generalities pursued. But inevitably by the time dinner was served the talk had turned to the deceased.
‘But how was the poison planted?’ Rosy asked. ‘I mean obviously that soup she was sampling had been doctored, but when and how? There must have been a number of people wandering about in that kitchen and it’s unlikely that you could take out a phial of poison and squirt it into the soup without somebody saying “steady on!”’
‘Easier than you might think. The kitchen is open-ended; it’s a glorified passage really and people are scurrying back and forth all the time carrying pots of tea and whatnot. Being busy makes one less observant. And according to Hawkins who was there helping, the cups containing the cold soup had been laid out on the tray for ages – at least forty minutes before they were wanted, so it needn’t have been a rush job. You would just have to casually bide your time and take a calculated risk.’
‘But you would hardly take a calculated risk regarding the right cup. How on earth did they select Delia’s?’
Mark shrugged and they looked at one another in some puzzlement.
‘Couldn’t be easier,’ said Hugh. ‘As I told the police, mother was very pernickety about what she drank out of. At public events like that she resolutely refused to use the communal tea cups and always supplied her own. It was always the same one – Worcester porcelain with birds on. Nobody else would have had the temerity to touch it. She had a number of little fetishes of that kind; harmless but irritating.’
‘Well that would be in keeping,’ Lady Fawcett remarked. ‘Now you mention it, I seem to remember her having a number of funny little habits at school. In fact I think I’m right in thinking that one of them did indeed have some connection with crockery: she couldn’t abide the pottery mugs we were given and always had to have her own porcelain tea cup. That didn’t go down with matron at all well. Just shows how right they are about old habits dying hard!’ She smiled brightly.
‘Hmm,’ said Hugh dryly, ‘in this case the death was not so much hard as adamantine I should say.’
There was an awkward silence during which Lady Fawcett continued to smile blandly and stooped to tickle the comatose pug.
‘Well, I can tell you,’ Hugh continued, ‘such jolly larks tomorrow. We are faced with the advent of the vicar and the undertaker to discuss the format of mother’s obsequies – whenever they are likely to be; rather depends on the whim of the police I suppose … Do you think I should offer them sherry or would that simply retard proceedings?’
‘Mr Snelgrove is very partial to milk chocolate – Cadbury’s preferably,’ Iris said.
‘My dear Iris,’ Hugh replied mildly, ‘even I draw the line at having to watch the undertaker scoff chocolate while discussing the measurements of mother’s corpse.’ He looked at Mark: ‘What do you think?’
‘A small cup of black tea; they will decline but you will have made the gesture.’
Hugh nodded. ‘That’s it.’
‘You know,’ said Lady Fawcett changing the subject, ‘as I was telling Rosy in the car, Delia said she had something rather special to tell me but that I wasn’t supposed to breathe a word. Since I hadn’t a clue what it was about the matter didn’t arise. However, one rather wonders what it might have been …’ She smiled vaguely at the rou
nd-eyed pug which had seated itself heavily at her feet. They exchanged appreciative glances.
‘Hmm,’ said Hugh, ‘Mother was always telling people not to say a word. It didn’t make much difference whether it was the vicar’s verruca or the state of the nation, the topic was invariably under wraps – well, that is until she got bored and decided to broadcast it to all and sundry.’
‘And did she?’ enquired Rosy.
‘Did she what?’
‘Broadcast whatever it was she warned Angela not to.’
He shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. I’m afraid I didn’t always pay attention to Mother’s confidences – there were so many.’
Rosy was about to laugh politely but was interrupted by Iris. ‘Oh I bet I know what that was: the wretched book that she has been writing. It was top secret; in principle at any rate. Though she let it be known that the topic was broadly horticultural; in fact I rather gathered it was something to do with her days as an aspiring lady gardener imagining herself as Gertrude Jekyll – sort of floral reminiscences I suppose. She did tell me the title once.’ Iris paused, frowning in recollection. ‘Something about violets I think – which was odd really as I don’t think she liked them terribly; described them once as being puny common little things. Delia liked the big effects, such as massed gladioli laced with hydrangeas! … Oh yes that was it, Violets and Other Vicissitudes. I think it was a sort of plantswoman’s journal or whatever it is these flower people write.’
‘And I suppose the vicissitudes were the snares of groundsel and creeping elder,’ added her husband.
‘I’ve no idea, she never divulged. But I think she rather enjoyed it – the secrecy, I mean. There was what she called her “violet hour”, i.e. six o’clock when she would mix a large gin and Dubonnet, take it up to her bedroom and apparently scribble away until dinner.’
‘Huh,’ Hugh snorted, ‘I don’t know about that – not so much writing as napping, I should say.’ He turned to Mark. ‘Don’t you remember that time we came back from fishing and the house was quaking under the sound of mother’s snores. Even the pugs had taken cover!’
Iris laughed. ‘Oh come on Hugh, that was only once; you do exaggerate. No she was definitely writing this garden thing – or at least she was. But actually, now I come to think of it, for the last couple of months there had been no mention of it at all, not a word … probably gone off the idea. You know how she used to get these sudden crazes. Still, at one time there had been some talk of getting it published, though I don’t know whether there was anyone who—’
‘What about illustrations?’ Lady Fawcett enquired, ‘I don’t recall Delia being good at art – what one might call a trifle unfocused; used to give Miss Spinks apoplexy. Maybe she had someone in mind – a local artist perhaps?’
‘Hmm. I doubt it. I did ask her once and she replied rather grandly that her prose was sufficiently graphic in itself and didn’t need extraneous embellishment … Delia could be awfully pompous at times!’
‘I remember,’ replied Lady Fawcett dryly, ‘and loud with it.’
Rosy winced in embarrassment. But her companion sailed on smoothly: ‘Ah well, no such little vagaries now I fear; those days are gone …’ She sighed heavily and stared at her plate. Absence of tears did not prevent her from assuming an expression of lachrymose pain.
There was an awkward silence. And then Mark coughed and said, ‘I know we’ve gone over this endlessly, but I really cannot imagine why it should have happened. I mean what on earth was to be gained by Delia’s death?’
‘Well it certainly wasn’t money,’ Hugh said gloomily. ‘Under the terms of the trust I don’t get anything for another ten years – when I am forty-five. And it’s only when I reach seventy that the big stuff comes in.’
‘Ah, just in time to fund a really good funeral,’ his cousin observed; ‘should be quite a show. But that’s rather rare isn’t it – to stagger things in that way. Is that what Delia wanted?’
Hugh shrugged. ‘It was Pa’s idea. He always did like making difficulties.’
‘Well it hardly matters,’ Iris said. ‘I mean what with your grandpa’s legacy and your own investments doubtless you can manage to hang on till the splendours of old age.’
‘Oh doubtless. But I do think Ma might have provided for Peep and Bo; they are very high maintenance – aren’t you my darlings?’ Hugh addressed the pugs who snuffled rapturously.
‘Perhaps she was going to but hadn’t reckoned on the potency of poison,’ Mark said soberly.
‘Which brings one back to the original question,’ ventured Rosy. ‘Who would benefit?’ As a stranger to the household and not of the family she was hesitant to intrude on such speculations, but having been largely silent on the topic felt social duty required some comment.
‘Exactly,’ chimed Lady Fawcett, ‘cui bono?’ She spread her hands and gazed quizzically around the table.
Goodness, Rosy thought, wherever did she pick that up? Jury service presumably. But she was even more surprised when the questioner answered her own query. ‘You see,’ Lady Fawcett continued in a confidential tone, ‘it is my belief that this dreadful event benefits no one. For all we know it was merely a form of practice.’
‘Whatever do you mean – practice for what?’ Iris exclaimed.
‘For someone else presumably … a sort of dress rehearsal for the real thing.’ There was a silence as cutlery was laid down and the diners regarded her blankly.
‘You are not suggesting there was something unreal about mother’s death are you?’ asked Hugh. He sounded puzzled as well he might.
‘Oh not unreal,’ Lady Fawcett replied mildly, ‘just unwarranted. Perhaps dear Delia was simply being used as target practice – a sort of handy guinea pig.’
Hugh looked startled. ‘A handy guinea pig? I don’t think Mother would have liked that – puts her in a rather secondary position: functional merely.’
‘There’s only one position Delia is in and that’s under the turf – or she will be shortly,’ Iris remarked grimly. ‘She’s dead poor woman, and it’s appalling!’
‘Appalling,’ her husband repeated. And then leaning towards Lady Fawcett said, ‘But I’m interested in your theory. Why do you say this?’
Lady Fawcett shrugged. ‘Well you have said yourself the matter has been endlessly discussed and that you can think of no obvious reason for anyone wanting to do away with her. Thus it strikes me that whoever was responsible was using the situation as a kind of dummy run – that is the term isn’t it? After all, unless one is a practised poisoner I imagine that the prospect of administrating it must be quite daunting. It would certainly daunt me … I mean, just think, one could make the most frightful hash of things! Yes, if it were me I’d certainly want a couple of goes first – or one at any rate.’ She smiled helpfully across the table before returning to her shepherd’s pie which she pronounced as being awfully good.
Glimpsing Hawkins’ sudden smirk in the sideboard mirror, Rosy assumed the concoction to have been his. Angela was right: the shepherd’s pie was indeed excellent … though whether she was right in her idea of Delia as guinea pig was definitely more questionable. What a curious notion! But it held a sort of rough logic she supposed. Rosy regarded her companion with curiosity. What an odd mixture the Fawcetts were: a perplexing blend of vacuous inanity and worldly nous; even Amy and her cousin, the kindly chump Edward, had been known to show flashes of clarity … Besides if Angela Fawcett could throw such masterly parties, as she most certainly did, there had to be some acumen at work behind the placid veil.
‘Well that’s a new one all right,’ Hugh observed, ‘and it’s certainly not anything the police have come up with. Perhaps you ought to suggest it to them Lady Fawcett, they could do with a clue,’ he laughed; and then looking more serious added quietly, ‘I wonder what Mother would have thought of it. She’d certainly have had something to say; always did.’ For a moment he looked mildly wistful.
Iris shook her head. ‘Oh it’s bound to be
something much simpler: I bet it’s to do with the mythical garden book; probably a case of jealously – some rival horticulturist also writing their floral memoirs got wind of her literary aims and in a moment of toxic spleen organised a quick disposal. It happens all the time,’ she added airily, and then frowned. ‘I’m so sorry; I’m being rather flippant … a sort of escape mechanism I suppose.’ Her voice faltered. ‘God, it’s all so dreadful.’ She bit her lip and stared out of the window.
Mark flashed his wife a sympathetic smile. ‘Well,’ he said easily, ‘you might just be right I suppose. But I can’t think of anyone else locally who is engaged on such a project.’
She smiled back, grateful for his support. ‘There’s always Claude Huggins with that huge garden at Dunwich.’
‘But he has been at it for years. I hardly think—’
‘Precisely,’ Hugh interjected, ‘it is because he has been doing it for so long that it has become sort of second nature. It’s his life’s work and he’s damned if he is going to be pipped at the literary post by some gardening parvenu!’
Rosy felt sorry for Mr Huggins, and had visions of him toiling over his ‘life’s work’ earnestly ranking varieties of fuchsia and lavender, unaware that he was being assigned the role of rage-wracked poisoner of snobbish bent. ‘Poor man,’ she murmured smiling, ‘he’s probably perfectly harmless.’
‘Not entirely,’ replied Hugh shortly. ‘But he’s not the type – too earnest for that kind of thing.’
‘They’re the worst,’ Lady Fawcett observed.
There was a pause in the proceedings as shepherd’s pie was ceremoniously replaced with rhubarb crumble, the rhubarb’s acidity palliated by a globular custard of vicious sweetness. Clearly Hawkins’ culinary talent was for mince and potato, and Rosy rather hoped there might be a concluding morsel of Cheddar to sharpen the sugared palate. ‘Will there be an announcement in the newspapers?’ she enquired.
‘Oh yes, The Times and The Telegraph,’ replied Mark. ‘But if we want anyone to come to the funeral it had better be pronto. What do you suggest, Hugh?’
A Southwold Mystery Page 3
