by Clara Benson
NINETEEN
On Friday afternoon the sun came out, and so Angela went into the garden to admire the flowers and to think. She had been reflecting a good deal about the case and was beginning to get somewhat apprehensive about it. The point about the gunshot had occurred to her a few days ago, but since nothing had come of it she assumed the police must have had good reason to cling to Norman and Kathie’s supposed alibi. Still, several days had now passed without anything happening, and she was surprised at the inaction of Inspector Jameson, for whom she had the greatest respect. He had shown his feelings for Kathie Montgomery plainly enough, and Angela wondered whether they might not perhaps be affecting his ability to act. Until recently, she should have said that he would never compromise his own integrity, but when she thought of her own recent romantic entanglement, she was forced to admit that even the most upright of people—among whom she generally counted herself—might have their weaknesses on occasion. Here, her mind drifted back to Venice, and she had to check herself. Drat the man! Why did the thought of him always make her smile so? He did not deserve her, that was certain enough. She had told him as much and he had laughed and quite agreed with her, but said it should never stop him trying. Still, she was back in England now, safe from his nonsense, and with a murder investigation going on all around her to prevent her thoughts from straying too much, at least.
Who had killed Tom Tipping? Secretly, although she would never have admitted it aloud, she wanted Norman Tipping to have done it alone and without assistance—for of course, Kathie could not possibly be involved in any way, Angela was quite certain of that. But could Norman have done it without Kathie’s involvement? He had the motive, if what Andrew Norris had said was true, and he had been in the area at the time. Supposing the gunshot was a red herring, and that the murder had been committed by Norman earlier: why, then, had he walked along Dead Man’s Path afterwards and drawn attention to himself? And was there any way in which Kathie might have walked with him without seeing Tom Tipping’s body lying there? Had Norman hidden the body, perhaps, for some reason of his own? No, she recalled, of course not, for Daniel Tyler had found it lying there quite in the open. Might Norman have somehow distracted Kathie’s attention away from the body as they passed it? Angela shook her head. No—that was a ridiculous idea, and supposed that Kathie was not only half-blind but also an idiot.
What if the gunshot was the sound of the murder, then? In that case they were back where they started, and anybody might have done it. Angela could not help wondering about Margaret Tipping and her cold, unemotional demeanour. Had her alibi been checked? Angela supposed it must have. She tried to think back to the fête, but it had been such a day of confusion that she feared her memory could not be relied upon. She had certainly seen Margaret on the cake stall earlier in the day, but as to the time of the murder (when was it? About a quarter to two, she seemed to remember)—why, she could not say what had been happening, for then she had been occupied with trying to sell everything on her bric-à-brac stall.
She wandered through the garden and under the pergola, and as she did so her thoughts were driven back to the other day, when they had watched through the window as Freddy and Corky sauntered across the lawn without so much as a by your leave. How offended Elisabeth had been! Poor Elisabeth; it must be such a bore to be so stiff in all things. It was a great tragedy to be born without a sense of humour, thought Angela. She frowned. An idea had come fleetingly into her head, but had then disappeared. What was it? Was it something about Italy (in which case it could be safely disregarded), or was it about the murder? Angela was almost certain it was the latter. She retraced her thoughts as far as she could, but was unable to pin the idea down, and eventually decided that the best thing would be to stop worrying about it. No doubt it would come back soon enough if it was important.
She had drifted out of the flower garden as she reflected, and was now wandering through the shrubbery, out of sight of the house. Here it was pleasant and shady, for it was rather a hot afternoon, and she was tempted to remain a while. She paused to admire a particularly large and luxuriant japonica, and was just starting to think that perhaps she had been out long enough, and that she ought to go back in and make more of an effort with Elisabeth, when she suddenly heard a noise that sounded like ‘Psst!’
She looked about her, but saw nothing. She must have imagined it. She was about to move on when she heard it again: ‘Psst!’
‘Odd,’ thought Angela. She went towards where she thought the sound had come from, rounded an enormous rhododendron and there, in a sheltered nook, discovered Freddy Pilkington-Soames and—to her astonishment—Mrs. Randall, sitting on a wrought-iron bench and wearing identical looks of mischief. Each held a drinking-glass filled with something, and between them on the bench were a little silver flask and a bottle of some dark liquid.
‘Hallo,’ said Angela, somewhat taken aback. ‘What’s all this?’
‘We’re having a little celebration,’ said Freddy.
‘Oh?’ said Angela. ‘What are you celebrating?’
Freddy looked at Mrs. Randall.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What are we celebrating?’
His voice was slightly slurred.
‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’
She cackled and gave a hiccup.
‘Well then, we’re probably celebrating the joy of life and the beauty of the day,’ said Freddy.
‘That ought to do it,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘It is a very fine afternoon, you must admit. The sunshine is simply glorious.’
Angela might have pointed out that they were sitting in the shadiest part of the garden and could hardly even see the sky, let alone the sun, but she sensed that logical debate was not the order of the day, and so merely agreed that the weather was indeed splendid.
‘But since you’re here, let’s have a toast!’ said Freddy, as though struck by a sudden idea. ‘I should like to propose a toast to the divine Mrs. M. May the light of your detectoring eye never grow dim.’
He held up his glass and took a drink.
‘What about me?’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘You ought to toast me. I am the oldest lady here.’
Angela noticed that she had stuck her lorgnette in her hat, where it bobbed about merrily like a large, pearl butterfly.
‘But we’ve already toasted you,’ said Freddy. ‘Four times at the last count. Or was it five?’
‘Freddy,’ said Angela reproachfully. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? What is Elisabeth going to say when she finds out you’ve been plying her mother with drink?’
‘What do you mean I have been plying her with drink?’ said Freddy, drawing himself up indignantly. ‘Tell her, Mrs. R: whose idea was it?’
‘Mine,’ admitted Mrs. Randall, hanging her head sorrowfully. A wicked look came across her face and she cackled again. ‘Although if you were any sort of gentleman you’d take the blame,’ she said.
‘Alas! I am of the younger generation, and I fear this kind of etiquette has been sadly lacking in my upbringing,’ said Freddy. ‘Humphrey was right: it’s young men like me—or do I mean young men such as I?—who have plunged the country into the disarray in which it presently finds itself.’
‘But it’s three o’clock,’ said Angela. ‘It’s far too early for this sort of thing.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘Now, are you going to stand there gaping like a fish or are you going to come and join us? Do have a drink. I’ve been wanting to have a nice, cosy chat with you for simply days, but Elisabeth would never let me.’
Freddy had been rummaging in his pocket and now produced another glass, which he wiped clean with great ceremony.
‘Courtesy of the Red Lion,’ he announced. ‘It’s not exactly Baccarat, but it possesses the requisite concavity and thus serves our purpose admirably for the present.’
Angela sat down with some trepidation, and Freddy poured her a large measure each f
rom the flask and the bottle. She took a sip and coughed.
‘Goodness me,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘That’s rather intriguing. What is it?’
‘Dubonnet and gin,’ said Freddy. ‘Mrs. R. is instructing me in the secrets of the cocktail bar. Or corrupting an innocent youth, if you prefer.’
‘Naughty boy,’ said Mrs. Randall.
‘Rubbish,’ said Angela. ‘You are entirely incorruptible, Freddy.’
‘You flatter me,’ said Freddy.
‘Not at all,’ said Angela. ‘I meant you were corrupted long ago and the job is quite complete. There is nothing left to be done.’
‘I suspected as much,’ said Mrs. Randall.
Angela took another sip. The drink was a strong one and she was beginning to feel a pleasant fuzziness in her head.
‘So, then, I expect you’ve been out hunting down criminals while we’ve been idling the afternoon away,’ said Freddy.
‘No, I haven’t, as a matter of fact,’ said Angela. ‘I promised not to do any detecting, so this morning I helped Elisabeth arrange some flowers in vases and placed them to advantage in the various rooms of the house. After that I wound wool until lunch-time, and this afternoon I have been taking a gentle stroll in the garden. I have been polite, considerate and helpful. I have not smoked, used unladylike language or told off-colour jokes—even though I had rather a good one from William yesterday. My behaviour, in short, has been impeccable. I fear, however, that this state of affairs is not destined to continue for the rest of the day—look here, are you sure this is only gin?’
‘It’s marvellous stuff, isn’t it?’ said Freddy. ‘I must say, I’ve never subscribed to the theory that we youngsters are the only ones who know how to enjoy ourselves. I have always been quite certain that those of statelier age and greater experience than I must know how to shake it about a bit—or must have known at one time, at any rate—and this afternoon I have been proved right in my theory. Mrs. R, I salute you.’
He raised his glass and drank. Mrs. Randall accepted her due with a gracious bow of the head.
‘By the way, I see Corky has produced another of his magna opera,’ went on Freddy, ‘or didn’t you read his story? I rather hope you didn’t.’
‘I most certainly did,’ said Angela with a shudder. ‘Can’t you do something about him, Freddy? Humphrey really believed I’d said all that rot.’
‘Don’t you think that says more about Humphrey than it does about Corky, though?’ said Freddy.
‘Perhaps it does,’ said Angela. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
‘How on earth can you and Humphrey be part of the same family?’ said Freddy. ‘I still can’t quite believe it. Are you sure your mother didn’t—’
‘Freddy!’ said Angela.
‘I was going to say adopt you from an orphanage,’ said Freddy, while Mrs. Randall sniggered.
‘Of course you were. As a matter of fact, though, I might ask the same question of Elisabeth,’ said Angela boldly.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘She takes after her father. I never got on with him and I don’t get on much better with her. She’s such a bore, don’t you think? I can see why she married your brother. They deserve one another, I should say. Have you met those boys of theirs? Dreadful little beasts. I know Elisabeth thinks they’re the most gifted creatures ever to grace the earth, but quite frankly, whenever I see them I get the most awful urge to slap them. Horrid brats.’
‘They’re just like Humphrey was as a boy,’ said Angela. ‘Awfully cold and calculating.’
‘Ah, now it all comes out,’ said Freddy, who was enjoying the conversation immensely. ‘But what about you, Angela? Are you going to tell me you were a paragon of virtue and obedience as a child?’
‘Of course not,’ said Angela. ‘As a matter of fact I was rather a terror. But then, I was very bored most of the time because Humphrey wouldn’t play with me, so I think I ought to be excused for getting up to mischief.’
‘But why are you being so virtuous now?’ said Freddy. ‘I mean to say, on this visit? And, by the way, why exactly doesn’t brother Humphrey want you to do any detecting?’
‘Because it is unseemly in a woman,’ said Angela. ‘Especially one of my position and respectability.’
Freddy snorted.
‘Respectability, indeed,’ he said. ‘Here, your glass is empty—you’d better have some more.’
‘Yes, respectability,’ said Angela with dignity, and took another drink.
‘Respectability is overrated,’ said Mrs. Randall sadly. ‘If you’ll take my advice, you won’t bother with it. Look at me: I went all out for respectability in my youth, but after a while the reputation sticks and you can’t shake it off, so now I have to skulk in the rhododendrons whenever I want to have fun. “We drink very little in this house, Mr. Pilkington-Soames,”’ she said, in such an accurate imitation of Elisabeth that Angela put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. ‘Hmp,’ she went on, and subsided into silence.
‘Well, then, Angela, if you have promised not to detect any murderers, presumably you can’t give me any inside information on the case either,’ said Freddy, who was never entirely off duty, although given his present state it was somewhat doubtful whether he would be able to remember tomorrow anything that he was told today.
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘Everyone thinks Norman Tipping did it and Kathie helped him, though. Even Andrew Norris said as much. And I’m fairly sure the police believe it too.’
Too late she remembered that Kathie’s mother was there and might be shocked to hear the news. But Mrs. Randall was made of stern stuff.
‘Pfft!’ she said. ‘It serves her right for thinking of marrying him. Silly girl. I could have told her he was no good, but girls never listen to their mothers. I wish I’d had sons,’ she said wistfully. ‘They’re so much easier.’
‘Never mind,’ said Freddy. ‘I’ll be your son, if you like. My mother wanted a daughter so it’s a fair exchange. She can have Kathie and you can have me.’
‘What an excellent idea,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘You shall be a credit to me, I’m quite sure of it.’
They beamed at each other fondly, and more drinks were poured, and then of course they all had to make another toast to Freddy and his new mother. By this time Angela was starting to feel slightly dizzy, and she decided that she had had quite enough.
‘So, then, this off-colour joke you mentioned, Angela,’ said Freddy after a short pause in which they all stared glassily in different directions. ‘I think it’s only fair that you share it with the company, don’t you agree, Mrs. R?’
Mrs. Randall nodded vigorously.
‘Oh, I don’t know that I ought,’ said Angela primly.
‘Of course you ought,’ said Freddy. ‘We have provided the cocktails, and now you must provide the entertainment—pay your way, so to speak.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Angela, and prepared to oblige. She had barely started, however, when to her surprise Freddy suddenly shot out of his seat and bolted into the bushes. She had hardly time to register the terrified look on Mrs. Randall’s face before she heard a voice say loudly:
‘What on earth is going on?’
It was Elisabeth, who had come upon them unexpectedly and was standing there, a look of horror on her face. Angela glanced down at the glass in her hand, and at the flask and the bottle which stood on the seat between her and Mrs. Randall, and then back at Elisabeth, whose expression had now changed from shock to haughty fury.
‘Er—hallo, Elisabeth,’ she began, uncomfortably aware that she was not in the fullest possession of her faculties. ‘We were just—’
‘Mother,’ said Elisabeth, ignoring Angela. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Why, I don’t quite know, dear,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘I was just passing when Angela offered me a glass of this cordial, but I don’t think I like it very much.’
‘Cordial?’ snapped Elisabeth as Angela stared in astonishment at
Mrs. Randall, whose manner had altered completely, for she spoke in the gentle and puzzled tones of one who, while taking an afternoon stroll through the flower garden, had been lured unwittingly away from the path of pure and virtuous innocence and into a den of vice and debauchery. ‘That’s not a cordial—it’s alcohol! Have you been drinking? Angela, what have you given my mother?’
‘Alcohol?’ said Mrs. Randall in tones of the greatest dismay. ‘Are you sure? Angela, you never said it was alcoholic. But now you come to mention it, I must confess I am feeling a little dizzy.’
‘Of course you’re feeling dizzy,’ said Elisabeth. She drew herself up. ‘Angela, I’m surprised at you.’ Words could not express the depth of her reproach.
‘But I didn’t—’ began Angela. It was no use, however, for Elisabeth was not listening.
‘Mother, you must come back to the house at once,’ she said. ‘Here, take my arm. You’re not in any fit state to walk by yourself.’
Mrs. Randall struggled obediently to her feet and clutched at her daughter’s arm.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry to be such an inconvenience.’
