Poison in the Pen (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 29)

by Patricia Wentworth

  Miss Silver turned an interested ear.

  ‘Very seldom indeed, I should think.’

  ‘How kind of you,’ said Miss Wayne in her small earnest voice. She proceeded in a burst of confidence, ‘I do really mean it, because I was just thinking that perhaps it was an unkind thing to say, and one doesn’t like to feel one has been unkind.’

  Miss Silver smiled. ‘It is, I think, a question of fact. Characters develop and tastes change. Someone who would be congenial as a companion at seventeen or eighteen years of age might no longer be so in five or six years time.’

  Miss Wayne continued to gaze. She was a little mousey creature with a tendency to turn pink about the eyes and nose when moved or distressed. She blinked and said, ‘How well you put it. I shouldn’t like to have felt that I had been unkind. Valentine is such a charming girl, and no one has heard anything of Jason Leigh for a very long time. I asked his uncle about him the other day – he is our vicar’s nephew, you know – and he said, “Oh, he never writes.” “Oh!” I said, “Oh dear, Mr Martin, that is very sad for you, isn’t it?” but he said he didn’t think it was, because young men liked to be off “adventuring”. Don’t you think that was a very curious word for him to use?’

  Miss Silver inquired what Mr Leigh’s profession might be.

  ‘Oh, he writes,’ said Miss Wayne vaguely. ‘Rather odd sort of books, I think. My niece tells me they are clever – but then if you are not clever yourself you like something simpler, don’t you think? A nice love story with a happy ending, if you know what I mean. Of course I can’t help taking an interest in dear Valentine and hoping that she will be very happy indeed. I think I told you they are having a rehearsal of the ceremony on Wednesday afternoon. Would it interest you to slip into the church and watch? I have never seen a wedding rehearsal, and there cannot be anything private about it, can there? Of course Joyce and I have been asked to the wedding, and if the Reptons see you with us on Wednesday, I expect they will ask you too. After all, one more can make very little difference – there are always some people who cannot come. I know for a fact that Janet Grant, who is a very old friend, will not be able to be there because the rather tiresome sister-in-law who is always getting ill has had one of her attacks, and that means Janet having to go all the way down into Kent. Esther used to say – my dear sister, you know – she used to say that Jessica wouldn’t get ill nearly so often if she hadn’t been allowed to count on Janet running down there every time her finger ached. But of course one mustn’t be unkind about it, and no one knows better than I do how terrible it is to be lonely. Jessica didn’t marry, you see, and she doesn’t get on with Janet’s husband, Major Grant – such a nice man, but rather a sharp temper. So it is all rather sad. Now my dear sister and I, there was never a word between us all the years we lived together. But then it is generally men who make the trouble, is it not?’

  It was this identical theme which was occupying Mrs Needham who had kept house for the Reverend Thomas Martin at the Parsonage across the Green for almost as long as he had been there himself. If he ever looked back to the days before her coming, it was with a heartfelt shudder. A wife in failing health, a succession of well-meaning but incompetent ‘helps’, the shock of Christina’s death and his own conviction that the failure of their marriage must somehow have been his fault and his alone – these were not things upon which any man would choose to dwell. At his darkest hour Mrs Needham had walked in, sent undoubtedly from heaven by way of a Ledlington registry office, and she had been there ever since – large, strong, imperturbable, a good cook, an excellent housekeeper, a wonderful manager. She had, in fact, so many virtues that the absence of just one might be considered to weigh lightly in the scales. She was kind, she was clean, she was honest, she had every domestic quality, but she had a tongue which practically never stopped. There had been moments when Tommy Martin had felt that he couldn’t bear it. It was at these moments that he allowed himself to look, and he never had to look for long. In time he developed a way of life in which she learned to play her part. When he went into the study and shut the door he was not to be disturbed. For the rest, he could bear with her and in case of need withdraw his attention to a point at which he really hardly knew whether she was talking or not.

  At the moment when Miss Wayne was deprecating the trouble-making proclivities of men – in which connection she would certainly have used a capital – Mrs Needham was enlarging upon the same topic to a visitor of her own, Mrs Emmott, the verger’s wife, a thin lugubrious woman whom no one had ever seen out of black. They were enjoying a nice cup of tea and some of Mrs Needham’s featherlight scones. Mrs Emmott had just remarked that there was no smoke without some fire, and Mrs Needham was agreeing heartily.

  ‘That’s just what I said, my dear. Show me a bit of trouble, and ten to one there’ll be a man somewhere behind it. Not that I’d believe anything wrong about poor Doris, for I wouldn’t, but if there wasn’t a man in it somewhere, why did she go and drown herself? Girls don’t, not except there’s a reason for it.’

  ‘I can’t say there’s anyone ever saw her with a fellow,’ said Mrs Emmott in a resigned voice.

  They had been talking about Doris Pell for the best part of half an hour. Mrs Needham was ready to go on to someone else. She said, ‘Oh, well—’ And then, ‘There’s more goes on than meets the eye. Now only last night – but there, perhaps I didn’t ought to say anything.’

  Mrs Emmott gazed at her.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I shouldn’t. Not that it was anything really, and if I don’t tell you, you’ll go thinking all round it and about, when it was only Connie Brooke that rang up, wanting to see Mr Martin when he was out.’

  ‘And what’s wrong about that?’

  ‘I didn’t say there was anything wrong, only she was crying, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe she’s got a cold.’

  Mrs Needham shook her head.

  ‘There’s a difference between a girl that’s got a cold and a girl that’s been crying her eyes out. “Oh, is he in?” she said, and I said, “Well, no, he isn’t. He’s gone over to Ledlington to one of those meetings about the Orphanage, and he said he’d stay to supper with the Reverend Craddock. Friends at College they were and he’s ever such a nice gentleman.” So she said, “Oh dear, oh dear!” and I could tell by her voice she was crying again. And just then who should come in but Mr Martin himself. It seems Mr Craddock had been called out to someone that was taken ill, so he had come home for his supper after all. I gave him the telephone and I told him who it was, and before I had time to go a step I could hear her say, “Oh, Tommy darling, can I come and see you? I don’t know what to do!” You know how all these young ones call him Tommy.’

  Mrs Emmott looked down her nose.

  ‘It didn’t ought to be allowed,’ she said. And then with melancholy interest, ‘Did she come?’

  Mrs Needham was pouring herself another cup of tea. She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, she came. And I was right about the crying – her eyes were all bulged up with it. And she didn’t go away any happier neither, for I was coming through from the kitchen with his supper-tray when they came out of the study. I stood back, as it were, and they didn’t see me. And he was saying, “Well, my dear, you had better think it over. I can’t tell you what you ought to do, because I don’t know what it is that you’ve got on your mind. But if it is really anything to do with those horrible letters, then I think you may have a duty.”’

  ‘Well, I never! And what did she say to that?’

  Mrs Needham leaned forward in the chair which she filled with amplitude. She had a lot of strong dark hair only lightly sprinkled with grey. Her eyes were brown and soft, and she had cheeks like rosy apples. She dropped her voice and said, ‘She began to cry again. I stood just where I was with the tray, and I couldn’t help but hear. Mr Martin, he said, “Oh, my dear child, don’t! That handkerchief’s nothing but a rag. Here, take mine.” And she sobbing and
saying, “Oh, poor Doris – I don’t know what I ought to do – but once I’ve said it I can’t take it back, can I?” And he said, “No, you can’t, so you’d better go back and think it over.” And with that he’d got the door open, and if you ask me, he was glad to be rid of her. For they take advantage of him, indeed they do – coming here at all hours and never thinking whether it’s his supper-time or not!’

  When they had finished their tea Mrs Emmott went on down to the village shop, where she picked up a tin of Irish steak which her friend Mrs Gurney had been keeping for her. They had a comfortable melancholy conversation, in the course of which Mrs Emmott passed on what Mrs Needham had been telling her, with some additions of her own.

  Later that evening Mrs Gurney told Jessie Peck, who was a cousin of hers, and Jessie Peck told her sister-in-law who worked Tuesdays and Thursdays for Miss Eccles and Wednesdays and Fridays for Miss Wayne. Just how many people the sister-in-law told cannot be estimated. Her name was Hilda Price, and she was a strong persevering talker. Within twenty-four hours most people in Tilling Green were aware that Connie Brooke had something on her mind. She knew who had written the anonymous letters … She knew something about the death of Doris Pell … She couldn’t make up her mind whether she ought to tell what she knew …

  FIVE

  IT DID NOT take Miss Silver long to discover that Miss Wayne really did very seldom stop talking. If her visit had been, as it was supposed to be, of a private nature, this might have proved trying, but in the circumstances it was extremely helpful. After even a short time in the house she found herself in possession of the life histories of nearly everyone in Tilling Green – their faults, their failings, the tragedies which here and there had broken the even tenor of village life – wartime losses, post-war changes – the births, the marriages, the deaths, and the departures, were displayed rather after the manner of a jigsaw puzzle. There was a fact here, a conjecture there, a sigh over some dereliction, a tear for someone missed, a speculation as to what can have occasioned some regrettable incident – Why after thirty years had the Farmers suddenly gone away? – Why had Lily Everett broken off her engagement to John Drew? – What was the real reason why Andrew Stone had gone to Australia?

  Miss Silver sat knitting whilst the trickle of talk went on. The flow increased noticeably when the question of Miss Renie’s mysterious next-door neighbour came up.

  ‘Such an extraordinary person. My dear sister was very loath to think ill of anyone, but as she often said, why should you lock your doors and shut your windows and never let anyone inside your house if you haven’t got something to hide? The vicar says it is because he doesn’t like women. But how often has he got in himself – that is what I should like to know. And with the door of Gale’s Cottage round at the side – such a very odd place to have a door, only some of those old cottages do – you can’t help seeing who comes out and who goes in.’

  Miss Silver’s interest was really very flattering.

  ‘Mr Barton lives there quite alone?’

  ‘Oh, quite – unless you are going to count the cats.’

  ‘He has cats?’

  Miss Renie threw up her hands.

  ‘Seven of them! Quite insanitary – I don’t suppose the house is ever cleaned. And such great raw-boned creatures – quite savage-looking! And all with Bible names – really quite profane!’

  A little way back from the fire, young Mrs Rodney was putting a patch on a small pair of grey flannel shorts. ‘David does go through them now that he is getting stronger,’ she said in her pleasant voice.

  Miss Silver smiled at her kindly.

  ‘That must be a great comfort to you,’ she said.

  Miss Renie was spreading out the cards for a game of patience, using a board covered with green baize balanced precariously upon a three-legged stool ornamented with poker-work. She looked puzzled.

  ‘Because he wears out his clothes?’ she enquired.

  Joyce Rodney laughed.

  ‘Because he is so much stronger, and that makes him wear them out.’

  ‘Oh, I see—’ But she still looked puzzled. ‘Yes, I do see. And he is stronger – but there are so many things that can happen to a child, and one can’t help feeling anxious, can one? Now there was poor Mrs Pavey – she lost six. You can see all their names on the stone in the churchyard, and a place left for her own, poor thing.’

  The slight tightening of a muscle at the corner of Joyce Rodney’s mouth did not escape Miss Silver. She hastened to remark that little David had a very brown and wholesome look. When they were alone together later on Joyce said, ‘There is really no need to worry about David now, I am thankful to say. Aunt Renie is so kind, but she is inclined to be over anxious and to take a gloomy view. She has never had any responsibilities, because Aunt Esther did everything, so she gets nervous. Only I wish she wouldn’t tell stories about people who had dozens of children and didn’t know how to look after them properly. It’s stupid to mind, but I can’t help it.’

  Miss Silver rested her knitting in her lap.

  ‘Mrs Rodney—’

  ‘Oh, please call me Joyce – everyone does.’

  Miss Silver coughed.

  ‘In a little while perhaps, if my visit is prolonged. At this juncture I think it would be imprudent to strike too intimate a note.’

  ‘Oh—’

  ‘It would be better if we are a little formal. What I was about to say was that Miss Wayne has talked very freely about a number of things that have happened in Tilling Green over a considerable period of time, yet she has not yet mentioned the death of Doris Pell or the fact that an inquest attributed that death to suicide.’

  ‘It upset her terribly.’

  ‘And you think she cannot bear to speak of it?’

  ‘She was very much upset. Unfortunately Miss Eccles came in with the news and wouldn’t stop talking about it. I really thought Aunt Renie was going to faint. You haven’t met Miss Eccles yet, but she is one of those people who must know everything and then hurry on to tell somebody else. I suppose it is leading rather a dull life and not having any private affairs of her own. Anything in the least out of the way is something to talk about. But Aunt Renie and I were really fond of Doris. She was quite a clever dressmaker. She made the dress Aunt Renie is wearing, and she copied a coat and skirt for me. We were both too much shocked by her death to think of it as news.’

  Miss Wayne returning to the room at this moment, the subject would have been dropped if she herself had not said in a small shaky voice, ‘Oh, my dear, were you talking about poor Doris?’ She turned to Miss Silver. ‘Such a painful subject – but you must have read about it in the papers. We went to the funeral of course. Poor Miss Pell was terribly overcome – she is the aunt, you know, and she had brought Doris up. The whole village was there, and the flowers were lovely.’ She dabbed her eyes and the tip of a reddened nose. ‘You can understand how we feel about it. But I did not intend to sadden you with our troubles. Joyce should not have spoken of it. We must talk about something more cheerful. Valentine Grey’s wedding – now that would be the thing!’ She addressed her niece. ‘I was telling Miss Silver about the rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. I thought we could just slip in at the back and see how it went without being in anybody’s way. Mettie Eccles rang up – rather a waste of a telephone call, as she is our next-door neighbour, but she is a little extravagant about things like that, and they do mount up. But on the other hand, when you are busy it does save time if you can have a call instead of going out of one house and into another and perhaps getting caught up in quite a long conversation … Dear me, where was I?’

  Joyce looked up smiling.

  ‘Mettie Eccles had rung you up—’

  ‘Oh, yes – of course – how stupid of me! Esther always said I let my thoughts wander too much. Yes, Mettie rang up, and she said that Lexie Merridew isn’t very well. She is one of Valentine Grey’s bridesmaids, and it will be quite terribly disappointing if she cannot be at the wedding. Mettie sa
id her dress is here, because Valentine was giving the bridesmaids their dresses. They are from Elise in Ledlington. And if Lexie really can’t come, Valentine was wondering about having Connie instead.’ She directed a flurry of explanation at Miss Silver. ‘That is Connie Brooke. She and a friend keep the little kindergarten school that David goes to. So many businessmen who work in Ledlington have bought or built houses in this direction that there is quite an opening. Penelope Marsh comes over from Lower Tilling, but Connie has the last house on the Green. She used to live there with her mother, who was related to the Reptons, and now it comes in very nicely for the school and so convenient for David. Connie won’t look so well in the dress as Lexie would have done – such a pretty girl! And poor Connie – but there, we must not be unkind, must we? And she is just about the same size, so the dress will fit.’

  SIX

  THE REHEARSAL WAS at half-past three. Walking across the Green, Miss Silver was regaled with information about the vicar, the Reverend Thomas Martin – ‘A widower – his wife died thirty years ago, and he has never married again. Such a pity! It must be so lonely for him.’ The parsonage – ‘Much, much too big of course. Everyone is very fond of him, but I do not think it is suitable for the young people to call him Tommy. It shocked my sister very much. She quite took him to task about it – she was so strong-minded. He only laughed, but she did not consider it a laughing matter. And he is so untidy in his dress – it is really a great pity.’

  They were not so very far back in the church after all, Miss Wayne moving forward three times until they could have a really good view of the chancel, already decorated with greenery and pots of lilies. The scent was strong upon the chilly air. There were hours of daylight left, but even in high summer it would be dark under these grey arches. For the wedding tomorrow all the lights would be on, but now the body of the church was in shadow.