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

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘You’re sure about this?’

  ‘Oh, yes – it’s Gospel!’

  The word struck ironically on Jason’s ear. Gospel – good news! Connie Brooke suddenly dead! He had come from places where the wastage of life was so great that only the nearest and dearest regarded it, but this was a peaceful English village where life was secure. And he had known Connie all her life. A plain, shy creature, not very interesting to anyone, but part of the accustomed scene.

  Tommy Martin said abruptly, ‘I must go.’ He pushed past Mrs Needham into the hall. The front door opened and fell to behind him. Jason saw him go striding down to the gate and across the Green in his baggy, shabby suit. He had forgotten to take a hat.

  THIRTEEN

  MISS SILVER WAS greeted with the news when she came down to breakfast. She had already been aware of some unusual commotion. The Croft was visible from her bedroom window. When first one car and then another stopped before the gate, she supposed that parents must be delivering their children at the school. It was a little early of course, but that might be accounted for by other engagements – a father proceeding to his office in Ledlington for instance. But when the car remained stationary and there was still further evidence of activity, this supposition had to be abandoned, and at a quarter-past nine when she came downstairs Miss Wayne informed her in a shocked voice that Connie Brooke had been found dead in her bed.

  ‘It seems quite impossible to believe that it is true – it does indeed! You saw her at the rehearsal only yesterday afternoon. She was the substitute bridesmaid – the rather plain girl in the home-made red cardigan. So very unbecoming – but oh dear, I oughtn’t to say that now, ought I? Poor Connie, I didn’t think she looked at all well. In fact, you know, I thought she looked as if she had been crying, but of course I never dreamed there could be anything really wrong. Such a shock – and poor Penny Marsh finding her like that! She has her own key, and she let herself in, and there was poor Connie dead on her bed! She came running for Mettie Eccles, and they got the doctor, but it wasn’t any use. Mettie says there wasn’t any hope right from the start – she must have been dead for hours. Of course, my room being at the back, I didn’t hear anything till Mettie came in just now and told me. But perhaps you—’ She rubbed the pink tip of her nose and gazed hopefully at Miss Silver.

  It appeared that at half-past eight Miss Silver was in the bathroom and had heard nothing. Miss Wayne went on being shocked and telling her about what Miss Mettie had said, and what Dr Taylor had said, and that, most shocking of all, the police had been sent for!

  At the Manor Valentine was ringing up Gilbert Earle. From the call-box at the George he heard her voice, quiet and serious.

  ‘Will you come up here as soon as you can?’

  ‘I thought I wasn’t supposed to see you until we met in church.’

  ‘I think you must come.’

  ‘Val – has anything happened?’

  She said, ‘Yes.’ And then, ‘Just come straight up to my sitting-room. I want to see you alone.’

  She was telephoning from the study. When she had rung off she went directly upstairs to wait. She had settled in her own mind exactly what she was going to do, and she didn’t want to see anyone else until it was done and couldn’t be undone. She had had an emotional interview with Maggie Repton in which the news of Connie’s death had been imparted and wept over.

  ‘Such a terrible thing, and of course we must all feel it. But we can’t let it make any difference – it wouldn’t be right. My dear mother always used to say that nothing ought to be allowed to interfere with a wedding – not even the death of a near relative. Poor Connie is only a connection, and whatever Dr Taylor may say, I cannot believe that I am in any way to blame. She looked terrible – you must have noticed it yourself. And she said she hadn’t been sleeping, so I gave her my own sleeping-pills with the dose quite clearly marked on the bottle. At least I suppose it was – they generally are. And it is quite ridiculous for Dr Taylor to expect me to remember just how many tablets there were, because I can’t, and that is all there is about it.’

  The scene had broken down in tears, after which Maggie Repton had been persuaded to lie down for a little, Valentine emerged with a sense of complete unreality. None of the things that seemed to be happening were really happening. They were not the sort of things that did happen, but as long as they seemed to be going on you had to play your part and do the best you could. She stood looking out of the window in her sitting-room and waited for Gilbert Earle. She heard his step in the passage and turned to meet him. When he had shut the door he saw that she had put her hand up, as if to keep him away. He took a step towards her, and she said, ‘No. I told you that something had happened. We have got to talk.’

  That halted him. But the news of Connie’s death had reached the George – it had reached him just after Valentine rang off. Of course it was a frightful shock to her and everyone. He supposed there might be some idea that the wedding ought to be put off until after the funeral. He said, ‘I know – I’ve just heard. What on earth was it? Mrs Simpson at the George said something about an overdose of a sleeping draught. They don’t think she took it on purpose, do they? And you won’t let it make any difference, surely? I mean, it isn’t as if she was a close friend or a near relation.’

  She had gone back a step or two. Her hands rested on the back of a tall chair. She said, ‘I didn’t ask you to come up here to talk about Connie.’

  He stared.

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it – she’s dead?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s true. We can make it an excuse if you like. You see, I can’t marry you, Gilbert.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I can’t marry you.’

  The stare had become a very angry one.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t marry me? You’ve left it a bit late in the day, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s late, but it isn’t too late. There are things I could use for an excuse, but I’m not going to use them. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think it would be fair. I’m going to tell you the truth. I can’t marry you, because Jason has come home.’

  ‘And what the devil has Jason got to do with your marrying me?’

  She said quite simply, ‘I’ve always loved him. We belong. I oughtn’t ever to have said I would marry you. But he didn’t say anything, and he went away.’

  He came a step nearer.

  ‘Look here, Valentine, you can’t treat me like this! Do you know what people will say? If you don’t, I can tell you. It will be one of two things. Either you’ve found out something about me, or I have found out something about you. That’s the sort of mud that sticks, you know. And it will be a damned sight worse for you than it is for me, because as far as I’m concerned they’ll probably only credit me with a mistress, but it’s a hundred to one they’ll say it came out that you were going to have a baby, and that I turned you down. Pull yourself together and use some common sense!’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s no use, Gilbert. It doesn’t matter what anyone says or anyone does, I can’t marry anyone but Jason. I ought to have known that all along. I’ve been so unhappy that I didn’t seem to be able to think. We can just say the wedding is put off. Everyone will think it is because of Connie.’

  Gilbert lost his temper with a crash.

  ‘Don’t be such a damned nitwit! What everyone will do is to try and pin her suicide on to me. And if that doesn’t make me a laughing stock—’

  The colour came suddenly, vividly to her face.

  ‘Gilbert!’

  ‘Connie Brooke – that fatuous white rabbit! I see myself!’

  He gave a furious laugh.

  She hadn’t meant to show him the letter, she hadn’t meant to shelter behind it in any way. If she had loved him, she wouldn’t have believed it. If she had loved him, she wouldn’t have shown it to him. And if he had left Connie alone, she wouldn’t have shown it to him. But Connie ha
dn’t ever given him a thought, and Connie was dead. She was going to show it to him now.

  She went over to her writing-table, took out the letter from between the leaves of the account-book where she had laid it for safety, and came back with it in her hand, her mind so concentrated on what she was doing and why she was doing it that it had no knowledge of whether Gilbert had gone on talking or not. When she held it out to him he said angrily, ‘What’s that?’ and she put it into his hand.

  She said, ‘You had better read it,’ and backed away to stand by the tall chair and rest her hands upon it.

  Gilbert stared at the cheap paper, the big clumsy writing. He read:

  ‘You may not mind his playing fast and loose with Doris Pell and driving her to take her life or about his carrying on with S.R. and if you don’t know what I mean you are more of a fool than what I took you for but you had better find out about his marrying Marie Dubois under a false name when he was in Canada or you may find yourself in the cart along of the other pore gurls he as led astray.’

  He read to the end, looked across at her with blazing eyes, and demanded, ‘What the devil is this?’

  Valentine’s colour stood high.

  ‘I got it this morning. I wasn’t going to show it to you – I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t said those things about Connie.’

  ‘I never looked the same side of the road as Connie! Who would?’

  There was a bright flame of anger in her. She cried back at him, ‘She’s dead! How can you talk like that about her when she’s dead!’

  It was like a head-on clash between them. Where had it come from suddenly, this hot antagonism? She thought, ‘Oh, God – I might have married him!’ And he, ‘She won’t marry me now. There was something about Scilla in that damned letter. Better go on talking about Connie.’

  His eyes went to the paper in his hand, and like a flash Valentine knew why. ‘You may not mind his carrying on with S.R.—’ He was talking about Connie because he didn’t want to talk about that. He said in a moderated tone, ‘Oh, well, I lost my temper. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, and I’m sorry if I did. I hardly knew the girl, but of course you did, and it’s been a shock and all that. I’m sorry if I said anything I shouldn’t. As for this’ – he beat on the paper with his hand – ‘it’s just pure poison-pen! I suppose you’re not going to ask me whether I was really planning to commit bigamy?’

  She said, ‘No – it doesn’t arise. I’m not asking you about Marie Dubois – I’m not asking you about Scilla.’

  ‘Scilla—’

  Her colour had begun to fade again, the flame in her was dying down. She said, ‘I don’t need to ask about Scilla. I came in through the drawing-room last night. The door into her sitting-room was ajar, and I heard you. I suppose I shouldn’t have listened, but I did.’

  He made a creditable effort.

  ‘I don’t know what you heard. I’ve known her for a long time. There’s never been anything serious. If you heard anything at all you would have gathered that whatever there had been, it was over.’

  She said, ‘It doesn’t matter. No, I suppose I oughtn’t to say that, because of course it matters to Roger. But it doesn’t matter to me – it didn’t matter last night. You see, I knew then I couldn’t marry you. I knew it as soon as Jason came back. I oughtn’t ever to have said I would. We don’t belong. Jason and I do. Now will you please go?’

  Gilbert Earle went.

  FOURTEEN

  IT WAS LATE on the following day that Miss Silver was called to the telephone. Since the instrument was in the dining-room and supper was in progress, she hoped that her tact and discretion would not be put to too great a test. Mrs Rodney had handed her the receiver without saying who the caller was, but no sooner had a deep, pleasant voice pronounced her name than she was aware that it was Rietta March, the Chief Constable’s wife.

  ‘Dear Miss Silver, how are you? I do hope this is not an inconvenient moment. You are not in the middle of a meal or anything?’

  Miss Silver coughed.

  ‘We are at supper, but I feel sure that my kind hostess will not mind a temporary interruption.’

  Rietta, having been thus informed that the Tilling end of the conversation would be public property, and having in any case been instructed not to say anything that could not be proclaimed aloud upon the village green, continued.

  ‘I should have rung up before, but Randal hasn’t had a moment. Now when are we going to see you? You can’t be in Ledshire without at least coming over to tea. Could you manage tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, my dear—’

  Rietta went on.

  ‘Oh, please do come! George has grown tremendously and you haven’t even seen little Meg. Look here, Randal says he will be over in your direction tomorrow – some tiresome business or other – and he could pick you up at half-past three if that will suit you. Do please say that it will. He sends his love, and we both want to see you so much.’

  Miss Silver returned to her cocoa and scrambled egg. The tip of Miss Wayne’s small pink nose twitched in a manner which strongly suggested a white mouse in the throes of curiosity. In her scholastic days Miss Silver had more than once had to contend with the passionate partiality which little boys seem to entertain for these creatures. She had never been able to share it. She found herself wishing that Miss Wayne did not so often remind her of them. She hastened to explain Rietta’s call.

  ‘The Marches are old friends. Mrs March has very kindly invited me to tea tomorrow. Her husband was once a pupil of mine. No one would ever think so to look at him now, but as a little boy he was considered too delicate to go to school, so he shared his sisters’ lessons.’

  Miss Wayne quivered with interest.

  ‘Do you mean the Chief Constable? Such a fine looking man! No one would ever think that he had been delicate. Now let me see – I am afraid you will have to start rather early, but if you take the three o’clock bus and change at the Merry Harvesters … No, we had better look it up – I am not quite sure about the connection. I hope we have a really up-to-date time-table. My dear sister was so methodical about these things.’

  Miss Silver explained that Mr March would call for her – he had business in this direction.

  Miss Renie dabbed her nose.

  ‘Oh dear – do you suppose that it would be something to do with poor Connie? It seems so terrible that people should think it could be anything except a dreadful, dreadful accident! I won’t say it wasn’t foolish of Maggie Repton to let poor Connie have those sleeping tablets, because I suppose it was. Esther was always so very particular about things like that. Prescriptions should never be passed on, she used to say, because of course what agrees with one person may not agree with another. Let them go to the doctor themselves and not go borrowing, she used to say. So Maggie Repton ought not to have done it, but I’m afraid poor Connie must have been careless too. But I can’t see why the police should be interested. Mettie says poor Maggie Repton is quite prostrated. They keep asking her how many tablets there were in the bottle, and of course she has no idea. As if one counted things like that!’ She gave a little tittering laugh and then dabbed her nose again. ‘Oh dear – I didn’t mean – of course one ought not to make a joke of it.’

  Miss Silver went on talking about the March family.

  ‘I have always kept up with them. The girls are very happily married.’

  She discoursed upon the theme at some length – Isobel’s children – Margaret’s services during the war – the valued friendship of the elder Mrs March.

  There was a moment after supper when she and Joyce Rodney were alone. Plates and dishes had been cleared, and Joyce was washing up whilst Miss Silver, always anxious to be helpful, dried for her. In the dining-room Miss Wayne was engaged in setting out the breakfast things. The door through to that part of the house being shut, Joyce said quick and low, ‘I am taking David to a friend of mine in Ledlington tomorrow. I don’t want him to hear anything – about Connie. Pe
nny means to go on with the school, but it will have to be at Lower Tilling. Her mother has a biggish house there, but it would be a good deal farther for David to go – I should have to take him on my bicycle. Anyhow I thought if I could get him away until after the inquest and the funeral—’

  Miss Silver registered approval.

  ‘A very sensible idea. Your friend has children?’

  ‘Two – and such a nice Nannie. David loves going there, and I shall be much happier about him.’

  Miss Silver polished a tablespoon and laid it down on a baize-covered tray.

  ‘People are sadly incautious about what they say in front of children,’ she observed.

  ‘They are frightful! Hilda Price was here this morning – you know, she comes to Aunt Renie on Wednesdays and Fridays – and I’m sure as far as getting on with her work was concerned she might just as well have stayed at home, because all she could do was to talk about Connie. I told her when she came that I didn’t want David to hear anything, and she agreed with every word, and then about five minutes later there she was, talking to Aunt Renie at the top of her voice, going over some long story about Connie having gone up to the parsonage in tears on Tuesday evening.’

  Miss Silver finished the last tablespoon and began on the forks.

  ‘Indeed?’

  Joyce gave an emphatic nod.

  ‘And there was David only a yard away drinking it all in. Aunt Renie should have known better, even if Hilda didn’t. Of course, I hustled him off to play in the garden at once, and I stayed around to see that he didn’t come back.’

  Miss Silver said in a thoughtful voice, ‘And pray how did Hilda Price come to know what had happened at the parsonage?’

  ‘Well, she has a sister-in-law who is a cousin of Mrs Gurney who keeps the village shop, and she had it from Mrs Emmott who is a friend of the parson’s house-keeper, Mrs Needham.’

  Miss Silver was not unaccustomed to villages. She found this a perfectly satisfactory explanation.

  ‘Pray continue, Mrs Rodney.’