‘And the poison from a pen travels up the arm more readily than it does onto the paper,’ I went on.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Imagine if you died tonight. And met your Maker.’
‘You’re not right in your head!’ she said. ‘I shall go to the police tomorrow and tell them you’ve threatened me.’
‘You do that,’ I said to her, smiling, ‘and see what they say.’
I allowed her to turn, with a swish of her shiny dressing gown, and slam her door. It would have been very satisfying to beat her to it and leave her standing there, but I wondered if the idea would come back and take form if I kept still and let it return to me. I was still waiting motionless, when the electric landing light, set on a timer I supposed against the profligacy of the guests, clicked off again and left me in blackness.
Inside my room, I set Jeanne’s cases by the door for the morning and began the dreary task of unpacking the jumble of belongings I had swept into my own. A box of powder, improperly clasped, had burst open and liberally doused the top layer of items. I banged my hairbrush and blew the worst of it off my sleeping cap, then I lifted an untidy heap of papers and shook them like maracas. One green sheet drifted free and eddied to the floor. Oh Lord, I thought, as I dumped the rest of them down and bent to retrieve it. It was an examination paper. In all my muddle I had not returned it to Miss Shanks and in all hers she had forgotten to ask for it from me. But should I burn it or send it back to her in the morning? I sat down on the low fire stool and started leafing through the rest of the pile – newspapers, scribbled notes on the case, scribbled notes on my abandoned lessons – for the other one. Halfway through the heap, I caught a glimpse of the pink paper I remembered taking from Miss Shanks’s hands. And there on top of it was something else. Something I could not understand coming to be there.
It was a letter, a pale mauve envelope, and the address, written in blue ink with a thick pen, was Miss I. Shanks (Headm.), St Columba’s School, Portpatrick. I picked it up and stared at it, then I ran over the scene in Miss Shanks’s office in my mind: she opened the safe and stirred the disorder of papers inside it. Aha! Yes, she had stopped a small landslide with her knee and shoved the things back. She had handed me two sheets, and this envelope must have been caught between them.
It had not occurred to me then but it struck me as very odd now. No one kept letters in a safe, did they? One kept examination papers (if one ran a school), deeds, bonds, cash, jewels, one’s chequebook if one were the cautious sort. But not letters, unless it were that one happened to have an autograph letter from some great man – the Duke of Marlborough on the eve of battle, say. And yet Ivy Shanks had had a heap of them, and great men did not write on the eve of battle using blue ink and mauve paper.
I turned the envelope over and lifted the flap with not even a moment’s hesitation. The sender was a Mr Thos. Simmons. His name and address (The Rowans, Moffat) were embossed on the paper along with a reproduced etching of his house in a little oval lozenge, two dark patches on either side representing the eponymous rowans, one supposed.
Dear Miss Shanks, the letter began. Thank you most kindly for yours of the seventeenth. My lady wife and I will most certainly look forward to seeing you on ‘Parents’ Day’ at St Columba’s and are already anticipating with eagerness getting down to the ‘nitty-gritty’. Ship ahoy! Or as it might be – Tally-ho! We are delighted to hear that Tilly is ‘doing so well’. Yours most faithfully, Mr & Mrs Thos. Simmons.
Of course, I thought. The name of Simmons had rung a bell. ‘Tilly’ who was ‘doing so well’ (why the quotation marks there? Who could say?) was Clothilde Simmons, to whom Miss Shanks had alerted me during my one and only day as English mistress. That one part of the letter made sense to me: the rest of it was a mystery. Tally-ho? Ship ahoy? Nitty-gritty? And had Miss Shanks really written a letter to every pair of parents inviting them to the Parents’ Day, which must come around with foreseeable regularity every year? If she had found the time for such a pointless gesture, why on earth was she keeping their replies in the safe?
Thoughtfully, I folded the letter and returned it to the envelope, then I tucked it and the examination papers back into the gloves pocket of my bag. The letter was a crashing let-down when it came to the puzzle of Ivy Shanks and the greater (if more nebulous) puzzle of St Columba’s in general, but it was good to have some reason to go back there should the need arise, if only because that little brown envelope of money from Miss Barclay showed me how very much they hoped I would not do so.
I finished my rough unpacking, paying less and less attention to the removal of powder as the task went on, and then crawled, exhausted, into my little bed in a dusty but sweet-smelling nightgown and was dead to the world before the midnight high tide came crashing and booming into the harbour.
I was up and off long before the landlady had started frying bacon the next morning, and all was quiet behind the convalescent widow’s bedroom door. The station, in contrast, was greatly a-bustle, fish crates stacked under sacking waiting for the goods train to take them to town and enough housewives in their good coats and farmers in their good trousers to imply that today was a market day somewhere and a train bound for it was due along soon. Checking with the ticket-master, I decided to wait instead of dropping off Miss Beauclerc’s bags and was rewarded less than a quarter of an hour later when a figure in a bulky checked overcoat of an unlikely blue and with a headscarf pulled far forward and tied on the chin so that only a sliver of face was showing, and that in shadow, stopped in front of me and cleared her throat. The slim legs and narrow, hand-stitched shoes did not go with the garish coat and dowdy headgear and when I looked up it was into the face, pale and stark, of Jeanne Beauclerc.
‘Thank you, Miss Gilver,’ she said, sitting down on the bench beside me. ‘Your good husband rang me last evening and he has told me I will be met at your little station. He has told me that I am to be a guest in your house, not a servant after all.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Glad to help. We’ll find Fleur, and as soon as we do I shall ring home and let you know.’ She nodded and bit her lip. ‘I don’t suppose, now you’re on your way, that you’ll tell me any more of what’s going on?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought as much, but I had to try. Well, can you tell me this? My husband asked me and I assured him, so I’d like you to assure me. You’re not mixed up with any rascals who’re looking for you, are you? Or in trouble with the police?’
‘There will be no rascals,’ said Miss Beauclerc and for the first time I thought I could hear a smile in her voice. ‘Your husband is in no danger.’
‘And no police? I know you must be in some kind of trouble to be planning, as you were, to run away.’
‘No police,’ said Miss Beauclerc. Then she ruined the reassurance completely. ‘I was acquitted.’
‘Of what?’ I said, sitting up and peering round the corner of her headscarf to look into her eyes. ‘My son is there too, you see. Young and innoc— Well, impressionable anyway.’
‘Of everything,’ she said calmly. ‘If your son is there perhaps I can make myself useful instructing him. I am a French mistress more than I am an embroiderer, you see.’
I quailed to think what a Frenchwoman of twenty-five whose family had disowned her, acquitted or no, could teach Donald, but before I could say anything everyone turned their heads in unison as the train whistle sounded just out of sight.
‘I’ll be in touch very soon,’ I said. ‘You’ll probably only need to be there a day or two.’ I was comforting myself now. ‘But, I say, I tell you what you could do for me. My dog – Bunty – dear old thing. You could cuddle her and spoil her. Hugh would never be cruel but he neglects her most fearfully when I’m away. I’ve come back before now to find her billeted in the stables, the poor darling. If you like dogs, that is. I’d be very grateful.’
‘I adore little doggies,’ said Miss Beauclerc. ‘What kind is she?’
‘A Dalmatian,’ I said. �
��Not so little. Do you know—’
‘But of course. With the polka-dots like a pretty dress. Such beautiful creatures. I shall give her all your hugs and kisses and tell her of your love.’
With that the train was upon us, snorting and steaming like a beast from mythology in that terrific way that trains always seem to do when they arrive in very quiet country stations (in comparison with great metropolitan stations where amongst the other noise and bustle the trains seem quite tame creatures). Jeanne Beauclerc stood, kissed me once on each cheek, and stepped inside the first-class carriage.
Acquitted of everything, was all I could think of as I made my way back to the Crown. Should I ring Hugh and tell him? I am sorry to say that the thought of Bunty being showered with kisses won the day and I decided that Hugh and even Donald were big boys now and could cope with whatever a Mademoiselle Beauclerc might bring. So I turned my mind to the case again, the great sprawling tentacled monster of a case, still growing and still eluding my grasp with every flex of its muscular form.
‘Sacked?’ said Alec, cackling down the line. ‘Dear goodness, Dan. So where are you?’
‘Back at the Crown,’ I said. ‘Much to the disgust of the widow.’
‘Poor you,’ Alec said. ‘The Horseshoe at Egton is a delightful billet. I reckon I could put up here for a good three weeks until I’d eaten my way through their supper menu and the breakfast I’ve just polished off – words fail me.’
‘Good,’ I said, but he had been speaking metaphorically.
‘I had this stuff – a kind of sausage, I suppose – that goes by the name of black pudding. Have you ever had black pudding, Dandy? It’s a little like boudin noir, only—’
‘It’s a great deal like boudin noir, you goose,’ I said. ‘It is boudin noir!’
‘Really?’ Alec said. ‘I failed to recognise it in the midst of the general fry-up, I suppose.’
‘There really isn’t time for—’ I said.
‘Speaking of fry-ups,’ said Alec, ‘what of Joe?’
‘I don’t think you fully appreciate just how busy I’ve been at this end,’ I said. ‘I haven’t had time to hold Joe’s hand as well as everything else. I’ve made our apologies and he’s on his own. Literally. Poor Sabbatina is so angry with him, she can’t look him in the eye.’
‘Angry with him?’ said Alec.
‘I know, it’s terribly unfair,’ I said. ‘But it’s very hard to be angry with someone who’s gone. And one can’t help but wonder . . .’
‘What?’
‘Oh, if all the lovey-dovey stuff is genuine or if it was for our benefit, after the fact,’ I said. ‘I mean, he charmed me and he charmed you. His own daughter is most likely of all three to have a clear view of the man. And his wife did leave, after all. Anyway, never mind that. Now I’m released from servitude again we can apportion the tasks a bit more equally.’
‘As long as I don’t get stuck with the donkey work now that you’re available,’ said Alec.
‘You choose first then,’ I replied. ‘I’m just happy not to be reading Milton. Except, clearly, it makes sense for me to talk to the Portpatrick police.’ I heard him drawing breath to ask what about, so I told him. ‘The news that Fleur’s bags were left behind makes me much more worried that she didn’t just take off. And knowing that she had a plan and abandoned it only adds to the concern. They need to put a lot more effort into finding her, if you ask me.’
‘Agreed,’ Alec said. ‘And agreed also that you should do that since you’re there. As far as I can see, the other tasks are finding out about the car crash that killed Charles – thanks for the telegram, by the way; it raised my stock no end with the serving wenches. Got me a sandwich at bedtime. The other thing we need to do is find out what happened to the Misses Taylor and Bell.’
‘And I only hope that one thing or another jogs the whole mess back into gear somehow,’ I said. ‘I’m convinced there’s a pattern there somewhere if I could catch hold of the ends . . .’
‘My dear, your metaphors,’ said Alec. ‘But I know what you mean. It’s a veritable hydra this one, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ I said. ‘Even if we excise your case from the tangle – ignore Joe, ignore Sabbatina, ignore what Cissie saw – there’s still Fleur and Jeanne and Miss Blair and Miss Taylor and Miss Bell.’
‘And No. 5 and Elf and Charles and another two murder victims somewhere,’ said Alec.
‘And Miss Shanks and Barclay and Christopher and Lovage,’ I said.
‘And the new one,’ said Alec.
‘Miss Glennie,’ I said. ‘But she doesn’t go with them. She’s another like Fleur and the mademoiselle.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Alec. I thought very carefully before I answered him.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, at last. ‘Just a hunch. One of those wispy . . .’
‘Oh, one of them,’ Alec said, teasingly. ‘Well, I suppose they’ve led you to a solution more than once before now.’
‘They’ve led me up the garden path a lot more often, though,’ I said. ‘And to complete our list there’s “The School”. I almost wish I had managed to stick it. At least until Parents’ Day.’
‘What’s that?’ said Alec. ‘Sort of a Speech Day thing?’
‘Yes, and I found the most peculiar letter from a parent accepting the invitation to it.’
‘Oh?’ said Alec. ‘Peculiar how?’
‘Well, Miss Shanks had it under lock and key for one thing. And it said how pleased the father was with his daughter’s form place and how much he was looking forward to coming for a visit. And it said “Tally-ho” for no good reason I can see.’
‘Well, call for the police,’ said Alec. ‘Tally-ho, eh?’
‘You’ll be sorry you mocked me when the dread deeds come to light,’ I told him. ‘So, Taylor and Bell for you? Or Charles and the car crash?’
‘Oh, Taylor and Bell, I think,’ said Alec. ‘The girl on the desk at the Lambourne Agency is my old friend, remember. I’ve got a head start with her. And anyway, I’d rather telephone than drag myself to a library. It’s fish pie for lunch at the Horseshoe.’
‘Don’t forget the Somerville College possibility if the agency can’t help you,’ I said. ‘Until later then.’ I rang off and remained seated in the little alcove, thinking it all over and planning the course of my day until I grew aware that someone was watching me. Suspecting the widow, I turned with a cold look on my face, but it was only the maid.
‘Are you finished with the telephone, madam?’ she said. ‘Only I’ve to sweep the hall.’
‘It’s Miss Brown, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Mary, madam,’ she said. ‘I’m only a parlour maid.’
‘But it’s Mary Brown,’ I persisted.
‘Yes, m’m,’ she said.
‘Well, Mary, I don’t know how much of my conversation you overheard while you were standing there,’ I said, ‘but make no mistake, I shall take a very dim view if any of it gets up the hill to your aunt at the school.’
‘Oh no, m’m,’ she said, colouring deeply and clasping her hands in front of her.
‘I shan’t scruple to inform your employers and I shan’t be content until I know you’re not in a position to carry tales again.’
‘No, no really, m’m,’ she said. ‘It’s not me. I mean, yes, Mrs Brown is my auntie, but it’s my sister, you mean. Kitchen maid. Her and Auntie Belle are as thick as thieves. I’m not— I mean, it’s Elsie you mean and I don’t tell her nothin’.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ I said, and with one last bob the poor girl scuttled off into the back regions, presumably to fetch her brushes. I stood and stretched and made for the foot of the stairs, but was arrested by the sight of the widow, with her companion beside her, halfway up the first flight, looking down on me. She was holding the younger woman back with one arm thrown out.
‘Threatening the little maid now, is it?’ she said. ‘You need a doctor, not a policeman.’
‘I see
that your companion has more breeding than you, madam,’ I said, nodding at how the widow’s arm was blocking the way. ‘She clearly understands that one should make one’s presence known when one intrudes upon a private conversation, not lurk at the turn in the stairs, eavesdropping.’
‘And would you say eavesdropping,’ said the widow, flushing, ‘is a bad habit, a crime or a sin, Mrs Gilver?’ She half-turned to the other who was squirming with embarrassment. ‘I told you, Enid. She’s without any shame.’
‘Eavesdropping,’ I said, ‘is a window on a flawed moral character but too tawdry to dwell upon. Blackmail, now . . . Blackmail is much more serious.’
‘Blackmail!’ said the widow.
‘Strictly, I suppose, just the first careful step towards it.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ said the widow, while her companion shifted from foot to foot and whimpered ineffectually at her elbow.
‘Only with exposure,’ I said. ‘Do you deny it?’
‘Blackmail now!’ said the widow. ‘Slander and libel and lying and blackmail. You’re not safe to be out amongst decent people! Come on, Enid. Let’s go. I need some fresh wholesome air.’
At the police station, to my disappointment, it was Sergeant Turner who came to see who had crossed the threshold and caused the bell to ring.
‘Mrs Gilver,’ he said, in the tone one would use to say ‘burst water mains’ or ‘flat tyre’.
‘Sergeant Turner!’ I said, trying to sound as one would saying ‘rising stock prices’ or ‘sunshine forecast’. ‘I was wondering if there was any news in the hunt for Miss Lipscott. I have some evidence to add to what we know of her disappearance.’
‘There you go again, madam,’ he said. ‘We-ing. We, the police, might not choose to share anything we know with you, the general public.’
‘Well, Sergeant,’ I said, after a swift review of whether there was any reason not to tell him, now that I had given up trying to pass myself off as a mistress at St Columba’s, ‘we – Mr Osborne and I – are not the general public, exactly. We’re private detectives. And we’ve worked with policemen before.’
Dandy Gilver and a Bothersome Number of Corpses Page 24
