Account Rendered & Other Stories

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Oh, that woman!’ she declared now, cutting into my thoughts. ‘What a snake in the grass she’s turned out to be!’

  I presumed she was referring to Nurse Wilcox, which didn’t altogether surprise me, since she was not a woman I naturally warmed to. She had been taken on following Aunt Marigold’s stroke about a year ago, a voluble, irritating woman of about thirty-five, bossy as nurses are, with an enormous appetite, and always demanding endless pots of strong tea She had sandy hair, and a mole on her chin, from which sprouted a single, black hair.

  Perhaps it was the thought of tea which made me say now, ‘Let’s go on to the Grange, and you can tell me all about it. I’ll even have a cup of bonfire tea with you.’ (My childhood name for her favourite smoky lapsang souchong.) ‘You shouldn’t be living there all on your own . I can stay with you just as well as at Melford House—’

  ‘Lord, no! Wouldn’t do at all. I’m quite all right, and Marigold’s expecting you, and besides . . .’ Her voice faltered to a close. She really was quite unlike her usual, confident self.

  Besides, what?’

  ‘I want you there to keep a watching brief.’

  ‘A watching brief!’ I tried not to laugh. ‘You’ve been reading too many of those thrillers.’ Gory pulp fiction with lurid covers constituted Lydia’s bedtime reading, but they’d never before affected her clear thinking.

  ‘Maybe I have,’ she said quietly, ‘but you can’t put everything that’s been happening down to my imagination. Nor to accidents, as Marigold insists. Something’s going on, Vicky.’

  ‘Good heavens! What sort of things?’

  ‘They’re trying to kill Marigold.’

  There was a long pause. Had it been anyone else but Lydia, I might have thought this a leg-pull. But a sense of humour was never her strong point. I reminded myself of her age, and her addiction to crime fiction. ‘Aunt Lydia! Isn’t that going a bit far?’

  ‘Ha! Maybe you won’t think so when you hear what I’ve got to say. For a start, there was Benjie, and that finnan haddock Wilcox sent up for Marigold’s supper. Shows what a fool the woman is, not to have listened when I told her how Marigold hates smoked fish. She fed it to Benjie, and an hour later the poor cat was stone dead.’

  ‘He was very old, and he was ailing,’ I reminded her gently. When Marigold had written to me, mourning his death, she’d said he was seventeen, which she reckoned was 119, in human terms. Be that as it may, he’d certainly been around for almost as long as I could remember.

  ‘That’s what everyone said. All the same, I wish I’d obeyed my natural instincts, had him down to the vet to see just what he did die of. She knows about poisons, that woman. She’s supposed to be a nurse, after all. And it all began after Malcolm appeared on the scene, just after Christmas. Marigold should never have allowed him to stay, lounging about, doing nothing. Think they’re on Easy Street, both of them.’

  ‘If that’s so, wouldn’t killing Aunt Marigold defeat the object?’

  She gave me a baleful look. ‘Not now that she’s changed her will in his favour!’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Thought that’d make you sit up! As you know, through your grandfather’s will Melford House goes to me after she dies, and there’s nothing she can do about that. It’s falling to pieces, going to rack and ruin because Father was too mean to spend anything on its upkeep, and Marigold really has no interest—but I don’t mind about that.’ Her face reddened. ‘Fact is, I should mind frightfully if it were to go out of the family.’

  I knew how much she loved the old house, though it wasn’t a sentiment I could share. It was the dreariest old place imaginable, a hideous Victorian brick edifice, all high chimneys and unnecessary gables and turrets on the outside, and inside full of dark corners, gloomy, allegorical stained glass and heavy old oil paintings of dubious artistic worth. It had been built and furnished by my great-grandfather, who had been too busy making money from the manufacture of boots and shoes to acquire any taste, and had remained largely unchanged ever since.

  ‘She can’t touch the house, but she can leave her money where she wants—and she’s left it all to Malcolm Deering! ’Fraid she’s cut you right out, left you without a penny, old girl!’

  This was a shock, but not the disaster Lydia seemed to think it would be. Money for its own sake had never appealed to me. ‘I’ve quite enough as it is, Aunt Lydia . . . Certainly more than most of my friends. After all, Grandfather did leave me something—’

  ‘A pittance!’ she interrupted. ‘Mere pittance! Because he meant me and Marigold to leave you something as well, don’t you see?’

  I vaguely recalled that Marigold, as the elder daughter, had come into the bulk of the Crowe fortune, such as was now left, but I’d never given it much thought. If asked, I would have supposed Marigold would leave her money to some artistic foundation or other, and Lydia to some charity for retired horses. But I was astonished that Marigold, who was quite sharp underneath all the fluff and frivolity, could have been so utterly foolish and uncaring of her sister, so taken in as to make a will in favour of a stranger, a young man virtually unknown to her, however much he flattered her. When I met Malcolm Deering half an hour later, I found it even more unbelievable.

  But for the moment, Lydia was continuing with her story: ‘There’s more, Vicky. Only two days ago Marigold was nearly killed by one of those finial thingummies falling off the roof, though there was only the lightest breeze. Remember what happened when one blew down that time before? Shattered a York stone paving slab, no less! The rest should have been removed or made safe there and then. She was lying out on the terrace in a deck chair—only missed her by the purest chance.’

  ‘Aunt Lydia. Just supposing anyone would try to climb out there on to the roof to push the thing over, the chances of getting it to fall in exactly the right position must be remote.’

  ‘Ah, but it is possible to get out there. You know that, don’t you?’

  And, of course, I did. In a famous escapade, when I was about eight, I suppose, I had scrambled out of an attic window on to the roof with my cousin William, where we crouched behind one of the false gables and dropped tiny pebbles on to the grown-ups, who were drinking cocktails on the terrace below. We nearly fell off the roof with helpless laughter, which was how we were found out, and poor William took the brunt of the punishment because he was seven years older than I was and should have known better, they told him. Each of these false gables, of which there were many, was crowned by a heavy stone finial in the shape of a foliated fleur-de-lis. Lethal, if it fell on anyone’s head. But even if the one above the terrace had become loose enough to push over . . . ‘It’s too much of a coincidence, Aunt Lydia.’

  ‘Not when you remember the fish—and the rabbits.’

  ‘Rabbits? Was there some poisoned rabbit stew as well?’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously, Vicky!’ she admonished, poking me with a sharp finger. ‘Well, maybe this’ll convince you: yesterday, when Marigold was taking a stroll in the old rose garden, dear Malcolm was out potting rabbits in the copse, or so he said.’ She plunged her hand into her capacious pocket and showed me what she explained was a spent bullet. ‘First time I’ve ever known anybody go after rabbits with a revolver!’

  I confess that one did rather take me aback. ‘Does Malcolm own a revolver?’

  ‘There’s Father’s. Never got rid of it,’ she added unnecessarily, because at Melford House no one ever threw anything at all away, even unto the third and fourth generation.

  ‘Well, he obviously missed,’ I said lamely.

  ‘Only just. She imagined it was a wasp zinging past her head, thought there must be a nest in the gazebo. A wasp! Went out and looked when she told me, and guess what? Found the bullet, of course.’ She went on rather hurriedly, ‘Bad business all round—and unnecessary, too. They’ve only to wait, after all, but they won’t want to do that, in case she changes her mind again.’

  ‘Aunt Lydia—what do you mean, they�
��ve only to wait?’

  ‘Prepare yourself for a shock, Vicky. Marigold . . . her heart, you know. Doc Crampton’s an old fool in some ways, but I suppose he knows his job. Says it can’t be long before she cashes in her chips. Any day, in fact. Mind you, the best doctors have been wrong before now. She may go on for years.’

  I was as saddened to hear this as Lydia evidently was, despite her gruff words, although it wasn’t unexpected: Marigold had never fully recovered from that stroke. I really couldn’t imagine what Melford House would be like without her—or even how Lydia was going to manage without their constant sparring. ‘Know she can’t help it,’ Lydia added, starting up the car, ‘best sister in the world, matter of fact, but one can’t help thinking it’s made the poor old thing a bit gaga.’ I could think of nothing sensible or comforting to say to say to this, and so we drove the last couple of miles in silence.

  ‘Anyway, it’s not just me, Vicky,’ she said, as we at last turned through the gates at Melford House and bucked up the potholed gravel drive. ‘Your Cousin William thinks there’s something fishy about that pair, too, yet he keeps telling me not to worry, everything will turn out right. Can’t understand him. You should talk to him—he’s joining us all here for dinner tonight.’

  ‘Oh, then if William agrees with you, it must be so,’ I answered tartly. ‘But you’re wrong if you think he’ll talk sensibly to me. He still treats me as though I’m twelve years old, with a brain to match.’

  William, (he of the pebbles thrown from the roof) was actually my second cousin, twice removed. We’d always been the best of friends, but since he’d been demobbed from the Navy, and had gone back into his father’s solicitors’ firm, he’d changed for the worse. He wasn’t fun any longer, though I suppose he could be excused, in a way. His father suffered from gout, an acutely painful and disabling condition which seems to provoke amusement in everyone but the sufferer, and consequently William had had many of the decisions and worries of the firm thrust on to his shoulders. He’d become pompous, at least when it came to advising me what I should or should not do, especially regarding my engagement to Freddie Fergus. He’d been right about Freddie as it so happened; he’d turned out to be just as ghastly as William had predicted, and I’d given him the old heave-ho several weeks ago, but I’d seen no reason to inform William of this fact and give him the satisfaction of saying ‘I told you so.’

  Why Lydia thought I’d be charmed by the man who came to the door to greet us as we drew up before the house, I cannot imagine: I loathed Malcolm Deering on sight. There was something just too good about his wavy hair and his moustache and the silk cravat tucked into his shirt neck, and his Errol Flynn smile. He was older than I’d imagined he would be. According to his sister, Nurse Wilcox, he’d flown Spitfires in the war, and been decorated for bravery, all of which I felt was an unlikely story, despite his handlebar moustache and his tedious use of RAF slang. ‘Oh, jolly d!’ he said, when we were introduced. Apparently, he’d had a nervous breakdown due to the traumatic effects of the war, and needed a long rest to recuperate. I didn’t believe a word of it. I was more than inclined to agree with Lydia that he and his sister had found a cushy number at Melford House, and were trading on the fact.

  But . . . just supposing it were true? That he had been brave and audacious? Not all heroes look like heroes. Did that mean he would also have the audacity to carry out these attempts on Aunt Marigold’s life?

  ‘You’ll see a big change in her,’ Lydia had warned, but as it happened I did not, for I was never to see my Aunt Marigold before she died.

  She was resting in her room when we arrived, and slept on and on. It was only when Nurse Wilcox went in to rouse her to get ready for dinner that we realized why she hadn’t put in an appearance. Yet another accident. And this time, it had been a fatal one.

  ‘I’m not one to give in to hysterics, I’m sure,’ the nurse said, after a third cup of fiercely strong tea had revived her somewhat, ‘but it fair gave me a turn when I went in and saw what had happened. Not that I didn’t warn her—I told her that great heavy portrait was downright dangerous, right over the bedhead—nasty old thing, begging your pardon, glaring out of that ugly frame!—what would happen if the cord gave way? “Good heavens, Nurse, that’s my grandfather. He’s been there as long as ever I can remember and he’s never fallen!” she said, which didn’t seem very logical to me, but then, that’s what she was like! Not that you’ll get me to say anything against her, she was one of the best patients I’ve ever nursed. Fussy about her food, but then, there’s many a nurse would be glad if that was the only thing to complain of in their patients, I can tell you! Caught her right on the head, that frame did—but Doctor says even if it hadn’t, the shock of it falling like that would have killed her, and I’m sure he’s right.’

  ‘Damn poor show, all the same,’ Malcolm Deering said, walking across to the window and looking out over the lawn with what I couldn’t help thinking was a sickeningly proprietorial air. Perhaps he didn’t know that the house, if not Marigold’s money, was now Lydia’s.

  It was at that moment that William arrived from Leverstead, having been informed by telephone of what had happened. He came into the room and I forgot that my relations with him had been on the cool side lately. Those nice, steady brown eyes sought mine immediately. ‘Vicky.’

  ‘Oh, William!’

  He put his arm around my shoulder, and its clasp was oddly comforting. He included Lydia with an outstretched hand. At the moment, he wasn’t being at all pompous.

  Nor was he later, when he gave his father’s apologies for not being there in person, and said to us all, ‘He’s given me permission to inform you of the contents of Aunt Marigold’s will. I think you, Nurse Wilcox, and your brother, should hear it, too. It’s soon told. She leaves one or two small bequests to various people. A pension for life and the tenancy of his cottage to Gornal, her old gardener. A legacy of a thousand pounds to you, Vicky. The rest of her entire fortune goes to you, Lydia, to pay off the mortgage on the Grange and to help with running Melford House as you wish it to be run. The house now, of course, belongs to you.’ He paused. ‘Oh, and in a codicil, she leaves fifty pounds each to Nurse Wilcox and Malcolm Deering for their kind attention to her over the last few months.’

  The faces of Malcolm and his stepsister were a study. Lydia went brick-red. It was news to me that the Grange was mortgaged—but, after all, those stables of hers didn’t run on fresh air, and it was well known in the family that her regular racing wagers more often than not demonstrated the triumph of hope over experience. But her embarrassment at her finances being made public was coupled with another expression I couldn’t put a name to.

  ‘I think that’s a very fair and straightforward will,’ concluded William, shuffling papers briskly together.

  ‘Fair! A miserable fifty! That’s a calculated insult, considering—’ began Malcolm, only to be stopped by a vicious look from his sister. He subsided, but his languishing blue eyes were now smouldering with anger and resentment.

  ‘Fifty pounds more than you deserve!’ muttered Lydia.

  ‘Oh, so that’s what you think?’ said Nurse Wilcox. ‘Well, Miss Crowe had every right to leave her fortune as she wished, I’m sure. I’ve known patients to have stranger fancies than she had before she died, but all the same . . .’ She glared at Lydia, then me.

  ‘All the same what, Nurse Wilcox?’ asked William.

  ‘She gave us to understand she’d changed her will, entirely in favour of my brother . . . She said she was very fond of him, she said—’ She paused in a curiously knowing sort of way, trying to stare us down. The black hair on her chin trembled visibly. She seemed about to say much more, but only added, ‘She said he was like her own son.’

  ‘Fine thing for a chap to find out he’s been left nothing at all,’ Malcolm put in. ‘After all a chap’s done for her.’ His vacuous face brightened. ‘That’s it! There must be a will that supersedes this!’

  ‘Be quiet,
Malcolm!’ Nurse Wilcox said sharply. He opened his mouth, looked at her, then decided to shut it.

  ‘I assure you,’ said William stiffly, ‘this was Miss Crowe’s last will and testament, to which the codicil was added only last week, when you, Mr Deering, drove her down to my father’s office.’

  ‘She told me herself, in person, that she was leaving every penny to me!’

  ‘There’s a world of difference between saying what you’re going to do and doing it,’ William answered drily. I had no difficulty in going along with this, knowing Marigold quite capable of such dissimulation—deceit, if you like—in order to keep Malcolm and his sister dancing attendance upon her. But, if they had thought they were to benefit when she died—and Nurse Wilcox must have been aware of Marigold’s critical state of health—why make those murder attempts at all? Lydia would be bound to contest a will made in Malcolm’s favour, and allegations like that would not have improved their chances of success. They were an unpleasant pair, but I didn’t think the sister, at least, was stupid.

  Wilcox said threateningly, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this!’ Just at that moment a nasty, horrid thought insinuated itself into my mind, and, as I looked at Lydia and finally identified the expression I had failed to recognize before, strengthened and grew. I felt rather sick.

  An hour later, on the terrace, I found the opportunity to give my somewhat gabbled explanations to William, who listened with gratifying attentiveness until I’d finished.

  ‘What you’re trying to say, Vicky, is that Lydia staged those “accidents”?’

  ‘Well, she could have done.’ It was the last thing I wanted to believe, but it seemed horribly clear to me: Marigold had thought it wiser to let Lydia, as well as the nurse and her brother, believe that she’d made Deering her heir, for the simple reason that she knew Lydia well enough to realize she’d have been quite unable to keep up the sort of pretence she herself had done. And Lydia had believed what she’d been told—the result being those ‘accidents’—a blundering attempt to make Marigold see the precious pair for what they were and presumably to persuade her to revoke that unfair will.