Poison In The Pen

by Patricia Wentworth

  She had consulted Roger again, a few minutes ago, just to reassure herself about the party. He had said very emphatically,

  “Oh, yes, yes-go on and have the Work Party! What difference does it make? Except that if you don’t have it, you will start everyone talking all over again.” He went as far as the door, put his hand on it, and spoke without turning round. “There’ll be plenty to talk about, but let us get this funeral over first.”

  Miss Maggie gave a little gasp.

  “What-what do you mean?”

  He threw her a brief glance over his shoulder.

  “Divorce-Scilla is clearing out. You may as well know it now as later.”

  “Clearing out-”

  “And not coming back. She has been having an affair with Gilbert Earle-if that’s the worst of it. I’ve come to the end. She must go.” He jerked at the handle of the door and went out, shutting it sharply behind him.

  Maggie Repton felt her way to a chair and sat down. It was quite a long time before she went through to the drawing-room. When she did so, people were already beginning to arrive. They glanced uneasily at her and at one another. Maggie Repton was always sallow, but this afternoon her skin had a curious greyish tinge. It might have been partly due to the light, the rain having turned into the kind of mist which drains the colour out of everything, but it wasn’t the light that gave her that wandering look and set her fingers shaking.

  Valentine, on the contrary, did not look in the least like a deserted bride. She was not in colours-she wore a cream jumper and a grey tweed skirt, a compromise which was very generally approved. But there was a kind of bloom and glow about her which had been rather noticeably absent during the days preceding what should have been her wedding. After no more than a single glance there was a warm and unanimous feeling that whoever was plunged in gloom and distress, it was not dear Valentine.

  Miss Silver had by now met quite a number of the ladies present. She found herself impressed by the efficiency with which Miss Eccles appeared to be presiding in what was, after all, someone else’s house. Certainly no one who did not know would have taken Miss Maggie for the hostess. It is true that she was not wearing a hat, but after the first few minutes this failed to distinguish her, since Mettie Eccles and quite a number of the other ladies had preferred to remove their headgear before sitting down to do needlework. For this purpose they adjourned to the hall, either by ones and twos or in small groups. There was a mirror there, and a chest upon which coats, hats and scarves could be piled.

  They came back into the room and disposed themselves on the comfortable old-fashioned chairs and sofas. Thimbles were put on, scissors laid ready, half-made garments produced, knitting-needles and wool extracted from capacious bags. Miss Silver found herself on a sofa next to a large and important looking lady in black and white tweeds. She wore pearl studs in her ears, and she had very fine dark eyes. She was also the only woman in the room who was not provided with some sort of work. At first occupied in exchanging nods and greetings with some of the other women, she turned presently to her immediate companion and remarked,

  “How very well you knit. Let me see, you are Renie Wayne’s p.g. aren’t you? Miss Silver isn’t it? I’m Nora Mallett-Lady Mallett. I’m a relation of the Reptons, and I’m here under completely false pretences, because I really came over to see Maggie. This poor girl Connie dying so suddenly and Val’s wedding being put off, I thought I had better just make sure that Maggie hadn’t packed up altogether. If I had had any idea that there would be this Work Party business going on I shouldn’t have come. As it is, I’m just waiting for a chance to get Maggie to myself for five minutes, so I don’t want to get involved with anyone it will be difficult to get away from.”

  Oddly enough, this bluntness did not give offence. There was so much warmth in voice and manner, so strong an expression of kindness, as to make her seem merely frank. Miss Silver found herself forming a favourable impression. She said with a smile,

  “My own work, I am afraid, is of quite a private character. I am making a twin set for my niece’s little girl. The jumper is finished. This is the cardigan.”

  Lady Mallett admired the stitch, asked a number of questions about little Josephine, about her brothers, her parents. Always ready to talk of her dear Ethel, Miss Silver responded, and it was not until some time had passed that they reverted to their more immediate surroundings, Miss Silver reproaching herself for having been led into taking up too much of Lady Mallett’s attention.

  Nora Mallett gave her rolling laugh.

  “Oh, I’m always interested in people, you know, and there isn’t really any particular hurry.” She carefully dropped her voice as she continued. “I just don’t want to get buttonholed by Mettie Eccles. We’re some sort of cousins, you know, and she always tries to lay down the law to me. As for getting Maggie to myself, I don’t suppose there’s a hope.” She turned to look across the room to where Miss Repton drooped over a pattern which she and at least three other people were endeavouring to accommodate to what was obviously too short a length of material. With a laugh and a shrug she turned back again. “They might as well give it up-and so might I! I wonder how long before Mettie-Oh, she’s going over to them. And now, my dear Miss Silver, you will see that the pattern will be made to behave itself and come out right. If Mettie wants things to go a certain way, well, they go that way. The only time she didn’t bring it off was the one that mattered the most to her, poor thing.”

  Nora Mallett’s tongue was notoriously indiscreet, but she would probably not have proceeded any farther if it had not been for that something about the quality of Miss Silver’s listening which had caused her to receive so many confidences. And after all, there really wasn’t any secret about the fact that Mettie Eccles had always been devoted to Roger. The words slid off her tongue.

  “Odd, isn’t it, but you stop being clever when you care too much, and that’s a fact. She would have made Roger just the sort of wife he ought to have had, and I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him. Men are so horribly stupid! There she was under his nose-he saw her every day of his life- and so he really never saw her at all! Have you met his wife?”

  “I have seen her.”

  Lady Mallett shrugged the ample shoulders under the black and white tweed.

  “Oh well, then, there isn’t much need to say any more, is there?” Like so many people who make this type of remark, she then proceeded to say quite a number of things. “Thirty years younger than he is, and a great deal too ornamental! What was it one of those old poets said about someone being too bright and good for something or other? I don’t know that I should use the word good, but she is certainly too bright for Tilling Green.”

  With a slight preliminary cough Miss Silver supplied the information that the poet was Wordsworth, and that what he really said was:

  “Not too bright or good

  For human nature’s daily food.”

  Nora Mallett laughed good humouredly.

  “Daily food! My dear, what a cannibal! You know, I’m being horribly indiscreet, but sometimes it’s a tremendous relief just to let go and say what you feel, and if you do it to a stranger it matters so much less than giving yourself and everyone else away to an intimate friend who is quite certain to pass it on.”

  Miss Silver’s needles were moving briskly. She looked at the blue frill which was lengthening there and said,

  “It is sometimes much easier to talk to a stranger.”

  Lady Mallett nodded.

  “The looker on who sees most of the game! Now tell me- what is everyone saying about the wedding? Do they think it’s just put off, or what?”

  “Mr. Earle’s absence has occasioned some comment.”

  Lady Mallett laughed.

  “Well, it would, wouldn’t it! Gilbert goes off, the other young man stays put, and Val has got stars in her eyes. I don’t mind saying that I like Jason the better of the two, though I’m sure I don’t know why. He can be shockingly rude, and he has b
een making Val unhappy, but if she wants him she’d better have him, so long as he doesn’t go off into the blue again and leave her to break her heart.”

  Since she had only seen Jason Leigh in the distance, Miss Silver could do no more than reply that it was extremely difficult to lay down any rules for happiness in marriage, but that kindness, unselfishness and mutual consideration must always be important factors.

  “Most people would say that sounded very old-fashioned!”

  Miss Silver smiled.

  “The institution of marriage has been going on for a very long time.”

  “And people still go making a mess of it! Well, some of us are lucky. When I married Tim you’ve no idea the things everybody said!” She laughed with gusto. “I said quite a few myself!-‘He had come up from nowhere,’ and the answer to that was-‘You can’t keep a good man down.’-‘Nobody had ever heard of his people.’ ‘Perhaps not,’ I told them, ‘but they are going to hear about him.’ ‘He’s nothing to look at.’ ‘Well, well,’ I said, ‘I never did care about having everything in the shop window.’ You know, I think that’s why I don’t like Gilbert Earle-there’s such a lot in his shop window that it sets me wondering whether there’s anything in the shop. In my husband’s case there was such a lot put away behind that I’m not through with finding out about it yet. The only thing that hasn’t panned out is the family we were going to have. It just never came along, which I suppose is the reason why Mettie and I have got to have our fingers in other people’s pies. If I’d had half a dozen children to worry about, I shouldn’t have had nearly so much time to run round interfering with my neighbours’ affairs.”

  For a moment there was a brightness which might have been moisture in the fine dark eyes. Then she laughed and said,

  “Oh well, I’ve got plenty on my plate for one woman. What were we talking about before I got off on to me? Scilla, wasn’t it? I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t wonder she’s bored to death down here. I’m not, and you wouldn’t be, but what about a girl who has never lived where there weren’t lamps in the streets, buses, neon lights, oodles of shops, and a cinema round every corner? Why, even when the war was on those poor women who were evacuated to this kind of place-it only took them about two minutes to get over being blown up in their beds and to start hankering after going back again. And of course one can see their point. As long as they weren’t actually being bombed, the town gave them everything they wanted-company, crowds, the fried fish shop, and lots and lots going on. And what had the country got to give them in exchange-dark frightening lanes, the general shop, no one to speak to, and nothing to do. You see what I mean? And Scilla hasn’t even got the possibility of bombs to put her off that life she used to live. I don’t pretend I like her, but I’m sorry for her all the same!”

  CHAPTER 22

  They went into the dining-room for tea. As they crossed the hall, Scilla Repton came out of her sitting-room. The word which Lady Mallett had employed to describe her immediately sprang to Miss Silver’s mind-bright. In contrast with the black, grey, and drab of all the other female garments present Mrs. Repton’s appearance might even have been stigmatized as garish. She wore a skirt of an imitation tartan in which the predominant colours were scarlet, yellow and green. Her shoes were red, and her pale shining hair hung down over a jumper of emerald wool. Perhaps it was all these colours which gave her a curiously hard look. It occurred to Miss Silver that without her make-up she might have been pale. She spoke to one or two people, and as she entered the dining-room she came face-to-face with Maggie Repton. Miss Silver, a little behind her, had a most vivid impression of Miss Maggie’s recoil. She not only stopped, but she stepped back and put up a shaking hand as if to ward off any contact. For a moment her face was contorted. It was as if she had suddenly seen something that shocked her. Afterwards, when Miss Repton had given her evidence, Miss Silver knew what it was that she had seen-Roger’s unfaithful wife who was leaving him, the woman who had broken off Valentine’s marriage. She had shrunk away from the sight and felt the room go round with her.

  The hand that steadied her was Miss Silver’s. She found herself guided to a chair, and was glad to sink down upon it. A voice that was as kind as it was firm advised her to bend forward.

  “If you will drop the handkerchief you are holding and stoop to pick it up, no one will notice anything. Just stay here, and I will bring you a cup of tea.”

  During the general movement in the direction of the long table at which tea was being served the incident had passed unnoticed. When Miss Silver returned with a cup in either hand Miss Maggie had recovered sufficiently to thank her.

  “How very kind of you. I really don’t know what came over me. You are staying with Renie Wayne, are you not? I think I saw you with her on Wednesday at that unfortunate rehearsal.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Then you will understand that we have had a great deal to trouble us this week. I haven’t been able to sleep. I am afraid I am not as strong as I should like to be.”

  Nothing could have exceeded Miss Silver’s sympathetic attention.

  “Why do you not just slip away and lie down for a little? Your niece could look after the Work Party, and I am sure that everyone would understand.”

  Miss Maggie had got no farther than, “You are very kind-” when Mettie Eccles emerged from the crowd about the tea-table and came towards them. She held a large cup in one hand and a plate with sandwiches and cake upon it in the other. She paused to say briefly,

  “I’ll take these in to Roger. Florrie tells me he is in the study. It’s too much to expect him to join such a mob of women for tea.”

  “My dear Mettie!”

  Mettie Eccles gave a short laugh.

  “Well, we are a mob, aren’t we? Men prefer women one at a time, my dear.”

  She went on her way, and presently came back again, her face cold and shut down. Miss Maggie made a small vexed sound.

  “There-I knew he wouldn’t like it-her taking him in his tea, you know. I’m sure she meant it so very kindly, but I think he would rather she had let it alone. I am afraid she may have noticed that he wasn’t pleased, and it has hurt her feelings. She is a cousin, you know, though rather a distant one, and we have known her always. Dear me, how good you are to me! I am really feeling quite revived. Do you think I could just sit here quietly with you for a little longer? I am finding it so restful. Or do you think it would be remarked?”

  Miss Silver smiled benignly.

  “What could anyone say or think, except that you were most kindly entertaining a stranger?”

  Later on when the tea interval was nearly over Miss Eccles passed them again. She said in a determined voice, “I am going to see whether Roger will have another cup,” and went on and out of the door.

  The room had been emptying. Ladies who were going to handle light-coloured needlework made their way to the downstairs cloakroom to wash their hands. Scilla Repton had disappeared. There were not more than half a dozen people left in the dining-room. About as many more were crossing the hall, amongst them Miss Maggie and Miss Silver, when the study door was wrenched open. Mettie Eccles stood on the threshold. She held onto the jamb and her face was ghastly. Her lips moved, but for once she had no words. Then, as Miss Silver went quickly towards her, the words came-

  “He’s dead-Roger is dead!”

  CHAPTER 23

  The sound trembled and died. It is to be doubted whether anyone who was more than a few feet away could have heard it. But it had reached Mettie Eccles herself. The hand that had clutched at the jamb went up to her throat. She turned back into the room. Miss Silver, following her, saw that Roger Repton had fallen forward across his desk. His hands were clenched and his face was hidden. The cup of tea which Miss Eccles had brought him had been overturned. The plate with its sandwiches and slice of sodden cake was awash. To the right of the table there was a miniature decanter. It was empty, with the stopper beside it. A broken tumbler lay in a scatter of glass. The
re was a cut on Colonel Repton’s clenched right hand, but no blood flowed from it. With one side of her orderly mind Miss Silver took note of all these things. With another and wholly womanly part she felt a deep compassion for Mettie Eccles, who knelt by the dead man, saying his name over and over in a tone of agonized protest.

  “No-no-no, Roger! Oh, Roger, no!”

  A fire burned on the hearth, the room was full of tobacco smoke. On that warm, still air there floated a smell of almonds. It was not the first time that Miss Silver had encountered it in a criminal case. She had knelt over the body of a woman poisoned by cyanide, and been aware of it. When she laid her steady fingers upon Roger Repton’s wrist she did not expect to find a living pulse. There was none.

  As she stood there, a few people had begun to cluster round the door and to look in. Scilla Repton pushed through them.

  Walking up to the table, she said abruptly,

  “What is going on? Is Roger ill?”

  Miss Silver lifted her hand from the dead wrist and turned to meet her.

  “Mrs. Repton-I’m afraid-”

  Mettie Eccles got to her feet.

  “You needn’t be,” she said. “And you needn’t trouble to break it to her, because she knows.”

  Scilla’s delicate make-up appeared suddenly ghastly as the natural colour beneath it drained away, leaving her face like a mask with vermilion lips. She said, “What do you mean?” and Mettie Eccles told her.

  “You know very well that Roger is dead, because you killed him.”