“My dear Cantrip,” I said, perhaps a trifle defensively, “I am not getting on at all with the Isabella case, since I remain of the view that no such case exists.”
“Come off it,” said Cantrip. “The chap in the Mercedes was the chap she was blackmailing — Albany or Bolton, whichever of them it was. And he was the last person to see her alive. What more do you want — jam and custard on top?”
“The evidence is still entirely consistent with her having died of natural causes. And even if she did not, I hardly see why it should fall to me to investigate the matter further — it does not appear to be one on which the methods of Scholarship could shed particular light. There are other claims on my time and energies. I have responsibilities — to my pupils, to my College, to the whole University of Oxford. One is not appointed a Fellow of St. George’s merely in order to enjoy oneself, as the Bursar constantly reminds me.”
“Oh well,” said Cantrip, “if all you’re interested in these days is cosying up to the Bursar—”
I shuddered at the thought.
“Moreover,” I said, yielding to the impulse to justify my inaction, “I think that if there were anything sinister about Isabella’s death we would by now have heard something more of the man in the black Mercedes. If he had had any hand in it, he would surely be desperately anxious to learn what had happened since — he would have made efforts to find out whether anyone suspected anything, whether the police were pursuing any enquiries, whether he had left any incriminating evidence. There has been no sign, so far as I am aware, of his having done so.”
“Look here, Hilary,” said Cantrip, “you can’t expect him to go bowling into Parsons Haver in the Mercedes and ask the local fuzz if they happen to want him for murder. What he’d do is send a henchman.”
“A henchman?” said Julia, as if unfamiliar with the word.
“A chap to do the dirty work,” said Cantrip. “Like your aunt said about the glasses, if you’re rich enough to have a Mercedes you get someone else to do it. So I expect that’s what he’s done — there’s probably been a man in dark glasses and a false moustache snooping round Parsons Haver for weeks, pretending to read gas meters.”
I perceived that Julia, for what reason I could not imagine, found this remark disturbing.
“Anyway, Hilary, if you’re not in the mood for doing your Sherlock Holmes bit, that’s all right with me, but you’re going to feel pretty silly when I crack the case single-handed.”
“I shall be happy, if you do so, to sit in admiration at your feet. What method of investigation are you proposing to adopt?”
“I’m going to interrogate Edgar Albany — he’s one of the chaps I’m going shooting with this weekend. Which is what I was just going to tell you, but then you said you weren’t interested in the Isabella case, so I thought I wouldn’t bother.”
“Cantrip,” I said with some alarm, for with all his faults I am fond of the boy, “please do nothing rash. Are you sure that the best time to question a murder suspect is when he has a gun in his hand?”
“I’ll probably do it over dinner. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m going to be tremendously subtle about it. You can’t just go up to a chap you’re shooting with and ask if he’s poisoned any fortune-tellers lately, it would be bad form. I’ve worked out how I’m going to do it. What I’m going to do, first chance I get, is bring the conversation round to a point where I can just sort of casually mention Parsons Haver. And then I will mention Parsons Haver, just sort of casually, and if he looks guilty, that’ll be jolly significant. And if he doesn’t, that’ll be jolly significant as well, because it’ll mean it was probably the other chap that did in Isabella.”
Only after Cantrip had left us, when I resumed my reading of her aunt’s letters, did I begin to understand why Julia had seemed troubled by his reference to a mysterious stranger appearing in Parsons Haver.
Thursday, 12th August
Having left this unfinished and unposted in my bureau for nearly a week, I’m in two minds now about posting it at all. You’ll probably say that I’m turning into a silly old woman, and I don’t like to think of you being so impertinent — you used to be such a nice child.
Maurice came back, of course, perfectly safe and well, on Saturday evening. It was ridiculous to have thought of him as having disappeared — he’d simply been out for a drive.
I mentioned, didn’t I, the young man called Derek Arkwright, who came to Isabella’s funeral by mistake and showed such an interest in our stained-glass windows? Maurice invited him then to come down again and be given a proper tour of St. Ethel’s and some of the other Sussex churches, and he said he’d love to — well, people have to say that, of course, and one doesn’t expect them to mean it. But on Saturday morning there he was on the doorstep of the Vicarage, saying that he’d driven down from London on the spur of the moment and wondered if Maurice might happen to be free.
So they spent the day driving all over West Sussex, looking at stained-glass windows and Norman fonts and mediaeval misericords. They arrived back in Haver at about seven and stopped here so that Derek and I could be properly introduced — we’d hardly spoken at the funeral. Maurice was in such high spirits that at first I thought he was tipsy — but he wasn’t, he’d just been enjoying himself. They seemed to have eaten strawberries and cream in every café between here and Chichester, with Maurice telling all his favourite stories about Sussex saints who played jokes on the devil and pushed their mothers round the countryside in wheelbarrows.
“And since Maurice is a man of the cloth,” said Derek, looking demure, “I had to believe every word.”
He’s really a most attractive young man. Very nice to look at, very willowy — just your sort of thing, so it’s lucky you weren’t here. I don’t quite know what he does for a living. When I asked him, he said, “Oh, whatever I can get someone to pay me for, Mrs. Sheldon.”
Maurice is clearly extremely taken with him and hoping he’ll come down again. He’s even shown him the Virgil frontispiece, which is an exceptional privilege on such a short acquaintance. It isn’t on display, you see — Maurice thinks some of his parishioners might find it slightly improper. So he keeps it in a drawer in the desk in his study and only shows it to people he’s sure will like it. For example, he’s never shown it to Daphne.
And do you think Daphne admits that her premonition or whatever one calls it was entirely wrong? Not a bit of it. Derek has a dark and untrustworthy psychic aura, and she knew right away that he was a treacherous and horrible person — it’s dangerous for Maurice to spend any time with him, so she was absolutely right! She’s getting quite silly and tiresome about it — she told Maurice all about the dangerous aura and tried to make him promise not to see Derek if he came down here again. When he refused, she came round here wanting me to try to persuade him.
I tried to explain to her that one simply can’t ask one’s friends for that sort of promise and she sat saying yes from time to time, as if I were making some kind of impression on her. After about half an hour of which, she said, “But I’m sure he’d promise if you asked him,” and I saw that I might as well have been talking Swahili — there are times when I could shake her.
Julia was no longer writing but gazing out of the window, her expression thoughtful: I had the impression that her mind was no longer on the Finance Act.
“Tell me,” I said, “am I right in supposing that what you are worried about is this young man Derek Arkwright?”
“When I said I was worried,” said Julia, lighting a Gauloise, “I didn’t exactly mean that I was worried, only that I was — well, not worried exactly. But you must admit, Hilary, there’s something rather mysterious about him. And he was, as you will no doubt remember, the only stranger at Isabella’s funeral.”
“Well, at least there’s one thing you can be sure about — he isn’t the man in the black Mercedes. From your aunt’s description, he’s far too young to be Albany or Bolton. Besides, the Reverend Maurice would have recognised
him.”
“Yes, I know — I was finding it a rather comforting thought. But now that Cantrip’s suggested this henchman theory—”
I endeavoured to persuade her that her misgivings were unfounded. The young man had given a reasonable explanation of his presence at the funeral and of his subsequent return: we had no grounds to suspect that his motives were in any way sinister.
“Daphne thinks they are,” said Julia, drawing deeply on her Gauloise. “And it’s almost beginning to look as if Daphne — well, as if she were right about things more often than one might expect.”
“Julia,” I said, “you’re not seriously suggesting that Daphne has the power of prophecy?”
“I don’t say prophecy exactly. But some sort of — some sort of something or other.” Perhaps feeling that she had not expressed herself with that degree of precision usually expected of the Chancery Bar, she fell silent.
“My dear Julia,” I said kindly, “you’re talking absolute nonsense.”
“You may not say so,” said Julia, “when you’ve finished reading the letter.”
But I shouldn’t be unkind about Daphne’s prophesying — so far as I’m concerned, it’s turned out rather well.
I told you, didn’t I, that Ricky had invited me to go to the races with him? I didn’t really feel cross enough to turn down a day at Goodwood, not in weather like this, so yesterday I put up the Closed sign in the antique shop and off we went.
We had a picnic lunch on the Downs of cold roast chicken and salad, washed down with a glass or two of Sancerre, and then went into the enclosure to try our luck.
For the first three races I didn’t see anything that specially took my fancy — I just let Ricky put a couple of pounds on for me on whatever he was backing himself. He knows the form book pretty well, and we were a little bit ahead, but nothing spectacular.
But going round the paddock before the fourth race was a lovely little chestnut mare — a darling of a horse, the kind that makes one want to jump up and ride her oneself — and she winked at me. Not literally, of course, but you know what I mean.
I decided to put ten pounds each way on her. I didn’t want to tell Ricky, though — he was backing a big grey horse, which on the form book was an almost certain winner, and he’d have tried to talk me out of it. I told him I was feeling lucky and I’d place my next bet myself to make sure the luck stayed with it.
And then, as I was standing beside the guichet filling in the slip, I suddenly remembered Daphne saying that I was going to have good luck with animals. And before I quite realised what I was doing I’d staked a hundred pounds — all on the chestnut mare and all to win.
I don’t know whether to say I enjoyed the race. The hundred pounds was almost all the money I had with me, and I’d meant it to cover my living expenses for a week — the idea of losing it made me feel rather sick.
We were in the Richmond stand, right beside the finishing line, and even with binoculars I couldn’t see exactly what was happening at the start — just a jumble of bright colours against the green of the Downs. When they turned for home, though, I could see my little chestnut was in the lead, pretty well ahead of the field but with the big grey about three lengths behind and beginning to gain on her — I almost couldn’t watch. On heavier going or over a longer distance I dare say he’d have caught her, but my sweet darling chestnut found a bit of extra speed and came in a length ahead. Well, yes, of course I enjoyed it — it was simply perfect.
And I came home four hundred pounds richer, all thanks to poor Daphne.
Yours with much love,
Reg
“Well?” said Julia as I put down the letter, as if supposing that in the face of such evidence my scepticism could not be maintained.
“My dear Julia,” I said, “anyone who knew that your aunt was fond of racing could have guessed that sometime in the month of August she would make a successful bet on a horse.”
“They couldn’t be sure — suppose she’d lost?”
“Then they would say that the prediction had referred to something quite different. The art of successful prophecy depends on ambiguity — it was, as you will remember, the distinguishing characteristic of the Delphic oracle.”
“The fact remains that on at least three occasions Daphne has turned out to be right about things she couldn’t have known about except by some sort of — some sort of whatever it is.”
“And on innumerable others, I dare say, she’s made equally vague predictions which turned out to be wrong and have therefore made no impression on anyone. Her prediction about Griselda, for example — if Griselda had had any trouble with animals we should no doubt have heard about it.”
I was still trying in vain to reason with her when Selena arrived, tendering apologies for the noise the builders had been making.
“I’m very sorry — they’ve promised it won’t last much longer, but I’m afraid that in the meantime there isn’t much I can do about it.” She had begun to have that slightly beleaguered look often to be observed in those dealing with builders.
“Oh,” said Julia, “there’s no need to apologise. It’s in the nature of builders to make a noise — no one can say that it’s your fault.”
“Oh, can’t they?” said Selena. “Everyone in 62 seems to have decided that the builders are entirely my responsibility. From the way Basil talks about it—”
“Even Basil Ptarmigan can’t claim that you’re solely responsible for engaging the builders.”
“Not in so many words. He just goes round reminiscing nostalgically about when he was first at the Bar and mentions, as if just in passing, that in those days there weren’t any women in Chambers. And then goes on to add, also as if just in passing, that he doesn’t remember there having been any builders in Chambers either. I’ve been wondering whether it counts as sexual harassment.”
“Selena,” said Julia, looking slightly puzzled, “what are you doing here? I don’t mean that it isn’t, as always, a pleasure to see you, but didn’t you say you had a conference with your merchant-banking client?”
“I did, but I don’t,” said Selena with a touch of despondency. “It was arranged three weeks ago and sounded quite important, but Sir Robert’s personal assistant rang up this morning and said that he had to cancel it. I’m afraid what it really means is that he’s lost confidence in my advice, I suppose because I couldn’t help him with the insider-dealer problem. I’m feeling rather put out about it, so I’ve decided to adjourn early to the Corkscrew. Can I persuade you both to join me?”
“Oh dear,” said Julia. “I really ought to finish this Opinion on the Finance Act.”
“Of course,” said Selena, “I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence on you.”
“On the other hand,” said Julia, “Madame Louisa did say in my horoscope this morning that it would be a bad day for dealing with legal matters. And who am I to struggle against what the stars have ordained?”
We were on the point of leaving when Selena remembered that the Restoration Committee was in need of professional guidance on the choice of carpets and curtains. This they were hoping to obtain from Julia’s aunt, when she next happened to be in London, in exchange for a reasonably generous lunch.
“Would you mind ringing her now to see if we can arrange a day? I’d like to feel that I’d made some progress with something.”
Again, however, it proved an unfortunate moment for Julia to telephone her aunt. Mrs. Sheldon had just returned from the hospital: Griselda had met with an accident — a serious accident, involving one of her cats.
9
SCHOLARLY CONSIDERATIONS must yield on occasion to humane. Though my usual practise is to proceed chronologically, setting out the material events in the order in which I became aware of them, to follow it at this juncture would prolong an anxiety which will be painful to my readers and may well, while it continues, distract their minds from other aspects of my narrative. I hasten to say, therefore, that the cat was completely unhurt and rem
ains, I am told, to this very day in the best of health.
I myself was obliged to leave for New York without such reassurance, or any details of the nature and cause of the accident. It was not until my return, a month later, that I received an account of it.
At 62 New Square I had found a pitiful scene of chaos and devastation: scarred ceilings and battered walls; piles of rubble in unexpected places; wires protruding from plaster; sundry items of sanitary equipment obstructing the corridors, as if ripped from their proper place to provide a last barricade against invasion — a scene, in short, such as was to be expected after the bombardment previously described. On the other hand, everything was very quiet: I concluded that the builders had departed, either for a rest or for some more lucrative project.
These not being the surroundings in which to recover from the rigours of a trans-Atlantic journey, I had remained long enough only to assure myself of the continued well-being of my friends and to ascertain their arrangements for lunch. They intended, they said, to take that meal in the Corkscrew: if I cared to wait for them there, I could amuse myself in the meantime by reading the most recent correspondence from Parsons Haver.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
West Sussex
Tuesday, 17th August
Dear Julia,
I really don’t know what’s happening to Parsons Haver — it seems to be turning into the crime capital of West Sussex. First Daphne’s burglary, and now this. Perhaps I didn’t explain properly, when you rang on Friday, that Griselda’s accident had anything to do with a crime — the whole thing had been such a shock that I wasn’t thinking clearly — but it quite certainly did.
And it all happened on such a lovely afternoon. Griselda and I were at the far end of her garden, which as you know is much larger than mine, so we were only a short distance from the back garden of the Rectory. We were just sitting there peacefully, admiring the clematis and enjoying the smell of honeysuckle, with Tabitha stretched out asleep in the sun on top of the potting shed, when all at once there was a tremendous crash, as if someone had dropped half a hundredweight of crockery. It sounded as if it came from the Rectory, or somewhere close by.
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