“I would prefer to look at your bed of monkshood plants.”
“The police have done that. Nothing to see there, except their great boots trampling all over the place. Photographed it and everything, they have, though what it proves except nasty vandals, I can’t see.”
“So you think the digging up of your flowers was just an act of hooliganism, do you?”
“What else could it be? My young sister never did it, and that I’ll swear, and did so to that detective fellow, not that he believed me, else why is Mags in prison and her good name blackened for all time?”
“When did you discover that your garden had been desecrated?” asked Dame Beatrice, surveying the trampled flowerbeds.
“On the Saturday morning as the old lady died at the Sunday dinner table. I reckon the damage was done any time after Wednesday. That was the last time, till the Saturday, as I had occasion to throw out any rubbish. We grows the tall things, sunflowers, hollyhocks, monkshood and a little pergola of rambling roses to screen the bumby-hole, you see, and as it’s right at the bottom of the garden, I don’t traipse down there more often than I need. Trouble is, it’s easy enough to get at it from outside. You’d only have to step over the wall, and that’s no more than four foot high. Any boy or man could do it. Only thing is, nobody in the village wouldn’t.”
“But somebody did. Have you any suspicions of who that somebody could be?”
“It’s not for me to name names, not having names to name, but the poor old lady wasn’t one of Mag’s relations, was she?”
“If we’re going to inspect every local garden and ask questions,” said Laura, as they left the cottage, “we’ve got a long, long trail ahead of us.”
“Are you weakening so soon?”
“No, but nothing we’ve just heard convinces me that M. Denham did not dig up those roots.”
“True. On the other hand, I cannot see that there is anything to show that she did.”
“You know,” said Laura, struck by a sudden thought, “that looked a very small cottage.”
“Very small. What of it?”
“I wondered whether it might not be germane to the issue to ask what the sleeping arrangements were while Margaret D. was there.”
Dame Beatrice, who had been about to enter the car which they had left a short distance away where it was possible to park it, straightened up and said in a tone of teasing wonderment, “Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings—”
“I call that an extremely offensive remark to make to the mother of two grown-up children,” said Laura. “Do you want me to expound?”
“I always hang upon your every word, but this time I can guess what you are going to say.”
“All the same, I bet you’d never have thought of it for yourself.”
“I confess and admit as much.”
“You see,” said Laura, “it seems to me that those plants could hardly have been dug up by daylight. Not even Margaret Denham could have been sure of when Mrs. Antrobus would or would not decide to chuck away the rubbish.”
“Margaret herself might have opted to carry out that particular chore, in which case your objection can be overruled.”
“What! Are you acting as Devil’s Advocate?”
“It is as well, as you yourself have often said, to explore all avenues and leave no stone unturned.”
“Well, I’ll stand by that. Still, now that you know what’s in my mind—”
“I suggest that you go back alone to the cottage and put the question which I had overlooked.”
Laura returned to the car after a considerable interval. Her beaming smile indicated that, as usual, she was feeling pleased with herself.
“First pop out of the box,” she announced with pride. “I apologised for the fact that you, with your exalted rank, were not up to the problems of the proletariat, and asked her point-blank the moot question. It appears that while Margaret was there, she and Mrs. Antrobus shared the one double bed, and husband was relegated to a shakedown in the kitchen. Mrs. A., who is expecting her first child in December, stated that she was not sorry to get shut of him for a week or two, but that it had not been for as long as she would have liked. Margaret had had a job to go to ‘somewhere over St. Austell way’ when the kitchenmaid at a big house left to get married, which rather disposes of Margaret’s motive for murdering Mrs. Leyden, I feel. The fact remains that if, those roots were dug up after bedtime, which I guess is earlier rather than later in these parts, that digging up was not done by Sister Mag unless she and Mrs. Antrobus were in collusion.”
“It is a pointer, but not proof. Let us inspect the other gardens round and about, particularly those belonging to the members of the late Mrs. Leyden’s family.”
A number of cottages and also Bluebell’s house had the monkshood, with its sinister, purple, secretive flowers in bloom in some part of the garden, but there was nowhere, in any of the gardens, which showed that the ground had been disturbed. Only one actual call was made by Dame Beatrice and at this one, since it was at Seawards, Bluebell answered the door.
“I am beginning a series of enquiries,” said Dame Beatrice, knowing that it would not be necessary to state the purpose and nature of these. “I have visited Mrs. Antrobus. I wonder whether you can think of anybody else who could help?”
“Oh, do come in and sit down.”
“I will not stay. I have left my secretary in the car and we have had a fatiguing round looking for poison plants.”
“You noticed that we have monkshood growing in the garden here?”
“Yes, but the ground, I feel certain, has not been disturbed.”
“No. We are not keen gardeners and, in any case, one takes care not to disturb plants which are in flower.”
“Unless for some nefarious purpose.”
“Did you reach any conclusions at the Antrobus cottage?”
“No. I retain an open mind. Have you any idea whether the wolfsbane grows wild in these parts?”
“My cousin, Rupert Bosse-Leyden, could tell you. Of course, if the wild variety was used, then the plants dug up in the Antrobus garden could just have been a blind, which is what I think they were. But do go and ask Rupert. Tell him I sent you. I’m sure he will be pleased to see you and answer any questions. I don’t think any of us are very happy about the arrest of that poor girl.”
“You will pardon me, I hope, for expressing this so bluntly, but, apart from the members of Mrs. Leyden’s family, can you possibly think of anybody who could have had an interest, financial or otherwise, in her death?”
“She had no enemies, if that is what you mean. She lived very quietly and seldom went further from home than Truro or Falmouth. Most of her friends were either dead or had dropped out and I know of nobody who bore her a grudge.”
“Except, possibly, this girl Margaret Denham.”
“There was Mattie Lunn, perhaps, but she is so delighted with the gift of the horses that—”
“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, as Bluebell paused. “Yes, but she did not know of the gift of the horses until after Mrs. Leyden’s death, did she?—and she had exactly the same reason for feeling disgruntled as Margaret Denham had—that is, before Mrs. Leyden died.”
“How do you know about this? I don’t believe I have ever mentioned it to you.”
“My chauffeur resides at the public house halfway up the road towards Veryan. Gossip there is rife and as both the Lunns appear to patronise the place nightly, the gossip, although probably biased, is also well-informed.”
“I see. Well, that is the road you need if you go to see Rupert. Turn seawards at the second cross-roads and, if you see anybody, ask for the house called Campions. If you don’t see anybody, look out for a National Trust notice. There is sure to be one somewhere along the way.”
“What do you expect to get from this Rupert?” asked Laura, as their car skirted The Smugglers’ Inn and George changed gear for the hill.
“I go in hope, rather than in expectation. At least
we can ascertain whether he grows monkshood in his garden.”
George pulled up in the lane (not more than a track) which led past Campions and out to the coast and the cliff path. The dachshunds surrounded the gate and yelled madly until Diana came out to see who was there. She called off the crazy, welcoming chorus, shut it away, and silenced it and then came back to the gate.
“You can take your car through the woods,” she said, “but after that it’s a case of walking if you want the cliff-top.”
“We have reached journey’s end, I think,” said Dame Beatrice, “if this is the house referred to by Mrs. Leek as Campions.”
“Oh, if Blue sent you, you had better come in,” said Diana, “but if it’s Rupert you want to see—he is Blue’s relative, not me—I’m afraid he’s at his little office. He’s got to a part of his present book where research is necessary and there’s nothing in the house here to help him.”
“I gathered from Mrs. Leek that he is an authority on the wild flowers of the district.”
“I wouldn’t call him an authority, but that’s what the book is about.” She opened the gate. “But if you’ve come on a nature ramble, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know a bee-orchid from a cuckoo-pint.”
“As members, respectively of the orders orchidaceae and araceae they could hardly be confused with one another. Moreover, orchids, even the wild variety, have something demoniac about them, I always think, whereas the cuckoo-pint, sometimes known as Lords and Ladies, is the uncultivated form of the arum lily, which has another and a higher kind of supernatural significance,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t mention funerals!” said Diana, on a high note which she followed with apologetic laughter. “Sorry, but we’ve just had one in the family. Come in and have a drink or something.”
Laura, who had been prowling round the outside of the garden fence, came back to the open gate. Dame Beatrice turned to her. “How long can you give me?” she asked.
Laura picked up her cue. “Well, we’re due for that other visit,” she said, “so I suppose we had better be off.”
Dame Beatrice made her apologies to Diana, thanked her for the offer of hospitality, and asked whether she might call again when her husband was at home.
“I am particularly interested in the wild form of aconitum anglicum,” she said. “I believe it grows in shady places near streams around this part of the country, but I have never seen a specimen.”
“You’d better write it down,” said Diana, “so that I can brief him. Look, if you tell me where you are staying, I expect he’ll phone you and tell you what you want to know. He doesn’t encourage visitors to his office and, anyway, ten to one, he wouldn’t be there. He rambles all over the place identifying the plants he wants to put in his book.”
Dame Beatrice took out a small notebook and wrote the Latin name of the monkshood, the telephone number of The Smugglers’ Inn, tore out the page and handed it over. Then, as though it was an afterthought, she said, “I understand that the cultivated variety of the plant—its roots, at least—can be mistaken for horseradish.”
“Well, they were,” said Diana calmly. “Only nobody thinks it was a mistake. If you’ve come from Blue I expect she’s told you all about it.”
“Yes, I suppose I have all the information she can give me. I am looking into the case as psychiatric adviser to the Home Office.” She handed over her card.
“Oh, yes?” said Diana indifferently. “I’m afraid all this psychology stuff is beyond me. What’s your special interest in the thing?”
“We are anxious to assist the defence in any way we can, on behalf of the girl who has been arrested. One of the points against her seems to be that, as a former kitchenmaid at Headlands, she knew exactly how the horseradish condiment was prepared there.”
“Oh, we all knew that,” said Diana, one of whose virtues seemed to be a blunt frankness. “We had roast beef at the second of the family dinner parties Mrs. Leyden gave when we thought we’d been gathered together to hear what our expectations were—not that my husband and I expected anything. She expiated on the virtues of the stuff and told us exactly how Mrs. Plack made it. I don’t think anybody tried it except the black boy, and that was only to please her. The beastly kid was ogling her and playing up to her all the time.”
“So all of you heard Mrs. Leyden’s eulogies?”
“Oh, yes, but that doesn’t prove one of us is a murderer. Anyway, we all heard it. When you’re dining with a woman as rich as she was, you listen to what she has to say.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Did you like her?”
“Are you asking whether I hated her?”
“No. I meant what I said. I am not asking you whether you killed her.”
“I like you,” said Diana unexpectedly. “It’s a relief to talk to somebody who’s prepared to call a spade by its right name. Well, look, I’ll tell you. I had reason to like her, in a way, I suppose. It began a couple of years back when our kid’s boarding-school had to put up the fees. My husband doesn’t do too badly with his books but, as I expect you know, school fees are a big drain on parents nowadays and we didn’t want to back down and take Quentin and Millament away, so I sank my pride, such as it is, and went to the grande dame to ask whether she would help out.
“Well, she did, and that’s one of the things about her that I’ve never understood. She was ever so much more generous, it always seemed to me, to us outsiders than she was to the actual family. She subbed up for me (although I’m sure she disapproved of me in most ways) and I always thought she was more generous to Fiona than ever she was to Maria, her closest relative. Then there was that objectionable child Pabbay. Look what she did for her! Antonia Aysgarth indeed! Then I know for a fact that, when the big bills came in, Parsifal used to go cap in hand to her and, in the end, it looked to me as though she was taking up Gamaliel in quite a big way. None of us are members of the family really, you see, just connections, as it were. It’s a kind of quirk she had, I suppose. Perhaps she thought she could buy from us what she couldn’t get voluntarily from the actual blood-relations, real genuine gratitude.”
“No monkshood in the Campions garden,” said Laura when they were back in the car. “I’m sure it was the Antrobus roots which were used. Shall you pursue this Rupert? Shall you ring him up?”
“Not at present. You say you satisfied yourself that there was no monkshood growing in that very untidy garden.”
“Well, I did a host of Midian act and had a pretty good prowl. I’ll swear there’s no monkshood there. I’ll tell you what, though. If somebody pinched the plants from the Antrobus garden and used the roots, the police ought to have found out what happened to the leaves, stems and flowers. I mean, these plants grow to a height of four feet and more. It’s not like getting rid of a daisy, is it?”
“I take your point.”
“And you know the answer?”
“No. I merely assume that anybody who would procure poisonous plants from an innocent source and commit murder with them would take care to get rid of the evidence in a way which would not cast suspicion on him or her.”
“Isn’t it time we got on to the police and found out what they’re up to?”
“Our intrusion would hardly be welcomed. The police believe that they have apprehended the murderer. I think that for the present we must continue to play a lone hand.”
“Suits me. But if you’re not going to contact this Bosse-Leyden—where does the Bosse come in?”
“It must have been his mother’s name, don’t you think? According to the gossip George has heard at the public house, Rupert Bosse-Leyden is the son of unmarried parents.”
“So he isn’t a Leyden at all.”
“Yes, he is. It seems that, although his father and mother never married, they lived together until the woman died. The father insisted upon his son’s being known by the family name of Leyden, so, in that sense, if in no other, Rupert is fully entitled to use it.”
&
nbsp; “Anyway, why aren’t you going to chase him up? I thought the idea was to get him to show us where the monkshood grows wild, if there is anywhere around these parts where it does.”
“That can be done later if it needs to be done at all. Meanwhile I think I will pay another visit to the late Mrs. Leyden’s own house, and seek an interview with Mrs. Porthcawl and Miss Bute.”
“Another visit?”
“The inquest was held there and I attended as a member of the public.”
“Oh, so you’ve already seen Rupert?”
“Yes, but not his wife until today. She did not attend the inquest.”
“Oh, I see. Well, look, if you don’t need me to escort you, how would it be if I took time out to do a little snooping around in search of this wild variety of monkshood?”
“I was hoping that you would suggest it. If prefers moisture and shade, if that information will help you.”
“When shall you go to see Mrs. Porthcawl?”
“Tomorrow morning, and without giving her notice of my visit.”
“She might be out somewhere. Anyway, I’ll get the hotel to put me up some sandwiches and I’ll make a day of it, if you don’t mind.”
“On second thoughts,” said Dame Beatrice, “I shall go to Headlands immediately after lunch today. Your point that Mrs. Porthcawl may be out if I call tomorrow morning is a valid one. If she is out this afternoon I may be able to obtain information as to her probable plans for tomorrow.”
Lunch over, she and Laura went their separate ways. Laura had her own car and, with the help of an Ordnance Survey map, proposed to cover a wide area. Dame Beatrice, conveyed by the stolid, reliable George, who was also her ears and eyes at the gossip-ridden public house, took the road to Carne and branched off it for the track which led to Headlands.
George pulled up near the stables and came round to open the car door. “The guard dogs are loose, madam,” he said.
“So are the horses, I see,” said his employer, “and there appears to be a young woman in their vicinity. Let us hope that she has a restraining influence over the animals, should they resent our appearance upon this striking and beautiful scene.”
Mingled With Venom (Mrs. Bradley) Page 15
