Mattie came lumbering up to the car, slightly impeded by the dogs which lolloped along beside her. She greeted George matily.
“Well, cock,” she said. “How’s tricks?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Lunn,” said George formally. “Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, to see Mrs. Porthcawl.”
“Better come along of me, then, seeing the dogs be loose. Not as they’d hurt a fly once they’re off the chain. It’s being kept tied up makes ’em savage. In Mrs. Leyden’s time I was under orders and they was only let loose at night, and then, of course, they’d go for anybody, but Mrs. Porthcawl have more liberal ideas, so I lets ’em loose most of the time. They likes a bit of rabbiting and it lets off their surplus to have a bit of a chase round. Dogs is all right if they’m treated right. None of God’s creatures was intended to be kept on a chain.”
“Nor to be poisoned with aconite,” said Dame Beatrice.
Mattie, cuffing one of the dogs which was attempting to climb into the car, stared at her distrustfully. “Come about that, have you?” she said. “Best leave well alone, I reckon. Nobody don’t want all that raked up again.”
“But it has never died down,” said Dame Beatrice, “and it is not likely to do so until after the trial.” She stepped out of the car and gave the dogs her fingers to sniff. “Will you remain here with your companions? I prefer to reach the house unannounced.”
Mattie stared again. One of the dogs licked Dame Beatrice’s skinny yellow claw. She caressed the creature under its massive jowl. The other dog put a paw on her shoe and dripped saliva on to her skirt.
“Seemingly you have a way with animals,” said Mattie. “Different if these were on the chain. Right. Come to heel, you!” she added, addressing the dogs and walking towards the stables. Dame Beatrice stepped out briskly for the house.
It was strangely and romantically situated, she thought. Not for the first time she wondered who had built it and whether the first owner had been a Leyden or not a relative of the present owner at all. Surely at some time the demesne must have been fenced in, or did the property comprise all the land literally as far as the eye could imagine? Seen on a glorious summer afternoon, the views from its seaward side were among the finest she could remember. Seen on a glorious summer afternoon, the house bore no hint of secrecy or of the cruel death which had taken place in it.
Maria and Fiona were both at home and appeared to have been engaged in heated argument, for Maria’s eyes were angry and Fiona’s cheeks were flushed and there had been the sound of voices pitched high as Dame Beatrice, led by the parlourmaid, approached the drawing-room door. Coffee cups were on a small table. The parlourmaid announced Dame Beatrice and removed them. Maria, her eyes still smouldering with battle, came forward to greet the visitor. Fiona made for the door.
“Please don’t go,” said Dame Beatrice, “unless you are needed elsewhere. I should prefer you both to be present to hear what I have come to say. May I ask whether any other member of the family is in the house?”
“Dear me!” said Maria, attempting a smile. “You sound magisterial, Dame Beatrice. Since you ask, yes, I believe my ward is somewhere about.” She rang the bell. “Find Miss Aysgarth,” she said, when the parlourmaid appeared, “and ask her to come here.”
“Miss Aysgarth?” queried Dame Beatrice, as though the name was new to her.
“Miss Pabbay as was,” said Fiona in a flippant tone. “We have assumed the name we shall use when we make our début.”
“Oh, I see. Has she visited the famous Aysgarth Falls?”
“Her mother fell, as they used to put it in Victorian times,” said Fiona, in the same brittle tone. “That is all Antonia knows about falls, I daresay. Maria, won’t you ask Dame Beatrice to sit down?”
“Oh, dear! I’m afraid my wits are wool-gathering today. There is so much to think about and Dame Beatrice’s peremptory tone startled me. Have you come on a serious errand, Dame Beatrice?” said Maria.
Dame Beatrice seated herself in the proferred armchair. It was half-turned to the window and from it she had a view of Scar Head with its innocent, pastoral, downland crown and its dangerous rocks and currents below. She was speculating upon this resemblance to what had happened in the house, when the newly-named Antonia Aysgarth made a calculated entrance into the room and turned with a graceful, fluid movement, also the result of practise, to close the door behind her. She then stood with her back against it and gave the older women a rueful little smile.
“Am I to stand in the corner?” she asked. “Yes, I am meeting Barnaby when I go to London tomorrow, Maria. I was going to tell you at lunch that I was going back, but with you and Fiona looking daggers at one another and an uneasy silence brooding over the meal, it seemed neither the time nor the place, alas!”
“Oh, sit down, Antonia, and stop play-acting,” said Maria shortly. “Dame Beatrice is here on serious business.”
“There is only one serious business connected with this house—the abuela’s death. Has she come about that?” She looked challengingly at the visitor.
“Not about the death; about the manner of it,” said Dame Beatrice. “There is no need to ask whether monkshood grows on this estate.”
“No, but it gets washed up on the sands below this estate,” said Maria.
Fiona said sharply: “There can be no connection. Besides, we don’t even know that what you saw was monkshood. It had been in the sea. It could be anything. Even if it is monkshood, it could have come from anywhere. There is nothing to connect it with that house or your mother’s death.”
“So that’s what the silence and gloom at lunchtime were about!” said Antonia. She looked from one to the other of the protagonists and then fixed her somewhat protuberant eyes on Dame Beatrice. “I wonder whether Maria’s plants had roots attached to them?”
“No, they had not,” said Maria, “and that is the whole point and that is why, whether Fiona liked it or not, I telephoned the police. The plants may be a clue. I don’t know how the tides run in these parts, but the police ought to find out. Unfortunately, having made their arrest, they do not seem interested in any evidence which may turn up.”
“Did you leave the plants where you found them?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“No, I did not. The next high tide might have carried them away.”
“Probably the best thing which could have happened,” said Fiona. “You should leave well alone, not turn it to evil.”
“I happen to regard it as a crime to destroy evidence,” said Maria. “If the police refuse to examine it, that is their business. One of Diana’s puppies got drowned and was washed up here, I remember.”
Fiona made a gesture as though she could have struck her.
“Rupert didn’t poison madre,” she said chokingly. Maria raised her eyebrows and turned away.
CHAPTER 14
Family Matters
“Do you attach any importance to this flotsam?” asked Laura.
“And jetsam, of course,” said Dame Beatrice. “As it could have been thrown into the sea anywhere between Nare Head and Dodman Point, I think its value as evidence is negligible.”
“Yet Maria Porthcawl was angry with Fiona Bute for objecting to her telling the police about it. Why was that, do you suppose?”
“I think both believe that the murder was committed by one of the family and I would not be surprised if they think they know which one. In fact, I think they all, including Miss Aysgarth, have their suspicions, and these are not fastened upon the girl who is now in custody. Whether they have all hit upon the same person I cannot say. Their diverse characters and interests render it unlikely.”
“So that’s not much help, although I think they ought to speak out and say what they suspect.”
“How did you enjoy your afternoon?” asked Dame Beatrice, ignoring this comment.
“Hugely, but I’ve nothing to show for it.”
“No wild monkshood?”
“Devil an inflorescence, so where do we g
o from here?”
“It came out, during the course of conversation, that not only is Miss Aysgarth meeting her young man tomorrow, but she is meeting him in London and proposes to remain in the metropolis to continue her study of voice production. A word with Miss Bute, who walked with me over to the car, elicited the address of the hostel at which Miss Aysgarth is staying until a suitable flat can be found for her. I left a message with Miss Bute to the effect that George would be prepared to drive Miss Aysgarth to London if she would care to present herself at nine o’clock at the public house where he is staying. I did not add that I should be making one of the party. It is a very long way from here to London and, as I intend to make a straight run through, there should be plenty of time on the journey for me to find out from Miss Aysgarth all that I want to know.”
“And that, roughly speaking?”
“Is her own and the family history, so far as she knows both. What we lack in this case is background knowledge. I am hoping that Miss Aysgarth can supply it.”
“Can?—or will?”
Dame Beatrice, grinning like an alligator, replied that Time would show. She rose at eight on the following morning, breakfasted while Laura was swimming in the cove, and rang up the public house for George to bring round the car. Antonia was already waiting to be picked up when it got back to the public house and they set off for Exeter as the clock in the bar moved round to nine.
“Luxury!” said Antonia, settling herself against the upholstery. “Even the Headlands car is not as good as this one, although I don’t often use ours. I go on horseback when I pay visits. I was beginning to think I’d have to sit in front with your driver if I’d had to travel alone. It’s beneath my dignity as an up-and-coming prima donna to sit with the hired help, as the Americans call it—a much pleasanter term than ‘servant,’ don’t you think—but I can’t bear not talking to somebody when I’m travelling. Have you really got to go to London, or do you want to pump me?”
“Your perspicacity is only exceeded by your musical talent.”
“What do you know about my musical talent?”
“You have just made allusion to it and in the highest terms.”
“Well, yes, I intend to get to the top. So you want some information, do you? Well, if it’s about the abuela’s death, I don’t have any. I may have my ideas, but there’s no proof.”
“Is it one of your ideas that the police have arrested the right person?”
“That fool? Don’t make me laugh. Mags Denham couldn’t have thought out how to kill the abuela if she’d worked at it for ten years. She followed me into that kitchenmaid’s job, you know, and I had to show her the ropes (under Mrs. Plack’s eye, of course) before I was dusted off and admitted to the drawing-room, so I know what a moron Mags is. We never got on, not at school and not while I was overseeing her work. Then, of course, she blotted her copybook by giving me lip and had to go.”
“You informed upon her?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to stand for cheek from the likes of her. Why should I?”
“Did you feel remorse when she lost her employment?”
“I was as sick as mud. I only wanted her to get a good telling-off. I never dreamed of her getting the sack. We working girls don’t go doing that sort of thing to each other.”
Dame Beatrice regarded this as too general a statement to be wholly admissible, but she did not challenge it and for some time nothing more was said as the car went on to Exeter, where the party had lunch.
“Does he sit down with us?” whispered Antonia, as George, who had carried a small suitcase into the hotel, appeared in the bar wearing a neat suit and a quiet tie.
“You will probably find his table-manners superior to our own,” Dame Beatrice murmured in response, as George came towards them. In the car once more and moving nicely along the A30, Antonia, fortified by the lunchtime drinks from which George had abstained, became loquacious.
“I suppose you might call mine a success story,” she said complacently.
“No doubt,” Dame Beatrice agreed. “Did you find any of Mrs. Leyden’s relatives critical when she took you out of the kitchen?”
“Well, Fiona didn’t take to the idea. Never has. Always finding me little jobs to do to keep me in my place. You know the sort of thing. Trips up and downstairs for little, unnecessary things and errands that Mattie or Redruth Lunn could have done. Anything to remind me of my origins and, of course, I had to muck in. The abuela favoured me quite a bit, but she doted on Fiona and would never side with me against her, although she didn’t like the friendship between her and Maria. Thought they were putting their heads together and trying to steal her power.”
“I suppose,” said Dame Beatrice, breaking in, “it was her money which was the basis of her power.”
“Nothing else but. She’d have been a nicer old lady without it, not so autocratic and demanding, if you know what I mean.”
“I do indeed. I suppose, when the will is proved, somebody else will be in a position to be authoritative and demanding.”
“Well, not as much as you might think. We all know what’s in the will, of course, and I expect they’re all looking forward to the day when the lawyer tells them everything’s O.K. and they can have their money.”
“So the fortune has been shared out.”
“Oh, yes, but not equally. On the face of it you would think that Maria is sitting the prettiest. She is to get the house and land and forty per cent of the cash. Against that, she’s buying me a flat so that I can get out of that stinking hostel (really, of course, to get me out of the house so that she and Fiona can have it to themselves now it’s not going to be possible for Fiona to marry Rupert) and there’s also my keep money and my tuition fees.”
“Oh? And was no provision made for Miss Bute, if Mrs. Leyden was so fond of her?”
“Fiona played her cards wrong and walked out on Mrs. Leyden on account they had a tiff. All the same, the abuela relented. Fiona is to get twenty thousand, but she’ll give some of it to Rupert, I expect, to pay him back for keeping her when she walked herself out of the house and went to stay at Seawards.”
“Why was there any idea that they would marry, then, she and Mr. Bosse-Leyden?”
“Oh, of course, you’re a stranger in these parts, aren’t you? Well, it’s an open secret so no harm in telling you. Diana and Rupert don’t get on. Rupert’s sweet on Fiona and Diana is sweet on Garnet Porthcawl, over at Seawards, but there can’t be a divorce now because, if there is, Quentin and Millament, (Rupert’s kids), lose what’s left to them when they grow up.”
“So the parents—“
“Are prepared to make a go of it.”
“Admirable.”
“I think it’s bloody silly. I wouldn’t sacrifice my happiness for a couple of brats. Let them stand on their own feet when they grow up. I’ve got to stand on mine and I’ve had far fewer advantages. They’re getting a good education and, although I don’t suppose Rupert is more than just comfortably off, he makes a reasonable living. Those educational books he writes sell in their thousands, I’ll bet, and I believe Diana makes a bit of pin-money with her dogs. I think they’re fools not to grab a bit of what they want while they can get it.”
“That is a point of view, certainly. I wonder what Mr. Porthcawl thinks about it.”
“Well, actually, although he wants Diana, I don’t suppose he wants the kids landed on him as well, and I gathered, before all this business about the terms of the will came up, that Diana would have had to take them because Fiona certainly would not let herself be saddled with them.”
“I see. Were the terms of the will known to the family before Mrs. Leyden died?”
“No. I once managed to see a draft which I thought was the real thing, but it turned out not to be.”
“Did it differ very much from the present will?”
“Oh, well, yes. For one thing, it cut me in for five thousand pounds of my own instead of making me dependent on Maria.”
&
nbsp; “Are you disappointed?”
“Yes and no. It would have been nice to have the money, but I might have squandered it. Now at least I know I will be able to finish my training, and that’s what I really want.”
“Did the others know what was in the draft you saw?”
“I dropped a hint or two, but, of course, there was also the second dinner party, when she dropped her own hints, and pretty broad ones. We thought she was going to tell us something at the first one, and I believe she did intend to do that.”
“What prevented it?”
“Her sudden fancy for the boy whom Blue and Parsifal adopted. It was the first time she had met him and he made a big hit with her. I think that’s when she decided to wait a bit before disclosing what was in her will. It turns out that she’s left him twenty thousand, to be given him when he comes of age. Bluebell is going to do pretty well too—twenty per cent, the same as her brother. It seems that nothing is to go direct to Parsifal—not that he’ll mind—but Garnet is really sitting prettiest of the lot, because there are no strings, such as me and the upkeep of that barracks of a house, tied to his share, which will come to eighty thousand pounds, no less.”
“But nobody knew beforehand what the provisions of the will were, in spite of Mrs. Leyden’s broad hints?”
“I’m sure nobody really knew. Fiona must have done a bit of speculating, because she had left some crossed-out scribblings, but all of them with big query marks. I’m pretty sure she’d forgotten about them when she took herself off to stay at Seawards, and I fancy that Maria, as well as me, had seen them because when next I went into the little room Fiona used as a study, the scribble was gone.”
“I see. Do you think Mr. Bosse-Leyden had any expectation that he would benefit personally from the will?”
“I doubt it. She hated the sight of him because he was a fly-by-night. She thought poor Rupert blotted the family copybook.”
“That was his father, surely?”
“Yes, but Rupert was the living proof of his father’s goings-on, I suppose. No, poor old Rupert wouldn’t have had any hopes. I expect he’s surprised that his kids are on the list of winners.”
Mingled With Venom (Mrs. Bradley) Page 16
