Death of a Delft Blue (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “She told us you had gone to the Dolomites,” replied Laura.

  “So I would have done if I could have afforded it. I couldn’t, although I tried to touch her for a loan, so here I am. I didn’t let her know, of course. I don’t want her following me. Uncle Sweyn told you about the postmark on my letter to him, I presume?—so, if he told you, he’s probably told her, and that’s a beastly bind.”

  “He did not say anything about a postmark, so far as I am aware, but he seemed to have a pretty good idea of where you were,” said Laura.

  “Yes, I asked him for a small loan, too, and he was obliging enough to cough up. Anyway, I’ve got a job now, so I’m all right for the time being, although how long I’ll stick it I don’t know. This is a dead and alive hole, but no worse than Leyden Hall, I suppose. Give me Amsterdam every time, unless I could live in London. How are they all at home?”

  “Naturally, rather worried about you.”

  “Granduncle?”

  “Rather grieved, but I think he’d get over it if you went back and made your peace with him. He’s very fond of you, you know.”

  “Not since he caught me trying to pick his pocket. Not a hope, though, the wily old fox! You’d have thought he’d guessed what I was up to, and was ready to pounce!”

  “We had an idea that it wasn’t just the sculpture and the painting.”

  “It was modelling, not sculpture. Have you seen the bust?”

  “Yes, but not to any real advantage. I didn’t have time. Anyway, I thought they had put it on too high a shelf to show it off properly.”

  “Oh, that’s my aunt Opal. No artistic sense whatsoever. Perhaps she wanted it out of sight, out of mind. Still, it’s not a bad likeness, is it?”

  “From what I saw, I should call it an excellent likeness,” said Laura. “What did you mean when you said old Mr. van Zestien caught you picking his pocket?”

  Florian laughed and grimaced.

  “He always keeps some of his best diamonds in the house. I’ve often thought of helping myself to a few, but always lacked the nerve. That business of Binnie entangling herself with that cad Bernardo, and the obvious good it was going to do them with the old man, made me see red, though, and I decided that if I couldn’t get my hooks on his dough in one way, I’d get it in another. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t help myself to some of what, after all, was my own.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Laura, not that she felt any pity for Florian. “I’m afraid you’ve messed things up rather badly for yourself.”

  “Unfortunately you’re right. The old man caught me in the act, absolutely red-handed, and took the discovery in a very big way, so I made tracks for Grandma and the aunts and decided to remain away from Norfolk until the thing blew over and Granduncle’s natural affection for me reasserted itself.”

  “Well, that process seems well on the way. I understand now why he was so upset and ill. You let him down with a pretty heavy thud, didn’t you?”

  Florian did not answer this. He said:

  “Once the bust and the picture were finished, I cut loose from the aunts. Now I think I shall hang on here for a bit and wait for Time, the great healer, to put in some really good work. Then I’ll do a prodigal son act, and go back (I hope) to the fatted calf and the welcome home.”

  “Who is this girl you took with you to look at the Eldon Hole?” asked Gavin suddenly. Florian did not appear to be surprised by the question.

  “Oh, more or less the local beauty queen,” he replied. “Name of Gertie Something-or-Other.”

  “A tart?”

  “Good heavens, no! Virtuous as they come, unfortunately. Her boy-friend kicked up rough, and so I’ve dropped her.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  No Stone Unturned

  “His relations will thank you for any such gratuitous attention: at least they will not blame you for any evil that will happen, whether they thank you or not for any good.”

  Dr. Samuel Johnson

  Gavin returned to his job and Laura reported to Dame Beatrice, who communicated the news forthwith to Florian’s relatives.

  “So he isn’t dead, or in the Dolomites,” she remarked, when she had sent off the messages.

  “Why did I ever think he might be dead?” Laura enquired.

  “The indications seemed to you to point that way, child. They may soon do so again, for all I know. One thing seems to me sinister.”

  “Cheers! What would that be?”

  “His aunt Opal’s infatuation. It is abnormal, and, I think, unnatural.”

  “And somebody else may not like it. Well, that might be Ruby or it might be Binnen. I suppose, at a longish shot, it could even be Binnie.”

  “Then there is the bust. You said it had been placed on a high shelf.”

  “So high that I had to stand on tip-toe to get a squint at it before Professor Sweyn lifted it down. They can’t value it much to stick it almost out of sight.”

  “How was the room lighted?”

  “One window, and somebody had draped a black curtain over half of it.”

  “On a high shelf in a half-lighted room, in fact.”

  “The Queen’s Song, you mean? Flecker?”

  “Such is my impression. And she, you remember, wanted to turn her young courtier’s head to gold, with the Midas touch.”

  “What can we do about it?”

  “Until we are certain who the ‘queen’ is, and whether, like the Queen in the poem, she expresses a wish which she has neither the means nor the intention of carrying out, or whether she has decided to allow the bust to take the place of the living being, there is very little we can do. It would be fantastic even to warn the young man.”

  “All the same, we can hold a watching brief, I suppose. If there is any funny business afoot, it must be something to do with Grandmother Binnen’s household.”

  “I believe so, if we have argued the matter correctly.”

  “Trouble is, they haven’t done anything wrong yet. There’s nothing we could possibly pin on them, as you say. I was hoping somebody had taken a chance of shoving Florian into the Eldon Hole, but there was nothing doing, and Gavin (the silly old hen) wasn’t agreeable when I wanted to climb down and look for the body.”

  “Ah, I knew our dear Robert would not allow you to get into mischief. Well, now, the watching brief you suggest is not likely to get us very far. Now that Florian is found, our position in the matter—”

  “Yes, we can hardly go up to old Binnen and tell her we know that either she or one of her daughters means to murder Florian and so they’d better watch their step because Hawk-eye is on their trail.”

  “Out of the question, as you say, child.”

  “Not that Florian would be much loss to society,” observed Laura, “but if he is in danger, oughtn’t we to by-pass Binnen and the aunts and take Bernardo into consideration? I mean, old Mr. van Zestien has definitely been doing what you might call some ‘in and out running’ with respect to where he’s going to leave his fortune. Isn’t it possible that Bernardo might think it a good thing to bump off Florian and so leave the way clear for himself?”

  “I think it would be out of character in Bernardo, but that the prospect of a large inheritance—or, sometimes, even a small one—can be a great incentive to murder, I agree.”

  “You see, I can’t help remembering that dinner-party at Leyden Hall, after which Florian took that toss down the stairs. Simply practically everybody in the family was present. Of course, the whole thing could have been an accident. Florian thought so himself. All the same, it was a possible attempt to do for him, I suppose,” said Laura.

  “The bust was not finished and the painting of the hand and flower not even begun, you know,” Dame Beatrice pointed out.

  Laura saw the force of this remark. She said:

  “I’ve been thinking over something Gavin said. If it was a bit of dirty work, what price old Rebekah? Oh, I know she amuses you, and you think she’s the salt of t
he earth, and all that kind of thing, but you also think she’s crazy about Bernardo. After all, she’s also crazy about money. Isn’t there a chance that she’d like to put Florian out of the way? What about a put-up job between her and Bernardo to make sure of the inheritance for the latter? I mean, he could always give her her cut after he’d collected the boodle. I should think her expectation of life is considerably greater than that of old van Zestien.”

  Dame Beatrice regarded her secretary with tolerant affection.

  “And what do you make of the really dark horse of the family?” she enquired.

  “Is there one?”

  “Surely. Always present, mostly silent, an observer, not a participant.”

  “Oh, the civilised, sophisticated Petra. I’d certainly never thought of her! But what would be her motive?”

  “She would have the same motive as her mother, the right to expect a rich gift from the grateful heir. Added to that, she has, we may presume, a much longer expectation of life even than Rebekah, and therefore would have more time in which to relish and enjoy her ill-gotten gains.”

  “It’s quite an idea,” admitted Laura. She stared suspiciously at her employer. “All the same, I think you’re pulling my leg.”

  “Perish the thought, dear child. We must explore all avenues and leave no stone unturned.”

  “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

  Derde acknowledged Dame Beatrice’s communication with a grateful letter of thanks. He had written to his father to tell him where Florian was, and had begged him to take the young man back, stressing that Florian should be given an allowance large enough to put the temptation of stealing the diamonds completely out of his way.

  “So I suppose we were right to tell Professor Derde the truth,” commented Laura, to whom Dame Beatrice had dictated the letter which had gone to the University of Groningen. “Of course,” she added suddenly, “I did find Sweyn messing about in Binnen’s apartment in Amsterdam, didn’t I? You don’t suppose—? I mean, I know all about the supposed unworldliness of the two professors, and I’ve subscribed to it, but, all the same, if one, at least, of old van Zestien’s wills had stood the test of time, Derde and Sweyn would have been sitting quite pretty, wouldn’t they?”

  “Dear me!” said Dame Beatrice. “Is any member of the family left out of your suspicions?”

  “Oh, yes. Florian’s and Binnie’s father and mother, and Binnie herself, of course. None of them could have had the slightest reason for wanting Florian out of the way.”

  “Not even Binnie, so that, as Bernardo’s wife, she came in for her share of the inheritance? You did suggest that once, if I remember aright.”

  Laura grinned, but declined to answer. The next communication came from old Mr. van Zestien, whose grandnephew had returned. Florian, it appeared, had now decided to study art in Norwich. He would live at Leyden Hall and travel to Norwich each day in the car which his granduncle was giving him as a token that all was forgiven and forgotten. Binnie had also rejoined the household and would be married to Bernardo in the summer.

  “Mr. van Zestien sounds happy again,” said Laura, as she handed back the letter, “bless his old heart! I wonder whether Binnen and the aunts know that Florian has been reinstated, and I also wonder whether a new will is to be made?”

  Answers to these questions came a little later from Sweyn, who (as he explained in his letter) often visited Binnen from the University of Amsterdam—as often, that was, as his duties would permit. He had told her and his cousins of Florian’s return to the fold and added in the letter, with unexpected cynicism (born of blighted hopes, suggested Laura), that he had no doubt that Florian had contrived to strike a bargain with his granduncle.

  “That certainly means a new will,” pronounced Laura. “No wonder Florian’s got that foxy smile!”

  “Wolfish smile,” said Dame Beatrice. “If what you suggest is true, Bernardo’s fortune may not turn out to be so great, after all. I wonder whether he knows that?”

  “Bound to, I should think. Binnie’s sure to know, and, that being so, I bet she’s lost no time in communicating the unwelcome tidings to her loved one.”

  “I do not think she is unduly mercenary. She may have been instrumental in persuading Bernard van Zestien to include her brother in the new will as a surety for his good behaviour, you know.”

  “Florian’s bargaining-point, too, I don’t doubt. Ah, well, our connection with the houses of van Zestien, Colwyn-Welch and Rose appears to be over. Among the correspondence this morning there are several invitations for Christmas week and the New Year. You’d better look them over and see who’s going to collect the wooden spoon.”

  A few days passed. Dame Beatrice did some routine clinical work, Laura some equally routine office work. Then came the letter from Gavin and a copy of a local paper.

  “Read where I’ve marked,” commanded Laura’s husband. “We have been called in by the local police. They’ve lost the scent—if there ever was any. It seems a most mysterious business. Anyway, my address, at present, is the one at the top of this letter. Will let you know if and when I move from it.”

  “Dashed rummy,” commented Laura. She handed the letter and the copy of the local paper to her employer. They were at breakfast in the high-ceilinged dining-room of Dame Beatrice’s Kensington house. The marked column was on the front page and, moreover, had pride of place by being in the heaviest type. “Gavin’s got a job on, I should say. This pub is the one where we had a drink that day and, although I don’t know the name, there was only one barmaid there, so far as I know, so this dead woman must be she.”

  “Hydrocyanic acid,” said Dame Beatrice. “Hardly the most likely poison to be obtained in a small country town, let alone in a village. I see that an inquest has been held and that the jury have returned an open verdict. The police are continuing to investigate the matter.”

  “That means they’re not satisfied,” said Laura, unnecessarily. “What’s more, a barmaid being more or less of a public character, anyone could have murdered her. I mean, you can’t exclude a jealous boy-friend and her dearest relations, of course, but it could just as easily be one of the customers.”

  “Motive?”

  “She’d spotted him passing betting-slips or treating somebody under eighteen to a drink in the bar,” said Laura readily. Dame Beatrice cackled.

  “As motives for murder, they seem to me inadequate,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” retorted Laura. “I’ve heard you say, yourself, and more than once, that there’s no such thing as an inadequate motive. If it seems adequate to the perpetrator, then it’s adequate and no more questions need be asked. Haven’t you said so?”

  “Touché!” admitted Dame Beatrice.

  “I mean, suppose it was the local vicar,” argued Laura, pressing home her advantage, “and she’d blackmailed him, or threatened to get up in the middle of Matins (which all country people are apt to attend because the pubs don’t open until twelve on a Sunday, whereas they’re all open at seven on Sunday evenings, right in the middle of the Nunc Dimittis or something) and denounce him to the congregation. She might even have threatened to report him to his bishop, and that certainly would have peeled the orphreys off his chasuble, or whatever it is.”

  “One thing,” remarked Dame Beatrice, gazing at her secretary across the table with fascinated admiration. “Whatever virtue there may be in your processes of thought, there is no doubt about the source of your expressive and unlikely metaphors.”

  “Do we toddle up to Derbyshire and have a look-see?—or would that hamper Gavin in the execution of his duties?” demanded Laura.

  “I really think it might. Far better, I think, to interview Florian.”

  “What could he know about it? You don’t think he poisoned the poor girl, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think he did, except inadvertently—but, of course, one never knows.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that this
girl’s death, and the manner of it, have started in me a train of thought, but, as I may be making wild guesses, I prefer to disclose nothing until I have proved or disproved my conclusions.”

  Leyden Hall was on the telephone. Binnie took Dame Beatrice’s personal call.

  “Come and see Florian? Yes, of course you may,” she said. “Hold on a minute, please, Dame Beatrice. I’ll just have a word with Granduncle and let him know you’re coming.”

  Arrangements were soon concluded, and two days later George was driving Dame Beatrice to North Norfolk. Laura was left behind and was bidden to go down to the Stone House, where Dame Beatrice would join her later and would furnish her with any news she had been able to gather from Florian.

  In North Norfolk an autumn snap was in the air and the ducks and swans on the lake, into which Florian had plunged after his passage-at-arms with Bernardo, looked unhappy, Dame Beatrice thought. The deciduous trees in the wood that led down to the river had shed most of their leaves; horse-chestnut burrs were on the ground and the grass of the lawn was damp and rough. George drove round to the front of the house and Dame Beatrice rang a jangling bell. A maidservant showed her into the library and announced her. Florian and his granduncle got up out of deep chairs. Binnie ran forward with outstretched hands.

  It was not until after dinner that the object of the visit was announced. Then, when coffee had been cleared away and they were again in the library and were seated around a coal fire (it was so much cosier in the library than in the enormous drawing-room upstairs, Binnie had said), Dame Beatrice produced the newspaper she had brought with her. She passed it straight to Florian.

  “Did you know this girl?” she asked. Florian, frowning, read the marked column.

  “Not by name, but I must have had drinks in her bar,” he said. “How on earth did she get herself poisoned? The beer was all right, so far as I could find out.”

  “Did she ever seem apprehensive in any way?”

  “Only that if anybody else in the pub was ill—the landlord’s wife had a pretty bad cold while I was there—she might have to lose her evening out and have to disappoint her boy-friend.”