Grave Mistake ra-30 Read online

  “Of course I do.”

  “Sweet of you. Well. It was in Mummy’s desk in the boudoir top drawer. In a stuck-up envelope with ‘Will’ on it. It was signed and witnessed ten days ago. At Greengages, of course, and it’s on a printed form thing.”

  “How did it get to Quintern?”

  “Mrs. Jim says Mummy asked Bruce Gardener to take it and put it in the desk. He gave it to Mrs. Jim and she put it in the desk. Godma V, it’s a stinker.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “It’s — you’ll never believe this — I can’t myself. It starts off by saying she leaves half her estate to me. You do know, don’t you, that darling Mummy was Rich Bitch. Sorry, that’s a fun-phrase. But true.”

  “I did suppose she was.”

  “I mean really rich. Rolling.”

  “Yes.”

  “Partly on account of grandpa Pascoigne and partly because Daddy was a wizard with the lolly. Where was I?”

  “Half the estate to you,” Verity prompted.

  “Yes. That’s over and above what Daddy entailed on me if that’s what it’s called. And Quintern’s entailed on me, too, of course.”

  “”Nothing the matter with that, is there?”

  “Wait for it. You’ll never, never believe this — half to me only if I marry awful Swingles — John Swingletree. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Not even with Mummy, I wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter, of course. I mean, I’ve got more than is good for me with the entailment. Of course it’s a lot less on account of inflation and all that but I’ve been thinking, actually, that I ought to give it away when I marry. Gideon doesn’t agree.”

  “You astonish me.”

  “But he wouldn’t stop me. Anyway he’s rather more than O.K. for lolly.” Prunella’s voice trembled. “But, Godma V,” she said, “how she could! How she could think it’d make me do it! Marry Swingles and cut Gideon just for the cash. It’s repulsive.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it of her. Does Swingletree want you to marry him, by the way?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Prunella impatiently. “Never stops asking, the poor sap.”

  “It must have been when she was in a temper,” said Verity. “She’d have torn it up when she came round.”

  “But she didn’t, did she? And she’d had plenty of time to come round. And you haven’t heard anything yet. Who do you suppose she’s left to rest to? — well, all but twenty-five thousand pounds? She’s left twenty-five thousand pounds to Bruce Gardener, as well as a super little house in the village that is part of the estate and provision for him to be kept on as long as he likes at Quintern. But the rest — including the half if I don’t marry Swingles — to whom do you suppose—”

  A wave of nausea came over Verity. She sat down by her telephone and saw with detachment that the receiver shook in her hand.

  “Are you there?” Prunella was saying. “Hullo! Godma V?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I give you three guesses. You’ll never get it. Do you give up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your heart-throb, darling, Dr. Basil Schramm.”

  A long pause followed. Verity tried to speak but her mouth was dry.

  “Godma, are you there? Is something the matter with your telephone? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, I heard. I–I simply don’t know what to say.”

  “Isn’t it awful?”

  “It’s appalling.”

  “I told you she was crackers about him, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, yes, you did and I saw it for myself. But to do this—!”

  “I know. When I don’t marry that ass Swingles, Schramm’ll get the lot.”

  “Good God!” said Verity.

  “Well, won’t he? I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Perhaps it’ll turn out to be not proper. The Will, I mean.”

  “Ratsy will pounce on that — Mr. Rattisbon — if it is so. Is it witnessed?”

  “It seems to be. By G. M. Johnson and Marleena Briggs. Housemaids at Greengages, I should think, wouldn’t you?”

  “I daresay.”

  “Well, I thought I’d just tell you.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’ll let you know what Mr. Rats thinks.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Goodbye then, Godma darling.”

  “Goodbye, darling. I’m sorry. Especially,” Verity managed, “about the Swingletree bit.”

  “I know. Bruce is chicken feed, compared,” said Prunella. “And what a name!” she added. “Lady Swingletree! I ask you!” and hung up.

  It was exactly a week after this conversation and in the morning of just such another halcyon day that Verity answered her front door-bell to find a very tall man standing in the porch.

  He took off his hat. “Miss Preston?” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a police officer. My name is Alleyn.”

  ii

  Afterward, when he had gone away, Verity thought it strange that her first reaction had not been one of alarm. At the moment of encounter she had simply been struck by Alleyn himself: by his voice, his thin face and — there was only one word she could find — his distinction. There was a brief feeling of incredulity and then the thought that he might be on the track of Charmless Claude. He sat there in her drawing-room with his knees crossed, his thin hands clasped together and his eyes, which were bright, directed upon her. It came as a shock when he said: “It’s about the late Mrs. Foster that I hoped to have a word with you.”

  Verity heard herself say: “Is there something wrong?”

  “It’s more a matter of making sure there isn’t,” he said. “This is a routine visit and I know that’s what we’re always supposed to say.”

  “Is it because something’s turned up at the — examination: the — I can’t remember the proper word.”

  “Autopsy?”

  “Yes. Stupid of me.”

  “You might say it’s arisen out of that, yes. Things have turned out a bit more complicated than was expected.”

  After a pause, Verity said: “I’m sure one’s not meant to ask questions, is one?”

  “Well,” he said, and smiled at her, “I can always evade answering but the form is supposed to be for me to ask.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not a bit. You shall ask me anything you like as the need arises. In the meantime shall I go ahead?”

  “Please.”

  “My first one is about Mrs. Foster’s room.”

  “At Greengages?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was never in it.”

  “Do you know if she habitually used a sort of glass sleeve contraption filled with scented oil that fitted over a lamp bulb?”

  “ ‘Oasis’? Yes, she used it in the drawing-room at Quintern and sometimes, I think, in her bedroom. She adored what she called a really groovy smell.”

  “ ‘Oasis,’ if that’s what it was, is all of that. They tell me the memory lingers on in the window curtains. Did she usually have a nightcap, do you know? Scotch?”

  “I think she did, occasionally, but she wasn’t much of a drinker. Far from it.”

  “Miss Preston, I’ve seen the notes of your evidence at the inquest but if you don’t mind I’d like to go back to the talk you had with Mrs. Foster on the lawn that afternoon. It’s simply to find out if by any chance, and on consideration, hindsight if you like, something was said that now seems to suggest she contemplated suicide.”

  “Nothing. I’ve thought and thought. Nothing.” And as she said this Verity realized that with all her heart she wished there had been something and at the same time told herself how appalling it was that she could desire it. “I shall never get myself sorted out over this,” she thought and became aware that Alleyn was speaking to her.

  “If you could just run over the things you talked about. Never mind if they seem irrelevant or trivial.”

  “Well, she gossiped about the hotel. She talked a lot about — the doctor — and the wonders of his cure and about the nurs
e — Sister something — who she said resented her being a favourite. But most of all we talked about Prunella — her daughter’s — engagement.”

  “Didn’t she fancy the young man?”

  “Well — she was upset,” Verity said. “But — well, she was often upset. I suppose it would be fair to say she was inclined to get into tizzies at the drop of a hat.”

  “A fuss-pot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Spoilt, would you say?” he asked, surprisingly.

  “Rather indulged, perhaps.”

  “Keen on the chaps?”

  He put this to her so quaintly that Verity was startled into saying: “You are sharp!”

  “A happy guess, I promise you,” said Alleyn.

  “You must have heard about the Will,” she exclaimed.

  “Who’s being sharp now?”

  “I don’t know,” Verity said crossly, “why I’m laughing.”

  “When, really, you’re very worried, aren’t you? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Not really. It’s all so muddling,” she broke out. “And I hate being muddled.”

  She stared helplessly at Alleyn. He nodded and gave a small affirmative sound.

  “You see,” Verity began again, “when you asked if she said anything that suggested suicide I said ‘nothing,’ didn’t I? And if you’d known Syb as well as I did, there was nothing. But if you ask me whether she’s ever suggested anything of the sort — well, yes. If you count her being in a bit of a stink over some dust-up and throwing a temperament and saying life wasn’t worth living and she might as well end it all. But that was just histrionics. I often thought Syb’s true métier was the theatre.”

  “Well,” said Alleyn, “you ought to know.”

  “Have you seen Prunella? Her daughter?” Verity asked.

  “Not yet. I’ve read her evidence. I’m on my way there. Is she at home, do you know?”

  “She has been, lately. She goes up to London quite a lot.”

  “Who’ll be there if she’s out?”

  “Mrs. Jim Jobbin. General factotum. It’s her morning at Quintern.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Damn!” thought Verity, “here we go.” She said: “I haven’t been in touch. Oh, it’s the gardener’s day up there.”

  “Ah yes. The gardener.”

  “Then you do know about the Will?”

  “Mr. Rattisbon told me about it. He’s an old acquaintance of mine. May we go back to the afternoon in question? Did you discuss Miss Foster’s engagement with her mother?”

  “Yes. I tried to reconcile her to the idea.”

  “Any success?”

  “Not much. But she did agree to see them. Is it all right to ask — did they find — did the pathologist find — any signs of a disease?”

  “He thinks, as Dr. Field-Innis did, that she might have had Parkinson’s disease.”

  “If she had known that,” Verity said, “it might have made a difference. If she was told — but Dr. Field-Innis didn’t tell her.”

  “And Dr. Schramm apparently didn’t spot it”

  Sooner or later it had to come. They’d arrived at his name.

  “Have you met Dr. Schramm?” Alleyn asked casually.

  “Yes.”

  “Know him well?”

  “No. I used to know him many years ago but we had entirely lost touch.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “I’ve only met him once at a dinner-party some months ago. At Mardling: Mardling Manor belonging to Mr. Nikolas Markos. It’s his son who’s engaged to Prunella.”

  “The millionaire Markos, would that be?”

  “Not that I know. He certainly seems to be extremely affluent.”

  “The millionaire who buys pictures,” said Alleyn, “if that’s any guide.”

  “This one does that. He’d bought a Troy.”

  “That’s the man,” said Alleyn. “She called it Several Pleasures.”

  “But — how did you—? Oh, I see,” said Verity, “you’ve been to Mardling.”

  “No. The painter is my wife.”

  “Curiouser,” said Verity, after a long pause, “and curiouser.”

  “Do you find it so? I don’t quite see why.”

  “I should have said, how lovely. To be married to Troy.”

  “Well, we like it,” said Troy’s husband. “Could I get back to the matter in hand, do you think?”

  “Of course. Please,” said Verity with a jolt of nausea under her diaphragm.

  “Where were we?”

  “You asked me if I’d met Basil Smythe.”

  “Smythe?”

  “I should have said Schramm,” Verity amended quickly. “I believe Schramm was his mother’s maiden name. I think she wanted him to take it. He said something to that effect.”

  “When would that have happened, would you suppose?”

  “Sometime after I knew him, which was in 1951, I think,” Verity added and hoped it sounded casual.

  “How long had Mrs. Foster known him, do you imagine?”

  “Not — very long. She met him first at that same dinner-party. But,” said Verity quickly, “she’d been in the habit of going to Greengages for several years.”

  “Whereas he only took over the practise last April,” he said casually. “Do you like him? Nice sort of chap?”

  “As I said I’ve only met him that once.”

  “But you knew him before?”

  “It was — so very long ago.”

  “I don’t think you liked him very much,” he murmured as if to himself. “Or perhaps — but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Mr. Alleyn,” Verity said loudly and, to her chagrin, in an unsteady voice. “I know what was in the Will.”

  “Yes, I thought you must.”

  “And perhaps I’d better just say it — the Will — might have happened at any time in the past if Sybil had been thoroughly upset. On the rebound from a row, she could have left anything to anyone who was in favour at the time.”

  “But did she to your knowledge ever do this in the past?”

  “Perhaps she never had the same provocation in the past.”

  “Or was not sufficiently attracted?”

  “Oh,” said Verity, “she took fancies. Look at this whacking great legacy to Bruce.”

  “Bruce? Oh, yes. The gardener. She thought a lot of him, I suppose? A faithful and tried old retainer? Was that it?”

  “He’d been with her about six months and he’s middle-aged and rather like a resurrection from the more dubious pages of J. M. Barrie but Syb thought him the answer to her prayers.”

  “As far as the garden was concerned?”

  “Yes. He does my garden, too.”

  “It’s enchanting. Do you dote on him, too?”

  “No. But I must say I like him better than I did. He took trouble over Syb. He visited her once a week with flowers and I don’t think he was sucking up. I just think he puts on a bit of an act like a guide doing his sob-stuff over Mary Queen of Scots in Edinburgh Castle.”

  “I’ve never heard a guide doing sob-stuff in Edinburgh Castle.

  “They drool. When they’re not having a go at William and Mary, they get closer and closer to you and the tears seem to come into their eyes and they drool about Mary Queen of Scots. I may have been unlucky, of course. Bruce is positively taciturn in comparison. He overdoes the nature-lover bit but only perhaps because his employers encourage it. He is, in fact, a dedicated gardener.”

  “And he visited Mrs. Foster at Greengages?”

  “He was there that afternoon.”

  “While you were there?”

  Verity explained how Bruce and she had encountered in the grounds; and how she’d told him Sybil wouldn’t be able to see him then and how Prunella had suggested later on that he left his lilies at the desk.

  “So he did just that?”

  “I think so. I suppose they both went back by the next bus.”

  “Both?”

  “I’
d forgotten Charmless Claude.”

  “Did you say ‘Charmless’?”

  “He’s Syb’s ghastly stepson.”

  Verity explained Claude but avoided any reference to his more dubious activities, merely presenting him as a spineless drifter. She kept telling herself she ought to be on her guard with this atypical policeman in whose company she felt so inappropriately conversational. At the drop of a hat, she thought, she’d find herself actually talking about that episode of the past that she had never confided to anyone and which still persisted so rawly in her memory.

  She pulled herself together. He had asked her if Claude was the son of Sybil’s second husband.

  “No, of her first husband, Maurice Carter. She married him when she was seventeen. He was a very young widower. His first wife died in childbirth — leaving Claude, who was brought up by his grandparents. They didn’t like him very much, I’m afraid. Perhaps he might have turned out better if they had, but there it is. And then Maurice married Syb, who was in the WRENS. She was on duty somewhere in Scotland when he got an unexpected leave. He came down here to Quintern — Quintern Place is her house, you know — and tried to ring her up but couldn’t get through so he wrote a note. While he was doing this he was recalled urgently to London. The troop-train he caught was bombed and he was killed. She found the note afterwards. That’s a sad story, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Was this stepson, Claude, provided for?”

  “Very well provided for, really. His father wasn’t an enormously rich man but he left a trust fund that paid for Claude’s upbringing. It still would be a reasonable standby if he didn’t contrive to lose it, as fast as it comes in. Of course,” Verity said more to herself than to Alleyn, “it’d have been different if the stamp had turned up.”

  “Did you say ‘stamp’?”

  “The Black Alexander. Maurice Carter inherited it. It was a pre-revolution Russian stamp that was withdrawn on the day it was issued because of a rather horrid little black flaw that looked like a bullet-hole in the Czar’s forehead. Apparently there was only the one specimen known to be in existence and so this one was worth some absolutely fabulous amount of money. Maurice’s own collection was medium-valuable and it went to Claude, who sold it, but the Black Alexander couldn’t be found. He was known to have taken it out of his bank the day before he died. They searched and searched but with no luck and it’s generally thought he must have had it on him when he was killed. It was a direct hit. It was bad luck for Claude about the stamp.”