A Death in Two Parts (21 page)

“I can't think how. I told you, till the other day I'd seen none of them since it all happened.”

“You haven't answered my question, Patience.”

“Are you bullying me?”

“Trying to. Strictly for your own good. You have, haven't you? It stands to reason you would. And somebody's guessed it, or found out, and got impatient. And Mary's the one who was here.”

“I don't believe it.”

“You mean, you won't believe it.”

“I suppose I do.” They had finished their lunch by now. “Let's have some coffee.” She got up to put on the kettle. “If Mary caught the ferry, she's out of it. The snag is – I feel the most complete fool – I didn't get her address. She said she'd be in touch and we left it at that. I was a bit off balance that day.”

“My fault,” said Veronica. “I'm sorry. The police could find out, Patience.”

“I am not going to the police.”

“I told you we'd quarrel sooner or later,” said Veronica cheerfully. “It seems to be sooner. But you're the boss. Mind you, one thing we could do is look up Ffeathers in the London phone book. I shouldn't think there'd be many of them. Or Brigances, come to that. Ring them and see where they were the other night. Have you got one?”

“London phone book? Yes, an old one. It's on the shelf in my bedroom.”

“I'll get it.”

As she ran upstairs the front door bell rang and Patience turned off the kettle and went to answer it.

“Mary!” she exclaimed. And then, looking past her: “My
goodness – Mark!” Just for a moment she had not been sure. The black hair was shockingly white above black eyebrows, the good bones stronger than ever in the tanned face.

“He would come,” said Mary. “When I told him about your haunt, he said I shouldn't have left you on your own like that. We've been burning up the road to get here. It's good to find you're OK, Patience.”

“Well, up to a point.” Patience stepped back to usher them in. “I can't tell you how glad I am to see you both. It's been a long time, Mark.” She held out her hand. “You don't look old enough.”

“I feel it.” His warm hand clasped hers. “And let's hope we have both changed for the better. A brave cousin would kiss you, Patience.”

“Would he?” Patience shut the door behind him. “Here's my haunt.” Veronica was coming down the stairs with the telephone book. “May I introduce Veronica Lavolle, Geoffrey's illegitimate daughter. Veronica, we don't need that. Here are Mary and Mark Brigance, come to make sure I'm all right. We were just going to look you up in the London book, Mary,” she explained. “Something rather sinister happened here after you left, and Veronica suspected you. Come in.” She ushered them into the dining room. “I was just going to make some coffee. Get some more cups, Veronica, would you? And the biscuit tin … You've had lunch?”

“Yes, on the ferry.” Mary shed her jacket and settled at the dining table. “And very nasty it was. Nice to meet you, Veronica, but aren't you rather a surprise? And what exactly did you suspect me of?”

“She's turned out to be a wonderfully nice surprise,”
Patience said. “Once we'd explained ourselves. Her mother died, you see, and she thought it was all my fault.”

“Whereas it was Geoffrey Crankshaw's, of course,” said Mark. “I never could like that man, Patience, though I suppose that's not altogether surprising. How old are you, Veronica?”

“Everyone asks that.” Veronica passed him the biscuit tin. “And the answer is eighteen, but it had been going on for years before that.”

“Oh, Patience,” said Mary.

“I'm getting used to it.” It was almost true. “And look at the bonus I've got out of it. Veronica is going to come and live with me,” she told them. “We're going to fix up for her to do the A levels she missed because her mother was ill.”

“And we've just had our first difference,” said Veronica. “If you don't ask them, Patience, I shall.” She handed Mary a cup of coffee. “You caught the ferry that day you lunched here?” she asked.

“Of course I did. I met Mark according to plan, and here we are as a result. But why do you ask?”

“Because of the sinister thing that happened,” said Mark. “What was it, Patience?”

“Somebody dropped a bag of newspapers on to the air vent from the cellar,” Patience told him. “The one Veronica poured the paint through. We both felt a bit strange this morning and luckily Veronica went down to clear up the paint and saw what had happened. I'm afraid she thought—”

“It had given me a bright idea,” said Mary. “But why, Patience?”

“Ancient history,” said Mark. “That's what I was afraid of.
But it wasn't us two, Veronica, and we could prove it easily enough.”

“Natch,” said Veronica. “I feel a proper clot.”

“You shouldn't. You were thinking on exactly the right lines. I've been afraid, always, that something would churn it all up again. It was too good to be true, that coroner's finding, wasn't it, Patience?”

“You knew?”

“I'm more ashamed of that than of anything I ever did. Yes, I knew. It was my mother, you see. I heard her say something to Uncle Joseph, that first dreadful morning. I was numb with shock that day, taking it in. They had to be in it, all three of them, she and Joseph and Seward. Got you down; hoped Gran would leave it all to you; and then … Their own mother.”

“Sick,” said Veronica.

“But how did they do it?” asked Patience.

“I hardly dared even wonder, for fear Geoffrey Crankshaw would read my mind, but I always thought it must have been something cooked up by Ludwig and Leonora – a slow-acting capsule, or something. They vanished pretty quickly to the States afterwards and were never heard from again. Those days when you were in gaol were the worst of my life, Patience.”

“I didn't enjoy them very much myself.”

“And then Crankshaw turned up, thank God, and proved it suicide, and I didn't need to speak up after all, and send my mother to prison. I told Mary I was sure you were innocent; we just needed to wait a bit, I hoped.”

“I couldn't understand why,” Mary joined in. “You should have told me, Mark; I wouldn't have let you wait.”

“I know. That's why I didn't. I'm sorry, Patience, sorrier
than I can say. I've wanted to tell you that ever since, but you wouldn't see us, afterwards, and I couldn't blame you. It's been on my mind always; unfinished business, a running sore—”

“But why should it break out again now?” asked Mary.

“That's what Veronica and I were wondering.” Patience poured more coffee for them all. “We think it has to do with Geoffrey's death.”

“It's hard to see why.” Mark reached out for a biscuit. “The case could hardly be more closed. I'm sure Mother and Uncle Joseph were the moving spirits in the plot against you, Patience, and they're both dead. Seward and Emily are out of it; what brains they had are gone for good. Which leaves Grisel of the older generation, and she has been a surprise. But they'd never have let her in on the plot, not the droop she was then.”

“What about Priss?” Patience began, but Veronica interrupted her.

“You've got to tell them, Patience. Or if you won't, I will. I don't think it's ancient history at all.” She turned to Mark. “Isn't there a statute of something-or-other about old crimes? You can't drag them up again? And this one really is old as the hills. No, I think it's Patience's lunatic will has started things up again.”

“Will?” Mark asked.

“If I worked it out, surely you can. Who do you think she has left all that money back to, now Father is dead?”

“Oh, Veronica …” Patience felt herself slowly turning scarlet.

But Mark was laughing. “Bright girl, Veronica. You're quite right, we should have worked it out. And you think
one of us has done so, and is getting impatient? It might be true, at that,” he went on, “but thank God it's not Mary or me. Well, that settles it, Mar; we'll confirm those bookings at the Black Stag, and you two must dine there with us tonight. Meanwhile I'll get on the phone and act the returning prodigal ringing round the family to get back in touch and find out in passing where they all were – when, Patience?”

“Last night or the night before, we think it must have been. And that reminds me of something. What about Mrs Vansittart's dark lady, Veronica? The one who didn't leave a note. She never did come back.”

“Unless it was to drop the bag down,” said Veronica. “And scarper.”

“Who's Mrs Vansittart?” asked Mark. “And what dark lady?”

“Mrs Vansittart's a neighbour across the road,” Patience told him. “Veronica and I went shopping in Brighton yesterday and when we got back she told us she had seen this dark-haired, dark-glassed woman ringing at my doorbell and generally hanging around.”

“A bit late in the season for dark glasses,” said Mary.

“That's what I thought.”

“What sort of age?”

“Well, Mrs Vansittart obviously thought it was a friend of mine, so our age, kind of.”

“So it could be Leonora or Priss,” said Mark. “I'll tell you one thing, Patience; I'm going to tell all the family that you are changing your will, and you must do it.”

“Oh, I'm going to,” said Patience. “I'm seeing my solicitor tomorrow.”

“Good.” He looked at his watch. “Come on, Mar, time to go
and face the smell of gravy at the Black Stag. I didn't believe it could still hang around there after all these years, but it does. What time would you like to eat, Patience?”

“Seven thirty maybe? But come here for a drink first. Any time after six.”

“Splendid. And if the postman brings you a parcel of poisoned chocolates between now and then, don't eat them, either of you. Good to meet you, Veronica; I hope you are going to be a niece to Mary and me.”

“Cool,” said Veronica, showing them out. And then, rejoining Patience: “Wow!”

“Isn't he?” agreed Patience.

“It's something about the brown skin and the white hair and the instant decisions, I reckon. If he wants to drag me off to his cave, I'll go. I liked Mary, too, but of course we've only got their word for it that they were on the ferry like they said.”

“Oh, Veronica!”

“It's true, but I'm like you, I don't believe it for a minute. So where does that leave us?”

“Baffled.”

“Not altogether, you know. Think, Patience! At least you know your instinct was right. The old lady's death was murder, by a group of them, just like you thought. And you can't honestly blame Mark for not wanting to split on his mum, can you?”

“No, of course not.” After trying for so long to forget that hostile group she had found united against her on the morning of Mrs Ffeathers' death, now she was trying to remember the individual faces and their expressions. No use. She could not. She had been too shocked to notice more than Mark's withdrawal.

“It's all such a long time ago,” said Veronica, reading her mind. “Best forgotten, don't you think? Water under the dam? All that. Or do I mean the bridge? Whatever, the thing is it's now we need to think about, not old then. I'm sure Mark'll find your dark lady for you and sort her out, now he's into it. I bet he's sorted worse things than that in his time, wouldn't you think?”

“Yes.” She spoke mechanically. Her mind was spinning out of control. She could not talk about Mark. She picked up her coffee cup and stacked it with Veronica's.

“No.” Veronica reached out gently to take it from her. “You look knackered, Patience, and I don't wonder. I'm going to make you a hot water bottle and tuck you up in bed.” She moved across the room to put on the kettle.

“Oh, goodness, what a lovely idea!” Patience felt a sheen of tears behind her eyes. “The bottle's in the top drawer.” And, taking it: “What a kind child you are, Veronica.”

“I intend to be.”

It was good to be alone. She lay flat on her back for a while, thinking about nothing so far as she could manage it, then got up and went over to the little writing desk in the corner of the room and sat down to work out the details of her new will. Geoffrey had told her once that an entirely handwritten will – holograph, he had called it – would be legally valid. She made it short and clear. Her entire estate halved between Veronica, and Mark and Mary, who were to act as trustees for Veronica until she was twenty-five. Then she picked up the telephone by her bed and dialled Mrs Vansittart's number.

“I'm just nipping across the road to get Mrs Vansittart to witness my new will,” she told Veronica, emerging from
her bedroom. “Her housekeeper's there, so there are two of them.”

“Ask her if she's seen the dark lady again,” said Veronica.

“Good idea. I will.”

“And don't let her keep you too long, gossiping. I'm sure the Black Stag expects its dinner guests in their handsome best.”

“You're bullying me again. I begin to think perhaps I like it.”

“While it lasts,” said Veronica, and Patience crossed the road wondering what she meant.

Mrs Vansittart rather thought she had seen the dark-haired woman somewhere in town, but was surprised that she had left no note and never returned to Patience's house.

“It's odd, isn't it? Thank you.” Patience picked up her duly witnessed document, smiling back at the cheerful housekeeper. “She must have changed her mind, for some reason, I suppose. And now I must run, Mrs Vansittart; I've cousins staying at the Black Stag. They turned up quite out of the blue, and Veronica and I are dining with them tonight.”

“Such a delightful girl,” said Mrs Vansittart. “Not a bit like the mannerless teenagers we seem to get around here. I suppose blood will tell, whatever the circumstances. Forgive me, my dear.” She looked to make sure the housekeeper had duly closed the door behind her. “I'm glad to have a chance to tell you how wonderfully well I think you are behaving.”