Grave Matters (16 page)

‘You were hours upstairs with Winifred,’ said Michael.

‘She showed me around, and I sat on her bed nattering,’ said Jane. ‘I wasn’t wasting time.’

‘You were probably admiring the interior decorating scheme,’ said Michael. ‘I bet it’s lavish. Stockbrokers always have to give the impression of affluence, even if they’re on the bread-line. He’s probably shelling out alimony to wife number one, and living on tick.’

‘You are horrible, darling,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t think it’s like that at all. I think wife number one died or skipped off. The daughters clearly live with their father when they’re at home.’

At this point they reached the Horse and Jockey, where they were to eat, and the discussion was halted while Patrick arranged for a table. The pub was not busy, so they went straight into the restaurant and ordered their meal.

Over the avocados, Jane said: ‘Winifred was sweet – so kind. I’d be furious if three strangers gate-crashed my party.’

‘You wouldn’t, dear. You’d be another ministering angel, just as she was,’ said Michael.

‘Well, up to a point, needs must, I suppose,’ said Jane. ‘Rise to the occasion, I mean. It would be a good dodge for burglars, wouldn’t it – while everyone is tending the sickly person, an accomplice is upstairs looting the place.’

‘You are quite like your brother after all, aren’t you? Given to wild imaginings,’ Michael said, grinning.

‘Winifred was wasting her time with that match-making ploy, anyway,’ said Patrick. ‘Newton just wasn’t interested. But I can see why Winifred thought of it – Valerie must be the right sort of age, and she’s no pin-head – she’d be a match for him intellectually. Romance isn’t everything.’

‘Would you fancy her?’ Jane asked.

‘You’re always asking me that sort of question,’ said Patrick. ‘But the answer is no, I wouldn’t.’

‘She’s older than you,’ Jane said. ‘Is that the reason?’

‘No, not at all. It isn’t anything to do with that. Age needn’t come into it at all – it just depends on the individual people. But there’s something formidable about Valerie.’

‘What do you think, Mike?’ Jane pursued. ‘You know I’m always anxious to find out who appeals to you, so that I can watch out for danger.’

‘Idiot,’ said Michael, laughing at her. ‘But I agree with Patrick – I didn’t find her attractive, and it’s not an age thing. She’s smart, and intelligent, and animated.’

‘Frightens you both, maybe,’ said Jane. ‘You prefer cosier types.’

‘I certainly prefer cuddlier ones,’ said Michael. ‘She’s a bit angular.’

‘Did you see how she lit up when Carol and she were talking?’ said Jane. ‘I’ve never seen that spark between two women before.’

The two men looked at her. There was a silence.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Patrick asked.

‘I’m sure there was a spark between them. I won’t go further than that,’ Jane said sedately.

‘They like each other?’ Patrick said. ‘Why not?’

‘Come off it, Patrick. Jane thinks Valerie’s gay,’ said Michael. ‘Don’t you, darling?’

‘I do deplore the way English usage has declined,’ said Patrick in dour tones. ‘Adjectives used in total innocence can have quite another meaning. But are you sure of this, Jane?’

‘No, of course not. It’s a subject I know nothing about, except in theory,’ Jane replied. ‘But she had the sort of look on her face that you see when a woman is attracted to a man. You often notice it at parties – you know what I mean.’

‘And Carol?’ Patrick asked. ‘How did she react?’

‘I couldn’t see her face so well. She seemed quite happy. For heaven’s sake don’t go leaping to conclusions, Patrick. I expect it’s slanderous even to think of it.’

‘Can’t women spot this among themselves?’ Patrick demanded. ‘Men can, soon enough.’

‘No. I can’t, anyway. I never think about it,’ Jane said. ‘Sometimes, of course, if it’s very blatant, then one does. But nowadays people always leap to the worst conclusions if two women live together just for company, or because it’s cheaper. Why can’t they just be friends? That’s what they are.’

‘Why not, indeed,’ said Michael mildly.

‘People think everyone gets a chance to marry if they want to – they don’t,’ Jane said, becoming keen to make her point. ‘Not if they’re particular, that is. And there are plenty of people – men and women – who just aren’t interested in sex. That doesn’t mean they’re queer though they get talked about as if they must be.’

‘No, poor things, they’re just missing lots of fun,’ said Michael, who liked to see Jane grow enthusiastic as she talked.

‘You don’t have to convince me, Jane. I know you’re right,’ said Patrick.

‘Thank goodness you’ve always had a series of girl-friends, Patrick, otherwise goodness knows what would be said about you,’ Jane told him.

Patrick laughed.

‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘I hope one glance is enough for anyone to know what I am. But let’s get back to Valerie. She’s a tough customer, but then she’s a very successful career woman. She may be one of these disinterested types, or she may never have felt strongly enough for any man to want to give up her job and darn his socks instead.’

‘Figuratively speaking, you mean,’ said Jane. ‘Women can stick to their careers if they want to. Carol has.’

‘I wonder why the Bruces haven’t any children,’ Patrick mused.

‘Probably some awful tragedy,’ Jane said promptly. ‘Winifred had one that died, by her first husband. She told me so, upstairs She said it was awful later. People used to make snide remarks about “of course, you haven’t any children so you can do this and that,” when they’d have loved a family.’

By now they were eating veal cooked in madeira, and drinking claret.

‘What else did you talk about, while you were closeted upstairs?’ Patrick asked his sister. ‘Have the Kents been married long?’

‘No. Only a few months,’ said Jane. ‘And where do you think they went for their honeymoon?’ She waited. ‘To Greece,’ she said.

‘I can think of no more perfect place,’ said Patrick instantly.

‘Winifred never met Amelia,’ Jane said. ‘I said how you’d come to the village originally because of being literally in at her death. And she said how awful it had been – the accident – and how she’d been looking forward to seeing her again.’

‘But you said they’d never met?’

‘No – I mean they never met since Winifred came to Meldsmead. She was at Slade House.’

Patrick stared.

‘Winifred was at Slade House?’ Michael wanted to get it quite clear.

‘Yes. Long before my day, of course. And if Amelia heard that George was going to marry again, she’d have heard Winifred spoken of by her former married name, and wouldn’t connect it. Anyway, I don’t suppose the old girl and George were buddies, exactly – not much in common.’

‘So she must have known Miss Forrest too?’

‘Of course. I didn’t find out if they’d met while Miss Forrest was in Meldsmead – sorry about that, Patrick, but I was too busy concentrating on not saying I’d been at Slade House too.’

‘I’m glad you kept that quiet,’ said Patrick.

‘You told me to,’ said Jane. ‘By the way, I got Miss Chesterfield’s address – you asked me for it. She’s still in Africa.’

‘Oh. What a great pity.’

Michael had to be told about Miss Chesterfield and the photograph album.

‘Winifred might be in it. She’d know some of the names, perhaps,’ said Jane.

Patrick suddenly stood up.

‘Excuse me,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve got to make a ‘phone call.’

Jane watched him go with astonishment.

‘Has he suddenly gone coy? Dons are sometimes more inhibited than other men, but not in front of their kith and kin, surely? Or do you think he really meant it? Is he going to ring Ellen up?’

‘I should imagine he meant what he said,’ Michael answered.

‘Maybe he promised to call her at a certain hour.’

‘He wouldn’t have forgotten, then. He’d have been looking at his watch all the evening. He changed suddenly when I told him Winifred had been at Slade House.’

‘I can’t see why this business is needling him so,’ Michael said. ‘Life is full of strange events, after all, and weird coincidences.’

‘Poor old Patrick. I’m afraid that Ellen’s sent him rather off balance,’ Jane said. ‘She must be a bit dumb, don’t you think? Surely he’s quite a dish? One can’t tell, of course, about one’s own brother, but girls are always after him.’

‘He’s usually got some bird or other around,’ Michael agreed. ‘And he’s eligible to a degree.’

‘Wary, though, now,’ said Jane. ‘Too wary. Suddenly he’ll find all the best girls have been snapped up.’

‘I think he’s found it quite easy up till now to have fun without getting hurt himself,’ Michael said. ‘This girl’s playing hard to get.’

‘It’s not that. She’s besotted with this David person,’ Jane said. ‘Girls are so silly. They get some wretched man into their system, and however doomed the whole thing is, they don’t seem able to cure themselves. How nice to be married and out of the war.’

For some people the war only began after marriage, Michael reflected. But he and Jane were among the lucky ones. He leaned across the table and kissed her nose, and Patrick witnessed this touching incident as he returned to his seat.

‘Was she there?’ Jane asked.

‘I wasn’t ringing Ellen,’ Patrick said. ‘That blackberry and apple pie I took from Carol’s dust-bin – I didn’t tell you before – there were a few laburnum seeds in it. Not many – not enough to be lethal, unless one person ate them all. We don’t know, of course, how many were in the bit Carol ate. I was ringing Colin up.’

‘Colin? Why suddenly, tonight?’

‘I’m going to see him at New Scotland Yard tomorrow. I should have gone before, but there was nothing concrete to tell him. There still isn’t, really. But he can make a few enquiries,’ Patrick said.

‘I should have thought laburnum seeds in the pie were definite evidence,’ Michael said grimly.

‘That’s why you asked me if Michael ever made pastry,’ Jane said slowly.

‘What?’ Michael exclaimed.

‘I’ll explain later, darling,’ Jane told him.

‘I certainly don’t,’ said Michael.

Patrick had suddenly become very quiet and depressed; no wonder, Jane thought, if he suspected David Bruce of putting laburnum seeds in Carol’s pie.

‘David didn’t eat any of that pie, you see,’ Patrick said. ‘When Carol was ill, it was there, in the fridge, but he had none. Naturally he wouldn’t eat it, if he knew it would be poisonous.’

‘What about the dog? Did it eat something meant for Carol? Is that what you think?’ Jane demanded.

‘It must be what happened,’ Patrick said. ‘Look, eat up, you two. Do you mind? I think I’d like to get back. I’ll have to cancel some pupils tomorrow.’

‘All right. I’m full, anyway,’ said Jane. ‘It was a lovely dinner, Patrick.’

He made an effort.

‘We’ll have another one when all this is finished,’ he said. ‘And dally with the port.’

Jane did not dare to say she hoped that Ellen would be with him.

Fortunately Patrick had no lecture the following day. One of his pupils was due for a tutorial at ten; luckily the young man lived in college and straight after breakfast Patrick went round to see him, reversing the more usual process by himself being the one to postpone their appointment. The pupil, roused tousle-headed and unshaven, by his knock, was mightily relieved in fact since he had set his alarm early in the hope that he might manage to finish the essay Patrick should have heard.

After this Patrick got into the car and went to London for his appointment with Detective-Inspector Colin Smithers. They had met when Colin was a sergeant assisting in an enquiry at Winterswick; with promotion he had transferred to the Metropolitan Police.

Colin kept him waiting, but not for long. He was a red-headed, freckle-faced man with a deceptively ingenuous air; imaginative, as well as tenacious.

‘I’ve got someone delving about at Somerset House – they haven’t come up with anything yet,’ Colin greeted him. ‘Have you any more to tell me?’

‘Here’s the analyst’s report on that pie. He was slow producing it – he’s a friend of mine, and he happened to be away when I sent it round to his rooms, so it grew a bit mouldy. But the laburnum was in it.’

Colin glanced at the report.

‘You didn’t get in touch with me before,’ he pointed out. ‘Except to ask about that post-mortem on the old lady who died in the British Museum.’

‘I’d nothing to go on,’ Patrick said. ‘No evidence.’

‘This is evidence all right,’ Colin said, tapping the report.

‘I brought it in case you thought I’d made it up,’ said Patrick.

‘Any hunch you have is worth acting on – why don’t you give up Oxford and join us? I’m sure you could have special promotion for late entry,’ said Colin with a grin.

‘I have my uses as a civilian infiltrator,’ Patrick said. ‘Are you going to dig up the dog?’

‘Not immediately, no. We’ve no crime, you see. It’s tricky.’

‘Agreed. We’ve got to prevent one,’ Patrick said.

‘The dog could easily have eaten something meant for Carol Bruce – something she didn’t fancy. Barbiturates, perhaps, since laburnum seeds usually lead to vomiting, before coma. The fact that he collapsed into the river might be sheer chance – he staggered about and fell there.’

‘But it can’t be David Bruce. Why should he want to kill his wife?’ Patrick said.

‘Why would anyone else want to?’ Colin asked. ‘Most murders are committed by spouses, you know.’

‘Cold-bloodedly pre-meditated ones?’ asked Patrick. ‘Have you found out any more about Miss Forrest?’

‘I’ve got a man calling on the brother this morning,’ Colin said. ‘He’ll go through her effects – if they haven’t been disposed of by now, that is. Don’t be too hopeful.’

‘He’ll remember the Cicero, anyway, if it was there,’ Patrick said. ‘It must be somewhere, after all. It might throw some light on all this, though I can’t think how.’ What significant marginal notes could there possibly be in the volume?

‘Then there’s Ellen Brinton. Now how do you think she fits into this business?’ Colin leaned back in his chair and surveyed Patrick across his desk. ‘You’ve only her word for it that she’d arranged to meet Miss Forrest that day.’