Grave Mistake (8 page)

When Mr. Rattisbon saw Verity he raised his out-of-date city hat very high and said, “Good morning,” three times and added, “Very sad, yes,” as if she had enquired whether it was or was not so. She asked him if he was returning to London but he said no, he would find himself something to eat in the village and then go up to Quintern Place if Prunella Foster found it convenient to see him.

Verity rapidly surveyed her larder and then said: “You can’t lunch in the village. There’s only the Passcoigne Arms and it’s awful. Come and have an omelette and cheese and a glass of reasonable hock with me.”

He gave quite a performance of deprecating whinnies but was clearly delighted. He wanted, he said, to have a word with the coroner and would drive up to Keys when it was over.

Verity, given this start, was able to make her unpretentious preparations. She laid her table, took some cold sorrel soup with cream from the refrigerator, fetched herbs from the orchard, broke eggs into a basin and put butter in her omelette pan. Then she paid a visit to her cellar and chose one of the few remaining bottles of her father’s sherry and one of the more than respectable hock.

When Mr. Rattisbon arrived she settled him in the drawing-room, joined him in a glass of sherry and left him with the bottle at his elbow while she went off to make the omelette.

They lunched successfully, finishing off with ripe Stilton and biscuits. Mr. Rattisbon had two and a half glasses of hock to Verity’s one. His face, normally the colour of one of his own parchments, became quite pink.

They withdrew into the garden and sat in weather-worn deck chairs under the lime trees.

“How very pleasant, my dear Verity,” said Mr. Rattisbon. “Upon my word, how quite delightful! I suppose, alas, I must keep my eye upon the time. And if I may, I shall telephone Miss Prunella. I mustn’t overstay my welcome.”

“Oh, fiddle, Ratsy!” said Verity, who had called him by this Kenneth Grahamish nickname for some forty years, “what did you think about the inquest?”

The professional change came over him. He joined his fingertips, rattled his tongue and made his noise.

“M’nah,” he said. “My dear Verity. While you were preparing our delicious luncheon I thought a great deal about the inquest and I may say that the more I thought the less I liked it. I will not disguise from you, I am uneasy.”

“So am I. What exactly is
your
worry? Don’t go all professionally rectitudinal like a diagram. Confide. Do, Ratsy, I’m the soul of discretion. My lips shall be sealed with red tape, I promise.”

“My dear girl, I don’t doubt it. I had, in any case, decided to ask you: you were, were you not, a close friend of Mrs. Foster?”

“A very
old
friend. I think perhaps the closeness was more on her side than mine if that makes sense.”

“She confided in you?”

“She’d confide in the Town Crier if she felt the need but yes, she did quite a lot.”

“Do you know if she has recently made a Will?”

“Oh,” said Verity, “is that your trouble?”

“Part of it, at least. I must tell you that she did in fact execute a Will four years ago. I have reason to believe that she may have made a later one but have no positive knowledge of such being the case. She — yah — she wrote to me three weeks ago advising me of the terms of a new Will she wished me to prepare. I was — frankly appalled. I replied, as I hoped, temperately, asking her to take thought.
She
replied at once that I need concern myself no further in the matter, with additions of a — of an intemperate — I would go so far as to say a hostile, character. So much so that I concluded that I had been given the — not to put too fine a point upon it — sack.”

“Preposterous!” cried Verity. “She couldn’t!”

“As it turned out she didn’t. On my writing a formal letter asking if she wished the return of Passcoigne documents which we hold, and I may add, have held since the barony was created, she merely replied by telegram.”

“What did it say?”

“It said ‘Don’t be silly.’ ”

“How like Syb!”

“Upon which,” said Mr. Rattisbon, throwing himself back in his chair, “I concluded that there was to be no severance of the connection. That is the last communication I had from her. I know not if she made a new Will. But the fact that I — yah — jibbed, might have led her to act on her own initiative. Provide herself,” said Mr. Rattisbon, lowering his voice as one who speaks of blasphemy, “with A Form. From some stationer. Alas.”

“Since she was in cool storage at Greengages, she’d have had to ask somebody to get the form for her. She didn’t ask me.”

“I think I hear your telephone, my dear,” Mr. Rattisbon said.

It was Prunella. “Godma V,” she said with unusual clarity, “I saw you talking to that fantastic old Mr. Rattisbon. Do you happen to know where he was going?”

“He’s here. He’s thinking of visiting you.”

“Oh, good. Because I suppose he ought to know. Because, actually, I’ve found something he ought to see.”

“What have you found, darling?”

“I’m afraid,” Prunella’s voice escalated to a plaintive squeak, “it’s a Will.”

When Mr. Rattisbon had taken his perturbed leave and departed, bolt upright, at the wheel of his car, Prunella rang again to say she felt that before he arrived she must tell her godmother more about her find.

“I can’t get hold of Gideon,” she said, “so I thought I’d tell you. Sorry, darling, but you know what I mean.”

“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 nurse — 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.