Surfeit of Lampreys (47 page)

“How much did Aunt V. know?”

“She knew, at least, that she must keep still and pretend to be asleep for as long as the nurse was waking. She had been well instructed, it seems. She has made one statement. I'm afraid it will not be much use as evidence but it is illuminating. Dr. Curtis tells me she has said over and over again: ‘Why were they not asleep? She said they would all sleep like the dead.' And when he asks her: ‘Who said this?' she answers ‘Tinkerton'!”

“Well, that's over,” said Charlot, raising her black hat until it perched on her grey curls and tipped over her nose. “I must say that we do look a collection of old black crows.”

“We always turn rather peculiar at funerals,” said Frid. “I suppose it's because we all wear each other's clothes. Where did you get that hat, Mummy?”

“It's Nanny's. I haven't got a black. And these are Nanny's gloves. Aren't they frightful?”

“Really, it's rather as if we were dressed up for another charade,” said Stephen. “Robin's the only girl among you who doesn't look p-peculiar.” And perhaps remembering that Roberta's black clothes were rather tragically her own, Stephen hurried on. “Why didn't you all b-buy yourselves funeral garments, darling?”

“Much too expensive,” said Charlot. “And that reminds me. You've all got to pay the greatest attention. I'm going to speak seriously to you.”

“Immy,” said Lord Charles suddenly, “where is Aunt Kit?”

“For pity's sake, Charlie, don't tell me Aunt Kit is lost again.”

“No, Mummy,” said Patch. “She's just ‘disappeared' into 26.”

“Well, you know what happened the last time she did that.”

“Talking about hats,” said Frid, “did you ever see anything to equal hers?”

“We are not talking about hats,” said Charlot seriously. “We are talking about money.”

“Oh gosh!” groaned Mike. He was lying on the hearthrug with sheets of expensive note-paper scattered about him. He was writing.

“About money,” Charlot repeated firmly. “I do think, Charlie darling, don't you, that we should make our plans at the very outset. Let's face it; we're poor people.” And catching sight of Roberta's astonished eyes, Charlot repeated: “We're going to be very hard up for a long time.”

“Well,” said Colin, “Step and I are going to get jobs.”

“And I shall be playing small but showy parts in no time,” added Frid.

“My poor babies,” Charlot exclaimed dramatically, “you
are
so sweet. But in the
meantime
…” She broke off. “What
are
you doing, Mike?”

“Writing a letter,” said Mike, blushing.

“To whom, darling?”

“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”

“What about?” asked Colin.

“Oh, something. As a matter of fac' I just wanted to remind him about something. We were talking about jobs and I said I might rather like to be a detective.” He returned to his letter. Charlot shook her head fondly at him, lit a cigarette, and with an air of the greatest solemnity took up her theme. “In the meantime,” she said, “there will be the most ghastly death duties and then we shall have Deepacres and Brummell Street, and all the rest of it, hung round our necks like milestones.”

“Millstones, darling,” said Henry.

“You're wrong,” said Charlot. “Hung round our necks like the upper and nether milestones is the full expression. You're thinking of the mills of God. Charlie, how much do you suppose we'll have when everything has been paid up?”

“Really, darling, I don't quite know. Old Rattisbon will tell us, of course.”

“Well, at a guess.”

“I really—well, I suppose it should be about thirty thousand.”

“Per annum,” asked Patch casually, “or just the bare thirty thousand to last for ever?”

“My dear child; a year of course.”

“And, of course,” said Charlot, “at least half of that will go in taxes and then there will be people like Mr. Grumball to pacify and those enormous places to run. What shall we have left?”

“Nothing,” said Colin deeply.

“So there you are, you see,” cried Charlot triumphantly. “Nothing! I was thinking about it during the funeral and I clearly foresee that we must use our cunning and cut our capers according to our cloth. Now this is my plan. We'll never manage to let Brummell Street, shall we?”

“Well—” began Lord Charles.

“My dear,
look
at it! It's
monstrous
, Charlie. Still it's a house and it's quite large. My plan is that we get rid of this flat and live in it. Rent free. Until we decide whether we are to use Deepacres.”

“Mummy, we
can't
,” said Frid. “It's too ghastly.”

“What?”

“The Brummell Street house.”

“Do you mean Giggle or the furniture, Frid?”

“Well, both. The furniture, really. I don't believe in ghosts though of course it would be rather awful if Giggle's blood—”

“That will do, Frid,” said Lord Charles.

“Drip, drip, drip.”

“Frid!”

“What does Frid mean?” asked Michael.

“Nothing,” said Frid. “But Mummy, 24 Brummell Street!
Honestly!
”

“My poor baby, I
know
. But attend to me. Let me finish. My cunning tells me that we can
improve
Brummell Street. Sell the most valuable of Aunt V.'s monsters—”

“Good heavens, Immy,” Lord Charles interrupted, “what about V.? I mean, haven't we got V. on our hands? I mean she's mad.”

“We must keep our heads about that,” said Charlot capably. “Dr. Kantripp will help. As soon as she has given her evidence—”

“But will she give evidence?” Henry asked. “She'd cut a pretty queer figure in the witness-box talking about soporific spells.”

“Do let's keep to the point,” said his mother. “We were in Brummell Street. Now with what we save on rent we shall be able to make a few meagre alterations to the Brummell Street house. Paint the walls and change the curtains and get at least enough bathrooms for ordinary cleanliness. We could cover the worst of the chairs that we don't sell with something dirt cheap but amusing.”

“French chintz?” suggested Frid, taking fire.

“Yes, I mean something that will simply tide us over our bad times. We'll consult a clever decorator. What I do want to hammer into your heads,” said Charlot, “is that we are poor. Poor, poor,
poor.”

Henry, who had been watching Roberta, burst out laughing. Charlot gazed at him with an air of injury. “What are you laughing at, Henry?”

“I was wondering if Robin could be persuaded to tell us her thoughts.”

Roberta became very pink. She had been reflecting on that agreeable attitude of mind which enabled the Lampreys, after a lifetime of pecuniary hazards, to feel the pinch of poverty upon the acquisition of an income of thirty thousand pounds. There they were, as solemn as owls, putting a brave face on penury and at the same time warming to the re-decoration of 24 Brummell Street.

“Robin,” said Henry, “I shall guess at your thoughts.”

“No, Henry, don't. But you can make another kind of guess. What family in fiction would you most resemble if you belonged to a different class?”

“The Macbeths?” asked Frid. “No. Because, after all, Daddy and Mummy didn't murder Uncle G. and the sleeping groom.”

“I think I'm rather a Spartan mother,” said Charlot. “Isn't there a Spartan family in a play? That's what we
shall
resemble in the future, I promise you.”

“I think Mummy's Congrevian,” said Stephen.

“Millament?” murmured Lord Charles.

“Robin means ‘The Comedy of Errors,' ” said Patch, “because of the twins.”

“Jemima Puddleduck,” said Mike and burst into one of his small-boy fits of charming laughter. “You're Jemima Puddle-duck, Mummy, and you go pit-pat-paddle-pat, pit-pat-waddle-pat.”

“Mikey!” cried Charlot. Michael screwed up a piece of the expensive note-paper and threw it at her. “Pit-pat-waddle-pat,” he shouted.

“I'm afraid I know which family Robin means,” said Henry. He took Roberta by the shoulders. “The Micawbers.”

The others stared innocently at Robin and shook their heads.

“Poor old Robin,” said Frid. “It's all been a bit too much for her.”

“It's been a bit too much for all of us,” said Charlot. “Which brings me to the rest of my story. I've got a little plan, Charlie darling. I think it would be such a good idea if we all crept away somewhere for a little holiday before the trial comes off or war breaks out and nobody can go anywhere. I don't mean anywhere smart like Antibes or the Lido but some
unsmart
place, do you know? Somewhere where we could bathe and blow away the horrors and have a tiny bit of mild gambling at night. I think the Côte d'Azur somewhere would be best because it's not the season and so we shouldn't need many clothes.”

“Monte Carlo?” Frid suggested. “It's very unsmart nowadays.”

“Yes, somewhere quite dull and cheap. After all,” said Charlot, looking affectionately at her family, “when you think of what we've been through you're bound to agree that we must have
some
fun.”

“Well, there's Uncle G. under the turf at last,” said Nigel.

“What do you suppose the Lampreys will do now?”

“They're your friends,” Alleyn grunted. “God forbid that I should prophesy about them.”

“They'll be damned rich, won't they?”

“Pretty well.”

“I wonder if they'll turn comparatively careful about money. People do sometimes when they get a lot.”

“Sometimes.”

“Henry's been talking about a job.”

“Good lord! Not the little New Zealander?”

“I think so.” Alleyn grimaced. “I told you she was a courageous little party,” he said.

All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.

SURFEIT OF LAMPREYS

A Felony & Mayhem mystery

PRINTING HISTORY
First U.K. edition (Collins): 1941
First U.S. edition (as
Death of a Peer
) (Little, Brown): 1940
Felony & Mayhem edition: 2013

Copyright © 1940, 1968 by Ngaio Marsh
All rights reserved

E-book ISBN: 978-1-937384-46-3

You're reading a book in the Felony & Mayhem “Vintage” category. These books were originally published prior to about 1965, and feature the kind of twisty, ingenious puzzles beloved by fans of Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr. If you enjoy this book, you may well like other “Vintage” titles from Felony & Mayhem Press.