Murder Included Page 6

  ‘Old people can be very trying,’ said Price, thinking of his mother, ‘but of course there’s no need to speak disrespectfully of them — that only shows you up for what you are. Well, thank you very much, Miss Rattray. Oh — just one more thing. Are any of you good people interested in botany?’

  ‘Botany?’ said Margot, opening her eyes wide. ‘I don’t think so — no. Mr Rose couldn’t tell wheat from barley when he came here, but he’s very anxious to become a country gentleman and he does know a little more now. But you mean flowers rather than crops, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, either,’ said Price.

  ‘Howard Rose,’ Margot went on, ‘is in the same position as his father — always asking about the crops — but neither of them seems interested in flowers. Mrs Rose gushes over them when they’re arranged indoors, but she’s a complete towns-person — she’d be much happier living in a flat in London than here. Geoffrey Marvin — well, I’ve never heard him taking any interest in Nature, though Miss Hudson wanted him to be a farmer. Oh, then there’s us. Father’s hopeless — he hardly knows a primrose when he sees it. I love flowers and I know all the ordinary ones; I can tell wheat from barley, but I get stumped on cow-parsley and that kind of thing. Mother knows lots more than I do. She knows the names of the wild flowers and all about the crops, and, of course, Patricia does, too. I don’t know about Hugo — he’s too haughty to talk to anyone, but I shouldn’t think he’s interested in anything but those hounds. I don’t think Lady d’Estray knows much about flowers because Miss Hudson, who did know, was always putting her right about them, and Lady d’Estray didn’t like being corrected, so then the fur flew. But Lady d’Estray knew something about herbs, I’m sure. We had the weirdest things in the salads — most of us used to pick them out — and when anyone had a cold she made them what she called tisanes — infusions that looked like tea, but tasted foul. Most of us emptied them down our wash-basins.’

  ‘That’s all very interesting,’ said Price, rapidly transposing the names of Barbara Teresa Desirée d’Estray and Flight-Lieutenant Geoffrey Marvin in his mind. ‘I suppose you can’t tell me where Lady d’Estray cooked up these messes?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Margot. ‘There’s a sort of housemaids’ closet just at the head of the main staircase, and when the d’Estrays started taking paying guests they had an electric heater put in there so that the housemaid could make the early morning tea for everybody and save carrying trays up and down the stairs. I know that’s right because once, when Mother had a cold, Lady d’Estray insisted on making her one of these tisanes and when it was ready she called me in there. I took it and pretended to be grateful, but of course I emptied it straight down the drain.’

  ‘Well, Miss Rattray,’ said Price, ‘I’m really grateful to you. What you have said will be of great assistance. Would it be troubling you too much to ask Mrs Rose if I could see her next? She seems to be one of the few people who haven’t gone off fox-hunting.’

  ‘She’s like me,’ said Margot, rising from the armchair, where she had been sitting very quietly with her hands clasped round her knees. ‘She doesn’t ride. Actually, if I did I shouldn’t have gone out today: I think it was rather disrespectful to Miss Hudson and I told Mother so, but she said it was stuffy and middle-class of me. Good morning, Inspector.’

  And it ir a good morning, thought Price, writing Motive: none. Means: knowledge of botany, nil: knowledge of and access to pantry, yes, and turning a page and adding under Bunny’s name: thorough knowledge of herbal beverages. Knowledge of and access to pantryy yes plus. That’s substantial progress, that is

  I’ll see the housemaid after this Mrs Rose … Then Sybella Rose came in, wearing a tan wool dress and several rows of pearls and fluttering her long eyelashes over her fine brown eyes. Except for her eyes, which were unusually large, and her feet, which were unusually small, her appearance was undistinguished. Thousands like her tripped through the better-class shops of Oxford Street every day.

  Price felt well disposed towards her. A nice little woman, he thought; makes the most of herself, visits the hairdresser regularly, knows how to coax her husband into buying an expensive bit of nonsense she calls a hat, but no harm in her … not like her ladyship. ‘Good morning, Mrs Rose,’ he said pleasandy. ‘Come right in and sit down — that sounds a little like the spider talking to the fly, doesn’t it? but I hope you don’t think of me as a spider.’ The sort of little woman one can talk to, he thought approvingly.

  Sybella Rose said, ‘Well, of course, it’s a bit frightening. I was ever so scared this morning when I heard a detective from Scotland Yard was coming, ’specially as my hubby had gone out huntin’, but Bunny — Lady d’Estray — told me you weren’t a bit alarming, and, of course, I want to do all I can to help. Miss Hudson didn’t think much of poor little me, I’m afraid, but I always felt sorry for her. A woman without a man always seems a bit pathetic to me.’

  ‘A vee manky,’ said Price.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Mrs Rose.

  ‘A vee manky, as the French say,’ he amplified. ‘Now tell me, Mrs Rose: the ladies see and hear far more of what goes on than we mere males — can you tell me of any little thing you’ve noticed — and kept to yourself perhaps — which might throw some light on our mystery? Don’t hold back for fear of incriminating anyone: the innocent never suffer and what appears to you to point to one individual may lead us to another.’ The little woman needed reassuring, he told himself compassionately: sitting bolt upright on the very edge of her chair and fluttering her eyelashes, she looked like a plump and startled hind.

  ‘I wonder what I can tell you,’ she said, nervously twisting the fine rings on her litde white hands. ‘I didn’t poison Miss Hudson. Even if I’d wanted to, I shouldn’t have dared — she was a most terrifying person. And I know my hubby didn’t, and my boy didn’t — he was away, you know; and I’m sure the baronet didn’t or Patricia or Hugo — they were all so fond of the old lady. I expect people have been telling you that Bunny d’Estray disliked Miss Hudson, but I hope you won’t take any notice of that because you can dislike a person without murdering them, and Bunny and I are very close friends, and I should know if she’d done it — I’m sensitive in that sort of way. I know people will suspect Bunny just because she’s Frenchy — those Scampnells will — but of course it’s ridiculous.’

  Price said, ‘I can assure you, Mrs Rose, we need a great deal of really solid evidence before we allow ourselves even to suspect anybody, and though crimes of passion — love, revenge, et cetera — are common on the Continent, among English people money is the motive nine times out of ten,’ and, with no sense at all of racial shame, he went on, ‘As you are such a friend of Lady d’Estray’s, I assume that you were aware of the existence of a kind of upstairs pantry, where she sometimes prepared infusions of medicinal herbs?’

  ‘You naughty man, you make the little pantry sound like a witches’ kitchen,’ laughed Mrs Rose. ‘It’s really used by Beatrice, the housemaid, for making the early morning teas. It was only when one of us had a cold or ’flu that Lady d’Estray made us French remedies — tisanes. They were awfully good and I think it was very kind of her.’

  ‘Has she used the pantry in the last few days, Mrs Rose?’

  ‘Oh no. None of us had colds; besides, she found out that the Scampnells and Miss Hudson didn’t even try their drinks but just poured them away down their wash-basins. I think it was horrid of them when a famous author, like she is, had been kind enough to bother over their sniffs.’

  ‘A famous author?’ said Price. ‘I can’t say I’ve heard of her under any of her names. I’ve very little time for sedentary relaxation, but my wife’s a great reader — always down at the library changing her books.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ returned Sybella, ‘she prefers a lighter type. Bunny’s books aren’t heavy, but in a way they’re highbrow. I read an article in a paper about them and it said that they would become classics because of their exquisite prose. And she writes as bea
utifully in French as in English — in fact I think that in France she’s better known.’

  ‘I should think that’s quite possible,’ said Price, who believed that all French books are hot stuff. ‘Well, Mrs Rose, I think that’s all for the moment.’ A nice little woman, he thought again, but too fond of her ‘Bunny’ to be much use at present. ‘Thank you, Mrs Rose,’ he said, and Sybella left him and he noted: Motive — none. Knowledge of Botany — unlikely. Knowledge of and access to Pantry — yes. He then consulted his wrist-watch, which, differing considerably from the clock on the mantelpiece, announced that the time was a quarter to one. With a mind for lunch — back at the Red Lion, he supposed — he was half-way to the door when it was violently opened and a small fresh-faced boy in a white coat staggered in with a loaded tray. There was a miniature casserole of mushroom soup and, lifting the lid of a silver entrée dish when the boy had gone, Price discovered lobster mayonnaise. A carafe of white wine, biscuits, butter and cheese, and a bunch of black hothouse grapes completed the meal. So this is how they live, is it? … Talk about equal sacrifice, thought Price, and fell to …

  CHAPTER FOUR

  OVER sherry in the library Philip Jardine was asking Sir Charles, ‘Do you know how Elizabeth left her money?’

  Sir Charles said, ‘As I believe they say nowadays, I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Apart from a few small bequests, contained in a codicil — a necklace to your Pat, her horse to her Marvin protégé and so on — the whole boiling — a matter of between thirty and forty thousand pounds — goes straight to Hugo.’

  Sir Charles passed his hand wearily across his eyes.

  ‘That will simplify life for Hugo. But at the same time …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jardine. ‘At the moment it carries a sting in its tail — let us be frank, Charles; we’ve known each other long enough — a motive for murder. But that will pass; innocent men don’t get hanged nowadays; and it’ll make all the difference to Hugo. I suppose he hasn’t, by any chance, an alibi?’

  ‘I gather,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that we need all-day alibis for Monday. None of us has them but Marvin and young Rose.’

  ‘I should suspect them instantly,’ said Jardine, and as he spoke Bunny came in and said, ‘How mean of you to drink without me! How are you, Philip Jardine?’

  Jardine, from Winchester and New College, didn’t care for the new Lady d’Estray, had thought Charles an ass for marrying so far outside his class and kind and had been further exasperated by discovering later that the Reverend Mr Wilkinson had been also of Winchester and New College. Bunny’s method of addressing him seemed to him a literary affectation: why couldn’t she behave like other people and call him Philip, as Charles did, or Mr Jardine? Now it occurred to him: one knows very little about her … practically a foreigner … forty-ish … French ideas on sex … supposing she had designs on Hugo? … Bunny was telling Sir Charles that she had had a sumptuous lunch taken in to the Gestapo, and Sir Charles said that it was hardly fair to call him that — a decent little fellow, who was only doing his duty. Bunny said, ‘Well, I think he’s a ghastly little man and it’s all very well to say that innocent people needn’t worry, but Sybella says he’s asking about the upstairs pantry and the hot drinks I made for people when they had colds, so I suppose he thinks I brewed up some deadly nightshade or something and put it in Elizabeth’s whisky. Philip Jardine, do you think I should refuse to answer any more questions except in your presence?’

  ‘I think it’s best to be absolutely frank,’ Jardine told her, and added, ‘You mustn’t worry. The police aren’t fools.’

  Sir Charles said dryly, ‘You needn’t be afraid for yourself, Bunny. You had no motive. It’s poor old Hugo who’s been provided with that. Elizabeth’s left him all her money.’

  ‘I knew she had.’

  ‘Good God! how did you know? I’ve just been telling Philip that I hadn’t an inkling.’

  Practically a foreigner … thought Jardine. They haven’t our codes about poking and prying … But Bunny said, ‘Elizabeth told me soon after she came here. If you remember, I had a brain-wave about Hugo learning hotel-keeping, and she was very much against it. I’d nearly persuaded Hugo, so she took me apart one evening and told me she was leaving him her money, and, though it takes a thousand a year merely to keep the roof on this house, she made me promise to drop the idea, and I did; I never mentioned it again, but I still think that Hugo should go in for hotel-keeping.’

  ‘Well, we needn’t go through all that again now,’ said Charles irritably. ‘You didn’t, I hope, blurt this out to that fellow Price?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. He never mentioned Elizabeth’s money.’

  ‘He mentioned it to me and I told him I knew nothing about it. He will never believe that you knew and I didn’t.’

  ‘Why not? I promised Elizabeth I wouldn’t tell anybody.’

  Sir Charles said, ‘Everyone knows that women can’t keep secrets.’

  ‘Oh, Charles, you’re marvellous,’ said Bunny. ‘Well, then, I’m afraid that all I can do is to break Philip Jardine’s rule of absolute frankness.’

  ‘What about it, Philip?’

  Jardine said, ‘I think it might be wise, for the moment,’ and the gong rang then, and as he followed Bunny into the dining-room he thought: that’s it … moonlight on the Mediterranean, wine and roses, and so she caught poor silly old Charles for his title and his position, and then found that he was getting on and wasn’t much fun, and then the good-looking son appeared and she learned that he was coming in for money. Hugo’s a nice boy but guileless — he’d be wax in the hands of an experienced woman. My God, he thought, smiling and bowing as Bunny introduced him to the Scampnells and Sybella, already seated at their respective tables, supposing Charles is next on her list … he well may be. I can’t let that happen, he thought, sitting down and unfolding with dislike an unstarched checked napkin, I was at school with old Charles … Unless the detective produces some startling theory, I’ll give old Charles a hint, if it cost me his friendship … He became aware that Bunny was speaking to him. ‘I beg your pardon? …’

  The long talk that he had later in the afternoon with Price did little to shake his conviction. Immediately Price had finished his lunch he had rung the bell and told the boy who came for his tray that he was ready to see Miss Hudson’s lawyer. Eric said, ‘What?’ and Price asked him where his manners were: ‘Mr What died years ago and Mr Pardon took his place — didn’t they tell you that at school?’ he asked him. ‘Sir Charles won’t ’ave pardon in the ’ouse,’ said Eric. ‘I beg your pardon to the upper servants and the gentry and what to hequals and hanimals — that’s what we ’aves ’ere.’ ‘That’s quite enough of your cheek, my boy,’ said Price. ‘And, as you don’t seem too bright in the head, send the butler to me.’ ‘Mr Benson is at present occupied in serving the dining-room luncheon, but I will endeavour to communicate with him,’ said Eric, now speaking in tones of exaggerated refinement, and before Price’s surprise had turned to annoyance he was out of the room. In a few moments Benson, looking harassed, opened the door.

  ‘That boy of yours,’ said Price; ‘is he normal? One minute he plays the village idiot, and the next he talks with an Oxford accent — la-di-dah.’

  ‘He’s quite a clever boy,’ said Benson. ‘A couple of years ago he won a scholarship to Harborough Grammar, but his father wouldn’t let him take it up — doesn’t hold with education.’

  ‘Good heavens! Can such people exist? One can hardly credit it. But that’s by the way. What I was trying to get into the boy’s head was that I should like to see Miss Hudson’s lawyer. I understand he was arriving in time for the midday meal.’

  ‘Mr Jardine is here, but I’ve only just served the third course. Then there’ll be the coffee.’

  Price said, ‘I shouldn’t like to hurry them for a mere matter of murder. While I await their pleasure I’ll see the old nurse and the housemaid.’ His sarcasm seemed to be lost on Benson, who, murmuring that he
would send a message to Miss Blythe and Miss Toomer, hastened from the room.

  Beatrice Blythe, stiff and stocky, could add little to what she had told the Superintendent: to Price’s questions on the subject of the upstairs pantry she replied that in the last few days she had noticed no sign of the electric ring having been used by anyone but herself, and that on the comparatively rare occasions when her ladyship had made hot drinks for the guests or the family she had left the place in a state of confusion — ‘not,’ put in Beatrice, ‘that I minded.’ Nanny, fresh from destroying the collections of wild flowers which the young d’Estrays had made under the influence of their cousin — Bunny, who had gone up to the nursery for a franker gossip than she suspected Charles would countenance, had told her that the detective had asked about botany — uttered, through compressed lips, a string of negatives, but on leaving volunteered that Miss Hudson had been a hard woman and generally disliked for years before she had come to Aston, and that Price, instead of hindering those with more to do than they had time for, should look elsewhere.

  Jardine in the meantime had had a talk with Hugo, whom a telephone message to the Kennels had brought home shortly after Patricia, Cecily Scampnell, and Sidney Rose. Hugo d’Estray was as dark as his sister was fair, and his appearance was such that the sight of him was apt to draw mutters of ‘gigolo’, ‘Rudolf Valentino’, and ‘tailor’s dummy’ from less well-favoured men. Lately a sardonic look had clouded but added character to his perfect features, but his trouble wasn’t, like Geoffrey Marvin’s nervous exhaustion, prolonged by disinclination to adjust himself to civilian life: Hugo had nerves of iron. What irked him was that he had discovered his vocation and it was impossible: learning of it, people said don’t be silly, Hugo, and: is that really all you want to do with your life, Hugo? and: you know, Hugo, one day you’ll want to get married. For, since the squirearchy was done for and he couldn’t be an amateur huntsman, Hugo wanted to be a professional huntsman: he didn’t care in the least if, as he was warned, he never owned a car, a wife, a dress-suit, if he lost his friends, his comforts, his gentility: he had had the inestimable good fortune to come at the age of twenty-five to the end of his pursuit of happiness; but so far from envying him, those around him prepared to pinch and scrape and sacrifice themselves to teach him hotel-keeping, start him in market-gardening or buy him a dairy herd. Philip jardine had been kindness itself, consulting and even getting offers of jobs from influential clients until Hugo’s lack of interest had discouraged him and he had dismissed poor Charles’s heir as a ne’er-do-well and then remembered his war record. When Price said to him, ‘And what does that young gentleman do to earn his living?’ and smiled contemptuously at the answer, ‘He’s looking round,’ Jardine went on, ‘You mustn’t get the idea that he’s a waster. He did extraordinarily well in the war in North Africa.’ ‘So did plenty of others,’ said Price: ‘but it doesn’t follow that they do well in the peace in England — in fact the reverse is frequently the case.’ Jardine loved the King’s English enough to wince visibly, and Price, mistaking the cause of his pain, added, ‘That sounds ungrateful, perhaps, but in our job it’s essential to avoid sentimentality.’ ‘Oh, quite,’ said Jardine. ‘One must look facts in the face, but at least the boy didn’t have a commando training.’ Price said, ‘In any case this has the appearance of a woman’s crime,’ and, back in the library, Jardine repeated that, with the double purpose of reassuring Hugo and observing Bunny. Hugo, who had received the news of his good fortune without apparent emotion, merely remarking that it was sweet of Cousin Elizabeth and he wished she had been out to-day to see how excellently Rambler was shaping, said, ‘I’m inclined to agree with him, if, as rumour has it, the poison was something cooked up in Beatrice’s pantry. I’ve never cooked anything without hearing afterwards about the number of saucepans I’ve used and the mess I’ve made.’ He went off to his interview, and Bunny said she needed fresh air and would take a message that she was next on the list to Patricia, who was cleaning tack in the stable.