Slight Mourning (10 page)

Sloan murmured thoughtfully, “He must be pretty glad all the same that he turned down the deceased's efforts at breaking the entail. Otherwise he might have lost out.”

“As it is, sir,” agreed Crosby, going on from there, “he's got all the dibs instead of only what the deceased would agree to.”

“Except,” Sloan reminded Crosby in much the same way as Mr. Puckle had reminded Quentin Fent, “he himself is now bound by exactly the same conditions as hogtied William Fent in his day.”

“I hadn't thought of that.”

“Neither, I suspect,” said Sloan dryly, “had our Quentin.”

“What about this Australian uncle, sir …”

“You're going to find out all about him, Crosby,” said Sloan briskly. “Send a request for information to the Police Commissioner, Queensland State Police. Somewhere down under may be the next male heir after Quentin Fent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find someone who can talk to me about this development that Fent couldn't afford. Someone sensible who knows what he's talking about.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“Plenty. See if you can get hold of that Home Office chap—Dr. Writtle—and find out if the barbiturate that Fent had could be a do-it-yourself job—you know, ‘eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog.'”

“Sir?”

“Forget it. Just ask.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Crosby …”

“Sir?”

“What else about this case bears looking into?”

Crosby screwed up his face in an agony of concentration.

“Come on! Something else you extracted from your friend Milly Pennyfeather. Don't you remember? Something about Saturday night.”

The agonized look disappeared and was replaced by a triumphant one. “The telephone call!”

“Exactly. What we need to know is if that call was a put-up job—getting Fent out on the road at that time of night—or if it was a genuine call and Bill Fent was supposed to be overcome in the wee small hours at home in his own bed.”

“Someone would have had to ring the doctor's number after the doctor had left his house for Strontfield Park,” said Crosby.

“That wouldn't have been too difficult to arrange, surely.”

“No, sir, it wouldn't but”—Crosby scratched his head—“it might not have been the only call for the doctor on the tape. Whoever rang would have to take a risk on there being other messages on it which would help us pinpoint the time.”

“True. All the same you might ask Milly tonight if she saw any of the guests or family nip out to use the Strontfield Park telephone.”

Crosby shook his head. “I did, sir. The only person she knew who left the others in the drawing-room apart from the Fents was Dr. Washby. He came out to the kitchen to give Milly her grandfather's tablets. For his heart.”

“Before dinner or after?”

“Before. She was struggling to get that crown of lamb thing out onto a serving dish at the time. Had both her hands full. So the doctor just put them on the kitchen dresser and went back to the company.”

“I see.” Sloan wrote something in his notebook. “We're not getting very far, are we? We don't know if Bill Fent was the intended victim.”

“No, sir. We don't.”

“We don't know if the phone call for the doctor was a fake to get Fent out on the road.”

“No, sir.”

“We don't even know where the barbiturate came from.”

“And,” Crosby capped this recital of woe, “we don't know how whoever gave it to him actually got it into him.”

Sloan abbreviated that for his notebook into the one word “opportunity.”

“Or why, sir. We don't know that either …”

“He was on the Bench. We might just look back to see if anyone he'd sentenced had got it in for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And see if anyone of the party was in the habit of taking sleeping tablets.” Sloan tried to make another note in his book but the ball-point pen wouldn't work. He threw it down on his desk. “I don't know about the buns but I think we must get our pens second hand from the Post Office.”

The tea being served at King's Tree House, Constance Parva, by Mrs. Ursula Renville was China and better than that which came out of the Police Canteen urn. It was Earl Grey's.

“And very nice, too,” said Marjorie Marchmont, who always appreciated food and drink in any shape or form.

“We should have gone ages ago,” said Cynthia Paterson.

“No,” said Ursula, “don't go yet. Do stay, both of you. Then it won't seem so long until Richard gets home.”

“I must say, it's very comfortable out here in the shade.” Marjorie leaned back in her chair and sipped the tea. “Daniel's gone off already. Back to work and then the Reunion.”

“I wonder what will happen about the development now,” said Ursula Renville. Actually there seemed no risk of either of her visitors leaving. Both of them were well and truly settled in the loggia. The Dalmation dog had gone to sleep.

Marjorie said, “It looks as if you might have won your fight to keep the village a village, after all, Cynthia.”

Cynthia Paterson shook her head. “Lost it altogether now, I should say. Young Quentin doesn't look like a preservationist to me.”

“Of course,” said Ursula vaguely, “he may find Hector Fent and get him to duck out of the entail.”

“That's right, I must say,” snorted Marjorie Marchmont. “If he wouldn't do it himself for Bill why should he expect someone else to do it for him.”

“Because,” explained Cynthia reasonably, “Hector Fent—if he's alive—isn't really ever likely to inherit himself.”

“And Quentin always stood a sporting chance, is that it?”

“In the natural course of events, yes.” Cynthia had known Majorie too long to be put off by her manner. “He was younger than Bill by quite a bit, you know.”

“Steady on,” said Marjorie roundly. “Bill was my age exactly. We used to play together.”

“I haven't forgotten.” Cynthia smiled. “I remember you then quite well. Your hair was long then. You had pigtails nearly to your waist.”

“It's longer now only it doesn't show,” said Marjorie complacently. “I never have it cut. Just pinned up.”

“I can see that it was worth Quentin's while to stick out against breaking the entail,” said Ursula, her mind still on the Fents, “and not Hector's. But what if Hector has sons?”

“Ah,” said Cynthia, “then that would be a different kettle of fish unless … until …”

“Until Quentin has a brace of sons in his quiver,” Marjorie answered for her, giggling a little. “That's what you mean, Cynthia, isn't it?”

“It would alter the situation yet again,” agreed Cynthia decorously.

“I learned that in Sunday School,” said Marjorie unexpectedly. “About full quivers, I mean.”

“There's nothing like the Bible for plain-speaking,” responded Cynthia.

“I wonder what Helen will do now?” intervened Ursula. Cynthia and Marjorie—once started—were quite capable of arguing for hours.

“If she's got any sense,” declared Marjorie, “she'll clear out. It won't be much fun for her watching Quentin lording it up at Strontfield.”

“Pity there's no Dower House,” remarked Ursula.

“There's always Keeper's Cottage,” said Cynthia. “That's been empty since they took old Fitch away.”

Marjorie sniffed. “It's not very big.”

“It's big enough for one,” said Cynthia. “One person doesn't need a lot of room.”

“That's true,” said Ursula. “It's the men who take up the space.”

Marjorie roared with laughter. “Not in our house, it isn't.”

“You'll really have to do something about your weight one of these days, Marjorie,” said Cynthia eyeing her dispassionately. “Extremes in nature are always ill-favoured. You should know that.”

“This development, then,” Ursula intervened again, “what do you think will happen now? Richard'll be interested naturally.”

“Nothing,” said Marjorie promptly. “Quentin won't be able to sell and the property company won't lease. Stalemate.”

“You've forgotten the third alternative,” said Cynthia.

Marjorie looked up challengingly. “What's that?”

“For Quentin himself to develop as owner.”

“What with?” asked Marjorie. “Peanuts?”

“That's the whole trouble actually, Cynthia,” explained Ursula. “I thought you understood that. The Fents haven't a lot of money, you know. Never have had. Not that sort of money, anyway. Keeping a house like Strontfield going must have taken every penny Bill had.”

“I know that,” said Cynthia, undisturbed. “I wasn't thinking of Fent money.”

“Not a mortgage,” said Marjorie. “I know Bill tried that because he told me, but the mortgage people or whatever you call them …”

“I call them usurers,” remarked Cynthia, “but then I'm old-fashioned.”

“Them, anyway,” said Marjorie undiverted. “They wouldn't touch it with a barge-pole because of the land being so tied up.”

“I wasn't thinking of a mortgage,” said Cynthia.

“What then?” demanded Marjorie. “Don't be so maddening, Cynthia.”

Cynthia studied her finger-tips. “I was thinking of Jacqueline.”

“And who's Jacqueline when she's at home?”

“Jacqueline, my dear, is Quentin Fent's intended or whatever you call it these days.”

“And what about her?”

“She's the only daughter of Battersby's Bearings.”

“What if she is?”

“Her father could finance any development you cared to mention,” said Cynthia Paterson, “and from all that I've heard about him I don't think he's likely to be a preservationist either.”

“Prunes?” echoed Detective Constable Crosby disbelievingly. He had taken Milly Pennyfeather to the cinema in Berebury, and was now giving her a drink in the saloon bar of The Crown and Anchor in Tollgate Street. “Black-coated workers, that's what my landlady calls them.”

“Prunes,” repeated Milly. “That's what I said. You're ever so interested in Sat'day night, aren't you?”

“I like to know how the other half lives, that's all,” said Crosby, cradling his glass. He wished Milly had made her own drink last half as long. “Prunes with meat sounds right weird to me.”

Milly wrinkled her nose. “I know. We only have them in our house for breakfast and then not always but people like that are funny. They were mixed with sausage meat.”

“Cor,” said Crosby. “You don't say.”

“Stuffing,” said Milly confidently. “Quite nice, really.”

“You tasted it?”

“Well, just to see what it was like. No harm in that, is there?”

“What about the others? Did they like it?”

“Dunno,” she said indifferently. “I didn't do no serving so I couldn't see if they all ate it up like good little children.” She sighed. “Wasn't Sampson Ghent marvellous in the big picture? Those muscles on his chest …”

“The cold soup,” said Crosby, “did you try that?”

Milly's lips contracted in an expression of distaste. “Couldn't bring myself to touch it.”

“I should think not,” agreed Crosby stoutly. “Why wasn't it hot?”

“Search me,” said Milly. “Talking about hot, what did you think of Sampson Ghent in those swimming pool scenes?”

“Ah,” said Crosby wisely, “that's not him in the pool. That's his stand-in.”

“Never!”

“S'fact,” said Crosby, who had taken an instant dislike at first sight to the great Sampson Ghent and every single one of his bulging muscles. “He doesn't go near the water himself. Spoil his make-up.”

“You're just jealous.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Though I daresay you got some muscles of your own inside that shirt. What was it you said you did?”

“Caretaker,” said Crosby, buttoning his jacket.

She tossed her head. “Thought so. I said to Mum you're not in the building trade.”

“I can carry as many bricks as …”

“It's not that. It's the money. They're always flush weekends.”

Crosby gave in and finished his drink. “Same again?”

“I don't mind if I do.”

“They had a fancy pudding, too, didn't they?” said Crosby when he got back with the drinks. “Cheers.”

“You can say that again. Cheers.”

“Why?”

“Don't ask me,” said Milly. “Mrs. Fent chose the menu. She didn't ask my advice.”

“Can't think why not,” said Crosby mendaciously. “Did you get any pudding?”

Milly shook her head regretfully. “There were only the twelve of them. One each. They were made special the day before.”

“Ah …”

“Mrs. Fent had those six little dishes with holes in that she brought back from France last summer. Crémets or something, they were called. You fill them with cream and egg-white and put it in muslin.”

“Muslin,” said Crosby, genuinely surprised. “You're sure?”

“'Course I'm sure.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Why? What do you want to know for?”

“I don't.” He leaned forward. “I just want to take your mind off Sampson Ghent.”

“Get away with you.” Milly giggled. “You are a one.”

“Come on then, concentrate on the pudding. You fill these little dishes with the creamy stuff and muslin …”

“You line the dish with the muslin, then you put the stuff in and leave it in a cold place to drain. Then you tip it out onto a plate, cover it with sugar and cream, and serve it with raspberries.”

“There,” he said triumphantly. “Now you've forgotten all about Sampson Ghent.”

“No, I haven't,” said Milly.

“And Mrs. Fent did this twice?”