Slight Mourning (7 page)

“Annabel, my dear, why did it have to be Bill of all people? A mere boy with everything ahead of him.”

Annabel Pollock nodded miserably.

“And here's me,” went on Great-Uncle George, “eating m'head off and no mortal use to man nor beast at eighty-five—I don't look it, do I?—and as fit as a flea. M'doctor says,” he added with every evidence of satisfaction, “that they'll have to shoot me in the end.”

Annabel smiled wanly, and patted his arm. She'd noticed before now that the very old took death better than you might think—better than the young, anyway. Other people's deaths, of course, not the prospect of their own.

She passed politely on to Cousin Hettie, a more distant connection still, who had travelled to the funeral by bus and taxi from some ridiculously remote corner of the county—Almstone or somewhere like that—and who would presently have to be got back there. She'd been jilted, Annabel knew, long before Bill or she had been born and she'd promptly retreated to the backwoods and devoted herself to animals. They never rejected a human hand—particularly if it was the one which fed them.

She was regrettably inclined to sentiment.

“Such a nice boy,” she lamented. “I thought he and Helen would have so many happy years together, didn't you?”

Annabel assented bleakly.

“I remember their wedding so well. They seemed the perfect couple—and now this. And no children either. Such a pity.”

“Yes,” said Annabel stoically. Perhaps if she listened to Cousin Hettie poor Helen would be spared the ordeal.

“You were a bridesmaid, dear, weren't you? So pretty in blue, you were. I've never forgotten. I see Helen's only in grey today. I know I'm old-fashioned but I do like to see the widow at least in black. Things aren't what they used to be, you know, dear. In my young day a widow was expected to …”

Annabel steered the conversation firmly toward Cousin Hettie's animal kingdom. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Helen talking to Mr. Puckle, the solicitor, and Quentin having his share of Great-Uncle George.

“Holiday,” Quentin was saying firmly to Great-Uncle George, and he could be heard clearly across the room. Fit as a flea Great-Uncle George might be, but only if fleas were more than a little deaf.

“What's that?”

“I came down for a holiday,” repeated Quentin, adding in an undertone, “and found myself ‘super visum corporis.'”

Annabel Pollock heard him, even if Great-Uncle George didn't: Quentin Fent being clever at everybody else's expense as usual.

“What's that, my boy?” asked the octogenarian again.

“I always come down in August, Uncle. Nobody buys pictures in August.” Quentin Fent worked for a West End firm of art dealers. He was some years younger than his cousin Bill, and rather precious.

“Should have thought you'd prefer the continent at your age,” said Great-Uncle George.

“Can't afford it.” Quentin gave the sort of winning smile that had sold many a picture to a hesitant client. It cut no ice at all with Great-Uncle George.

“Not married yet, are you?” commented the octogenarian with all the candour of the old.

“Not yet. The lady's father—er—won't have me.”

“I didn't think anyone asked him any more,” grunted the old man.

“He's Battersby's Bearings,” murmured Quentin as if this explained everything. “Jacqueline's his only daughter.”

Great-Uncle George heard that. “Ah, he thinks Botticelli's a cheese and that you don't know ‘A' from a bull's foot.”

“Er—exactly,” agreed Quentin ruefully. “There's another thing too. He started out without two pennies to rub together. Now he thinks anyone who needs more than two pennies to get started is a bit of a failure.”

The old man grunted unsympathetically. “In my young day you'd have …”

“I might have stood more of a chance,” went on Quentin, “if I hadn't tried to change a wheel when Jacqueline and I had a puncture last month …”

“Made a mess of it, did you?” he remarked, unsurprised.

“The jack slipped.” The corners of Quentin's mouth curved downward dolefully. “Had to call out the heavy recovery people. That set me back a bit, too. The worst of it was that we'd borrowed the old man's car without asking.”

Great-Uncle George snorted. “So it was Strontfield Park for you, was it? Instead of Florence …”

“I like to keep in touch with the family,” said Quentin a trifle defensively, “and believe you me, I'd rather do it in the summer.” He looked round the large cool drawing-room. “You can keep your Christmas in the country. You'd never believe how cold this room can get in the winter.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” snapped the old man crisply. “I knew this room a long time before you did, don't forget. Came here first when my niece Mary married Bill's father. Before the war. Only coal fires in those days, too.”

Quentin ducked. “Sorry. Of course you did. Must have been worse then.” He steered the conversation hastily in another direction. “Rotten thing to happen on holiday—Bill being killed, I mean. Hell of a nice fellow.”

“Steady as a rock,” said Great-Uncle George, a quavering note creeping into his old voice.

“Straight as a die,” supplemented Quentin, adding
sotto voce
, “and he died.” He moved away from the old man toward Helen Fent. “Hey, Helen, just a minute! There's something I wanted to ask you. Something important.”

“What is it?” Helen had completed her progress round the drawing-room. She was standing now in front of the Quare clock that had been her husband's pride and joy, still talking to Mr. Puckle, the family solicitor. In spite of the heat of the day she looked cold and remote. She passed her tongue over dry lips and spoke without interest as though to a child. “Did you want something, Quentin?”

“Yes. I want to know why there were policemen at the funeral.”

“Policemen at the funeral?” echoed Helen, sitting down rather suddenly on the sofa. “Were there?”

Everyone in the drawing-room at Strontfield Park stopped talking.

“Two,” said Quentin.

“Bill was on the Bench, remember,” said Annabel Pollock quickly. “They must have known him quite well.”

Helen's face cleared. “Oh, that would be Superintendent Bream from Calleford.”

“Not him.” Quentin shook his head. “I meant policemen in plain clothes from Berebury. Sitting at the back of the church.”

The silence in the room became more noticeable now.

“How do you know?” asked Helen between dry lips.

“They were at the inquest. The same two. They sat at the back there, too. I asked Mr. Puckle who they were then.”

“And who were they?” asked Annabel Pollock breathlessly into the silence.

Mr. Puckle cleared his throat. “Detective Inspector Sloan and a young detective constable, Miss Pollock. I don't know his name. I—ahem—leave most of the Court work to my junior partners these days. I'm a little out of touch with the—er—Force in consequence.”

“Not from Calleford at all then?”

“Oh, no,” said the solicitor. “Inspector Sloan is head of Berebury's Criminal Investigation Department. Granted, it's not a big one. Anything of—er—great criminal moment is referred to the County Constabulary Headquarters at Calleford.” He turned as a small sound came from Helen Fent's direction. “But I don't think that …”

She didn't hear him.

She had fainted.

SIX

Cynthia Paterson had been persuaded to go back to luncheon with the Renvilles after the funeral.

“It's very light.” Ursula Renville sketched a gesture in the air with her long delicate fingers. “Just some soup and cold meat—I left it all ready before I came out. I didn't think we'd be hungry after all this …”

“Well …”

“There's plenty, though, Cynthia. Do come.” She shivered slightly in spite of the heat. “Richard's got to go back to his office afterwards. Come back and stay with me for a while.”

“What about Professor Berry? Hadn't I better see if …”

“The Washbys are looking after him.” Ursula Renville peered round vaguely. “Veronica told me. And taking him back to Cleete afterwards.”

“Good,” said Cynthia, making up her mind. “Then I'd be delighted. I'll just let the dog out for a run and then I'll be round. By the way, Ursula, was that call of Paul Washby's on Saturday night anything important? I haven't heard of anyone being really ill.”

Ursula Renville gave her friend an indulgent smile. “Cynthia Paterson, when will you stop being the rector's daughter? Whatever it was that was wrong there's no need for you to rush round with calves' foot jelly any more.”

“I just thought you might know,” said Cynthia mildly. “That's all.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Ursula Renville could no more resist the challenge of implied ignorance than the next woman. “Veronica Washby mentioned it because it was all so odd. I wonder,” added Ursula inconsequentially, “why calves' foot jelly was supposed to be so good for you.”

“What was odd about the call?”

“The whole thing.” Ursula was unenlightening. “Perhaps they're full of vitamins.”

“What are?”

“Calves' feet.”

Cynthia demanded detail about Paul Washby's call.

“Well, in the first place it wasn't a proper message, you know.”

Cynthia said she didn't know.

“Not a person-to-person message and not a written message,” elaborated Ursula. Theories of communication by other media—non-verbal or otherwise—had not yet reached Constance Parva. This was not to say that news did not travel throughout the village with the speed of light.

“What then?” asked Cynthia patiently.

“Just something on that funny answering machine the Washbys have got now. You know, it's never been the same since Marjorie left.” Before the advent of Daniel Marchmont four years ago Marjorie had been secretary and dispenser to old Dr. Whittaker.

“Ah.” Cynthia Paterson had not herself tried conclusions with the surgery answering machine, but she'd heard of plenty of people who had. “You won't catch that girl they've got there now—Jean Whatsername—sitting in by the telephone on a Saturday evening.”

“No. Well,” said Ursula, “before he left Strontfield Veronica rang back to ask the machine if there were any messages …”

“And the machine said yes,” Cynthia finished the sentence for her. “I was there too, my dear.”

“So you were,” said Ursula with unimpaired serenity. “I was forgetting. Where was I?”

“Telling me about the message for Paul.”

“Oh, yes. The machine said something about someone being taken queer over at Copway Street in Cullingoak—only it was a bit indistinct—and would the doctor go when he got back.”

“It can't have been very urgent then.”

“Oh, no. Paul leaves the number where he is on the machine for the patient to ring direct if it's urgent. I know that because Veronica doesn't like it. It means that anyone in the village can ring up and find out where they are for the evening.”

“Poor girl,” said Miss Paterson dryly. “Does she still imagine that they wouldn't know otherwise?”

“She's from London. I don't think she knows much about the country yet. It was a whirlwind courtship, remember. Anyway, when the Washbys got over to Cullingoak—which as it happens couldn't be farther from Cleete …”

“The exact opposite direction actually.”

“Veronica said Paul couldn't find the place. He knocked up Mrs. MacArthur at the Post Office and she didn't know of anyone being ill.”

“She usually knows,” agreed Cynthia with the respect due to a usually reliable source of information.

“Not this time. Paul hunted about a bit but all seemed quiet. No houses with too many lights on or anything like that. It's not really part of his practice area, though he's got a couple of patients in Copway Street. They were both all right so he and Veronica came home.”

“Didn't Paul run his machine through again when he got back?” inquired Cynthia intelligently. “I'm not sure how they work but …”

“He tried to,” said Ursula, “but apparently poor Veronica hadn't left the switches set properly.”

“She
has
got a lot to learn,” drawled Cynthia ironically, “hasn't she?”

“When he tried to listen again the message had gone. She must have rubbed it out when she heard it the first time at Strontfield. Apparently you can …”

“It all sounds most unreliable,” said Cynthia firmly. “When I want a doctor I want to be able to tell him so.”

Ursula Renville regarded her lean stringy friend with something akin to affection. “When you want the doctor, my dear, we'll all get ready for another funeral. You're one of the tough ones.”

“No,” Cynthia corrected her. “Just old-fashioned. But I promise you I shan't put any messages on any machine.”

“They're always finding odd things on it,” said Ursula elliptically. “Very odd, some of them.”

“I'll bet they are.”

“They reckon it's boys playing about.”

“I daresay it is,” said Cynthia realistically. “There's very little for them to do in the village in the evenings.”

“Boys and Mad Matthew. I'm told he finds it a great comfort. He thinks the doctor's listening to him all the time. In fact, what with the boys playing about and the machine being so sympathetic to poor Matthew … Oh, that's one of the things you shouldn't do, isn't it?”

“What is?”

“Endow an inanimate object with human characteristics.”

“I must say Paul's answering machine doesn't sound exactly inanimate to me.”

“No, but …”

Cynthia smiled. “You're right. Strictly speaking you shouldn't.”