Slight Mourning (8 page)

“I remember that from school. Funny what you remember and what you forget. You don't seem to have forgotten anything, Cynthia.”

“Nonsense, Ursula.”

“The Greeks had a word for it, didn't they?” persisted Ursula.

“Anthropomorphic,” supplied Cynthia knowledgeably, “but I shouldn't let it worry you.”

It was later at Strontfield Park. Dr. Harriet Baird had been summoned hastily from Berebury to deal with Helen Fent's fainting attack. Annabel Pollock, nurse, and Cousin Hettie, animal-lover, had tended her until the lady doctor had arrived and persuaded her, willy-nilly, to bed.

“The Will,” murmured a wan, protesting Helen. “Mr. Puckle was just going to read it.”

“Men!” declared Dr. Baird roundly. “Just like them to want the Will read at a funeral. Barbaric custom, if you ask me. Should be stopped. Well, they'll just have to get on with it on their own, m'dear. You're staying in bed …”

In the drawing-room Mr. Puckle smoothed out the thick legal paper in front of him, not sorry that the widow was not present.

“The provisions of the Will are quite simple, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “It was drawn up by me on Mr. Fent's instructions on the occasion of his marriage … that would be … let me see now …”

“Eight years ago,” said Annabel Pollock. “They had been married eight years. I was still at school.”

“Er … precisely.” Mr. Puckle's attention went back to the Will. “Eight years. Acting upon my advice at the time”—he paused fractionally and regarded the assembled company over the top of his glasses: there was obviously a special limbo reserved in a lawless hell for those who did not take Mr. Puckle's advice—“Mr. Fent agreed to the insertion of the usual commorientes clause.”

“Come again?” interjected Quentin.

“Commorientes,” replied Mr. Puckle repressively. “Quite a customary measure in these days of high estate duty. It is a provision that before they can inherit the legatees shall survive the testator for thirty days.”

“The family that travels together, dies together,” murmured Quentin flippantly.

Rigid disapproval of this remark emanating from every muscle in his body, the elderly solicitor crackled the Will between his fingers and began reading. “‘This is the last Will and Testament of me, William Anstruther Fent, of Strontfield Park, Constance Parva, in the County of Calleshire, Justice of the Peace …'”

Someone in the drawing-room let out a long breath. It did seem as if the solicitor was getting near the point now.

“As I said before,” went on Mr. Puckle, “the provisions of the Will are quite simple. A certain proportion of the unsettled estate is to be set aside in trust to provide a life income for the—er—widow.”

“Poor Helen,” sniffed Cousin Hettie.

Mr. Puckle, liking neither flippancy nor sentiment, cleared his throat purposefully and continued. “Miss Annabel Pollock is to receive the deceased's moiety from his late mother's estate.”

“My niece Mary,” said Great-Uncle George gruffly. “A lovely girl.”

Annabel lowered her head. “That was very nice of him.”

“The entailed property,” went on Mr. Puckle with some formality, “that is to say the estate held in desmesne, the messuage known as Strontfield Park and all other hereditaments in the schedule referred to in the Will of the late Captain Fent, who was entitled to the property in his own lifetime …”

“What's that?” Great-Uncle George cupped a hand to his ear. He only heard words that he understood. “What's that? Speak up, man.”

“The settled estate,” said the solicitor a trifle louder. “It passes under the original Deed of Settlement on the property to William Fent's eldest surviving son …”

“But,” blurted out Annabel, “they didn't have any children.”

“Failing live male issue,” said Mr. Puckle austerely, “it devolves on the testator's nearest male heir at law of the whole blood.”

Great-Uncle George pointed a bony finger. “That'll be young Quentin here, I suppose.”

“So I suppose too,” said the lawyer dryly, “but it will have to be established in the proper manner before the estate passes to him.”

“My father,” said Quentin to no one in particular, “was Bill's father's younger brother.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Puckle, going back to the Will. “I should, of course, make it quite clear that the property passes under the terms of the original settlement—that is to say it cannot be sold or otherwise disposed of without the mutual consent of the owner and his heir-at-law who must be of legal age except”—it seemed that qualifications came automatically to the legal mind—“insofar as the provisions of the 1921 Trusts Act apply”—he took a breath and qualified this still further—“or, shall we say, could be construed as applying.”

“And what happens,” Quentin wanted to know, “if I should … well, you know … kick the bucket and all that within thirty days?”

“Ah”—the lawyer coughed—“should you be established as heir and then be so—er—unfortunate as to die within thirty days of last Saturday you would be—er”—Mr. Puckle searched for the
mot juste
and apparently found it—“er—deemed not to have inherited.”

“Then what would happen?” asked Quentin curiously. “Not that I'm not feeling perfectly fit at the moment and all that.”

“The entailed estate would then pass directly to the next male heir at law whoever he might be.”

“Hector Fent,” said Annabel Pollock promptly. “Bill's father's youngest brother.”

“If he's still alive,” said Quentin.

“Why shouldn't he be?” the solicitor inquired. “If he was the youngest of the three brothers of that generation he would not be a great age even now.”

“Because,” cackled Great-Uncle George, “he went to the bad years ago. Not on our side of the family,” he added with a certain amount of relish.

“I've never seen him,” said Quentin. “He went out to Australia after the war. Sheep farm or something, my father used to say. Queensland, I think Back of beyond, anyway.”

“Nevertheless,” said the solicitor, “if he were still alive he would inherit if—er—anything happened to the present legatee.”

“And if he isn't?” asked Quentin tightly.

“His sons if he had any.” Mr. Puckle cleared his throat. “It … ahem … wouldn't be the first time a young man on an Australian sheep farm found himself the owner of an English estate.”

“What if Hector died without sons, then?” persisted Quentin. “He wasn't married when he left England. Not that the family knew about anyway.”

“Then,” said Mr. Puckle in no whit put out, “we should have to search for the sons and grandsons of Mr. Fent's grandfather's brothers.” He regarded Quentin over the top of his glasses. “You are aware, Mr. Fent, that we may have to institute a search for them anyway.”

“Oh?” Quentin frowned. “Why?”

“As I explained earlier the consent of the next heir is required before you could realize any of the settled assets.”

“Good Lord!” Quentin's face fell quite comically. “I hadn't thought of that.”

At Berebury Police Station, Detective Inspector Sloan reported on the funeral to Superintendent Leeyes.

“Seemed a perfectly ordinary affair to me, sir. All the dinner party people were there and most of the village too, at a guess. All present and correct, in fact, you might say, sir.”

“There's nothing correct about it,” snapped an exasperated Leeyes. “Just stop and think what would have happened if the deceased hadn't had that car smash or Dr. Dabbe hadn't spotted the dope.”

“He would have died hereafter,” murmured Sloan under his breath.

“We might never have known about it, that's what would have happened,” the Superintendent swept on unheeding. He had days when he seldom waited for an answer or heard one if it was given. “And then where would we have been? Tell me that, Sloan, tell me that …”

Sloan opened his mouth to speak.

“In the soup,” said Leeyes for him.

“About the soup, sir …” Sloan seized the slender opening as quickly as he could.

“Soup?” echoed Leeyes testily. “Who said anything about the soup?”

“You did, sir.”

“What? Oh, yes, so I did. Well, what about it?”

“We've found out something about the soup.”

“Ah!”

“From our point of view, sir,” said Sloan, permitting himself a rare moment of frivolity, “the soup of the evening was—er—beautiful.”

“Are you having me on, Sloan?” Superintendent Leeyes looked up suspiciously. “What was beautiful about it?”

“Every single person at that dinner party at Strontfield Park on Saturday night—all twelve of them—drank it. There can't have been anything wrong with the soup.”

SEVEN

“There was one thing about the soup which was rather odd, though, sir,” continued Sloan.

“Well, get on with it, man! What?”

“It was cold.”

Leeyes grimaced. “That happens in our canteen too, Sloan. Everyone has their off days.”

“No, I didn't mean that, sir …”

“The guests stayed too long over their sherry, I expect,” said Leeyes largely, “or had another glass and the hostess couldn't get 'em through into the dining-room in time.”

“No, sir. The soup had never been hot.”

“Never been hot? Why not?”

“It was meant to be cold soup,” said Sloan.

“Funny idea, that, Sloan.”

“Yes, sir. Can't say the thought appeals to me very much either.”

Leeyes frowned ferociously. “What sort of soup?”

“Er—cucumber, sir,” said Sloan, adding hastily, “after that they had roast crown of lamb and something called crémets.”

“And what may that be when it's at home, Sloan? Fish, flesh, fowl, or good red herring?”

“Pudding, sir.”

“Know anything about it?”

“No, sir, except that they had raspberries with it.”

“Well,” said Leeyes helpfully, “don't waste any time asking our canteen cook about it. If you can't boil it dry, she won't know. Soup, lamb, and crémets—that all?”

“There was cheese for those who wanted it.”

“I should think they'd all want it after a meal like that,” remarked Superintendent Leeyes, who took good care of his own inner man. “Drink?”

“Yes.”

With exaggerated patience Leeyes said, “Not did they drink, Sloan, but what did they drink.”

Sloan opened his notebook and read out carefully, “A wine called Dienheimer Falkenberg Spātlese 1964 Rheinheissen, we think.”

“How did you get that?”

“I didn't, sir.” Sloan hesitated. “Constable Crosby did.”

“Crosby? How come?”

“I understand,” said Sloan sedulously, “that it was on Tuesday night.”

“What's that got to do with …”

“Before the dustbins were emptied.”

Leeyes let out a long groan. “He didn't take them? Not that …”

“Five green bottles,” said Sloan. “All empty.”

“Without a warrant?”

Sloan nodded.

“Theft during the hours of darkness,” intoned Leeyes gloomily. “Does his mother know he's out?”

“He said he thought it might be helpful.”

“A fine thing to happen,” moaned the Superintendent. “A constable of mine coming up before the beak for theft during the hours of darkness.”

“He wasn't seen.” Sloan offered a crumb of comfort.

Leeyes went on keening. “It's enough to make my old station sergeant turn in his urn.”

“He said he happened to be out late and thought he would see what he could see.”

“You didn't give him permission, I hope.”

“No, sir.”

“That boy's still wet behind the ears.”

Sloan looked up at the ceiling and observed thoughtfully, “It
is
easier than half the Force going through the Corporation tip on their hands and knees though.”

Leeyes grunted.

“And not finding anything,” added Sloan.

Leeyes paused and then he said, “Sloan, those five green bottles …”

“Sir?”

“Anything in 'em?”

“Just the dregs, sir.”

“And nothing in the dregs that would help us?”

“No, sir.”

“Anything on them?”

“Finger-prints, you mean, sir?”

“Yes.”

“The deceased's and others not yet identified.”

“You'll have to make Crosby your chain-of-evidence officer in the case, Sloan, then. You do realize that, don't you? He's the only one who can depose where those bottles came from. We might get by that way … otherwise they'll have to be lost You understand that, Sloan, don't you?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“The rest of the meal,” he growled, “how did you find out about that?”

“There was a young person employed that evening up at the Park to help with the washing up. Name of Millicent Pennyfeather. Crosby has been—er—chatting her up this week.”

“At least,” said Leeyes, “he hasn't done any breaking and entering to get at the larder. I suppose that's something.”

“If,” said Sloan, “he sees much more of her we'll have her mother after him wanting to know if his intentions are honourable.”

“Coo-ee! Coo-ee! Ursula, where are you? It's me, Marjorie.”

The Dalmation dog at Ursula Renville's feet stirred, lifted its elegant head inquiringly, and then sank back into torpor.

“We're in the garden,” responded Ursula. “This way.” She and Cynthia Paterson were still drinking their coffee in the old loggia under the shade of the wistaria. “We're being ever so lazy sitting here. We haven't moved an inch since luncheon.”

“I'm coming. Ah, there you are.” Heavily overweight and very hot, Marjorie Marchmont stomped round the corner of the house. “I thought I might catch you out here in this heat.”