Patricia Wentworth - Poison In The Pen

At the moment when Miss Wayne was deprecating the trouble-making proclivities of men-in which connection she would certainly have used a capital-Mrs. Needham was enlarging upon the same topic to a visitor of her own, Mrs. Emmott, the Verger’s wife, a thin lugubrious woman whom no one had ever seen out of black. They were enjoying a nice cup of tea and some of Mrs. Needham’s featherlight scones. Mrs. Emmott had just remarked that there was no smoke without some fire, and Mrs. Needham was agreeing heartily.

“That’s just what I said, my dear. Show me a bit of trouble, and ten to one there’ll be a man somewhere behind it. Not that I’d believe anything wrong about poor Doris, for I wouldn’t, but if there wasn’t a man in it somewhere, why did she go and drown herself? Girls don’t, not except there’s a reason for it.”

“I can’t say there’s anyone ever saw her with a fellow,” said Mrs. Emmott in a resigned voice.

They had already been talking about Doris Pell for the best part of half an hour. Mrs. Needham was ready to go on to someone else. She said,

“Oh, well-” And then, “There’s more goes on than meets the eye. Now only last night-but there, perhaps I didn’t ought to say anything.”

Mrs. Emmott gazed at her.

“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t. Not that it was anything really, and if I don’t tell you, you’ll go thinking all round it and about, when it was only Connie Brooke that rang up, wanting to see Mr. Martin when he was out.”

“And what’s wrong about that?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong, only she was crying, that’s all.”

“Maybe she’s got a cold.”

Mrs. Needham shook her head.

“There’s a difference between a girl that’s got a cold and a girl that’s been crying her eyes out. ‘Oh, is he in?’ she said, and I said, ‘Well, no, he isn’t. He’s gone over to Ledlington to one of those meetings about the Orphanage, and he said he’d stay to supper with the Reverend Craddock. Friends at College they were, and he’s ever such a nice gentleman.’ So she said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ and I could tell by her voice she was crying again. And just then who should come in but Mr. Martin himself. It seems Mr. Craddock had been called out to someone that was taken ill, so he had come home for his supper after all. I gave him the telephone and I told him who it was, and before I had time to go a step I could hear her say, ‘Oh, Tommy darling, can I come and see you? I don’t know what to do!’ You know how all these young ones call him Tommy.”

Mrs. Emmott looked down her nose.

“It didn’t ought to be allowed,” she said. And then with melancholy interest, “Did she come?”

Mrs. Needham was pouring herself another cup of tea. She nodded.

“Oh, yes, she came. And I was right about the crying- her eyes were all bulged up with it. And she didn’t go away any happier neither, for I was coming through from the kitchen with his supper-tray when they come out of the study. I stood back, as it were, and they didn’t see me. And he was saying, ‘Well, my dear, you had better think it over. I can’t tell you what you ought to do, because I don’t know what it is that you’ve got on your mind. But if it is really anything to do with those horrible letters, then I think you may have a duty.’ ”

“Well, I never! And what did she say to that?”

Mrs. Needham leaned forward in the chair which she filled with amplitude. She had a lot of strong dark hair only lightly sprinkled with grey. Her eyes were brown and soft, and she had cheeks like rosy apples. She dropped her voice and said,

“She began to cry again. I stood just where I was with the tray, and I couldn’t help but hear. Mr. Martin, he said, ‘Oh, my dear child, don’t! That handkerchief’s nothing but a rag. Here, take mine.’ And she sobbing and saying, ‘Oh, poor Doris -I don’t know what I ought to do-but once I’ve said it I can’t take it back, can I?’ And he said, ‘No, you can’t, so you’d better go back and think it over.’ And with that he’d got the door open, and if you ask me, he was glad to be rid of her. For they take advantage of him, indeed they do- coming here at all hours and never thinking whether it’s his supper-time or not!”

When they had finished their tea Mrs. Emmott went on down to the village shop, where she picked up a tin of Irish steak which her friend Mrs. Gurney had been keeping for her. They had a comfortable melancholy conversation, in the course of which Mrs. Emmott passed on what Mrs. Needham had been telling her, with some additions of her own.

Later that evening Mrs. Gurney told Jessie Peck, who was a cousin of hers, and Jessie Peck told her sister-in-law who worked Tuesdays and Thursdays for Miss Eccles and Wednesdays and Fridays for Miss Wayne. Just how many people the sister-in-law told cannot be estimated. Her name was Hilda Price, and she was a strong persevering talker. Within twenty-four hours most people in Tilling Green were aware that Connie Brooke had something on her mind. She knew who had written the anonymous letters… She knew something about the death of Doris Pell… She couldn’t make up her mind whether she ought to tell what she knew…

It did not take Miss Silver long to discover that Miss Wayne really did very seldom stop talking. If her visit had been, as it was supposed to be, of a private nature, this might have proved trying, but in the circumstances it was extremely helpful. After even a short time in the house she found herself in possession of the life histories of nearly everyone in Tilling Green-their faults, their failings, the tragedies which here and there had broken the even tenor of village life-wartime losses, post-war changes-the births, the marriages, the deaths, and the departures, were displayed rather after the manner of a jigsaw puzzle. There was a fact here, a conjecture there, a sigh over some dereliction, a tear for someone missed, a speculation as to what can have occasioned some regrettable incident-Why after thirty years had the Farmers suddenly gone away?-Why had Lily Everett broken off her engagement to John Drew?-What was the real reason why Andrew Stone had gone to Australia?

Miss Silver sat knitting whilst the trickle of talk went on. The flow increased noticeably when the question of Miss Renie’s mysterious next-door neighbour came up.

“Such an extraordinary person. My dear sister was very loth to think ill of anyone, but as she often said, why should you lock your doors and shut your windows and never let anyone inside your house if you haven’t got something to hide? The Vicar says it is because he doesn’t like women. But how often has he got in himself-that is what I should like to know. And with the door of Gale’s Cottage round at the side-such a very odd place to have a door, only some of those old cottages do-you can’t help seeing who comes out and who goes in.”

Miss Silver’s interest was really very flattering.

“Mr. Barton lives there quite alone?”

“Oh, quite-unless you are going to count the cats.”

“He has cats?”

Miss Renie threw up her hands.

“Seven of them! Quite insanitary-I don’t suppose the house is ever cleaned! And such great raw-boned creatures- quite savage-looking! And all with Bible names-really quite profane!”

A little way back from the fire, young Mrs. Rodney was putting a patch on a small pair of grey flannel shorts. “David does go through them now that he is getting stronger,” she said in her pleasant voice.

Miss Silver smiled at her kindly.

“That must be a great comfort to you,” she said.

Miss Renie was spreading out the cards for a game of patience, using a board covered with green baize balanced precariously upon a three-legged stool ornamented with poker-work. She looked puzzled.