Ngaio Marsh - Grave Mistake

“Since she was in cool storage at Greengages, she’d have had to ask somebody to get the form for her. She didn’t ask me.”

“I think I hear your telephone, my dear,” Mr. Rattisbon said.

It was Prunella. “Godma V,” she said with unusual clarity, “I saw you talking to that fantastic old Mr. Rattisbon. Do you happen to know where he was going?”

“He’s here. He’s thinking of visiting you.”

“Oh, good. Because I suppose he ought to know. Because, actually, I’ve found something he ought to see.”

“What have you found, darling?”

“I’m afraid,” Prunella’s voice escalated to a plaintive squeak, “it’s a Will.”

When Mr. Rattisbon had taken his perturbed leave and departed, bolt upright, at the wheel of his car, Prunella rang again to say she felt that before he arrived she must tell her godmother more about her find.

“I can’t get hold of Gideon,” she said, “so I thought I’d tell you. Sorry, darling, but you know what I mean.”

“Of course I do.”

“Sweet of you. Well. It was in Mummy’s desk in the boudoir top drawer. In a stuck-up envelope with ‘Will’ on it. It was signed and witnessed ten days ago. At Greengages, of course, and it’s on a printed form thing.”

“How did it get to Quintern?”

“Mrs. Jim says Mummy asked Bruce Gardener to take it and put it in the desk. He gave it to Mrs. Jim and she put it in the desk. Godma V, it’s a stinker.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s — you’ll never believe this — I can’t myself. It starts off by saying she leaves half her estate to me. You do know, don’t you, that darling Mummy was Rich Bitch. Sorry, that’s a fun-phrase. But true.”

“I did suppose she was.”

“I mean really rich. Rolling.”

“Yes.”

“Partly on account of grandpa Pascoigne and partly because Daddy was a wizard with the lolly. Where was I?”

“Half the estate to you,” Verity prompted.

“Yes. That’s over and above what Daddy entailed on me if that’s what it’s called. And Quintern’s entailed on me, too, of course.”

“”Nothing the matter with that , is there?”

“Wait for it. You’ll never, never believe this — half to me only if I marry awful Swingles — John Swingletree. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Not even with Mummy, I wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter , of course. I mean, I’ve got more than is good for me with the entailment. Of course it’s a lot less on account of inflation and all that but I’ve been thinking, actually, that I ought to give it away when I marry. Gideon doesn’t agree.”

“You astonish me.”

“But he wouldn’t stop me. Anyway he’s rather more than O.K. for lolly.” Prunella’s voice trembled. “But, Godma V,” she said, “how she could ! How she could think it’d make me do it! Marry Swingles and cut Gideon just for the cash. It’s repulsive.”

“I wouldn’t have believed it of her. Does Swingletree want you to marry him, by the way?”

“Oh, yes,” said Prunella impatiently. “Never stops asking, the poor sap.”

“It must have been when she was in a temper,” said Verity. “She’d have torn it up when she came round.”

“But she didn’t, did she? And she’d had plenty of time to come round. And you haven’t heard anything yet. Who do you suppose she’s left to rest to? — well, all but twenty-five thousand pounds? She’s left twenty-five thousand pounds to Bruce Gardener, as well as a super little house in the village that is part of the estate and provision for him to be kept on as long as he likes at Quintern. But the rest — including the half if I don’t marry Swingles — to whom do you suppose—”

A wave of nausea came over Verity. She sat down by her telephone and saw with detachment that the receiver shook in her hand.

“Are you there?” Prunella was saying. “Hullo! Godma V?”

“I’m here.”

“I give you three guesses. You’ll never get it. Do you give up?”

“Yes.”

“Your heart-throb, darling, Dr. Basil Schramm.”

A long pause followed. Verity tried to speak but her mouth was dry.

“Godma, are you there? Is something the matter with your telephone? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard. I–I simply don’t know what to say.”

“Isn’t it awful?”

“It’s appalling.”

“I told you she was crackers about him, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes, you did and I saw it for myself. But to do this—!”

“I know. When I don’t marry that ass Swingles, Schramm’ll get the lot.”

“Good God!” said Verity.

“Well, won’t he? I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Perhaps it’ll turn out to be not proper. The Will, I mean.”

“Ratsy will pounce on that — Mr. Rattisbon — if it is so. Is it witnessed?”

“It seems to be. By G. M. Johnson and Marleena Briggs. Housemaids at Greengages, I should think, wouldn’t you?”

“I daresay.”

“Well, I thought I’d just tell you.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll let you know what Mr. Rats thinks.”

“Thanks.”

“Goodbye then, Godma darling.”

“Goodbye, darling. I’m sorry. Especially,” Verity managed, “about the Swingletree bit.”

“I know. Bruce is chicken feed, compared,” said Prunella. “And what a name!” she added. “Lady Swingletree! I ask you!” and hung up.

It was exactly a week after this conversation and in the morning of just such another halcyon day that Verity answered her front door-bell to find a very tall man standing in the porch.

He took off his hat. “Miss Preston?” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a police officer. My name is Alleyn.”

ii

Afterward, when he had gone away, Verity thought it strange that her first reaction had not been one of alarm. At the moment of encounter she had simply been struck by Alleyn himself: by his voice, his thin face and — there was only one word she could find — his distinction. There was a brief feeling of incredulity and then the thought that he might be on the track of Charmless Claude. He sat there in her drawing-room with his knees crossed, his thin hands clasped together and his eyes, which were bright, directed upon her. It came as a shock when he said: “It’s about the late Mrs. Foster that I hoped to have a word with you.”

Verity heard herself say: “Is there something wrong?”

“It’s more a matter of making sure there isn’t,” he said. “This is a routine visit and I know that’s what we’re always supposed to say.”

“Is it because something’s turned up at the — examination: the — I can’t remember the proper word.”

“Autopsy?”

“Yes. Stupid of me.”

“You might say it’s arisen out of that, yes. Things have turned out a bit more complicated than was expected.”

After a pause, Verity said: “I’m sure one’s not meant to ask questions, is one?”

“Well,” he said, and smiled at her, “I can always evade answering but the form is supposed to be for me to ask.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not a bit. You shall ask me anything you like as the need arises. In the meantime shall I go ahead?”

“Please.”

“My first one is about Mrs. Foster’s room.”

“At Greengages?”

“Yes.”

“I was never in it.”

“Do you know if she habitually used a sort of glass sleeve contraption filled with scented oil that fitted over a lamp bulb?”

“ ‘Oasis’? Yes, she used it in the drawing-room at Quintern and sometimes, I think, in her bedroom. She adored what she called a really groovy smell.”

“ ‘Oasis,’ if that’s what it was, is all of that. They tell me the memory lingers on in the window curtains. Did she usually have a nightcap, do you know? Scotch?”