Ngaio Marsh - Grave Mistake

“I think she did, occasionally, but she wasn’t much of a drinker. Far from it.”

“Miss Preston, I’ve seen the notes of your evidence at the inquest but if you don’t mind I’d like to go back to the talk you had with Mrs. Foster on the lawn that afternoon. It’s simply to find out if by any chance, and on consideration, hindsight if you like, something was said that now seems to suggest she contemplated suicide.”

“Nothing. I’ve thought and thought. Nothing.” And as she said this Verity realized that with all her heart she wished there had been something and at the same time told herself how appalling it was that she could desire it. “I shall never get myself sorted out over this,” she thought and became aware that Alleyn was speaking to her.

“If you could just run over the things you talked about. Never mind if they seem irrelevant or trivial.”

“Well, she gossiped about the hotel. She talked a lot about — the doctor — and the wonders of his cure and about the nurse — Sister something — who she said resented her being a favourite. But most of all we talked about Prunella — her daughter’s — engagement.”

“Didn’t she fancy the young man?”

“Well — she was upset,” Verity said. “But — well, she was often upset. I suppose it would be fair to say she was inclined to get into tizzies at the drop of a hat.”

“A fuss-pot?”

“Yes.”

“Spoilt, would you say?” he asked, surprisingly.

“Rather indulged, perhaps.”

“Keen on the chaps?”

He put this to her so quaintly that Verity was startled into saying: “You are sharp!”

“A happy guess, I promise you,” said Alleyn.

“You must have heard about the Will,” she exclaimed.

“Who’s being sharp now?”

“I don’t know,” Verity said crossly, “why I’m laughing.”

“When, really, you’re very worried, aren’t you? Why?”

“I don’t know . Not really. It’s all so muddling,” she broke out. “And I hate being muddled.”

She stared helplessly at Alleyn. He nodded and gave a small affirmative sound.

“You see,” Verity began again, “when you asked if she said anything that suggested suicide I said ‘nothing,’ didn’t I? And if you’d known Syb as well as I did, there was nothing. But if you ask me whether she’s ever suggested anything of the sort — well, yes. If you count her being in a bit of a stink over some dust-up and throwing a temperament and saying life wasn’t worth living and she might as well end it all. But that was just histrionics. I often thought Syb’s true métier was the theatre.”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “you ought to know.”

“Have you seen Prunella? Her daughter?” Verity asked.

“Not yet. I’ve read her evidence. I’m on my way there. Is she at home, do you know?”

“She has been, lately. She goes up to London quite a lot.”

“Who’ll be there if she’s out?”

“Mrs. Jim Jobbin. General factotum. It’s her morning at Quintern.

“Anyone else?”

“ Damn !” thought Verity, “here we go.” She said: “I haven’t been in touch. Oh, it’s the gardener’s day up there.”

“Ah yes. The gardener.”

“Then you do know about the Will?”

“Mr. Rattisbon told me about it. He’s an old acquaintance of mine. May we go back to the afternoon in question? Did you discuss Miss Foster’s engagement with her mother?”

“Yes. I tried to reconcile her to the idea.”

“Any success?”

“Not much. But she did agree to see them. Is it all right to ask — did they find — did the pathologist find — any signs of a disease?”

“He thinks, as Dr. Field-Innis did, that she might have had Parkinson’s disease.”

“If she had known that,” Verity said, “it might have made a difference. If she was told — but Dr. Field-Innis didn’t tell her.”

“And Dr. Schramm apparently didn’t spot it”

Sooner or later it had to come. They’d arrived at his name.

“Have you met Dr. Schramm?” Alleyn asked casually.

“Yes.”

“Know him well?”

“No. I used to know him many years ago but we had entirely lost touch.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“I’ve only met him once at a dinner-party some months ago. At Mardling: Mardling Manor belonging to Mr. Nikolas Markos. It’s his son who’s engaged to Prunella.”

“The millionaire Markos, would that be?”

“Not that I know. He certainly seems to be extremely affluent.”

“The millionaire who buys pictures,” said Alleyn, “if that’s any guide.”

“This one does that. He’d bought a Troy.”

“That’s the man,” said Alleyn. “She called it Several Pleasures .”

“But — how did you—? Oh, I see,” said Verity, “you’ve been to Mardling.”

“No. The painter is my wife.”

“Curiouser,” said Verity, after a long pause, “and curiouser.”

“Do you find it so? I don’t quite see why.”

“I should have said, how lovely. To be married to Troy.”

“Well, we like it,” said Troy’s husband. “Could I get back to the matter in hand, do you think?”

“Of course. Please,” said Verity with a jolt of nausea under her diaphragm.

“Where were we?”

“You asked me if I’d met Basil Smythe.”

“ Smythe ?”

“I should have said Schramm,” Verity amended quickly. “I believe Schramm was his mother’s maiden name. I think she wanted him to take it. He said something to that effect.”

“When would that have happened, would you suppose?”

“Sometime after I knew him, which was in 1951, I think,” Verity added and hoped it sounded casual.

“How long had Mrs. Foster known him, do you imagine?”

“Not — very long. She met him first at that same dinner-party. But,” said Verity quickly, “she’d been in the habit of going to Greengages for several years.”

“Whereas he only took over the practise last April,” he said casually. “Do you like him? Nice sort of chap?”

“As I said I’ve only met him that once.”

“But you knew him before?”

“It was — so very long ago.”

“I don’t think you liked him very much,” he murmured as if to himself. “Or perhaps — but it doesn’t matter.”

“Mr. Alleyn,” Verity said loudly and, to her chagrin, in an unsteady voice. “I know what was in the Will.”

“Yes, I thought you must.”

“And perhaps I’d better just say it — the Will — might have happened at any time in the past if Sybil had been thoroughly upset. On the rebound from a row, she could have left anything to anyone who was in favour at the time.”

“But did she to your knowledge ever do this in the past?”

“Perhaps she never had the same provocation in the past.”

“Or was not sufficiently attracted?”

“Oh,” said Verity, “she took fancies. Look at this whacking great legacy to Bruce.”

“Bruce? Oh, yes. The gardener. She thought a lot of him, I suppose? A faithful and tried old retainer? Was that it?”

“He’d been with her about six months and he’s middle-aged and rather like a resurrection from the more dubious pages of J. M. Barrie but Syb thought him the answer to her prayers.”

“As far as the garden was concerned?”

“Yes. He does my garden, too.”

“It’s enchanting. Do you dote on him, too?”

“No. But I must say I like him better than I did. He took trouble over Syb. He visited her once a week with flowers and I don’t think he was sucking up. I just think he puts on a bit of an act like a guide doing his sob-stuff over Mary Queen of Scots in Edinburgh Castle.”