Ngaio Marsh - Grave Mistake

“I wouldn’t have thought the house was quite his style,” said Mr. Fox.

“And you’d have been dead right. I can’t imagine what possessed him to buy such a monumental piece of complacency unless it was to tease himself with an uninterrupted view of a perfect house,” said Alleyn and little knew how close to the mark he had gone.

“Did you pay a call on the local Super?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s looking forward to meeting you. I got a bit of info out of him,” said Mr. Fox, “which came in handy seeing I’ve only just been brought in on the case. It seems they’re interested in the deceased lady’s stepson, a Mr. Carter. He’s a bit of a ne’er-do-well. Worked his way home from Australia in the Poseidon as a ship’s steward. He’d done porridge for attempted blackmail and sussy for bringing the hard stuff ashore but they haven’t got enough for a catch. He’s staying up at Quintern Place.”

“So Miss Preston thought. And here we go.”

The approach was through a grove of rhododendrons from which they came out rather unexpectedly on a platform in front of the house.

Looking up at the facade, Alleyn caught a fractional impression of someone withdrawing from a window at the far end of the first floor. Otherwise there was no sign of life.

The door was opened by a compact little person in an apron. She looked quickly at the car and its driver and then doubtfully at Alleyn, who took off his hat.

“You must be Mrs. Jim Jobbin,” he said.

Mrs. Jim looked hard at him. “That’s correct,” she said.

“Do you think Miss Foster could give me a moment if she’s in?”

“She’s not.”

“Oh.”

Mrs. Jim gave a quick look across the little valley to where Mardling Manor shamelessly exhibited itself. “She’s out,” she said.

“I’m sorry about that. Would you mind if I came in and had a word with you? I’m a police officer but there’s no need to let that bother you. It’s only to tidy up some details about the inquest on Mrs. Foster.”

He had the impression that Mrs. Jim listened for something to happen inside the house and not hearing it, waited for him to speak and not hearing that either, was relieved. She gave him another pretty hard look and then stood away from the door.

“I’ll just ask my colleague to wait if I may?” Alleyn said and returned to the car.

“A certain amount of caginess appears,” he murmured. “If anything emerges and looks like melting away ask it if it’s Mr. Carter and keep it here. Same goes for the gardener.” Aloud he said: “I won’t be long,” and returned to the house.

Mrs. Jim stood aside for him and he went into a large and beautifully proportioned hall. It was panelled in parchment-coloured linenfold oak with a painted ceiling and elegant stairway. “What a lovely house,” Alleyn said. “Do you look after it?”

“I help out,” said Mrs. Jim guardedly.

“Miss Preston told me about you. Mrs. Foster’s death must have been a shock after knowing her for so long.”

“It seemed a pity,” Mrs. Jim conceded economically.

“Did you expect anything of the kind?”

“I didn’t expect anything. I never thought she’d make away with herself if that’s what’s meant. She wasn’t the sort.”

“Everybody seems to think that,” Alleyn agreed. The hall went right through the house and at the far end looked across rose-gardens to the misty Weald of Kent. He moved to the windows and was in time to see a head and shoulders bob up and down behind a box hedge. The owner seemed to be crouched and running.

“You’ve got somebody behaving rather oddly in your garden,” said Alleyn. “Come and look.”

She moved behind him.

“He’s doubled up,” Alleyn said, “behind that tallish hedge. Could he be chasing some animal?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Who could it be?”

“The gardener’s working here today.”

“Has he got long fair hair?”

“No,” she said quickly and passed her working hand across her mouth.

“Would the gentleman in the garden, by any chance, be Mr. Claude Carter?”

“It might.”

“Perhaps he’s chasing butterflies.”

“He might be doing anything,” said Mrs. Jim woodenly.

Alleyn, standing back from the window and still watching the hedge, said: “There’s only one point I need bother you with, Mrs. Jobbin. It’s about the envelope that I believe you put in Mrs. Foster’s desk after her death.”

“She give it to the gardener about a week before she died and said he was to put it there. He give it to me and asked me to. Which I did.”

“And you told Miss Foster it was there?”

“Correct. I remembered it after the inquest.”

“Do you know what was in it?”

“It was none of my business, was it, sir?” said Mrs. Jim, settling for the courtesy title, “It had ‘Will’ written on the outside and Miss Prue said it was a stinker. She give it to the lawyer.”

“Was it sealed, do you remember?”

“It was gummed up. Sort of.”

“Sort of, Mrs. Jim?”

“Not what you’d call a proper job. More of a careless lick. She was like that with her letters. She’d think of something she’d meant to say and open them up and then stick them down with what was left of the gum. She was great on afterthoughts.”

“Would you mind letting me see the desk?”

Mrs. Jim’s face reddened and she stuck out her lower lip.

“Mrs. Jobbin,” Alleyn said. “Don’t think we’re here for any other purpose than to try and sort matters out in order that there shall be no injustice done to anybody, including Miss Prunella Foster, or if it comes to that, to the memory of her mother. I’m not setting traps at the moment, which is not to say a copper never does. As I expect you very well know. But not here and not now. I would simply like to see the desk, if you’ll show me where it is.”

She looked fixedly at him for an appreciable interval and then broke out: “It’s no business of mine, this isn’t. I don’t know anything about anything that goes on up here, sir, and if you’ll excuse my speaking out, I don’t want to. Miss Prue’s all right. She’s a nice young lady for all you can’t hear half she says and anyone can see she’s been upset. But she’s got her young man and he’s sharp enough for six and he’ll look after her. So’ll his old — his father,” amended Mrs. Jim. “He’s that pleased, anyway, with the match, seeing he’s getting what he’d set his heart on.”

“Really? What was that?” Alleyn asked still keeping an eye on the box hedge.

“This property. He wanted to buy it and they say he would have paid anything to get it. Well, in a sort of way he’ll get his wish now, won’t he? It’s settled he’s to have his own rooms; self-contained like. I’ll show you the desk, then, if you’ll come this way.”

It was in a smallish room, known in her lifetime as Sybil’s boudoir, which lay between the great drawing-room and the dining-room where, on the day of the old gardener’s death, the Upper Quintern ladies had held their meeting. The desk, a nice piece of Chippendale, stood in the window. Mrs. Jim indicated the centre drawer and Alleyn opened it. Letter paper, stamps and a diary were revealed.

“The drawer wasn’t locked?” he asked.

“Not before, it wasn’t. I left the envelope on top of some papers and then I thought it best to turn the key in the lock and keep it. I handed the key to Miss Prue. She doesn’t seem to have locked it.” She waited for a moment and then, for the second time, broke out

“If you want to know any more about it you can ask Bruce. He fetched it. Mrs. Foster give it to him.”

“Do you think he knows what was in it? The details, I mean?”