Ngaio Marsh - Death in a White Tie

“What about the parson who married them?”

“I remember that Paddy said he was a very old man. The witnesses were his wife and sister. You see, we talked it all over very carefully and Paddy was quite certain there was no possibility of discovery.”

“There is something more, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Something that I find much more difficult.” The even voice faltered for a moment. Alleyn saw that she mustered up all her fortitude before she went on. “Five months after we were married he was killed. I had started Bridgie and came up to London to stay with my mother and to see my doctor. Paddy was to motor up from our house at Ripplecote and drive me back. In the morning I had a telegram from him. It said: “The best possible news from Anthony Banks.” On the way the car skidded and crashed into the wall of a bridge. It was in a little village. He was taken into the vicarage and then to the cottage hospital. When I got there he was unconscious and he didn’t know that I was with him when he died.”

“And the news?”

“I felt certain that it could only be one thing. His wife must have died. But we could find no letters or cables at all, so he must have destroyed whatever message he had been sent by Anthony Banks. The next thing that happened was that Paddy’s solicitors received five thousand pounds from Australia and a letter from Anthony Banks to say it was forwarded in accordance with Paddy’s instructions. In the meantime I had written to Anthony Banks. I told him of Paddy’s death but wrote as a cousin of Paddy’s. He replied with the usual sort of letter. He didn’t, of course, say anything about Paddy’s wife, but he did say that a letter from him must have reached Paddy just before he died and that if it had been found he would like it to be destroyed unopened. You see, Roderick, Anthony Banks must have been honest because he could have kept that five thousand pounds himself quite easily, when she died. And he didn’t know Paddy had remarried.”

“Yes, that’s quite true. Are you certain from what you knew of Paddy that he would have destroyed Banks’s letter?”

“No. I’ve always thought he would have kept it to show me.”

“Do you think he asked the people in the vicarage or at the hospital to destroy his letters?”

“They had found his name and address on other letters in his wallet, so it wasn’t that.” For the first time the quiet voice faltered a little. “He only spoke once, they said. He asked for me.”

“Do you remember the name of the people at the vicarage?”

“I don’t. I wrote and thanked them for what they had done. It was some very ordinary sort of name.”

“And the cottage hospital?”

“It was at Falconbridge in Buckinghamshire. Quite a big hospital. I saw the superintendent doctor. He was an elderly man with a face like a sheep. I think his name was Bletherley. I’m perfectly certain that he was not a blackmailer, Roderick. And the nurses were charming.”

“Do you think that he could possibly have left the letter in the case, or that it could have dropped out of his pocket?”

“I simply cannot believe that if he kept it at all it would be anywhere but in his wallet. And I was given the wallet. It was in the breast pocket of his coat. You see, Roderick, it’s not as if I didn’t try to trace the letter. I was desperately anxious to see the message from Anthony Banks. I asked again and again if anything could have been overlooked at the hospital and endless enquiries were made.”

She stopped for a moment and looked steadily at Alleyn.

“You can see now,” she said, “why I would go almost to any length to keep this from Bridget.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I can see.”

Alleyn saw Bridget in her old nursery which had been converted into a very human sitting-room. She made him take a large armchair and jiggled a box of cigarettes under his nose.

“It’s no good being official and pretending you don’t. I can see you do.”

“Really!” exclaimed Alleyn with a look at his fingers which were not stained with nicotine. “How?”

“The outline of your case shows through your coat. You should take up detection, Mr Alleyn, it’s too interesting.”

Alleyn took a cigarette.

“Got me there,” he said. “Have you yourself any ideas about being a policewoman?” He fingered the outline that showed through his breast-pocket.

“I suppose one has to begin at the bottom,” said Bridget. “What’s the first duty of a policewoman?”

“I don’t know. We are not allowed to hang around the girls in the force.”

“What a shame!” said Bridget. “I won’t join. I should like you to hang round me, Mr Alleyn.”

Alleyn thought: “She’s being just a bit too deliberately the audacious young charmer. What’s up with her? Young Donald, damn his eyes!”

He said: “Well, so I must for the moment. I want to talk to you about last night, if I may.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be much good,” said Bridget. “I hope you find whoever it was. It’s worrying Donna to death, and Bart’s being absolutely lethal over it. Bart’s my stepfather. You’ve met him, haven’t you? All pukka sahib and horsewhips. Is a horsewhip any worse than an ordinary one, do you know?”

“You knew Lord Robert pretty well, didn’t you?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes. He was a great friend of Donna’s. I suppose you think I’m being hard and modern about him. I’d have been sorrier if it had happened longer ago.”

“That’s rather cryptic,” said Alleyn. “What does it mean?”

“It doesn’t mean I’m not sorry now. I am. We all loved him and I mind most dreadfully. But I found out I didn’t really know him well. He was harder than you’d ever believe. In a way that makes it worse; having been out of friends with him. I feel I’d give anything to be able to tell him I–I — I–I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For not being nice to him last night. I snubbed him.”

“Why did you snub poor Bunchy?”

“Because he was beastly to his nephew who happens to be rather a particular friend of mine.”

“Donald Potter? Yes, I know about that. Don’t you think it’s possible that Donald was rather hard on his uncle?”

“No, I don’t. Donald’s a man now. He’s got to stand on his own feet and decide things for himself. Bunchy simply wouldn’t understand that. He wanted to choose Donald’s friends, settle his career, and treat him exactly as if he was a schoolboy. Bunchy was just hopelessly Victorian and conventional.”

“Do you like Captain Withers?” asked Alleyn suddenly.

“What?” Bridget became rather pink. “I can’t say he’s exactly my cup of tea. I suppose he is rather ghastly in a way, but he’s a marvellous dancer and he can be quite fun. I can forgive anybody almost anything if they’re amusing, can’t you?”

“What sort of amusement does Captain Withers provide?”

“Well, I mean he’s gay. Not exactly gay but he goes everywhere and everybody knows him, so he’s always quite good value. Donald says Wits is a terribly good business man. He’s been frightfully nice about advising Donald and he knows all sorts of people who could be useful.”

“Useful in what way? Donald is going in for medicine, isn’t he?”

“Well—” Bridget hesitated. ”Yes. That was the original idea, but Wits rather advises him not to. Donald says there’s not much in medicine nowadays and, anyway, a doctor is rather a dreary sort of thing to be.”

“Is he?” asked Alleyn. “You mean not very smart?”

“No, of course I don’t mean that,” said Bridget. She glared at Alleyn. “You are a pig,” she said. “I suppose I do. I hate drab, worthy sort of things and, anyway, it’s got nothing to with the case.”