“You, my dear Barbara,” he went on, “are the only one of us who purports to portray an actual Scotland Yard detective. And I cannot remember that Chief Superintendent Tibbett’s cases have ever remotely resembled those so brilliantly solved by Superintendent Burrows.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Harry,” said Barbara. “I write in what is known as the great classic tradition, and my books sell better than yours.”
“That may or may not be true,” said Harry, who knew very well that it was. “The fact remains that your plots are ridiculously elaborate and fanciful. First of all, you maroon a small group of people on an island or in a snowstorm or some such artificial situation. Then you produce clues of whimsical erudition—for instance, all your victims may be ladies named after Shakespearean heroines, so that after the demise of Juliet Jones and Miranda Brown, we may be fairly sure that Portia Smith is in for trouble. And—”
“I’ve never used that one,” said Barbara thoughtfully.
“And finally,” Harry went on, “your detective assembles all the suspects and arranges a reenactment of the crime, which unmasks the villain. Can you imagine that happening in real life?”
“It would be interesting to know,” remarked Bill Cartwright, “how a real detective would react if he found himself faced with a so-called classic fictional crime.”
At this point the conversation became confused, and somebody suggested that it might be amusing to put Henry Tibbett to the test. In no time the whole table was buzzing with laughter, and suggestions were pouring in.
“Let’s see if he’s as good as Burrows,” Vandike said.
Fred Coe remarked, “I met him once, at a party at the Cobhams’.”
“Lord and Lady Cobham, do you mean?” asked Myrtle, much impressed.
“What was a staunch old Marxist like you doing there, Fred?” asked Barbara.
“Never mind,” said Fred Coe. “The point is that he does know the most unexpected people. He struck me as having a sense of humor. I think he’ll see through us.”
“More important,” said Cartwright, “will he recognize you?”
The identities of the Guess Who members were not revealed to the visiting experts at Carnworth Manor. They were introduced, by their Christian names, as authors who used pseudonyms, and while the lecturer was given the names of the authors whom he was to meet, he was given no clue as to which was which.
As a matter of fact, most of the visitors imagined that Dr. Cartwright, working with Harry Vandike—a couple of obviously brilliant minds—must jointly write as Lydia Drake. (After all, everyone knows that English ladies writing in the Agatha Christie tradition are extremely popular. The combination of a couple of clearly clever gentlemen would not produce the same cozy effect.) Fred Coe, with his bluff manner, was generally assumed to be Jack Harvey, creator of the tough Scot, Tex Lawrie. Myrtle Waterford was obviously the Gothic writer, Elaine Summerfield, while Barbara Oppenshaw, whose identity as Sir Robert’s daughter was never concealed at Carnworth, was presumed to have dreamed up the homely Miss Twinkley under the pen name of Freda Wright.
Professor Coe was able to reassure his collaborator. “We were never actually introduced,” he said. “It was a big cocktail affair. I just hovered around a group of people who were talking to Tibbett, and listened from the fringes, as it were. If he has a phenomenal memory, he may recognize my face—but if he does, he’ll put me down as Jack Harvey or one-half of Lydia Drake. No worry.”
So it was agreed, and the conspirators went to work, becoming quite giggly with mischief and champagne. Within the week, it was decided, Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett would have a really classic case on his hands. He would have just a month to solve it before the practical jokers at Carnworth, having extracted every ounce of fun from the situation, would reveal themselves and make him look as silly as a chief superintendent of the C.I.D. has ever looked. Harry Vandike warned them that if Henry Tibbett was at all bright, their true identities might stand revealed—but nobody minded. They urged Harry to get to work. They could hardly wait.
CHAPTER FOUR
CARNWORTH MANOR, AS Sir Robert himself often laughingly remarked, was just the sort of place where an English murder mystery of the 1930s would feel at home. A compact but beautiful house, it dated from the mid-eighteenth century. A spiral staircase ascended from its circular marble entrance hall, in the center of which a small fountain boasted a bronze dolphin that incessantly vomited water toward the domed roof some eighty feet above.
From this circular foyer, doors opened into a drawing room of comfortable elegance and into the library, decorated floor to ceiling with leather-bound books and fitted out with a leather-topped desk, an eighteenth-century library ladder of leather and mahogany, and some ingenious modern electric light fittings, which enabled the seeker after knowledge to find what he wanted on the shelves and to read it at the desk or lectern. This was the original library, Sir Robert would chortle to his guests, where the Baronet should be found by the butler, stabbed through the heart by a dagger of oriental design. Other doors led to a pretty dining room, and to a curious chamber called the morning room officially, but always known as the old nursery.
Here an ancient, balding teddy bear sat dangling his legs from the mantelpiece, a couple of well-worn rag dolls were draped over a chintzy sofa, and a big, scarred nursery table held a half-completed and complicated jigsaw puzzle. In fact, the most important thing in the room was barely noticeable. It was a typewriter with a tape recorder beside it, which stood on a simple wooden desk under the window. Barbara Oppenshaw’s typewriter. For this was Barbara’s old nursery, now her study, which she used on the rare occasions when she worked at Carnworth.
The final door leading from the circular hallway—apart from one to a cloakroom—was a modern version of a green baize door, cunningly disguised with plastic marble, which swung to and fro as the domestic staff made their way—metaphorically—from downstairs to upstairs.
Truly upstairs—up the spiral staircase, that is—were the bedrooms, on two floors. Once again, the equivalent of a green baize door hid the servants’ quarters from the sleeping area of the gentry. Originally, there had been twelve bedrooms—six on each floor. Now Carnworth had only eight, four to each landing, the others having been turned into private bathrooms.
The master suite on the first floor was, naturally, given over to Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw. On the same floor was Barbara’s room, which was seldom occupied, for Barbara had a small apartment in London where she spent most of her time. Nonetheless, she did come to Carnworth for weekends, especially in the summer, for she was an accomplished horsewoman and had her own chestnut mare in the stables. However, the Oppenshaws were hospitable and enjoyed company, so the guest rooms were rarely empty. Authors, agents, actors, and politicians all spent pleasant days at Carnworth. Sir Robert himself traveled by car ferry in his chauffeured Bentley to London twice a week to make sure that all was well in his office; otherwise, he conducted his business via a private telephone with an unlisted number at Carnworth Manor.
The Bentley was waiting at Fishbourne Pier when Henry and Emmy descended from the Portsmouth ferry. The young chauffeur, smart in his dark green uniform, picked up the Tibbetts’ well-worn suitcases with a faintly supercilious sneer and loaded them into the car. Twenty minutes later, the Bentley was winding its way up the drive, between rows of stately trees, into the graveled forecourt of the house.
Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw were both on the front terrace to greet the Tibbetts in a typically warm and thoughtful welcome. A handsome couple, both seemed to be in their fifties—although a closer inspection convinced Emmy that Pamela Oppenshaw, despite expert cosmetic surgery and makeup, was a good many years older than her husband.
“My dear Chief Superintendent, this is indeed a pleasure. And Mrs. Tibbett. May I introduce my wife, Pamela? We are both flattered that you took time from your busy life to come and talk to our little group.”
Polite murmurs of gr
eeting and introduction fluttered among the four as Henry and Emmy were led into the entrance hall. There was no sign of their suitcases, which must have been whisked off to the back door.
Pamela Oppenshaw said, “I expect you would both like to freshen up after your journey. We have put you in the Blue Room on the first floor. When you are ready, you will find us in the drawing room.” She indicated one of the doors off the marble hallway. “Then we shall be able to have a little chat and tell you something about the members of our group.”
They climbed up the circular staircase, and Lady Oppenshaw ushered them into a large, elegant bedroom, blue-carpeted and blue-draped, with a large window commanding a view of parkland sweeping down to the woods, and the sea beyond. Glancing through the window, Henry caught a glimpse of a couple on horseback—a girl on a chestnut and a man on a gray—disappearing at a brisk trot into a spinney of trees.
Pamela Oppenshaw was saying to Emmy, “This is your bathroom. Annie will be up with your suitcases in just a moment. She will unpack for you. We’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.” She smiled—a social smile—and went out, closing the door softly behind her.
Feeling a little overwhelmed, Henry and Emmy explored their domain. The very modern bathroom—also blue—was furnished with blue towels of every dimension from huge bath sheets to small linen hand towels. The medicine cabinet was thoughtfully stocked with tissues, aspirin, Band-Aids, toothpaste, and new toothbrushes in plastic cases, as well as eau de cologne and a most expensive make of blue soap, bath essence, and talcum powder. There were even disposable razors, new hairbrushes and combs, and terry bathrobes hung on the door.
In the bedroom, the Queen Anne writing desk was equipped with postcards, envelopes, writing paper, stamps, and pens, while the inlaid walnut chest contained sewing materials. A visitor, arriving with no more than a handbag or a briefcase, would be completely fitted out. Henry and Emmy washed, combed their hair, and went downstairs.
It was just after three o’clock, the time when country houseguests are traditionally off on their own particular devices, ready to assemble later for tea, or, more likely in these days, cocktails. So it was only Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw who were in the drawing room when the Tibbetts came in. To their relief, it was not like a museum of priceless antiques; while beautifully furnished, it had a comfortable, lived-in feeling. Sir Robert was engulfed in a huge armchair, reading Country Life. Lady Oppenshaw sat on a low sofa, playing solitaire on a glass-topped coffee table. These pursuits were at once abandoned. Pamela Oppenshaw excused herself on the pretext of some domestic task, and Sir Robert began his exposition.
“As I explained to you in my letter, Tibbett, the people here are all writers of crime fiction—all on my list, I’m proud to say. However, for various reasons they all use pen names. The writers you will be meeting are Lydia Drake, Freda Wright, Jack Harvey, and Elaine Summerfield. They will be introduced by their first names only—Fred, Bill, Harry, and Myrtle. You will have observed, of course, that while there will be three male guests and only one lady, at least two of the men use a woman’s name as a nom de plume. However, you are not being asked here to solve a mystery—just to be your entertaining and informative self.”
“Thank you,” said Henry.
“As far as the other guests are concerned, there will be just my daughter, Barbara, and her fiancé, Peter Turnberry. Barbara is…well, she dabbles a little in writing, so she always comes to our little gatherings. This will be Peter’s first time. I think you will find him a delightful young man. Their engagement has not been formally announced, but it will be appearing in The Times in a couple of weeks. So, with Pamela and myself, that completes the party. We have arranged for you to give your talk on police procedure at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, if that is convenient for you. After that, we hope you will simply enjoy yourselves. Do you sail?”
“Yes,” said Emmy with enthusiasm.
Sir Robert beamed. “Good, good. You will find our eighteen-foot day boat at your disposal. Now, is there anything else you would like to know?”
“Just one thing,” said Henry. “Does the name Warfield mean anything to you?”
Sir Robert’s face stiffened into the molded smile that had accompanied his last banality. For a moment he seemed frozen. Then he said, “Why do you ask?”
Henry smiled warmly. “I see it does,” he said. “Please don’t be alarmed or upset. It’s just that these people—your Guess Who club—have been playing a rather pretty trick on me.”
“A trick? On you?”
“Yes. There’s no need to go into details. I’ll do that tomorrow morning when I give my talk. Meanwhile, they have…well, you could say that they have given me a problem to solve. The last piece of the jigsaw, or rather the crossword—”
“My dear Tibbett, what on earth are you talking about?”
“They have been sending me crossword clues to solve,” Henry explained. “Fortunately, I’ve been able to do so, and I hope to enhance the reputation of Scotland Yard a little bit tomorrow. However, as I was saying, the last clue concerned Jean Warfield. Eugenia Warfield, I think, to be more exact. A young girl who died accidentally by drowning not very far from here. All this goes back many years, of course. Almost twenty, I believe.”
Sir Robert was looking fixedly at Henry. At last he said, “If you have checked the facts so far, you must know the truth. I don’t know why you bother to ask me.”
“Because I’d like to hear it from you, Sir Robert.”
“Well, Jeannie Warfield was Pamela’s stepdaughter. That’s to say, before she married me, Pamela was the second wife of a man named Francis Warfield. By his first wife, he had a daughter Eugenia—known as Jean or Jeannie. She was fifteen when her father died, and eighteen when Pamela married me. Naturally, Pamela brought Jeannie to live with us. A sweet girl. She treated Barbara just like a younger sister. She used to call her Baba, which is still our family nickname for her.”
Henry began, “Then the arrival of a new baby didn’t—”
Sir Robert interrupted him. “No, no. Barbara was five when Pamela and I married. She’s my daughter by my first wife, who died in childbirth. I’m afraid we’re a rather complicated family.” He smiled. “And yet—not really. Pamela and I had both been widowed, and were each left with a child to bring up—except, of course, that Jeannie was many years older than Barbara. The combining of the two half-families seemed an obvious and sensible solution for all of us. Yes, Jeannie’s death was a great tragedy.”
“What actually happened?” Emmy asked.
“Nobody knows for sure. Jeannie was an adequate if not very strong swimmer, and she was teaching Baba. We felt perfectly happy about the two of them going off to the beach together on their own.
“It was a lovely morning in August, I remember—just the perfect time for an early-morning dip. I remember looking out of the window and seeing the two of them in their swimsuits going down through the park to the beach. About eight in the morning, it must have been. Jeannie was walking ahead with that long stride of hers, and Baba was skipping after her.
“We didn’t worry when they didn’t show up for breakfast at half past eight—we thought they were just enjoying themselves. But by nine Pamela was very uneasy, so I said I’d go down and make sure they were all right.” Sir Robert paused. “At first I couldn’t see anybody on the beach. Then I heard a sort of wailing, and there was Baba on her own, among the trees that lead down to the sea. She seemed—well, completely stunned, poor little mite. ‘Where’s Jeannie?’ I said. All that I could make out between her sobs were the words ‘In the sea.’”
“Are there currents around these waters?” Henry asked.
Sir Robert nodded. “There are. Very strong and treacherous ones. But as a rule, Jeannie never went out of her depth—I told you she was teaching Baba to swim, so she would just stand waist-deep, supporting the child. I suppose that morning she sent Baba ashore and decided to go for a proper swim herself. She must have been caught by t
he current. Her body was washed up a couple of miles down the coast the next day.” Sir Robert paused. “Can you keep a secret, Tibbett?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, the coroner’s jury naturally brought in a verdict of accidental death—but Pamela and I have always been haunted by the idea that the real cause might have been different.”
“Different? You don’t mean—?”
“Shortly after we got married,” said Sir Robert, “Pamela told me—this is in strict confidence, of course—that Jeannie was suffering from multiple sclerosis. It was in its very early stages, and as far as we knew, the girl herself had no idea of her condition. However, as you know, there’s no cure, and the doctors thought it was unlikely that she’d live much beyond her twenty-first birthday—or if she did, it would be as a helpless cripple. Now, if she had somehow found out…well, young people are often less afraid of death than of chronic disability. I just don’t know.”
Emmy said, “In a way, I suppose you can get some sort of comfort from the fact that she would have died anyway. But what a terrible experience for little Barbara. How old was she then?”
“Just six. Yes, it was traumatic, I’m afraid. She doesn’t consciously remember anything about it now, but she’s hated the sea ever since, and she’s never been down to that beach again. We bought her a pony to try to take her mind off it all—and we certainly succeeded, she’s horse-crazy now. Of course, Pamela was utterly shattered. She had been so determined to make Jeannie’s last years happy. But it was a blessing that she had Baba to care for. She looks on her completely as her own daughter.” Sir Robert sighed. “I suppose there’s a tragedy in everybody’s life somewhere, but it’s no less true for being a cliché that time is a great healer. We’re a very happy family.”
A Six-Letter Word for Death Page 4