Myrtle had gone very pink, concentrating on a small white handkerchief that she was twisting between her hands as they lay on her lap.
Henry said cheerfully, “Don’t worry, Myrtle. Your secret is safe. I regard myself as an honorary member of the Guess Who club, and bound by its rules. In any case, you were not even mentioned in the crossword puzzle, which presumably means that nothing even vaguely reprehensible has ever occurred in your past.”
Once again there was silence. Henry went on, “This brings me to the last and most interesting set of clues. It refers to the death by drowning of Eugenia—or Jean—Warfield, which occurred here at Carnworth some twenty years ago. It links both the name of Barbara and the childhood nickname of Baba to the incident.”
The silence in the room was absolute. Henry said, “I have, simply by asking Sir Robert, discovered what this refers to. When Miss Oppenshaw—known then as Baba—was only six years old, she went to the beach for a swimming lesson with her stepsister, eighteen-year-old Jean Warfield. Somehow, during the swim, Jean got carried out to sea by the strong current, and was drowned. It was a terrible and tragic experience for the whole family—especially for little Barbara.” Henry turned suddenly on Vandike, and said almost fiercely, “It was a very cruel thing to bring this matter up, Mr. Vandike. Will you kindly tell us why you did it?”
Harry Vandike was looking thoroughly upset. “I… well…we all agreed, didn’t we, Barbara…?” His voice trailed away.
Barbara Oppenshaw said, coldly and sharply, “Yes, Chief Superintendent. We all agreed. As you so rightly guessed, at that dinner. We had the idea of giving you this…this lighthearted test. We felt the need of three possible murders. Bill and Fred willingly volunteered as guinea pigs, since they had both inherited from elderly ladies. I seemed to be the only other person with any sort of unnatural death in my background.”
“So the idea of raking up the past in this way didn’t upset you?”
“Not in the least, Mr. Tibbett.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Henry said. “To be quite frank, Miss Oppenshaw, the only reason I wasn’t looking forward to this morning’s meeting with relish was the fear of distressing you. As it is—”
“As it is,” said Barbara, with a slight smile, “please go ahead and enjoy yourself.” She sounded perfectly calm and self-possessed. Only Emmy, sitting beside her, noticed that her hands, which appeared to be resting quietly on her lap, were in fact tense and gripping each other for support.
Henry smiled. “Very well. Then I’ll go on. The name Peter is also mentioned. I imagine this to refer to Mr. Turnberry. The clue mentions that he holds the keys.”
“To heaven,” Harry Vandike said loudly.
“Yes, that explanation of the clue did occur both to myself and the Bishop,” said Henry. “Actually, I suspect that his name was brought in simply because it fitted the puzzle. There are other enigmatic words—‘big,’ ‘alibi,’ ‘pen,’ ‘whim,’ and a few more. My ingenious expert, combining the clues with the answers, tells me that I am being told by Mr. Vandike that I am onto something big, that the pen is mightier than the sword—or even the blunt instrument—and that ‘Et tu, Brute’ refers to one of the most famous murders in all history—that of Julius Caesar. He also connects ‘whim’ with a misspelling of Lord Peter Wimsey, thereby dragging in the detective motif. Personally, I think this is all a little farfetched. The clue to ‘alibi’ interests me, however. It says that it hopes Barbara has a good one.” Again he wheeled on Vandike. “Wasn’t that an unnecessary piece of spite against a six-year-old? Or was it put in to score off an author whose books sell better than yours do?”
Harold Vandike had turned red under his goatee and flurry of side-whiskers. “I really don’t know why you’re picking on me all the time, Tibbett. I simply did as I was asked, and composed the crossword. It wasn’t easy, I assure you, with all those names to fit in. Naturally a few odd words emerged.”
“I was talking about the clues,” said Henry. “However, far be it from me to pry into professional rivalries.” He paused. Then, with a change of tone, he said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, have I passed your test?”
At once the atmosphere lightened. There was a burst of applause and laughter, and everybody seemed to be talking at once.
Sir Robert got up from his chair and came over to Henry. He shook him warmly by the hand, and then indicated that he wanted silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think we owe a vote of thanks to Chief Superintendent Tibbett—or, as we shall now always think of him—to Henry.” Loud applause. “He has not only educated and entertained us by his expertise in his own field, but he has shown us that real-life detectives can be as cunningly ingenious as those of fiction. I confess that your little game of Guess Who was quite unknown to me until Henry told me about it yesterday afternoon—but I think we must give him full credit for solving every mystery you gave him, and we can all feel relieved that he has found the whole thing to be nothing but a game.” Applause and laughter. “And now, dear friends, Pamela will get you drinks to see you through until luncheon.”
At this signal, the meeting formally broke up. Drinks were served, the semicircle of chairs was disarranged, and conversation became general. Myrtle insisted on telling Henry that her name was Waterford, and became quite tipsy over sherry. Fred and Bill soon had Henry laughing over the way they concocted their impossibilities for Miss Twinkley, and Barbara circulated coolly, refilling glasses and confessing that it was a relief to be able to confess to being Lydia Drake for a while.
Only two of the party seemed less than genial: Harry Vandike and Peter Turnberry. In the case of Vandike, Henry put it down to the fact that he had been publicly attacked for his unkindness. And of course Elaine Summerfield was an embarrassment.
The case of Peter Turnberry, however, puzzled Henry. The whole matter would appear to have nothing to do with him, and yet he stood looking out of the window, alone and morose. When Barbara went up to speak to him, he seemed—Henry was out of earshot—to dismiss her with an abrupt remark, for she turned away quickly and went to talk to Sir Robert.
It was shortly before the gong sounded to announce the serving of lunch that Peter seemed to come to a decision. He elbowed his way through a group that had formed around Henry and, interrupting the general flow of conversation, said loudly, “Chief Superintendent, may I have a word with you?”
It was at this moment that the gong temporarily put an end to all talk. As its reverberating notes died away, Henry became aware that Peter Turnberry was still speaking. In the momentary silence that followed the sounding of the gong, he was saying “…this afternoon. I’ll come to your room at five.”
“Just as you like, my dear chap,” said Henry. He was aware, with a slight prickling of alarm, that everyone in the room must have heard Peter’s words.
Then conversation started up again, and Sir Robert, taking over easy command, said, “Well, my friends, shall we go in to luncheon?”
CHAPTER SIX
LADY OPPENSHAW LED the way into the dining room, followed by her chattering crowd of guests. Henry was one of the last, having been buttonholed by Fred Coe, who had some questions on exact police procedure bearing on the novel he and Bill were completing. Consequently, Henry arrived only just in time to see the butler discreetly whisking away a place setting and rearranging the others so that no gap was noticeable. As the company took their seats, Henry glanced around the table and saw that Peter Turnberry was missing.
Henry, who was sitting next to Barbara, remarked, “I see that your fiancé is lunching elsewhere.”
“Oh, I doubt it.” Barbara sounded bored. “He often skips meals. As a matter of fact, he told me in the drawing room that he was riding over to see his parents.”
“To St. Lawrence?” said Pamela Oppenshaw, surprised.
“That’s where they live, Mother,” said Barbara.
“What a curious thing to do.” Lady Oppenshaw sounded puzzled. “He’ll ba
rely have time to get there and back, if he really intends to see you at five, Mr. Tibbett.”
“Oh, he said something about fetching something.” Barbara seemed to lose interest in the subject, and turned to talk to Professor Coe, who sat on her other side. Nobody else mentioned Peter Turnberry’s absence.
When lunch was over and coffee had been drunk in the drawing room, the members of the party dispersed to their chosen afternoon activities.
Barbara, predictably, was off for a ride. “Nothing strenuous, just a gentle hack. Might meet Peter on the way home.” She went off to change.
Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw were engaged for tea with a dowager countess who lived some twenty miles away. They apologized for neglecting their guests. “The old darling is over ninety,” Pamela explained, “and she gives these teas on the first Saturday of every month. It’s her only form of social activity, and we didn’t feel we could disappoint her. Don’t worry, we’ll be back for cocktails. Tea with Lucy is strictly tea, and no more!” As it was such a beautiful day, they had decided to drive themselves in the Jaguar, taking the longer road over the downs to enjoy the scenery.
Henry and Emmy opted for the beach, looking forward to a lazy afternoon with a couple of good books and a leisurely swim. Harry Vandike asked his host’s permission to take out the day-sailing boat alone—“The man must be mad,” remarked Fred Coe—and this was given, as Vandike was known to be a first-class sailor. However, Sir Robert spoke earnestly of the strength of the tides and the unpredictability of the wind, and Harry smilingly agreed not to venture beyond the protective arms of the little bay.
Professor Coe, still smarting from his boating experience of the previous day, announced that while the others might be on holiday, he had an article to finish for The Economist with a Tuesday deadline, and that he would work on it in the library. He might possibly take a short walk on the grounds as a break.
Bill Cartwright also announced his intention of taking a walk—but his was with an object. He wished to search the surrounding woods for rare species of edible fungi. Remembering her culinary conversation with him the previous evening, Emmy was not surprised. There was quite a bit of good-natured chaffing about not trying them out on the guests for dinner, which seemed to rile Cartwright. He was an expert, as he pointed out with a certain amount of pique, and knew as well as any man in England what was poisonous and what was not.
As for Myrtle, the last member of the party, Emmy found something a little sad about her decision to spend the afternoon in her room, writing letters. It seemed as though she had waited until last, hoping against hope that somebody would ask her to join in his activity. In fact, kindhearted Emmy had been about to suggest that she come with them to the beach, when a warning look from Henry stopped her.
“I live such a busy life normally,” Myrtle remarked bravely, “that I’m afraid my correspondence gets terribly neglected. It will be a splendid opportunity to catch up.”
And so the afternoon was planned, and the house party dispersed, leaving Carnworth Manor to the maids, who were cleaning up; the cook, taking her afternoon nap; the butler, sipping port and languidly polishing silver in his pantry; the chauffeur, washing the Bentley; Myrtle Waterford, writing to an old schoolfriend, who was the only person she could think of to whom she owed a letter; and Harry Vandike, checking on the exact meaning of the word “piffero” in Sir Robert’s big dictionary and finding to his delight that one of the definitions of it was “a rude oboe.” Should be able to get a good clue out of that one, he thought, as he closed the dictionary and went to change into blue jeans for sailing.
At the library desk, Frederick Coe was putting the finishing touches to his Economist article. “Please close the door quietly,” he said, not being able to think of anything more cutting. He had always disliked Harry Vandike. A very peaceful, very English summer afternoon.
Henry and Emmy felt that they had made a good choice. Of course, the beach was not private to Carnworth Manor; every English beach below the high-water line belongs to the Crown and is therefore public property. Although the Carnworth estate ran right down to the water’s edge, there was an ancient right-of-way (an overgrown footpath) that enabled outsiders to reach and enjoy the sandy bay. However, the right-of-way from the road was little known and few holiday-makers ever found their way to what was always known as Carnworth Beach, so that it was as nearly private as it could be. Consequently, the Tibbetts had it to themselves.
Sir Robert’s day-sailer—a pretty clinker-built eighteen-footer—was bobbing at her mooring a little way offshore, and her dinghy was hauled up on the beach. The Tibbetts helped Harry Vandike carry the dinghy to the water and watched approvingly as he set sail, dropping the mooring neatly and heading out into the bay, with the dinghy bobbing behind him like a chick following a mother hen. Henry and Emmy were not surprised when after a couple of turns across the mouth of the bay—the offshore wind giving a delightful reach in both directions—the sailboat disappeared around the point and into more adventurous waters, strictly against Sir Robert’s rules. The Tibbetts were sailors themselves, and could recognize expertise when they saw it. Harry Vandike would come to no harm on this lovely afternoon, currents or no currents.
After a sunbath and a swim, Henry and Emmy settled down on their beach towels, heads in the shade. Emmy said, “I thought you did marvelously this morning, darling.”
“Did you?” Henry sounded abstracted. “I wonder.”
“They set you a problem, and you solved it beautifully,” said Emmy. She laughed. “I’ve never seen a lot of people more surprised.”
“And not very pleased,” said Henry.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t quite know. Some of them hoped that I wouldn’t have made any sense of it—or even solved the clues—so that they could make a fool of me. That’s understandable. What is stranger is that others—somebody else, at least—was annoyed because I hadn’t solved enough. There’s something else about that puzzle that I was supposed to have grasped, and didn’t.”
Sleepy with sunshine, Emmy said, “Peter holds the keys.”
“That’s just what I mean. Peter holds the keys to more than the pearly gates, if you ask me.”
“Well,” said Emmy, “you’ll see him at five. That’s what he said, wasn’t it? Five o’clock in our room.”
By five o’clock, most of the visitors to Carnworth Manor had had enough of their afternoon activities and were back in their rooms, taking a bath, putting their feet up for a leisurely read, preparing to change for dinner, and—in a few cases—fortifying themselves with a drink from a private bottle. Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw’s Jaguar turned back into the drive at a quarter to six. They had not with any decency been able to leave poor old Lucy before a quarter past five, and the drive back took a good half hour. They were surprised to be met in the hall by Barbara, still wearing her jodhpurs and riding shirt.
“Hello, darling,” said Pamela Oppenshaw. “Have a good ride? Our tea was gruesome, as you can imagine, but at least our consciences are clear.”
Barbara said bluntly, “Mother, I’m worried. Peter hasn’t come back.”
“What d’you mean, not come back?” Sir Robert asked brusquely. He found Lady Lucy’s teas even more irksome than Pamela did, and was in no mood for any worrisome matters. “Why should he have come back? He often stays out later than this.”
“That’s not the point.” Barbara almost stamped with impatience. “Didn’t you hear him say to Henry Tibbett that he’d see him in his room at five?”
“Yes, but—”
“I got back just after five, and Timmond told me there was no sign of Peter or Melly.”
Timmond was the Oppenshaws’ groom, and Melly—short for Melisande (by Pelleas out of Lost Love)—was Peter’s favorite mare, whom he had taken out at one o’clock, when the rest of the party was sitting down to lunch. Timmond, like Sir Robert, was not unduly worried. Barbara had waited until half past five, then telephoned the Tibbetts
’ room. No, Henry had said, there had been no sign of Peter. He, too, did not sound alarmed. No, he had no idea of what Turnberry wanted to see him about, but surely it could wait.
Barbara was just back from visiting the stables again, but there was no sign of either horse or rider.
“My dear girl, you do get worked up over nothing at all,” said Sir Robert, not unkindly. “He’ll be back for a drink before dinner. Plenty of time yet.”
Pamela Oppenshaw, however, was worried by Barbara’s obvious distress. She said, “Why don’t we call the Turnberrys and see if Peter did ride over there, and if so, what time he left? Would that set your mind at rest?”
“Oh, thank you, Mother. That’s a splendid idea. I was afraid you’d think I was just fussing.”
“Now, you go up and have a bath and change, Robert,” said Pamela in a voice that brooked no contradiction. “Barbara and I will telephone.”
Mrs. Turnberry sounded like reassurance itself. Yes, indeed, Peter had ridden over on Melly to see them. Arrived at…what time would you say Peter arrived, dear?… That’s right, I’d just gone down to pick some roses from the garden, so it must have been a little before three… Didn’t stay long, though. A flying visit, you might say…Pamela.
It still took an effort for Nora Turnberry to call Lady Oppenshaw “Pamela.” The Turnberrys were not and had never claimed, nor wanted to be, what the English describe as upper-class, or “county,” or (if one of them) “one of us.” James and Nora Turnberry were business people, self-made and proud of it. The son of a butcher, James Turnberry had made a comfortable amount of money in the business, opening half a dozen shops in the West London suburbs. Tiring of London and wanting semiretirement, James had sold these shops to a chain store, making a good profit. He had moved to the Isle of Wight and bought a small farm, and now he owned the two best butcher shops on the island. This could hardly be called “a chain of stores”—but it was as a chain that Lady Oppenshaw described the ownership of her future in-laws’ stores to her friends.
A Six-Letter Word for Death Page 6