Death and the Dutiful Daughter

by Anne Morice

  ‘As early as you can manage, my pet. The service is at twelve, but they’ll all be coming down from London and I’m afraid there’ll be a terrible lot to do, especially as we can’t really count on Albert.’

  As I have already indicated, I would gladly have turned cartwheels all the way to Penzance for Betsy’s sake, but I was reminded that she did, after all, have a husband who might have been expected to provide a shoulder to lean on, if not some practical help in this emergency and, with my hand already on the ignition key, I said:

  ‘By the way, how’s Jasper bearing up?’

  She jumped back, as though expecting me to run over her foot, then laughed in a shamefaced way at her own nerviness.

  ‘He’s all right, thank you, my duck, but you know Jas. He hasn’t much time or patience to spare for sentiment. I think he’s taken the punt out to get one or two shots. Very sensible, really. Much better than sitting around moping.’

  These remarks, though not by normal standards particularly harsh, came as near to adverse criticism as I had ever heard Betsy deliver on anyone, let alone the cherished Jasper, and one way and another I had much food for thought as I covered the last eight miles up the hill to Roakes Common.

  III

  (i)

  ‘Where’s my teapot?’ Toby demanded, when I ran him to earth in his favourite bolt-hole, a revolving summerhouse as far away from the house as ingenuity could place it.

  ‘Sold to the lady in the pink petal hat for fifteen-fifty. You’re well out of it, really. It was fairly hideous.’

  ‘Indeed? That wasn’t your story yesterday.’

  ‘Well, all in a good cause. You’re very snug in here, I must say,’ I went on, sinking into a chintzy garden chair. ‘Who are you hiding from at the moment?’

  ‘My new neighbour,’ he replied sadly.

  ‘You’re surely not telling me that the Manor House has been sold again?’

  The Manor was the grandest of the five houses grouped around this section of the Common and the nearest to Toby’s own. It had recently been acquired by a firm of farm machinery manufacturers, a very popular development with both Toby and Mr Parkes the gardener, since it provided one with unlimited expert advice whenever the lawn-mower took a fit in its head and the other with blessed peace and quiet from Friday to Monday, when the experts were elsewhere engaged.

  Toby shook his head but, being neurotically superstitious, wrapped both hands round the wooden arms of his chair.

  ‘Who, then? Oh dear, I hope darling old Miss Davenport isn’t dead?’

  The properties in that small community, hemmed in as it was on all sides by Forestry Commissions, National Trusts, etcetera, all with their ever-watchful custodians, were so greatly prized by their owners that death was the only cause that sprang to mind for one of them changing hands.

  Toby considered the question. ‘I don’t think so. At least, not noticeably deader than she ever was. No, the Griswolds have sold White Gables and gone to live in Portugal.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘You may well ask. Sylvia said that she must have sun, sun, sun, and that her soul was shrivelling away for lack of it, but we know better, I daresay.’

  ‘You mean that dreary old tax thing?’

  ‘Though what they could be saving up for in Portugal, apart from their own funerals, is rather a puzzle. Why do we keep harping on death?’

  ‘It’s in the air, I suppose. I’ve just been with Betsy Craig.’

  ‘Ah yes. How was she? Talked you into a stupor, no doubt?’

  ‘No, rather subdued for her.’

  ‘Well, that must have made a nice change. Let’s hope the effects of her bereavement don’t wear off too fast.’

  This uncharitable remark naturally prompted me to rush to Betsy’s defence, and furthermore I was bursting to tell someone about the recent events at the Rectory, but Toby was not exactly the soul of discretion and I was determined to restrain myself until Robin and I were alone. Knowing the speed with which Toby could undermine such resolutions, I said quickly:

  ‘Tell me, though, who’s bought White Gables?’

  ‘Well, you may picture my relief when Sylvia announced, in her whimsical fashion, that they’d sold the dear old home to a sweet little white-haired widow lady, minus dogs and children. It sounded safe enough. In fact, I was given the impression that the only faint risk was that this frail old person might be gathered by the angels before she was able to sign the title deeds, but I should have known that Sylvia would stab me in the back.’

  ‘I suppose you should, but how did she manage it?’

  ‘Simply by omitting to mention that the creature has white hair because that happens to be the colour she chooses to dye it, and if she’s really a widow I can only suppose that her husband died from sheer desperation. She has twice as much vitality as you and I put together and she’s even more stupid than Sylvia was.’

  ‘Oh well,’ I said soothingly, ‘it doesn’t sound as though you had much to worry about. She probably leads a very full life, so she won’t have much time for you.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more mistaken. Like so many stupid people, Sylvia was arch cunning and she knew exactly what this harridan was after. She bamboozled her into buying that tasteless house by throwing me in as bait.’

  ‘Well, really!’

  ‘I’m not joking. Not content with spinning all those fairy tales for my benefit, she had the effrontery to describe me to this predatory female as a crusty old bachelor, too shy and proud to admit how lonely he was, and absolutely potty about the fair sex.’

  ‘Honestly, Toby, I can’t believe it. Not even Sylvia would use such language! And how could you be a crusty old bachelor with a fully grown daughter on the premises?’

  ‘Crusty old divorcé then. It amounts to the same thing, and you can see what a farcical situation it has landed me in.’

  ‘Very trying, I agree, but no doubt you’ll weather the storm, as you have before. What’s her name?’

  ‘How should I know?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Jackson or something. She has told me to call her Lulu, which is not a thing one would be likely to forget in a hurry, but the only thing that need really concern us about her name is that she’s hell bent on changing it.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Quite a worry for you, but we’ll think of something. And here comes Robin! Perhaps he’ll have some bright ideas about how to get you off the hook.’

  ‘He might give me some tips on how to commit the perfect murder,’ Toby said, brightening a little at the prospect. ‘It begins to seem like the only way out.’

  (ii)

  The telephone rang during dinner but Toby ignored it, explaining that people who rang up between eight and nine p.m. were hardly ever those with whom he found himself en rapport.

  Mrs Parkes did not share this prejudice. She tripped in, wearing a pink nylon overall and the highest of heels, to announce that Mrs Jameson had phoned to say that all the downstairs lights at White Gables had fused, and the electric couldn’t send till the morning. She was doing the best she could with candles, but the telly was off too and she’d be ever so grateful if Mr Crichton could go across and have a look-see.

  To my amazement, Toby instructed her to convey the news that he would call in half an hour. Since he didn’t know a fuse-box from a tennis racket, I regarded this as somewhat sinister and wondered if Ellen had given sufficient weight to the question of returning from Tunisia to find a little white-haired stepmother installed at the head of the table.

  As soon as we were alone, Robin and I adjourned to the drawing-room, where he began to tell me about his case. They had pretty well fixed on the husband as the culprit, but had none of the sort of proof which the Director of Public Prosecutions would require and were now faced with the probably long-drawn-out, possibly hopeless task of waiting for their suspect to make a false move. He only spoke of these matters in general terms, however, and I have to confess that I paid them no more than token attention. I was in such a fever of impatie
nce to bring him up to date with events at the Rectory that I seized upon the first lull to launch into a resumé of these, and asked him what he made of them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, looking rather baffled by this abrupt switch of topics. ‘Hadn’t you better tell me first what you make of them?’

  ‘Well, to start with, Betsy is obviously convinced that her mother died rather ahead of the appointed time, due to the fact that someone had laced her last drink of milk.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Yes, but the point is, why should anyone bother to do that when she was due to die at any moment from natural causes? What probably scares Betsy, and I must say I sympathise, is that the milk must have been intended for her, and only got passed on to Maud by accident.’

  Robin was rocking back and forth, his head buried in his hands, and his voice came out rather muffled.

  ‘So I suppose the guilty party must either have been Margot, who afterwards went round destroying all the evidence, or else Albert, who removed the thermos in order to scrub it clean, and then pretended it had been under the bed all the time?’

  ‘Precisely. You are brilliant, Robin! Everything does seem to point to one or other of those two, and I only wish I could decide which.’

  ‘As I see it,’ Robin said, taking his hands away from his face and speaking very seriously, ‘your best bet is to confront them both with it; in private, of course, so that the other doesn’t overhear. Say you know perfectly well that they murdered Maud, even though it wasn’t intentional, and you’d be glad to hear what they intend to do about it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure . . .’ I began doubtfully, and then realised to my horror and disgust that he was sending me up.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, Tessa, truly I am,’ he spluttered through the gasping paroxysms, ‘but you are so funny. Honestly, one can’t help loving you sometimes.’

  ‘I fail to see what I have said that is so hilarious,’ I said stuffily.

  ‘Well, just because circumstances prevent your involving yourself in this case of mine, you have to go and manufacture one of your own. It’s not fair to laugh, but can’t you see that everything you’ve told me has a perfectly innocent and straightforward explanation? Oh, in a normal household, I grant you, the behaviour might appear slightly exaggerated but with that set of extrovert show-offs it’s just the kind of carry-on I would have expected.’

  ‘Albert’s not an extroverted show-off,’ I reminded him.

  ‘No? I wouldn’t be too sure. He may not have started life as one, but I think he became infected by the atmosphere, just like all the rest. I always suspected that perfect English butler act had a dash of the histrionics in it, and it certainly seems to have broken up pretty quickly under stress. I really believe, you know, that he got quite a kick out of seeing himself as a kind of modern Admirable Crichton.’

  ‘Are you talking about me?’ Toby asked, entering the room at this point. ‘How nice! Well, I may not be very modern, but at least I managed to plunge the other half of White Gables into total darkness, so that should teach her.’

  I deplored his accomplishing the business so speedily, feeling certain that another few minutes would have been enough to persuade Robin to take my misgivings seriously but he said that he had a pile of notes to go through before he went to bed and, if all were now quiet in Lovers Lane, he would be on his way.

  I went as far as the gate with him and he asked me about the funeral arrangements and what time I intended to leave in the morning. I told him that I planned to be at the Rectory by ten, but he said that he would probably go directly to the church at midday, unless of course I were to need assistance with any more murders which might have taken place during the night. He then roared merrily away up the stony track leaving me no time for the blistering retort, even if I had been able to think of one.

  IV

  (i)

  In a sense it was one up to Robin that Jasper Craig should have been so deep in the lordly detached mood when I was plunged into my weird little interview with him on Saturday morning.

  Although his work was confined to art and nature films, completed at the rate of about one every two years and made largely for his own amusement, he had become word perfect in the bohemian artist rôle, no doubt revealing himself to be one of the principal victims of the larger-than-life atmosphere, which Maudie generated in her immediate circle. He made a cult of going around at all times and on all occasions in the dirtiest of blue jeans, with frayed, greyish tennis sandals on his feet, and his thick black hair was worn long in front, so that a heavy lock was always falling over his eyes, to be pushed impatiently back by his nervous, sensitive fingers. He despised what he called bourgeois chatter and spent most of his spare time in the local pubs, where, as he explained, were to be found the few really genuine people of his acquaintance, a predilection which can only have been based on the attraction of opposites.

  Nevertheless it was not hard to see why Betsy’s infatuation had smouldered on for over twenty years, for he possessed good looks as well as a rather perverse charm. His features were of classical regularity, with a mouth which looked as though it had been sculpted on to his face and large dark, insolent eyes, which he used to great effect. He was the kind of man who could make love to a woman from the other side of a room, and although I knew him to be selfish, lazy and malicious, I often annoyed myself by finding him rather attractive.

  Furthermore not even shrewd old Maudie had been immune to his insidious charm, for she had indulged him in every way, even going to vast expense to fit out one whole block of the stables as a laboratory and cutting-rooms, although this had never prevented him from spreading all his equipment over any other part of the house whenever he felt the urge.

  Despite his somewhat unsavoury reputation where women were concerned, I have to admit that he never tried to exercise his charms on me, which had doubtless contributed its share to the easy relationship I enjoyed with Betsy. Generally speaking, he let it be understood that he was too engrossed in loftier matters to notice the existence of a ninny like myself, but this Saturday morning was the exception.

  We had met in the hall as I arrived, and without troubling to procure my consent he took my arm and propelled me towards the morning-room, explaining that Betsy was in the pantry, coping with a forest of wreaths and bouquets which, in defiance of the published instructions, had been arriving at the house since daybreak.

  ‘I ought to go and help her,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, you must, but sit down for a minute first. I want to talk to you.’

  He had walked over to a table by the window and was pouring himself a drink. ‘Want one?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m not here to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Very well, my little prig, but five minutes won’t make any difference. I want your opinion about Betsy. You know her as well as anybody. Does anything strike you?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Worried? Nervous? On edge? Delete what does not apply.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they all apply, up to a point; but why not? Apart from the fact that she was dotty about Maud, there’s a hell of a lot to do in a situation like this, and no doubt the rest of the family are leaving everything to her, just as they always do.’

  ‘Including me, I suppose?’

  ‘You’re the worst of the lot, but I was thinking mainly of Margot. It’s so unfair really, because in some ways . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I often suspected that, in spite of Betsy being so good to her, Maudie secretly loved Margot best.’

  ‘Oh, you did, did you? Nevertheless, it’s not Betsy who’s jealous of her bloody sister. That boot’s on the other foot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well,’ I agreed cautiously, ‘perhaps so, but it’s a question of temperament, don’t you think? Margot always wants to be first in everything. She has come to regard it as her natural place.’

  ‘True,’ he replied, getting up to fetch himself another drink. ‘It’s one of the things
which has always made her such a great old bore, but it’s only recently that I’ve begun to wonder whether she isn’t becoming slightly unbalanced. What I’d like to hear from you, Miss T. Crichton, in strict confidence, is whether you entertain the possibility that Margot has become a trifle batty in her middle age?’

  For some unknown reason, he was evidently sounding me out, but Robin’s laughter still burned my ears, cautioning me not to read too much into the question. It was always possible that Jasper, bored and resentful at being edged out of the limelight, was trying to capture a little attention by mixing things a bit. It was a trick he had frequently been known to play.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for months,’ I replied, having given due thought to my answer, ‘so my opinion wouldn’t help. Betsy told me she’d reacted rather over-emotionally, but then you have to remember that Betsy herself is slightly overwrought just now and probably apt to exaggerate trifles. It’s only to be expected. After all, she’s been through a gruelling time.’

  ‘Has she? How, pray?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid, Jasper. I mean, her mother being ill for months on end and then dying and everything. Naturally Betsy’s been at full stretch.’

  ‘The trouble with little people like you,’ he informed me patronisingly, ‘is that you interpret everything according to a set of well-thumbed rules, regardless of whether they apply or not. The truth is that Betsy’s had it a damn sight easier than at any time since our marriage. She’s moved in over here, for one thing, and I come for all my meals when it suits me, so she hasn’t even had to make a pretence of housekeeping. Until Albert’s wife skipped out, the house was running on oiled wheels, and in many ways Maud was far less bother as an invalid, anchored to her bed, than when she was creating havoc all through the house.’

  ‘All the same, invalids can be very demanding too. They can’t be left on their own, for one thing.’

  ‘Which is precisely why there were two nurses in constant attendance; night and day.’

  This raised another question which had been bothering me and I said: