Slight Mourning

by Catherine Aird

  “I’m not surprised. Look at what it has to carry about,” said Cynthia with friendly candour.

  “Daniel wouldn’t like me thin,” she said, bending forward to rub the offending member. “That’s better. I think I’ll have to have some more of that famous balm of yours, Cynthia.”

  “With pleasure.” She grinned. “Though you were supposed to be the dispenser.”

  “Not any more. I’ve forgotten all I knew. Besides, I don’t know what you put in it …”

  “That’s a trade secret.”

  “Well,” admitted Marjorie a little grudgingly, “it certainly helped last time.”

  “You and your potions, Cynthia,” chided Ursula Renville. “A couple of hundred years ago and you’d have been burned as a witch.”

  “A couple of hundred years ago,” remarked Marjorie Marchmont pertinently, “if you were, someone might have wondered if you’d put your curse on the Fent family.”

  Cynthia looked up. “In what way?”

  “Well,” she said, “they’ve still got the same old trouble again up at the Park, haven’t they? The trouble that they’ve always had.”

  “What’s that?” Ursula asked her cautiously. Marjorie’s thought-processes were deceptively simple, and needed taking one at a time.

  “Getting rid of the entail. They’re right back where they started, aren’t they? Now that Bill’s gone …”

  “I suppose they are.” Cynthia Paterson sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “They could always hunt out Hector Fent’s sons if he had any …”

  “He’ll have had sons, all right,” declared Marjorie robustly, “but whether he ever married their mothers is a different matter.”

  “He certainly had a twinkle in his eye,” said Ursula unexpectedly. “I used to think he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.”

  “He may still be alive,” said Cynthia. “We don’t know that he’s dead. He wouldn’t have been all that old, you knew, even now. About our age, Ursula. Older than you, Marjorie.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Renville, “but he will have lived.”

  “Ursula, really!” Cynthia regarded her friend in astonishment.

  “Well, Constance Parva isn’t really living, is it, Cynthia?” She set her coffee cup down on the rustic wooden table. “I don’t mean that I’m not content or anything like that, and I’m very fond of Richard, but it’s hardly life with a capital ‘L’, is it?”

  Marjorie Marchmont hooted with laughter. “Ursula, you are a dark horse. Here you are, cherishing dreams of a tall dark handsome man in the Australian outback and all the while we thought wild horses wouldn’t drag you away from the village and Richard.”

  “Still waters run deep,” she said demurely. “More coffee, anyone?”

  “Of course,” said Cynthia Paterson, her mind still on the question of the Fent entail, “should Quentin and Hector or Hector’s sons if he had any and has died himself since—should they get together the outcome might be just the same as when Bill and Quentin did their talking.”

  “And from all that I heard,” said Marjorie expressively, “that was no go.”

  Detective Inspector Sloan—after talking to Mr. Puckle on the telephone—was trying to explain the same situation to Superintendent Leeyes. It took longer.

  “What I want to know, Sloan,” that worthy demanded, “is who gets the Strontfield Park outfit now? All that land must be worth a bit.”

  “Quentin Fent, cousin of the deceased.”

  “Then?”

  “Quentin’s sons, if he has any. After that, Hector Fent, uncle of the deceased. Last heard of in the backwoods of Queensland. Went out there after the war. The story is that he had an adventurous time until 1945 and then couldn’t settle down afterwards. Bit of a black sheep, from the sound of things.”

  “Ha!” said Leeyes alertly. “A remittance man, I’ll be bound.”

  “I couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure. There is some doubt about whether or not he’s still alive.”

  “He’ll be alive, all right, Sloan. Only the good die young. And believe you me a remittance man lives longer than most people.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “No worries,” said Leeyes cynically.

  “The Fents have had worries,” said Sloan. “I’ve found out that much so far. According to the family solicitor there’s an old-fashioned entail on the place. They’ve been trying to break it for years.”

  “They have, have they?” said Leeyes, sitting up and taking notice. “Go on.”

  “Apparently, sir,” Sloan consulted his notebook, “it takes two to break an entail.”

  “Like it takes two to make a quarrel,” said the superintendent irritably. “I know that. Get on with it.”

  “The deceased’s grandfather died during the minority of his son—that would be Captain Fent’s father—and Captain Fent himself was killed while his son—that’s our William Fent—was still in short trousers.”

  “And the deceased—our William Fent—didn’t have a son anyway, let alone one of twenty-one,” finished Leeyes for him.

  “Precisely, sir. This entail can only be broken with the consent of two adults.”

  “Don’t talk to me about consenting adults, Sloan,” snarled Leeyes. “It upsets me. You know that.”

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir.” He took a deep breath and started again. “What the Fents have needed for a long time has been an heir who has been of age.”

  Leeyes pounced. “This cousin—Quentin Fent—he’s the heir, isn’t he?”

  “Heir at law, I think.” Sloan frowned. “He was heir presumptive all the while Bill Fent was childless. Or was it heir apparent? I’m not sure which.”

  “Presumptive or apparent,” said Leeyes flatly, “isn’t he of age?”

  “Just.”

  “Well, then …”

  “That’s the interesting thing, sir. He—er—wouldn’t consent to breaking the entail.”

  The superintendent glowered across the table. “Let’s get this quite straight, Sloan. Something kills off the grandfather …”

  “Pneumonia, sir.”

  “And the father.”

  “The Germans, sir.”

  “And our chap.”

  “The motor car, sir.”

  Leeyes let that pass. He said, “That happens soon after the heir presumptive or that other thing …”

  “Apparent.”

  “Apparent—soon after he comes of age.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How soon?”

  “A couple of months. Not of age, exactly, sir. The deed of entail specifies twenty-one years of age.”

  “Quite right, too.” The superintendent didn’t hold with the new coming of age of eighteen. “What was good enough for the Normans, Sloan, is good enough for me.”

  “The Normans, sir?” inquired Sloan politely.

  “Didn’t you know, Sloan? They put the age of majority up to twenty-one. From fifteen. Ten sixty-six and all that.” The superintendent was given to attending evening classes and was the possessor of much sundry and totally unrelated information. “Norman armour and Norman horses were too big for Saxon lads of fifteen to handle so they put it up to twenty-one.”

  “Really, sir?” Sloan turned his attention back to his notebook. It was all very well for the superintendent and the coroner to be talking about the Norman Conquest but a lot had happened since then and he had work to do.

  “So,” continued Leeyes ruminatively, “young Quentin wouldn’t renounce his rights.”

  “Asked for time to think about it, sir, according to Mr. Puckle.”

  “And,” inquired the superintendent sarcastically, “had he done his thinking before this unfortunate accident?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure.”

  “Well, find out then, Sloan. Find out.”

  “Feeling a bit better now?” asked Annabel Pollock encouragingly. “I’ve brought you some fresh tea. I thought that would be better than coffee.”

  “Thank you.” No
w that Helen Fent was propped up on her pillows, her colour had begun to come back a little. “Wasn’t that silly of me?”

  “Of course not,” responded Annabel warmly.

  “I can’t think what came over me.”

  “It might have happened to anyone. It’s hot enough. Besides, you’ve had a terrible week.”

  Helen took a sip of tea. “I can’t believe that it’s only a week. Seems like a hundred years since last Saturday.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Annabel’s gaze fell upon the empty twin bed beside Helen’s. She changed the subject. “I like your lady doctor, Helen. By the way, she says you’re to stay here in bed until she comes again.”

  “But what about …”

  “Doctor’s orders,” said Annabel Pollock. “Nurses can’t go against them.”

  “Patients can,” said Helen Fent briefly.

  “Another cup?” asked the nurse, ignoring this. “And then I’ll give you a hand into a nightie and you can get into bed properly.”

  “No.” Helen pulled the eiderdown protectively up to her chin. “No, thank you, Annabel. I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you. And I don’t want to see anyone—do you understand?—anyone at all. Are they still here? The crowd downstairs …”

  “Everyone’s gone now except Quentin. Mr. Puckle wants to see him again on Monday in his office so he’s going to ask you if he can stay on a bit instead of going back to town.”

  “Of course.” A curious expression came over Helen’s face. “We’ve got a lot to talk about—Quentin and I.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “But,” she added urgently, “I don’t want to see anyone else—do you understand?” She grasped Annabel’s arm. “Anyone at all—whoever they are. You’re not to let anyone come upstairs to see me—whatever they say.”

  EIGHT

  The tea which Detective Inspector Sloan and Detective Constable Crosby drank midway through the afternoon was only cousin many times removed to that served to Mrs. Helen Fent at Strontfield Park. The dark strong Indian brew of the Police Canteen bore little resemblance to the faintly brown, tarry-flavoured Lapsang Souchong brought to the bedroom by Annabel Pollock. And the buns which came up with it for the policemen were notable for their substance rather than their flavour.

  Sloan was contemplating a report, chewing the while.

  Crosby was finishing off a telephone call. “That was the coffin shop, sir …”

  “The what, Crosby?”

  “Sorry, sir. The hospital. The Intensive Care Unit actually. I got the staff nurse this time. No change. Exley is still deeply unconscious. His wife’s back there again with him. Her sister is looking after the kids.” He took a bun, regarded it critically and then bit into it. “I reckon,” he said after a mouthful, “that they get these buns second hand from the railways.”

  The report on Sloan’s desk was from Police Constable Bargrave, who was stationed at Constance Magna but whose wide country beat included the village of Constance Parva. P.c. Bargrave had dutifully committed to paper all that he knew of the twelve at the dinner table. It wasn’t encouraging reading for a detective.

  “Do you realize, Crosby, that half of those people at Strontfield Park on Saturday night could lay their hands on barbiturates if they had a mind to?”

  “Dr. and Mrs. Washby, anyway,” agreed Crosby, “for a start.”

  “And the girl Annabel Pollock, who is a nurse at St. Ninian’s”—Sloan waved the report in his hand—“and Mrs. Marjorie Marchmont, who used to be a dispenser, and therefore presumably her husband, to say nothing of the gardener woman …”

  “Miss Paterson? How come, sir?”

  “You will be interested to know,” said Sloan heavily, “that Miss Cynthia Paterson has a well-established local reputation in the village for being a dab hand at herbal remedies. Brews them herself, according to Bargrave.”

  Crosby started to count on his fingers. “That leaves the professor …”

  “Who might very well have had sleeping tablets prescribed for him by his own doctor …”

  “And the two Renvilles,” enumerated Crosby, “then there’s young Quentin Fent …”

  “And the widow,” Sloan reminded him. “Don’t forget her.”

  “She hasn’t anything to gain though, has she, sir? It sounds as if she even loses the house now.”

  “Beware of widows,” said Sloan automatically. “Besides, according to your Milly Pennyfeather Mrs. Fent fainted when she heard that there were police at the funeral.”

  “The heat?” suggested Crosby, who had been told about the faint when he had nipped over to Constance Parva to ask Milly out that night.

  “It’s been hot all the week.”

  “The funeral?”

  “The funeral was over.”

  “The Will?”

  “The Will has been cut and dried for eight years. And the widow must have known all about the entail, seeing as how pretty nearly everyone else in Constance Parva seems to have known all about it too. Anyway, old Mr. Puckle reminded her of the provisions of the Deed of Settlement beforehand. He’s just told us that. It turned out that she knew ’em already.”

  “I’d faint too, sir,” said Crosby, “if I thought that longhaired art dealer chap with the fancy tie thing …”

  “Cravat,” said Sloan distastefully, “or jabot. I don’t know which.” Sloan himself only went out without a collar and tie on Sunday mornings when he went into the garden to tend his roses, and since his marriage he’d affected a decent sports shirt for gardening.

  “If I thought he was the one who was going to have the jam off the bread and butter,” said Crosby, “I shouldn’t like it at all.”

  Sloan murmured thoughtfully, “He must be pretty glad all the same that he turned down the deceased’s efforts at breaking the entail. Otherwise he might have lost out.”

  “As it is, sir,” agreed Crosby, going on from there, “he’s got all the dibs instead of only what the deceased would agree to.”

  “Except,” Sloan reminded Crosby in much the same way as Mr. Puckle had reminded Quentin Fent, “he himself is now bound by exactly the same conditions as hogtied William Fent in his day.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Neither, I suspect,” said Sloan dryly, “had our Quentin.”

  “What about this Australian uncle, sir …”

  “You’re going to find out all about him, Crosby,” said Sloan briskly. “Send a request for information to the Police Commissioner, Queensland State Police. Somewhere down under may be the next male heir after Quentin Fent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And find someone who can talk to me about this development that Fent couldn’t afford. Someone sensible who knows what he’s talking about.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

  “Plenty. See if you can get hold of that Home Office chap—Dr. Writtle—and find out if the barbiturate that Fent had could be a do-it-yourself job—you know, ‘eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog.’”

  “Sir?”

  “Forget it. Just ask.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Crosby …”

  “Sir?”

  “What else about this case bears looking into?”

  Crosby screwed up his face in an agony of concentration.

  “Come on! Something else you extracted from your friend Milly Pennyfeather. Don’t you remember? Something about Saturday night.”

  The agonized look disappeared and was replaced by a triumphant one. “The telephone call!”

  “Exactly. What we need to know is if that call was a put-up job—getting Fent out on the road at that time of night—or if it was a genuine call and Bill Fent was supposed to be overcome in the wee small hours at home in his own bed.”

  “Someone would have had to ring the doctor’s number after the doctor had left his house for Strontfield Park,” said Crosby.

  “That wouldn’t have been too difficult to arrange, sur
ely.”

  “No, sir, it wouldn’t but”—Crosby scratched his head—“it might not have been the only call for the doctor on the tape. Whoever rang would have to take a risk on there being other messages on it which would help us pinpoint the time.”

  “True. All the same you might ask Milly tonight if she saw any of the guests or family nip out to use the Strontfield Park telephone.”

  Crosby shook his head. “I did, sir. The only person she knew who left the others in the drawing-room apart from the Fents was Dr. Washby. He came out to the kitchen to give Milly her grandfather’s tablets. For his heart.”

  “Before dinner or after?”

  “Before. She was struggling to get that crown of lamb thing out onto a serving dish at the time. Had both her hands full. So the doctor just put them on the kitchen dresser and went back to the company.”

  “I see.” Sloan wrote something in his notebook. “We’re not getting very far, are we? We don’t know if Bill Fent was the intended victim.”

  “No, sir. We don’t.”

  “We don’t know if the phone call for the doctor was a fake to get Fent out on the road.”

  “No, sir.”

  “We don’t even know where the barbiturate came from.”

  “And,” Crosby capped this recital of woe, “we don’t know how whoever gave it to him actually got it into him.”

  Sloan abbreviated that for his notebook into the one word “opportunity.”

  “Or why, sir. We don’t know that either …”

  “He was on the Bench. We might just look back to see if anyone he’d sentenced had got it in for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And see if anyone of the party was in the habit of taking sleeping tablets.” Sloan tried to make another note in his book but the ball-point pen wouldn’t work. He threw it down on his desk. “I don’t know about the buns but I think we must get our pens second hand from the Post Office.”