Slight Mourning

by Catherine Aird

  The tea being served at King’s Tree House, Constance Parva, by Mrs. Ursula Renville was China and better than that which came out of the Police Canteen urn. It was Earl Grey’s.

  “And very nice, too,” said Marjorie Marchmont, who always appreciated food and drink in any shape or form.

  “We should have gone ages ago,” said Cynthia Paterson.

  “No,” said Ursula, “don’t go yet. Do stay, both of you. Then it won’t seem so long until Richard gets home.”

  “I must say, it’s very comfortable out here in the shade.” Marjorie leaned back in her chair and sipped the tea. “Daniel’s gone off already. Back to work and then the Reunion.”

  “I wonder what will happen about the development now,” said Ursula Renville. Actually there seemed no risk of either of her visitors leaving. Both of them were well and truly settled in the loggia. The Dalmation dog had gone to sleep.

  Marjorie said, “It looks as if you might have won your fight to keep the village a village, after all, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia Paterson shook her head. “Lost it altogether now, I should say. Young Quentin doesn’t look like a preservationist to me.”

  “Of course,” said Ursula vaguely, “he may find Hector Fent and get him to duck out of the entail.”

  “That’s right, I must say,” snorted Marjorie Marchmont. “If he wouldn’t do it himself for Bill why should he expect someone else to do it for him.”

  “Because,” explained Cynthia reasonably, “Hector Fent—if he’s alive—isn’t really ever likely to inherit himself.”

  “And Quentin always stood a sporting chance, is that it?”

  “In the natural course of events, yes.” Cynthia had known Majorie too long to be put off by her manner. “He was younger than Bill by quite a bit, you know.”

  “Steady on,” said Marjorie roundly. “Bill was my age exactly. We used to play together.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Cynthia smiled. “I remember you then quite well. Your hair was long then. You had pigtails nearly to your waist.”

  “It’s longer now only it doesn’t show,” said Marjorie complacently. “I never have it cut. Just pinned up.”

  “I can see that it was worth Quentin’s while to stick out against breaking the entail,” said Ursula, her mind still on the Fents, “and not Hector’s. But what if Hector has sons?”

  “Ah,” said Cynthia, “then that would be a different kettle of fish unless … until …”

  “Until Quentin has a brace of sons in his quiver,” Marjorie answered for her, giggling a little. “That’s what you mean, Cynthia, isn’t it?”

  “It would alter the situation yet again,” agreed Cynthia decorously.

  “I learned that in Sunday School,” said Marjorie unexpectedly. “About full quivers, I mean.”

  “There’s nothing like the Bible for plain-speaking,” responded Cynthia.

  “I wonder what Helen will do now?” intervened Ursula. Cynthia and Marjorie—once started—were quite capable of arguing for hours.

  “If she’s got any sense,” declared Marjorie, “she’ll clear out. It won’t be much fun for her watching Quentin lording it up at Strontfield.”

  “Pity there’s no Dower House,” remarked Ursula.

  “There’s always Keeper’s Cottage,” said Cynthia. “That’s been empty since they took old Fitch away.”

  Marjorie sniffed. “It’s not very big.”

  “It’s big enough for one,” said Cynthia. “One person doesn’t need a lot of room.”

  “That’s true,” said Ursula. “It’s the men who take up the space.”

  Marjorie roared with laughter. “Not in our house, it isn’t.”

  “You’ll really have to do something about your weight one of these days, Marjorie,” said Cynthia eyeing her dispassionately. “Extremes in nature are always ill-favoured. You should know that.”

  “This development, then,” Ursula intervened again, “what do you think will happen now? Richard’ll be interested naturally.”

  “Nothing,” said Marjorie promptly. “Quentin won’t be able to sell and the property company won’t lease. Stalemate.”

  “You’ve forgotten the third alternative,” said Cynthia.

  Marjorie looked up challengingly. “What’s that?”

  “For Quentin himself to develop as owner.”

  “What with?” asked Marjorie. “Peanuts?”

  “That’s the whole trouble actually, Cynthia,” explained Ursula. “I thought you understood that. The Fents haven’t a lot of money, you know. Never have had. Not that sort of money, anyway. Keeping a house like Strontfield going must have taken every penny Bill had.”

  “I know that,” said Cynthia, undisturbed. “I wasn’t thinking of Fent money.”

  “Not a mortgage,” said Marjorie. “I know Bill tried that because he told me, but the mortgage people or whatever you call them …”

  “I call them usurers,” remarked Cynthia, “but then I’m old-fashioned.”

  “Them, anyway,” said Marjorie undiverted. “They wouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole because of the land being so tied up.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a mortgage,” said Cynthia.

  “What then?” demanded Marjorie. “Don’t be so maddening, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia studied her finger-tips. “I was thinking of Jacqueline.”

  “And who’s Jacqueline when she’s at home?”

  “Jacqueline, my dear, is Quentin Fent’s intended or whatever you call it these days.”

  “And what about her?”

  “She’s the only daughter of Battersby’s Bearings.”

  “What if she is?”

  “Her father could finance any development you cared to mention,” said Cynthia Paterson, “and from all that I’ve heard about him I don’t think he’s likely to be a preservationist either.”

  “Prunes?” echoed Detective Constable Crosby disbelievingly. He had taken Milly Pennyfeather to the cinema in Berebury, and was now giving her a drink in the saloon bar of The Crown and Anchor in Tollgate Street. “Black-coated workers, that’s what my landlady calls them.”

  “Prunes,” repeated Milly. “That’s what I said. You’re ever so interested in Sat’day night, aren’t you?”

  “I like to know how the other half lives, that’s all,” said Crosby, cradling his glass. He wished Milly had made her own drink last half as long. “Prunes with meat sounds right weird to me.”

  Milly wrinkled her nose. “I know. We only have them in our house for breakfast and then not always but people like that are funny. They were mixed with sausage meat.”

  “Cor,” said Crosby. “You don’t say.”

  “Stuffing,” said Milly confidently. “Quite nice, really.”

  “You tasted it?”

  “Well, just to see what it was like. No harm in that, is there?”

  “What about the others? Did they like it?”

  “Dunno,” she said indifferently. “I didn’t do no serving so I couldn’t see if they all ate it up like good little children.” She sighed. “Wasn’t Sampson Ghent marvellous in the big picture? Those muscles on his chest …”

  “The cold soup,” said Crosby, “did you try that?”

  Milly’s lips contracted in an expression of distaste. “Couldn’t bring myself to touch it.”

  “I should think not,” agreed Crosby stoutly. “Why wasn’t it hot?”

  “Search me,” said Milly. “Talking about hot, what did you think of Sampson Ghent in those swimming pool scenes?”

  “Ah,” said Crosby wisely, “that’s not him in the pool. That’s his stand-in.”

  “Never!”

  “S’fact,” said Crosby, who had taken an instant dislike at first sight to the great Sampson Ghent and every single one of his bulging muscles. “He doesn’t go near the water himself. Spoil his make-up.”

  “You’re just jealous.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Though I daresay you got some muscles of your own inside that shirt. Wh
at was it you said you did?”

  “Caretaker,” said Crosby, buttoning his jacket.

  She tossed her head. “Thought so. I said to Mum you’re not in the building trade.”

  “I can carry as many bricks as …”

  “It’s not that. It’s the money. They’re always flush weekends.”

  Crosby gave in and finished his drink. “Same again?”

  “I don’t mind if I do.”

  “They had a fancy pudding, too, didn’t they?” said Crosby when he got back with the drinks. “Cheers.”

  “You can say that again. Cheers.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Milly. “Mrs. Fent chose the menu. She didn’t ask my advice.”

  “Can’t think why not,” said Crosby mendaciously. “Did you get any pudding?”

  Milly shook her head regretfully. “There were only the twelve of them. One each. They were made special the day before.”

  “Ah …”

  “Mrs. Fent had those six little dishes with holes in that she brought back from France last summer. Crémets or something, they were called. You fill them with cream and egg-white and put it in muslin.”

  “Muslin,” said Crosby, genuinely surprised. “You’re sure?”

  “’Course I’m sure.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Why? What do you want to know for?”

  “I don’t.” He leaned forward. “I just want to take your mind off Sampson Ghent.”

  “Get away with you.” Milly giggled. “You are a one.”

  “Come on then, concentrate on the pudding. You fill these little dishes with the creamy stuff and muslin …”

  “You line the dish with the muslin, then you put the stuff in and leave it in a cold place to drain. Then you tip it out onto a plate, cover it with sugar and cream, and serve it with raspberries.”

  “There,” he said triumphantly. “Now you’ve forgotten all about Sampson Ghent.”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Milly.

  “And Mrs. Fent did this twice?”

  “That’s right. She had six dishes. That made twelve. One each. But she gave me some raspberries to take home to Mum because there wasn’t one over for me. Then they went on to the cheese and port.”

  “What colour are his eyes?”

  “Brown,” said Milly promptly. “I’ll tell you what I did try, though. The wine. Mrs. Fent didn’t touch hers. Left it in the glass. So I had that while I was clearing away. Quite nice it was, too.”

  “Ghent’s eyes were blue,” said Crosby.

  Milly poked his chest affectionately. “Brown. I’d never forget a thing like that. I’ve seen all his films.” She put her glass down and looked into his eyes. “Do you remember that scene at the end when he was reunited with his childhood sweetheart? That wasn’t no stand-in.”

  “It’s high time you went home, young Milly,” said Crosby.

  NINE

  Detective Inspector Sloan spent his evening on the case too.

  At home.

  “Margaret,” he asked his wife, “how would you plan a dinner party for twelve?”

  “I shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Margaret Sloan. “Why? You haven’t asked a whole team here, have you?”

  “No, but it’s a thought.” He grinned. “Just to prove how wrong they were.”

  “What about?”

  “Bachelordom.”

  “Don’t you dare. Besides, we haven’t twelve of everything, have we?”

  “No. But,” persisted her spouse, “if you had to, what would you give them to eat?”

  “Well, now,” she sat back in the easy-chair, considering, “when everything’s done and dusted you can’t beat a roast for a real crowd.”

  “What about crown of lamb?”

  “Good idea. It would be nice and cheap, too.”

  “Cheap?” That was something that hadn’t occurred to Sloan.

  “All you need are two joints of best end of lamb and that’s not a dear cut. You’d get a good meal for twelve out of that for as little as anything else bar a stew.”

  “Would you now … I knew I’d married a good manager.”

  “I don’t know if your mother would agree with you there.”

  “Ah, well … that’s different.”

  “Yes.” She eyed him as if she was about to say something more. “Perhaps it is. Anyway, crown of lamb makes a very nice-looking dish, too,” she told him. “It looks more splendid than it is. You get the butcher to remove the chine bones and then you sew up both ends together back to back.”

  Sloan nodded comprehension. “Then you cook it.”

  “Then,” she explained patiently, “you fill the ring in the centre with plenty of stuffing. And, of course, if you want to gild the lily …”

  “Yes?” Anything could be a clue at this stage. Anything at all.

  “Then you put cutlet frills on the ends of the bones.”

  “Cutlet fri … oh, I know. Those paper things that look like chef’s hats for dolls.” All he hoped was that he never had to try to explain them to Superintendent Leeyes, that was all.

  Margaret Sloan smiled and a thrill of warm contentment went through him. “It’s not too bad, being married to a policeman, is it?” he said.

  “Not bad at all,” she said in the faintly dry tone she used where someone else might have got emotional.

  “Wait until I’m out every night in a row for a month.”

  “I’ll go home to Mother …”

  “Or I have to go after a mad gunman.” He moved forward. “You’d better kiss me now in case I don’t come back when I do.”

  “Idiot. Now about those frills …”

  “It doesn’t matter about the frills. A plain kiss will do.”

  “With the frills on the tips of the bones,” she said firmly, “the circle really does look like a crown.”

  “I’ve often wondered what they were used for.”

  “Effect”—she frowned—“unless you’re meant to pick them up at that end for a good chew.”

  “You can lose the best bit of a chop with only a knife and fork,” pronounced Sloan judicially. “There’s nothing like the fingers.”

  “Anyway, the frills make something special of it.” She turned towards the bookcase. “I expect I can rustle up a picture of it for you. The cookery books usually do a photograph of one.” She ran a finger along the bookshelf. “We had enough of them given to us for wedding presents. I don’t know what everyone thought I was going to do—starve you. There’s something else that you can do if the cook has an artistic frame of mind—had she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sloan. “I haven’t seen enough of her to find out. Yet. All we know about her to date is that she’s small, dark, and very attractive.”

  “But you didn’t notice her particularly?”

  “No,” he said, straight-faced. “Only in the police sense.”

  “I know.” She nodded. “Strictly in the line of duty. It’s not too bad, being a policeman, is it?”

  “You learn to notice things,” said Margaret’s husband. “Five foot four, I should say. Black hair …”

  “So that you would know her again in a crowd?”

  “Have to keep your eyes open on the job.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Good legs and better ankles.”

  “Which dish are we talking about now?”

  Sloan grinned. “Crown of lamb. Why did you want to know if Mrs. Fent was artistic?”

  “If she was, then she’d probably pipe creamed potatoes round the outside edge of the lamb.”

  “And that looks like ermine, I suppose.”

  “Idiot,” she said for the second time.

  “Especially with the odd pea strategically placed in the potato,” he said.

  “I’d better put the coffee on.”

  Later he came back to the subject of the meal at Strontfield Park.

  “Perhaps, Margaret, you can tell me something else?”

  “Yes, Officer?”


  “Why would Mrs. Fent have served cold soup?”

  “Less trouble than grapefruit,” replied Mrs. Sloan without hesitation. “And cheaper than melon. And pâté—what your mother and mine used to make themselves and call potted meat—is out because you can’t do hot toast for twelve if you’ve got the roast on your mind.”

  “But why was the soup served cold?”

  “Because that meant she could dish it out earlier—before the guests arrived, perhaps. Serving twelve plates of hot soup from a tureen is a bit of a performance and even if you pour it out beforehand hot it’ll be cold by the time you’ve got twelve people sitting down and settled. Cold soup’s quite nice, anyway.”

  “Never.” He took his coffee from the tray. “Aren’t you having any?”

  She shook her head. “It upset my tummy last night.”

  “Do you realize, Margaret, that we don’t even know where the people were all sitting at that table and yet it’s all China to a sixpence that one of them poisoned Bill Fent.”

  “Well,” she responded promptly, “with those sort of people you can be sure that the chief lady guest would have been on the host’s left and the chief gentleman ditto on the hostess’s left, second most important on the host’s right and hostess’s right. That’s six for you.”

  “So Fent would have had Mrs. Washby on his left—the whole show was in her honour—and,” he cast his mind through the diners’ names, “Miss Paterson, would you say, on his right? She was the oldest …”

  “But unmarried,” said Mrs. Sloan. “I’d say that the next oldest married woman would be there.”

  “Mrs. Ursula Renville. I must say I rather liked the look of her.”

  “Then,” said Margaret Sloan ironically, “you may be sure that she’ll have been next to the host.”

  “That would put Dr. Washby on one side of Mrs. Fent and Richard Renville on the other.”

  “With your Miss Paterson next to Dr. Washby and the next most important male …”

  “The professor for sure …”

  “Next to Mrs. Washby.”

  Sloan opened his notebook. “That only leaves the Marchmonts …”

  “The next on each side …”

  “And the two cousins, Annabel Pollock and Quentin Fent.”

  “Family,” said Margaret immediately. “You can put them in anywhere.”