by Anne Morice
“Of course, Miss Dilloway had seen it before, so I’m afraid she must have been rather bored,” I said, not above doing a little fishing, so long as there was half a sprat left in the sea.
“Bored, my foot! It was seeing it before which made her so keen to take me. And I bet you it’s the kind of play you could go to half a dozen times and still find something new to enjoy.”
“Well, that’s very cheering news,” I told her, dropping one fishing rod in order to get to work with another. “And I’m so relieved to hear that it doesn’t have bad associations for her. I was a bit worried about that because I happen to know that the other occasion was the very last time she saw her sister alive.”
“Well, I think that was pretty much an eleventh hour arrangement, wasn’t it? And, you see, Alice had already mentioned to me that she was planning this little treat, so she wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint me, bless her! Besides . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I don’t see how anyone could be all that cut up by Edna’s death, do you? Between you and me and the what-have-you, she was a selfish, self-centred old b., if you’ll excuse my French, and she treated Alice like dirt.’”
“But that was only recently, wasn’t it? I gather they were devoted to each other in their younger days?”
“Search me!” Marian said blankly. “I can’t say I ever noticed much love between them, but then Edna was a year or two older than us and in a higher form. Not all that much higher, I might add. She was a perfect dud at school.”
“Not very bright?”
“You can say that again! She didn’t give a hoot about getting on, either. The only things that interested her were plastering her face with make-up and dreaming about being a film star.”
“Oh, really?”
“Cross my heart. Of course, she wasn’t bad looking in those days and it was an absolute craze with her. She’d have spent every waking minute at the pictures, if she could have got away with it.”
“But not the theatre?” I suggested sadly.
“Well, not so easy for us girls to come by, of course, but oh yes, she used to squander her pocket money there too. Whoops! There I go again, putting my foot in it! But it was mainly musicals with her, not the kind of worthwhile things you do. Jack now, her first husband, he was very different; ever so keen on music and opera, Gilbert and Sullivan, you name it. Even used to drag Edna to them sometimes. You’d have thought she was going to her execution. Her idea of the theatre was hanging round the stage door, imagining that Ivor Novello had given her a special look, if you know what I mean?”
“Rather like our own dear pop fans of today?”
“That’s about it, although I do remember now that she quite fancied her own talents as an actress too. There was one terrible term when she was given the leading part in the upper school play. Scenes from Cranford, I think it was; anyway, it got a write up in the local rag and after that there was no holding her.”
All this was immensely more interesting and informative than anything I had hoped for, and it was tempting to let the total recall proceed on its own momentum, but I had allowed for a maximum of twenty minutes to elapse before Alice returned with the car. Only three now remained and the vital question had not yet been touched on, so I cut into these reminiscences by saying:
“And I suppose you knew Bella quite well too?”
“Come again!” Marian said blankly. “Bella, did you say? No, I don’t remember anyone of that name. Who’s Bella, when she’s at home?”
“Oh, you know, Mrs. Mortimer’s great friend. She was always going on about how marvellous and clever she was. I have an idea she lives in London now, but I always understood she was at the same school as the rest of you.” Marian shook her head: “It’s gone, I’m afraid. The old memory’s not what it used to be, and I’ve been out of touch with Edna for years now; ever since her first husband died, in fact. The name Bella mean anything to you, dear?” she added, as Alice entered the room within one minute of her allotted time.
She was in no mood for chatty conversation however, and either did not hear the question or chose to ignore it, her mind being full of the terrible fate which awaited the car at the hands of a prowling traffic warden, if they did not return to it immediately. Sticks, coats and bags were gathered up with all speed and in two minutes they had gone, no further mention of Bella having been made by anyone.
Nevertheless, I was far from feeling that the interview had been a waste of time.
“What about that friend of your grandmother’s, Bella something? Did she come to the funeral?”
Rather more hung on the answer this time than in the previous interrogation, because during the interval I had read the whole of Vol. Four and the name had cropped up again, but in a more suggestive and dramatic context.
“No idea.”
“But surely, Camilla! I mean, either she was there, or she wasn’t there?”
“Too right, Miss Clever! Either she was there, or she wasn’t and, since I don’t know her from Adam, I’ve no idea which.”
“Not even by sight?”
“No, and never heard of her, what’s more. Why are you so interested?”
“No particular reason, only your grandmother mentioned her to me once or twice and I was a bit curious.”
“I can’t see anything to be curious about in that.”
“Well, she sounded rather an unlikely friend for Edna to have had; not as though they had much in common. For example, on one occasion I gather they went to the V. and A. together, and that must have been a novelty, to put it mildly.”
“When was that?”
“I’m not sure. Could have been several years ago, come to think of it, but it had stayed very fresh in her memory, which is hardly surprising.”
“Well, Tilly would be the one to know the details. You’d better ask her, if it means so much to you.”
“I’ve already done so, but for once she wasn’t much help. She has a vague recollection of Edna telling her how she’d spent the morning in some museum in London, but she can’t remember when it was or who she’d been there with.”
“There you are, then! The whole story was probably pure invention, to prove to everyone how cultured she was, because I can tell you one thing for sure. No one called Bella wrote to condole, or I’d have remembered. It was rather a joke, actually, because Bernard’s mother was all for us putting a notice in The Times, saying that every letter would be answered personally and all that stuff, but as there weren’t more than half a dozen of them, apart from the locals, Ferdy and I both thought it would be rather a waste of money.”
All this was related with great insouciance, not a hint of guilty hesitation anywhere and, although I knew her to be capable of deceit when expediency demanded it, I was convinced that she was concealing nothing this time. Indeed, and hardly surprisingly, Camilla’s good fortune had already brought a vast improvement in her manners and outlook. The furtive, rabbity expression had largely vanished and it was quite a common sight these days to see her with her mouth shut.
So I was resigned to drawing my second blank and not at all disheartened, believing that a positive answer would have been more damaging to my lovely new theory than a negative one. I must have been half asleep, though, for had I looked so much as one stage ahead, I would surely have seen what a dangerous path I was now treading.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“It is my firm and considered opinion that you may sleep easy in your bed-sitter from now on,” I informed Ferdy, still galloping along in my fool’s paradise. “The evidence may be all negative, but as far as I’m concerned it’s conclusive. You will not be breaking any rules, legal or otherwise, if you burn that unsigned will and forget you ever saw it. You may as well burn this old diary too, while you’re about it. The loss to posterity will be negligible.”
“What do you mean by negative?” Ferdy enquired, zooming straight to the weakest part of the argument, as was his c
ustom.
“I’ll explain that in a minute. A question for you first: did you ever hear her speak of a woman called Bella?”
“No, never.”
“I thought as much. If she exists at all, it’s most likely under another name. However, that’s not particularly important. The point is that there are several references to her in the diary, only one of which concerns us, because it is linked with the subject of the will.”
“How come?”
“Actually, it comes almost at the end, in the last entry but one. Unfortunately, it’s only dated by the day of the week, but we can narrow it down as much as we need to by the fact that, around the same time, there’s mention of the Festival, which was then in preparation and begging for funds, but hadn’t yet started.”
“Oh yes?”
“What I’m driving at is this, Ferdy: that being the case, it must also have coincided with the early stages of her illness, probably just after her first or second attack; and what I now see clearly is that they had not only caused physical damage, they had also affected what passed for her brain.”
“How do you know?”
“Because quite out of the blue and after only one fairly detached allusion to her, she’s got her knife stuck into this Bella and is determined to bring her down at all costs. Now, if you think back, Ferdy, you’ll remember that the only women who were in any position to do her any injury during that period, when she was virtually cut off from outsiders, were Tilly and Camilla. Bella cannot have been a pseudonym for either of them because we know that they are both accounted for under other labels. There was garrulous old Mattie, you remember, and Greta is unmistakably Camilla. So that leaves the indisputable conclusion that whatever grievance she’d worked up against this Bella must have been imaginary.”
“But in what way had she got her knife into her?”
“Ah well, that’s what I’ve been leading up to. Sorry to have laboured it, but it was essential to give you a full picture of the background, if you’re to grasp the significance of the passage in question.”
Ferdy was now looking at me in a way to suggest that he had small hope of capturing any sort of picture of the foreground, let alone the back, so I said quickly:
“I’ll now read a sentence aloud to you, after which I suggest you read it for yourself, so that we can both be absolutely sure that there’s nothing to worry about.” Whereupon, I opened Vol. Four, turned to the penultimate page and began as follows:
“‘Tuesday. Such a pretty morning, with blue sky abounding, but May’s heart was black and heavy within her. It had been a night of nightmares and torments and her first thought on waking was the same one as had lulled her into a fitful sleep. Come what may and no matter who might suffer, Bella should never, never get her evil hands on one penny of the money, though she lived to be a hundred. There was much to be done and it needed thinking out, but a plan was already beginning to take shape in May’s agile mind.’”
I raised my eyebrows, at the same time handing the book to Ferdy, who recoiled as though expecting it to explode in his face. Having made a pretence of reading the passage I had marked for him, he said unhappily:
“It sounds absolutely dotty, I agree, but would you say it actually proved that she was out of her mind?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Well, no, not necessarily,” he admitted. “Sorry if I’m being thick, Tessa, but I can’t see how it actually proves anything at all. If this was written, like you say, when she was already ill . . .”
“You can read the evidence for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”
“Of course I believe you, don’t be daft! I was only going to say that if it was written then, well, I agree with you that, the way we were all keeping a watch on her, this Bella couldn’t possibly have moved in close enough to nobble her; but it still doesn’t have to have been straight fantasy on Edna’s part. There could have been a letter, or phone call, or something like that.”
“Yes, there could, I agree. Personally, I’m of the opinion that if there had been Tilly would have known about it, but all that is completely and utterly beside the point.”
“Oh, is it?” Ferdy asked, looking more baffled than ever.
“Yes, it certainly is because all that really matters is that this Bella, whoever she was, didn’t benefit under the old will, any more than she lost out in the new one. The only people to do that, apart from yourself, were her sister Alice and Tilly and Camilla, and so therefore, indirectly Bernard, I suppose. Now, Bella came on the scene only comparatively recently, so we know she’s not included among that lot and so what are we worrying about? Edna’s mind must have started to crack as soon as she had her first attack, perhaps even before. Unfortunately, she was such an idiot in many ways that nobody noticed much difference; but by the time she got the idea of altering her will she must have deteriorated so badly that she could no longer distinguish between fact and fantasy, real people and phantoms. Got it?”
“Yes, I think so. I think I do begin to understand now, and thanks a lot, Tessa. It all seems a bit more straightforward now you’ve explained it and I’d never have got to the starting post on my own. I knew you’d be able to sort it out, if anyone could.”
Not for the first time, Ferdy’s innocent faith in my omnipotence slightly blemished the triumph of having won the battle so easily, but I was able to console myself with the reflection that at least I had told him no lies and that it was hardly my fault if he did not choose to look beyond the bare facts. If it had not occurred to him to wonder about the real identity of Bella, or to ask himself in what manner Edna might have struck at her through one of the heirs of the original will, the onus was not on me to put such questions into his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
1
At one stage during my undercover investigations, when Camilla had figured prominently among the runners in the impersonation stakes, it had occurred to others as well as myself that her engagement to Bernard had resulted from expediency, rather than true love, as a means of ingratiating herself with Edna, and later on this theory had been strengthened by some remarks which Helena had let fall, indicating that she had reached a similar conclusion via a somewhat different route.
However, we had obviously misjudged her, for, as Marge pointed out while we watched the preliminaries to the St. Leger, which she and Vi had kindly invited me to view on their television, one of the bonuses of Camilla’s new security had been the cessation of hostilities between her and her prospective mother-in-law.
“Funny thing about that girl, you know,” Marge observed in thoughtful tones. “I always used to say that in many ways she and Edna were so alike that they could just as well have been blood relations. Now that Edna’s no longer with us, she seems to be falling into Helena’s orbit in exactly the same way. It even applies to her clothes, had you noticed? I’m sure that dress she wore at the funeral must have been chosen by Helena. It was so much less bitty than her usual style.”
“Perhaps she’s fundamentally very unsure of herself?” I suggested. “She needs someone with a strong character to set the tone far her?”
“Or a stable companion to make the running,” Vi said with a suitably equine guffaw.
Due to some hitch or other, the horses on the screen were still ambling round and round near the starting post and the commentator was saying: “And now let’s take another look at the betting!” in tones of quiet desperation and for about the fifteenth time.
“What about Robert?” I asked. “Does he approve of Camilla?”
“He does, if Helena tells him to.”
“Honestly? As malleable as that? I’m a bit puzzled by Robert. No one ever seems to pay much heed to him and yet he must have some ability to have become a successful solicitor.”
“Become, my foot! Stepped straight into his father’s shoes, just as Bernard will. He’s quite a decent chap, old Robert. I’ve nothing against him, but he has very little ability and even less guts.”
; “Kind, though?”
“Oh yes, very, I think; but what makes you say so?”
“Just something I heard from Tilly. Apparently, he spent a lot of time taking the vacuum cleaner apart for her one evening, when he was all togged up to go out to dinner.”
“What an extraordinary thing to do!”
“Just what I said, but I gather he and Helena called in at Farndale on their way to the Mayor’s Ball and he got down to work without a murmur.”
“Then it was all Helena’s doing, you may be sure. She has everyone’s best interest at heart, but she’d have Robert unblocking the gutters on a freezing night in January, in his pyjamas, if her conscience dictated it; and I daresay Camilla will end up just the same. She’ll be dangling Bernard up and down on a string, for his own good, in no time at all. Still, he’ll only be exchanging one domineering female for another and I daresay he takes after his father in that way too; never quite comfortable without some bossy woman at his elbow, telling him what to do.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Vi said. “Bernard may be on the dim side and he’s certainly toed Mum’s line up till now; but he’s a deep one too, with a lot of Helena in him, and I wouldn’t bank on Camilla having quite such an easy run. And quiet now, please, both of you!” she added, holding up a commanding hand, as the picture switched back to the scene by the stalls and the commentator announced with a sob of relief that they were all safely in now.
It was premature, however, for a second later the camera tracked back twenty yards to show a strange hooded beast by the name of Shed A Light being propelled forcibly towards the last empty stall by two men pulling at one end and three more pushing from behind.
“Is it too late to put a bet on?” I asked, fascinated by this spectacle.
“Yes, of course, far too late,” Vi said, as the gates swung open and runners and riders streamed out over the wide green ribbon of turf.