‘They like each other?’ Patrick said. ‘Why not?’
‘Come off it, Patrick. Jane thinks Valerie’s gay,’ said Michael. ‘Don’t you, darling?’
‘I do deplore the way English usage has declined,’ said Patrick in dour tones. ‘Adjectives used in total innocence can have quite another meaning. But are you sure of this, Jane?’
‘No, of course not. It’s a subject I know nothing about, except in theory,’ Jane replied. ‘But she had the sort of look on her face that you see when a woman is attracted to a man. You often notice it at parties – you know what I mean.’
‘And Carol?’ Patrick asked. ‘How did she react?’
‘I couldn’t see her face so well. She seemed quite happy. For heaven’s sake don’t go leaping to conclusions, Patrick. I expect it’s slanderous even to think of it.’
‘Can’t women spot this among themselves?’ Patrick demanded. ‘Men can, soon enough.’
‘No. I can’t, anyway. I never think about it,’ Jane said. ‘Sometimes, of course, if it’s very blatant, then one does. But nowadays people always leap to the worst conclusions if two women live together just for company, or because it’s cheaper. Why can’t they just be friends? That’s what they are.’
‘Why not, indeed,’ said Michael mildly.
‘People think everyone gets a chance to marry if they want to – they don’t,’ Jane said, becoming keen to make her point. ‘Not if they’re particular, that is. And there are plenty of people – men and women – who just aren’t interested in sex. That doesn’t mean they’re queer though they get talked about as if they must be.’
‘No, poor things, they’re just missing lots of fun,’ said Michael, who liked to see Jane grow enthusiastic as she talked.
‘You don’t have to convince me, Jane. I know you’re right,’ said Patrick.
‘Thank goodness you’ve always had a series of girl-friends, Patrick, otherwise goodness knows what would be said about you,’ Jane told him.
Patrick laughed.
‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘I hope one glance is enough for anyone to know what I am. But let’s get back to Valerie. She’s a tough customer, but then she’s a very successful career woman. She may be one of these disinterested types, or she may never have felt strongly enough for any man to want to give up her job and darn his socks instead.’
‘Figuratively speaking, you mean,’ said Jane. ‘Women can stick to their careers if they want to. Carol has.’
‘I wonder why the Bruces haven’t any children,’ Patrick mused.
‘Probably some awful tragedy,’ Jane said promptly. ‘Winifred had one that died, by her first husband. She told me so, upstairs She said it was awful later. People used to make snide remarks about “of course, you haven’t any children so you can do this and that,” when they’d have loved a family.’
By now they were eating veal cooked in madeira, and drinking claret.
‘What else did you talk about, while you were closeted upstairs?’ Patrick asked his sister. ‘Have the Kents been married long?’
‘No. Only a few months,’ said Jane. ‘And where do you think they went for their honeymoon?’ She waited. ‘To Greece,’ she said.
‘I can think of no more perfect place,’ said Patrick instantly.
‘Winifred never met Amelia,’ Jane said. ‘I said how you’d come to the village originally because of being literally in at her death. And she said how awful it had been – the accident – and how she’d been looking forward to seeing her again.’
‘But you said they’d never met?’
‘No – I mean they never met since Winifred came to Meldsmead. She was at Slade House.’
Patrick stared.
‘Winifred was at Slade House?’ Michael wanted to get it quite clear.
‘Yes. Long before my day, of course. And if Amelia heard that George was going to marry again, she’d have heard Winifred spoken of by her former married name, and wouldn’t connect it. Anyway, I don’t suppose the old girl and George were buddies, exactly – not much in common.’
‘So she must have known Miss Forrest too?’
‘Of course. I didn’t find out if they’d met while Miss Forrest was in Meldsmead – sorry about that, Patrick, but I was too busy concentrating on not saying I’d been at Slade House too.’
‘I’m glad you kept that quiet,’ said Patrick.
‘You told me to,’ said Jane. ‘By the way, I got Miss Chesterfield’s address – you asked me for it. She’s still in Africa.’
‘Oh. What a great pity.’
Michael had to be told about Miss Chesterfield and the photograph album.
‘Winifred might be in it. She’d know some of the names, perhaps,’ said Jane.
Patrick suddenly stood up.
‘Excuse me,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve got to make a ‘phone call.’
Jane watched him go with astonishment.
‘Has he suddenly gone coy? Dons are sometimes more inhibited than other men, but not in front of their kith and kin, surely? Or do you think he really meant it? Is he going to ring Ellen up?’
‘I should imagine he meant what he said,’ Michael answered.
‘Maybe he promised to call her at a certain hour.’
‘He wouldn’t have forgotten, then. He’d have been looking at his watch all the evening. He changed suddenly when I told him Winifred had been at Slade House.’
‘I can’t see why this business is needling him so,’ Michael said. ‘Life is full of strange events, after all, and weird coincidences.’
‘Poor old Patrick. I’m afraid that Ellen’s sent him rather off balance,’ Jane said. ‘She must be a bit dumb, don’t you think? Surely he’s quite a dish? One can’t tell, of course, about one’s own brother, but girls are always after him.’
‘He’s usually got some bird or other around,’ Michael agreed. ‘And he’s eligible to a degree.’
‘Wary, though, now,’ said Jane. ‘Too wary. Suddenly he’ll find all the best girls have been snapped up.’
‘I think he’s found it quite easy up till now to have fun without getting hurt himself,’ Michael said. ‘This girl’s playing hard to get.’
‘It’s not that. She’s besotted with this David person,’ Jane said. ‘Girls are so silly. They get some wretched man into their system, and however doomed the whole thing is, they don’t seem able to cure themselves. How nice to be married and out of the war.’
For some people the war only began after marriage, Michael reflected. But he and Jane were among the lucky ones. He leaned across the table and kissed her nose, and Patrick witnessed this touching incident as he returned to his seat.
‘Was she there?’ Jane asked.
‘I wasn’t ringing Ellen,’ Patrick said. ‘That blackberry and apple pie I took from Carol’s dust-bin – I didn’t tell you before – there were a few laburnum seeds in it. Not many – not enough to be lethal, unless one person ate them all. We don’t know, of course, how many were in the bit Carol ate. I was ringing Colin up.’
‘Colin? Why suddenly, tonight?’
‘I’m going to see him at New Scotland Yard tomorrow. I should have gone before, but there was nothing concrete to tell him. There still isn’t, really. But he can make a few enquiries,’ Patrick said.
‘I should have thought laburnum seeds in the pie were definite evidence,’ Michael said grimly.
‘That’s why you asked me if Michael ever made pastry,’ Jane said slowly.
‘What?’ Michael exclaimed.
‘I’ll explain later, darling,’ Jane told him.
‘I certainly don’t,’ said Michael.
Patrick had suddenly become very quiet and depressed; no wonder, Jane thought, if he suspected David Bruce of putting laburnum seeds in Carol’s pie.
‘David didn’t eat any of that pie, you see,’ Patrick said. ‘When Carol was ill, it was there, in the fridge, but he had none. Naturally he wouldn’t eat it, if he knew it would be poisonous.’
&nb
sp; ‘What about the dog? Did it eat something meant for Carol? Is that what you think?’ Jane demanded.
‘It must be what happened,’ Patrick said. ‘Look, eat up, you two. Do you mind? I think I’d like to get back. I’ll have to cancel some pupils tomorrow.’
‘All right. I’m full, anyway,’ said Jane. ‘It was a lovely dinner, Patrick.’
He made an effort.
‘We’ll have another one when all this is finished,’ he said. ‘And dally with the port.’
Jane did not dare to say she hoped that Ellen would be with him.
IV
Fortunately Patrick had no lecture the following day. One of his pupils was due for a tutorial at ten; luckily the young man lived in college and straight after breakfast Patrick went round to see him, reversing the more usual process by himself being the one to postpone their appointment. The pupil, roused tousle-headed and unshaven, by his knock, was mightily relieved in fact since he had set his alarm early in the hope that he might manage to finish the essay Patrick should have heard.
After this Patrick got into the car and went to London for his appointment with Detective-Inspector Colin Smithers. They had met when Colin was a sergeant assisting in an enquiry at Winterswick; with promotion he had transferred to the Metropolitan Police.
Colin kept him waiting, but not for long. He was a red-headed, freckle-faced man with a deceptively ingenuous air; imaginative, as well as tenacious.
‘I’ve got someone delving about at Somerset House – they haven’t come up with anything yet,’ Colin greeted him. ‘Have you any more to tell me?’
‘Here’s the analyst’s report on that pie. He was slow producing it – he’s a friend of mine, and he happened to be away when I sent it round to his rooms, so it grew a bit mouldy. But the laburnum was in it.’
Colin glanced at the report.
‘You didn’t get in touch with me before,’ he pointed out. ‘Except to ask about that post-mortem on the old lady who died in the British Museum.’
‘I’d nothing to go on,’ Patrick said. ‘No evidence.’
‘This is evidence all right,’ Colin said, tapping the report.
‘I brought it in case you thought I’d made it up,’ said Patrick.
‘Any hunch you have is worth acting on – why don’t you give up Oxford and join us? I’m sure you could have special promotion for late entry,’ said Colin with a grin.
‘I have my uses as a civilian infiltrator,’ Patrick said. ‘Are you going to dig up the dog?’
‘Not immediately, no. We’ve no crime, you see. It’s tricky.’
‘Agreed. We’ve got to prevent one,’ Patrick said.
‘The dog could easily have eaten something meant for Carol Bruce – something she didn’t fancy. Barbiturates, perhaps, since laburnum seeds usually lead to vomiting, before coma. The fact that he collapsed into the river might be sheer chance – he staggered about and fell there.’
‘But it can’t be David Bruce. Why should he want to kill his wife?’ Patrick said.
‘Why would anyone else want to?’ Colin asked. ‘Most murders are committed by spouses, you know.’
‘Cold-bloodedly pre-meditated ones?’ asked Patrick. ‘Have you found out any more about Miss Forrest?’
‘I’ve got a man calling on the brother this morning,’ Colin said. ‘He’ll go through her effects – if they haven’t been disposed of by now, that is. Don’t be too hopeful.’
‘He’ll remember the Cicero, anyway, if it was there,’ Patrick said. ‘It must be somewhere, after all. It might throw some light on all this, though I can’t think how.’ What significant marginal notes could there possibly be in the volume?
‘Then there’s Ellen Brinton. Now how do you think she fits into this business?’ Colin leaned back in his chair and surveyed Patrick across his desk. ‘You’ve only her word for it that she’d arranged to meet Miss Forrest that day.’
‘She’s just an innocent bystander who’s unfortunately involved,’ said Patrick shortly. ‘And how’s little Cathy?’
Colin blushed to the roots of his carroty hair.
‘Oh, very well,’ he mumbled.
It was Colin’s visits to see Cathy Ludlow while she was up at Oxford that had caused him and Patrick to renew their acquaintance. Catherine had come down that summer with a respectable second.
‘What’s she doing now? Working in London?’
‘She’s in Paris. But she’ll be home for Christmas.’
‘Well, Paris isn’t far away. I expect you’ve kept in touch,’ Patrick remarked.
‘She must see the world a bit,’ Colin said. ‘She’s still pretty young.’
‘Don’t risk losing her, though,’ Patrick said, suddenly serious. ‘A second chance doesn’t always come one’s way.’
‘No. I’ll remember that,’ Colin said, looking embarrassed.
Patrick had not revealed to Colin that he had any particular interest in Ellen; she was just a character in a puzzling drama that he felt certain was unfolding. He had told Colin that he suspected David Bruce of having an affair outside his marriage, but he had not said with whom; however, if they watched David Bruce, as now they might after the discovery of the pie, the police would very soon find out. His heart felt heavy, but she had to be extracted somehow from this mire.
‘If we’d had the pie, and not your amateur chum, and if we’d had a tidy slice of it, we’d have been able to find out if it was homemade, or made of frozen pastry, or sold ready-made,’ Colin said.
‘Do I detect a reproof?’ Patrick asked. ‘I stole it anyway, from the Bruces’ dustbin. Whoever put it there might have decided to pluck it back and burn it, and if much had gone, could have noticed someone had had a go at it.’
‘That’s true. Perhaps you did right,’ Colin said. ‘But do be careful, Patrick. You’ll be breaking and entering next.’
‘I’ve done that too,’ said Patrick, with calm. ‘At least, I didn’t have to break, either time, but I’ve entered. And I wasn’t caught.’ He described his visit to the shed at Mulberry Cottage and his theft of the photograph album, and last night’s quick visit to Abbot’s Lodge.
Colin listened without interrupting.
‘That’s very interesting, but it’s not enough for us to act on,’ he said at last. ‘And we can’t use this analysis as an excuse. If someone means to get Carol, they’ll do it. It sounds to me as if they’re just trying to scare her off – small accidents about the place – the death of the dog. An ill-wisher could have slipped out of the Bradshaws’ party and let down the tyre of her car. Someone wants her to go. Maybe David wants her to leave him. He’d have his weekends in peace with Ellen then, wouldn’t he? You say she uses the cottage.’
‘I never told you—’ Patrick began to protest.
‘No, but I get hunches too,’ Colin said, and as he spoke the telephone rang.
He answered it, listened, and covering the mouthpiece with his hand said to Patrick, ‘It’s Surrey.’
Patrick sat there while Colin said: ‘Yes, I see. No, don’t do any more yet, thanks,’ and rang off. He then made a great business of putting away his biro and straightening the papers in front of him.
‘Well, come on. What’s happened?’ Patrick demanded.
‘We’ve been forestalled,’ Colin said. ‘A young woman collected a volume of Cicero early this morning. A Miss Ellen Brinton.’
After he left Colin, Patrick went to the British Museum, where he stood looking at the caryatid again and wishing she were placed somewhere with a comfortable chair in front of her instead of in a cramped space filled by a column. Then he had a ham roll and some coffee in the refreshment room and after that he soothed himself by contemplating some illuminated manuscripts. Then, by arrangement, he returned to New Scotland Yard to see if Colin had found out anything else; his researcher at Somerset House must, by now, have unearthed some dates, if nothing else. Colin was out, so once again he had to wait. He always carried some small volume or other in his pocket to while a
way any idle hours he might meet with, and was immersed in the work of an obscure modern poet when Colin at last appeared.
‘Sorry, Patrick. Have you been waiting long?’ Colin hung up his raincoat, gave a few commands to the sergeant who had followed him into his office, and then turned to his visitor.
‘Not really. You’ve found something?’ Patrick said.
‘Yes. Some details about David Bruce.’ Colin told him what they were.
Patrick drove home by way of Ellen’s flat. She was out, and though he waited for some time she did not return. It was Friday. She must have left London for the weekend. Perhaps she had never come back after her visit to Surrey.
He gave up. By the time he got back to Oxford it was much too late to dine, so he scrambled himself some eggs which he ate while listening to Bach on his record player. At ten o’clock, Jane rang up.
‘I’ve been looking through that old Slade House photograph album you stole,’ she said. ‘I’ve recognised someone. I think you’d better come over.’
‘I’ll be there in half-an-hour,’ said Patrick.
PART EIGHT
I
Jane was in her dressing-gown sitting on the floor by the fire. She had washed her hair, and it hung on her shoulders, soft and silky. Her face had filled out a little and she looked serene. However, when Patrick came in, bringing with him an aura of the crisp, frosty night, her expression was alert enough.
‘Michael’s out at a village meeting. He won’t be long,’ she said. ‘I was just browsing through the album while I dried my hair. Here.’ She handed it to him.
Patrick, still wearing his overcoat, sat down facing her.
‘I’ve put a marker in the page,’ she said.
Patrick opened the volume at the place indicated. There were groups of girls in gym tunics, and several of girls in costume, dressed for a performance of She Stoops to Conquer, according to the legend below. Patrick studied them all carefully.
‘Ah! Here!’ he exclaimed, his finger on the image of one girl.
‘That’s right.’ Jane looked at him. ‘It’s the hair that’s so different,’ she said. ‘I was amusing myself going through the album trying to imagine them all much older now, and with different hair. I suddenly saw it.’
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