Something in the Water

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Ah yes, our statements. That ought to be an interesting experience, don’t you think, Professor?”

  Withington was all set to elaborate, but Jemmy Gilbert wasn’t stopping to hear. He and Elva Bright were on their way to the pantry before Withington could clear his throat again. Peter held up a shushing hand.

  “Hadn’t we better keep quiet and listen for the footsteps?”

  He didn’t know why they should, particularly, but it was one way of getting that old nuisance to shut his mouth for a while. Now that Mrs. Bright wasn’t around to maintain decorum, they might as well see what was going on outside. Peter shamelessly pulled back the curtain at the side window and turned out the lamp on the table so that their eyes could adjust to the darkness.

  It wasn’t much of a show. First on the program was a fine figure of a sergeant in regulation boots, making enough of a clatter as he ran to be heard up and down the road. Next came another who’d changed into jogging sneakers. His footsteps were audible but not noticeably so, they could easily have failed to catch the attention of an innkeeper working in the pantry with maple syrup on her mind. The last man in was a brave soul wearing thin black socks and nothing over them. He’d have stood a fair chance of not being heard if he hadn’t stubbed his toe and said “Ouch.”

  So much for the investigative process. Peter hastily rearranged the curtain the way Elva Bright had fixed it, switched on the lamp, and went back to the love seat to comfort his wife, contemplate the fire, and wonder why he hadn’t thought to bring back an armload or two of driftwood from Rondel’s Head. There’d been plenty of it strewn around the rocks. He could have left an envelope on the table so that Miss Rondel wouldn’t think he was trying to take advantage of their brief acquaintance to swipe her flotsam.

  It was boring, just sitting here wondering when the hell those myrmidons of the law were going to quit horsing around out there and get on with the grilling. Helen had fallen asleep with her head against his shoulder, Peter was glad that she was able to snatch a little rest.

  She’d had far too long and exhausting a day, starting out from Balaclava Junction before the early birds had got fairly started on the worms, driving so long a distance with only an occasional pit stop to work out the kinks, picnicking with Catriona and Guthrie, coming at last to Pickwance and being plunged forthwith into a maelstrom. She ought to be upstairs in bed by now.

  And he ought to be up there with her, drat it! How the flaming perdition had he managed to get them into this mess? He tried to think of some way he could hold Catriona McBogle responsible but that was hardly fair, he might as well chalk it up to Kismet. Things happened because they happened. Even Withington was nodding now. Peter didn’t recall having shut his own eyes but all of a sudden Elva Bright was back in the chair where she’d been sitting before Gilbert came to get her and a tall man who oozed authority was pulling up a straight chair to the edge of the circle so that he could face them all as he spoke.

  “Sorry I had to keep you waiting, folks. I guess you all know by now that we’ve got a pretty serious problem on our hands here.”

  No, he didn’t have to tell them, but not even Withington said so. “I’m Detective Drake of the state police, in case you’re wondering. According to certain identification we found in the briefcase she was carrying, the woman whom Sergeants Gilbert and Armand found on the inn premises a little while ago was one Lucy V. Lach, attorney, of 1037 Robinwood Road in Portland. Can anybody confirm that? Mrs. Bright?”

  The innkeeper jerked as if she’d received a galvanic shock, but answered calmly and coherently. “I don’t know the address, but I expect the Portland telephone book will have it. There’s one at the front desk over there. The V‘s for Veronica, I know that, not that it matters much, I don’t suppose. Lach may be her real name, but she’s been calling herself Lucivee Flodge.”

  “Why Flodge? Was she connected in some way with the Jasper Flodge who died here this past Tuesday?”

  “‘In some way’ is about right. About six years ago, I think it was, she started coming up here just about every weekend, staying at Jasper’s house, which is just behind the inn. They’d come in here to eat now and then, but I can’t say I paid much attention to her. Jasper always had some woman on the string, there’ve been a few more since her. This one lasted about a year and that was the last I remember of her until she blew in here Tuesday evening claiming to be Jasper’s legally married widow. Do you want me to get you the phone book?”

  “No, sit still. I just want to be sure we’re talking about the right person. When she came in here the other night, did you recognize her as the same woman who’d been staying with Mr. Flodge six years ago?”

  “Oh yes, Lucivee hadn’t changed any to speak of, and she wasn’t the sort of person you’d be likely to mistake for anybody else. I was busy in the kitchen when she came in, but I heard somebody out here braying like a donkey and recognized the voice, so I peeked out to make sure. She had on that same black-and-red outfit she was wearing tonight. She always wore black a lot.”

  “What became of her handbag?”

  “I don’t think she had one with her. All I saw was a briefcase, or what looked like a briefcase. It might have been a handbag, I suppose. Mr. Withington would know better than I, he’s good at remembering things. What did she die from, were the ambulance crew able to make out?”

  “I expect you’re the one who can best answer that, Mrs. Bright.”

  The multicolored flames were still dancing behind the fire screen but the temperature in the room seemed to have plunged about twenty degrees. “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “Okay, Mrs. Bright. According to information received, you subjected Mrs. Flodge to bodily assault with an undisclosed weapon earlier this evening and ejected her from these premises by use of force.”

  “The information received was a telephone call from Mrs. Flodge herself, wasn’t it?”

  “That was the name given by the caller.”

  “And what signs of bodily assault did you find when you turned her over? Was there a very small scratch on her right cheek?”

  “There may have been. There was also a massive wound on the left temple which appears to have been caused by one of the stones you have lying around the foundation here. We think we’ve found the one she was hit with, but we’ll know better after the stone’s been analyzed for blood, hair, and tissue. And fingerprints, of course. We’ll be wanting yours.”

  “Take all you please. You’re saying it was the blow on the temple that killed her?”

  “We’ll know better when we get the autopsy report.”

  “I see. Would you mind telling me how big that stone was?”

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions, Mrs. Bright.”

  “Then I’d suggest you ask these people here what really happened. They were in the dining room at the time, they saw what I did to Lucivee Flodge and why I did it; and they’ve been right here with me ever since.”

  Withington’s throat-clearing was getting monotonous. “Excuse me, Elva. I was dismissed from the group, as you may recall.”

  “Not until after Lucivee had left the inn, you weren’t. Thurzella was still here then, and so were Professor and Mrs. Shandy.”

  “Who’s Thurzella?” asked the detective.

  “And how do you spell it?” asked Armand who’d been taking notes in the background.

  “It’s spelled the way it’s pronounced,” Mrs. Bright replied pretty crisply, “and Thurzella’s my granddaughter, Detective Drake. She’s waiting tables this summer.”

  “Does she live here at the inn?”

  “No, just down the road, in that big white house next to the church. My daughter Michele is married to Bob Cluny, who manages the lumber mill. I sent Thurzella home a few minutes after Lucivee flounced out, mad as a wet hen and threatening to put me out of business, which she’d have had as much chance of doing as I would of being elected Pope of Rome. Not that I’d care much anyway, the way thin
gs have been going lately.”

  “How do you know Mrs. Flodge would have lost her case? Weren’t you at risk of losing your livelihood?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I expect I’d be able to keep body and soul together one way or another.” Mrs. Bright moved her left hand just enough for the big diamond to catch the firelight and send a dazzle of light in the detective’s direction. “The inn’s my hobby, not my life. Getting back to Thurzella, I went out the front door with her and stood watching on the steps till I’d made sure she was safe home. There certainly wasn’t any corpse by the alleyway then, she’d have had to pass it and neither of us could have missed seeing it. Thurzella’s not one to miss much.”

  “Why did you send her away at that time?”

  “Because she’d finished her work and her parents wanted her home at a reasonable hour. You would yourself, I daresay, if she’d happened to be your daughter instead of theirs.”

  “Um. You also sent Mr. Withington away.”

  “I told him he’d better go to his room. You might bear in mind that I’m not exactly a spring chicken and I’ve had a fairly trying week of it, what with Jasper Flodge dying in my dining room and that so-called wife of his putting on her performances ever since. And now here she was again, traducing myself and my daughters in my own house, right to my face, bold as brass. I know Claridge Withington of old, I was fully aware that he’d been soaking up this last piece of slander like a sponge and was itching to spill it all to the first person who’d stop to listen.”

  “That’s unfair, Elva!”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m sorry, Claridge, I know it’s not very nice of me to speak out like this in front of strangers, but I’m sick and tired of the way you’ve been blabbing my family business ever since you first started coming here, and you might as well know it.”

  Withington whipped out a nicely ironed white handkerchief and made a big production of blowing his nose. “Thank you for telling me, Elva. I had no idea you found me so offensive to have around. I’d been foolish enough to believe that, after all these years, I’d become almost a member of the family.”

  “Don’t you start in on that wounded and abused act of yours, Claridge Withington. My husband was in a darned sight worse condition from the moment I met him than you ever were or will be. He never traded on his infirmities, not that you’d know because he was dead before you ever started coming here, much as you like to let on that you and he were the best of friends. As long as you’re so ready to bask in his glory, you might care to start profiting from the example he set.”

  “Oh, but I have profited in a number of ways, though this hardly seems the time to go into particulars. Since you’re the one who’s asking the questions, Detective Drake, is there any way I can help you?”

  “I don’t know yet.” The detective sounded a bit fed up also. “I’d like to get Mrs. Bright’s sworn statement down first, for the record. You’ll be asked to sign this, Mrs. Bright, so I hope you’ll try to be as accurate and specific as possible. Would you mind coming into the dining room with me and Sergeant Gilbert? The rest of you please wait here until you’re called. Sergeant Armand will be right at the door in case any problems should come up.”

  Her lips in a straight line, Elva Bright followed Detective Drake into her dining room. Peter glanced over at Armand, shrugged, and put some more driftwood on the fire.

  Chapter 18

  WHATEVER WENT ON IN the dining room didn’t take very long. Elva Bright came out as stony-faced as she’d gone in. “They want you next, Mrs. Shandy.” That was all the innkeeper said. Helen raised her eyebrows, straightened her skirt, and went into what had become the interrogation chamber. Considering that she’d arrived only late that afternoon, there wasn’t a great deal she could say and she obviously wasted few words in saying it. She was out in just under ten minutes.

  “Would you please go in, Mr. Withington?”

  “Really? I expected to be last on the agenda.”

  Notwithstanding his demurrer, Withington had had his cane braced for the effort of rising ever since Elva Bright went into the dining room. He hauled himself out of his chair more expeditiously than usual and made what haste he could manage through the dining-room door.

  Either the women had been cautioned not to talk or else they had nothing left to say. Helen patted Mrs. Bright’s hand and gave her a companionable smile. The innkeeper managed to return the smile, but it was an effort. She leaned back in her wicker armchair and shut her eyes; she must be worn to a frazzle.

  It was not to be expected that Withington would be done talking soon. Peter resigned himself to a long stretch of further boredom but the wait was less tedious than he had anticipated, mainly because he dozed off for ten minutes or so. The self-styled oracle managed to wear out his welcome in twenty-two minutes and thirteen seconds. He came out looking smug and went around the corner into his bedroom without wishing anybody good night.

  That left only Peter Shandy. He knew pretty much what Drake would ask, he had his answers ready. Naturally the interrogation didn’t go at all as he’d expected but the gist of it was easy enough to cope with. As bidden, he explained why he’d happened to come to Pickwance and what he’d been doing here. Peter saw no reason to mention the paintings that he and Helen were hoping to buy, but he did go on at some length about the lupine seed he’d gathered at Miss Rondel’s and what he hoped would come of it in the experimental greenhouses at Balaclava Agricultural College.

  His bona fides established, he was taken over the circumstances of Jasper Flodge’s death, the subsequent appearance of the woman who had claimed to be Flodge’s lawful wedded wife, the disgusting show she had put on here on the night of the funeral, and the unprovoked and unfounded attack she had made on Elva Bright so short a time before her own death tonight.

  “That’s the part I just can’t see,” said Drake. “Why do you think Mrs. Flodge acted up the way she did tonight, Professor Shandy? Was she just sore because her party had fallen flat?”

  “I think it was a good deal more than that,” Peter replied. “Mrs. Flodge might have been a capable lawyer, I wouldn’t know about that, but she seemed to be a fairly scatterbrained thinker. That first night, for example, she boasted to Withington, as he may have told you, that she was now the heiress to Jasper Flodge’s house and all his other assets. A few minutes later, she was standing up, bellowing to the whole restaurant that Jasper Flodge had committed suicide in the presence of witnesses for the sole purpose of cheating her out of a big insurance policy on which she’d been paying, apparently in the fond hope that somebody would bump him off before she got too old to enjoy the money. He must have been a good bit older than she, by the way, though I don’t suppose that’s particularly germane to the issue.”

  “You never can tell,” said the detective. “Did she say why he’d committed suicide?”

  “Her claim was that he’d got into trouble with what she referred to as the mob. He’d lost all his money in some shady enterprise or other and was going to be rubbed out for not being able to pay what he presumably owed. I don’t know whether there was any truth in her story or not. Since then, she’d apparently continued to root around in the hope of discovering some hidden assets but didn’t seem to be happy about the results. My guess, for whatever it’s worth, is that by tonight she’d been forced to accept the fact that Flodge had in fact died broke and decided to make up the deficit by a spot of blackmail.”

  “Against Mrs. Bright? What could she have hoped to get out of her?”

  “Quite a lot, if Withington’s tale is even halfway true. According to him, the late Jean-Luc Mercier de L’Avestant-Portallier, which is Mrs. Bright’s actual married name although she understandably continues to use the old family name for business reasons, was a man of means. He not only had an income of some sort from France, where he’d played a heroic part in World War Two, but was so shrewd an investor in the stock market that he and his wife were soon able to buy out her parents and turn the inn into a ve
ry successful enterprise.”

  “How come? His wife said he was badly disabled.”

  “There was nothing wrong with his mind. He knew he wasn’t likely to make old bones, so he concentrated on building up a substantial legacy for his wife and their two daughters. Both the girls married well, have nice children and interesting careers. I don’t suppose either of them will care to keep the inn going. Some of the grandchildren might, I suppose, but that’s irrelevant. The point I meant to make is that Mrs. Bright was most likely telling the simple truth when she said that, at this stage of life, the inn is only her hobby.”

  “Why did you mention blackmail?”

  “I mentioned it because it was so obviously what Lucivee Flodge had in mind. I’m sure Mrs. Bright must have explained to you why she slapped the woman’s face.”

  “She said it was because Mrs. Flodge was flashing a photograph around and claiming it proved that Mrs. Flodge’s own alleged husband was the father of Mrs. Bright’s kids. Does that add up to blackmail?”

  “The only two explanations I could think of were either that Mrs. Flodge had gone completely around the bend or else that she thought she could bully Mrs. Bright into paying her off to avoid a scandal.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Bright would have committed murder rather than pay up?”

  “I think nothing of the sort and you damned well ought to know it. There was nothing to make a scandal out of. Mrs. Bright’s not one whit ashamed of the fact that she was already pregnant when she and her husband got married. From what I’ve heard, it was a genuine love match and stayed that way. He was a fine husband and father and a respected member of the community and it’s too bad there aren’t a lot more like him.”

  “But she keeps this guy Withington hanging around.”

  “He occupies one of her rooms for a few months each year as a paying guest. That’s what inns are for, you know. I have a hunch she took him in the first place because having a handicapped man at the inn may have seemed a little bit like having Jean-Luc back. Unfortunately, Withington’s not the stuff that heroes are made of and seems not to have improved with age and increasing infirmity. I suppose it’s hard for a good-hearted woman to refuse a room to a longtime regular patron just because he’s become such a pest that she can’t stand having him around any longer. I doubt very much that she’ll poison Withington’s soup to get rid of him. As for that yarn about Jasper Flodge’s having sired Elva Bright’s daughters and Lucivee’s trying to use Thurzella Cluny as proof, it’s just not true.”