Death in the Greenhouse

by JRL Anderson

  He replied with a question. ‘What has the death of the man you mentioned earlier to do with it?’

  ‘Frankly, we do not know. You are a lawyer, and you will understand that while circumstantial evidence can be dangerously misleading it can never be ignored. We have two unsolved crimes, happening not quite simultaneously, for the threat to Mr Boscombe came shortly after Mr Eustace Quenenden’s death, but at about the same time. Both concern men who were in Equatorial Africa when it was a British Colony. And there is a further slight link. You will know that the late Mrs Boscombe met her death in a tragic accident, as a result of which she drowned. That occurred in a district where the late Mr Quenenden was chief administrative officer. There may be no link of any sort between these various past incidents in Africa. But knowing as little as we do we must investigate the possibilities of some connection.’

  His warmth of personality seemed to return as he took a decision. ‘You will be a powerful man, sir,’ he said. ‘In some countries you would have taken me away for questioning. But you have not even been angry with me. Yes, if I can help you I will do so gladly. But what help can I give?’

  ‘You can tell me about your family. Mr Boscombe thinks that his marriage caused much resentment and distress. Is that so?’

  ‘I was a boy at the time, sir, and not directly concerned, but of course I knew of Gita’s marriage. Distress – that would be fair, I think. An Indian family is close-knit, and, perhaps wrongly, but it is so, we expect our daughters to make marriages that we arrange, or at least approve. Resentment – I do not think there was so much of that. But I am the wrong generation. I was born in Africa, we lived in upper class society in the Colony, and doubtless I have been affected by English ideas on these matters. Gita was of my generation, and she had shown much independence. She was educated as a boarder in the Convent school – that was the best girls’ school in the Colony – and she became a Christian. She was very pretty, and she had many European friends. Some other members of our family have married Europeans – their marriages may have made older members of the family sad, but I would not say that they were resented. Certainly there was resentment that Gita’s father left no will, and that businesses which the whole family had helped him to build up all went to Gita, and then, suddenly to a stranger. But Mr Boscombe behaved honourably over this. He took the invested money that had come to him from Gita, but he gave back the businesses to the family – to my father and his brothers. He did not have to do this – in law all Gita’s property passed to him, and he gave up the businesses voluntarily. They were valuable businesses then. Remember that you are getting a boy’s view, but if you ask me what I remember now of the general feeling in the family I would say that we felt that Mr Boscombe had behaved well.’

  ‘You have no feelings against him?’

  ‘Most certainly not. He has been generous in giving help to my brother and me – the money with which I bought my business, and have been able to build it up, came from him, not as a loan, but as a gift. He has also given much help to my brother. You spoke of circumstantial evidence – the circumstances as they relate to us are such that we would be the last people in the world to wish to harm Mr Boscombe.’

  ‘Would anyone at the time – not necessarily a member of your family, perhaps, but in the local community – have felt any deep resentment that Mrs Boscombe was buried in a Christian cemetery?’

  ‘Why so? She was a Christian. And we are Indians, not caste Hindus.’

  ‘You say that the late Mrs Boscombe had many friends. Can you think of anyone who may have been jealous because she married Mr Boscombe?’

  He spread his hands in a hopeless little gesture. ‘I was a boy, sir. I remember Gita well, because she was so pretty and always nice to us. Although he was sad that she became a Christian, her father, my uncle, loved her dearly, and gave her everything she wanted. There were many parties, and Gita would dance and enjoy herself. There were parties at my uncle’s house, and Gita would go out with her friends. But she was older than me – she was twenty-one and I was not quite sixteen. Her friends were grown up. There were many people who liked her, and perhaps some men who would have wished to marry her, but I know of no serious attachment on her part until she met Mr Boscombe.’

  ‘Was it not a strange marriage – Mr Boscombe a planter in a remote district, Mrs Boscombe pleasure-loving and fond of parties?’

  ‘It was not quite like that. Gita loved parties but there was a serious side to her. I told you that she became a Christian – that was not something done lightly. Gita did not spend all her life in town. She worked for Christian missions in various places. I have always understood that it was while she was working in a hospital attached to a Christian mission in the district where Mr Boscombe had his farm that she met Mr Boscombe.’

  I got up. ‘You have been very patient, and answered many questions that must have seemed to you impertinent,’ I said. ‘I am most grateful to you. I need scarcely say that everything we have discussed is a matter for the two of us alone – I have trusted you in disclosing a threat to Mr Boscombe that is not known except to the police, and I think you have trusted me. If you think of anything which could have any bearing on the matters we have talked about, will you please ring this number?’ I gave him the number of the duty officer in the department. ‘There is always someone there, and whoever you speak to will either get in touch with me, or, if necessary, act on what you say at once.’

  ‘I shall do what you ask, sir, of course, but I am doubtful if anything will occur to me. I trust that no harm will in fact befall Mr Boscombe.’

  ‘We must hope not. And one way of helping Mr Boscombe is to preserve the utmost discretion.’

  ‘I understand that, sir.’

  *

  I needed all my wits to escape from the environs of Coventry to the road I wanted to take me on to Lancashire, but as soon as I could think of anything but roundabouts and road signs, my mind returned to Mr Shasta Chand. I liked him. In a world half of whose inhabitants seem intent on depriving the other half of their homes he had come out badly: generations of thrift and industry had gone for nothing, and his family’s place in the sun had changed to exile. Yet there was no bitterness about him – his attitude seemed to be, Well, we must just set to and start again. In the long run of history, I thought, the influx of these Indians from Africa might be as valuable to England as the influx of Huguenots from France at the time of their troubles, but the run of history seems sometimes sadly long, and unlike the Huguenots some of the best of our twentieth-century refugees have their lives bedevilled by the colour of their skins. What a miasma of double standards many of us live in, hurting other people directly and probably in the end hurting ourselves as much!

  At least Meredith Boscombe had shown himself free of racial prejudice in marrying his Gita. Or had he? She was a considerable heiress, and he might have married her cynically for what he could get. But that didn’t add up. When he married Gita her father was alive, and, given his disapproval of the marriage, he might easily have left Gita nothing. So it couldn’t be suggested that Boscombe had married merely for money. Moreover, he had behaved generously in the settlement after Gita’s death, and he had shown the same sort of generosity to Shasta Chand and his brother when they became exiles in England. Good marks for Boscombe on that score, at any rate.

  What – if anything – had I learned from Shasta Chand? Unless the man was a magnificent actor and my own judgment of character wildly wrong, I thought he could be eliminated from anything concerned – at least directly concerned – either with the Quenenden murder or the blackmailing of Meredith Boscombe. And his story was to some extent borne out by what Boscombe had said earlier. The main facts, the arrival of the brothers in England and Boscombe’s readiness to help them, seemed amply confirmed. But Shasta Chand’s account of his family’s feelings about Gita’s marriage did not wholly tally with Boscombe’s story. Boscombe had felt, or thought he felt, family hostility sufficiently violent to wonder if any
of them had tried to kill him. True, he had reasoned against this in the end, but on his own admission he had thought about it. Shasta Chand, on the other hand, seemed to feel that the attitude of the family was one of sadness without any sharp resentment. That might reflect the feelings of his own generation, the generation that Gita herself belonged to, and not necessarily those of her father and his brothers. Nevertheless, it was a fact that Gita’s father had not done anything to upset Gita’s inheritance, and, if Shasta Chand was to be believed, he loved her dearly in spite of her apparent tendency to kick over the traces of Indian family propriety. So far as Shasta Chand’s story went, then, it seemed unlikely that whatever enemies Meredith Boscombe might have, represented his late wife’s family. Did Boscombe himself think this? It was hard to say. He had been fair, I thought, in discussing Gita’s family, but what he really felt about them was another matter. The slight difference of emphasis between his story and Shasta Chand’s might reflect no more than his own sense of isolation in regard to his late wife’s family.

  *

  Hard thought is an admirable eater-up of miles. I didn’t bother to stop for lunch and by four o’clock I was on the outskirts of Bolton. Then I did stop at a call box, to ring a hotel and book a room. But I didn’t go there at once. I had the name of Miss Sutherland’s old school, and the address of the house where she used to live. I didn’t want to provoke speculation by calling formally on her old colleagues at the school, and I hadn’t yet made up my mind just how to approach them. Also, it was getting late for an unannounced school visit. So I thought I’d have a look at the house which had been her home – it had belonged to her, I understood.

  School and house were on the northern edge of Bolton, the house a few miles from the school. It was a pleasant small Victorian villa, on rising ground leading to the moors – like so much of industrially grim Lancashire the whole area had access to really lovely moorland country. The villa, I thought, would have been built for the widow of a mill owner, when she handed over the big house by the mill to a married son.

  I had a bit of luck with the house, for an estate agent’s board in the front garden announced that it was for sale. The agents were a firm in Bolton, and I reckoned that I had plenty of time to get to them before they shut. I reckoned, however, without taking into account my lack of ability to find parking places in town centres, and I only just made it. A clerk, obviously eager to be rid of me, admitted that Moorside Villa was unsold, but said firmly that he could not take me out to see it there and then. ‘We’re shorthanded – holidays, you know,’ he said. ‘If you come back in the morning I’ll see if we can fit you in.’

  I replied tactfully that of course I understood, adding that the public, which commonly grumbles at estate agents, just didn’t realise how much work they actually did. This seemed to make up for the irritation caused by my being there at all, so I went on to ask if it was strictly necessary for me to be accompanied when I looked over the house. ‘The windows are uncurtained, and you can see from the road that there isn’t any furniture in the place. I don’t see that I can do any harm by just having a look round. If you’ll trust me with the key, I’ll promise to return it by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m moving to a job up here, but I haven’t moved yet, and I’ve got to get back to my office in London as soon as I can. It will be a great help if I can see the place today. I’m staying in Bolton for tonight, but I’ve got awfully little time.’

  ‘If you give me your London address, and your address in Bolton. I can let you have the key,’ he said, ‘but it must come back first thing in the morning in case someone else is interested in the house.’

  I told him the hotel in Bolton where I’d booked a room, gave myself a rather posh address in Chelsea, and he handed over the key. ‘Make sure you lock up properly when you leave,’ he admonished me. I assured him that I would.

  *

  The house was well cared for, paintwork in good condition, and the garden, a pocket handkerchief in front but considerably larger at the back, had obviously been loved, although it was beginning to look overgrown. Inside there was nothing of much interest – the rooms, bare of furniture, seemed to have nothing to say of the personality of the woman who had lived there and to be waiting patiently for the human imprint of the next occupant. Wandering around, however, gave me an idea. If I were coming to live in Lancashire, and looking for a house to live in, could I not also have children who would have to go to school? And if I were thinking of buying Miss Sutherland’s old house, what more natural than to approach her successor as headmistress for advice on local schools? It was too late to visit the school that evening, and I decided to telephone first thing in the morning to ask if the headmistress could see me.

  On my way out I had a look round the garden. In shape it was a plain rectangular plot, but made more interesting by skilfully contrived hedges to break it up and with an attractive small enclosure of beds laid out to form a knot garden. One of the flowering plants seemed at once unusual and vaguely familiar. On impulse I cut a stem and put it in my pocket – remembering then that I’d seen a similar flower only the other day in the garden of the late Mr Quenenden’s cottage.

  *

  I had a solitary meal in a rather nice Indian restaurant, and spent the evening reading Rex Warner’s translation of Xenophon’s Persian Expedition. It seemed to me that in attempting to unravel the Quenenden case we were in much the same position as the Greeks stranded in Persia, ‘shut in by impassable rivers’ and with ‘no guide to show them the way’. Comforted by the thought that Xenophon had made it in the end I went to sleep.

  *

  Morning did not seem to bring much prospect of my emulating Xenophon’s performance. The only thing to do was to plod on. I returned the key to the estate agent’s clerk, telling him that I liked the house very much, but would have to consult my wife before making a definite offer for it. Then I telephoned Miss Sutherland’s old school. I asked to speak to the headmistress, to be told by a secretary that there was no headmistress, a successor to Miss Sutherland not yet having been appointed. There was, however, a Miss Mornington, who was Acting Headmistress: did I wish to speak to her? Saying that I was a prospective parent and that I was sure Miss Mornington could help me, the girl said that she would try to put me through, adding that it was quite likely that Miss Mornington would not be available. My luck held here, and she was. When I explained that I was thinking of buying Miss Sutherland’s old house and had two children who might be candidates for the school, she was interested at once. She had a staff meeting to attend that morning, she said, but should be through by about noon: could I call then? Tiresome as it was to have over two hours to kill, I said that would be splendid.

  *

  Although Bolton is now much concerned with engineering, its roots as a town remain in cotton-spinning, and Samuel Crompton, whose spinning-mule transformed the cotton textile industry (at precious little profit to himself) was a Bolton man. I filled in time by visiting the Crompton Museum, and set off for my interview with Miss Mornington at least better informed on the technology of eighteenth-century industry than I had been previously. The school had been substantially rebuilt on its translation to comprehensive education, and its external standards, at any rate, were impressive. Miss Mornington was younger than I’d expected, not much overthirty-five, and clearly took trouble over her clothes and appearance. When the secretary who had conducted me to her left, I said, ‘It is good of you to find time to see me, but you will understand how concerned I am about Joyce and Rachel’s schooling. My firm is transferring me to Lancashire, but I don’t have to live in this particular area. I like the house that belongs, I understand, to the former headmistress of this school and I’m thinking of buying it – I feel we could be happy there. Whether we do buy it or not largely depends on finding a good school for the girls.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Joyce is coming up to fourteen, and Rachel is just twelve.’

  ‘Well, they could
certainly come here – indeed, unless you want to send them to an independent school they normally would come here, because the house you are talking about is in our catchment area. Probably you don’t know that we used to be a grammar school. It’s not for me to discuss the pros and cons of comprehensive education, but I can say that some of the better traditions of the old grammar schools live on with us. Miss Sutherland was in charge during the changeover, and I think she did a wonderful job. She kept almost all her old staff.’

  ‘Will you be carrying on as headmistress?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘I’ve always believed that people are more important than buildings in education. I’ve liked the way you received me and, if I may say so, I have been impressed by your general approach to things. I should feel more confident for Joyce and Rachel if I knew that you were going to stay on in charge of the school.’

  This pleased her. ‘I know just what you mean, and it’s nice of you to say it,’ she said. ‘Of course I should like to stay on as head, and unofficially I’ve been given to understand that there is a good chance of my getting the appointment. I can’t say more than that at the moment.’

  ‘I hope you do get it. Did you know Miss Sutherland?’

  ‘Very well. I was on her staff here for some years, and although I’d gone to be deputy-head of another school before she herself left we went on seeing each other quite often. I know her house, of course, and I’m not surprised that you like it.’

  ‘If you knew Miss Sutherland so well, I wonder if you could help me in another way? We shall have to move all our furniture up from London, and you can sometimes save a good deal of money by getting a local removal firm to fix up a return load. I don’t know any local firms. Do you happen to know who moved Miss Sutherland’s things?’

  ‘It wasn’t a removal firm at all – a friend of hers hired a van and drove it himself. I know, because I helped her pack, and although there were three of us, the friend, Miss Sutherland, and me, it was hard work getting all her stuff loaded into the van. I thought she was rather silly, depending on friends and doing so much of the work herself, because she wasn’t short of money. You wouldn’t know, but she retired from teaching because she inherited a considerable fortune in the south. But people are like that – she’d always been careful about spending, and I suppose it was natural for her to go on being careful.’