by Joan Smith
“I do believe that old slice of a Ryder is making up to Deirdre,” Pronto warned him.
“I’m not blind. Of course he is.”
“What surprised me is that she’s taking to it like a duck to water. There’s strange twists in this whole Patmore lot, Dick. Daresay you’re better off without her.”
Dick kept his own counsel. He couldn’t credit that Deirdre actually preferred Nevil to himself, but he worried about what was going on between them. Whatever it was, he couldn’t blame Charney this time. She had been delighted that he was still willing to have Deirdre. And well she might be!
Deirdre went to her bed even more worried than Dick. What was Nevil up to? What scheme had he come up with to remove absolutely any suspicion from her aunt? Try as she might, she could think of nothing that would counterbalance the arsenic in the mulligatawny. She regretted that she’d hardly had a minute with Dick. In the morning the will would be read, and he wouldn’t be there for that, of course, as he wasn’t involved. She’d go into Banting in the afternoon and see him, or perhaps he’d return to Fernvale.
* * * *
The family assembled at the Grange at ten in the morning to hear the last will and testament of Lord Dudley Patmore. It was short and simple. There was a thousand pounds for Mrs. Haskell; five thousand pounds and the Grange for Lady Dudley, who nearly fell out of her chair for joy to hear that she was getting her rights without a battle; and the balance of the estate to be divided equally between the duchess and Sir Nevil. Mr. Skidley stopped and cleared his throat at this point. Sir Nevil made a good effort to control his glee, and the duchess nodded her satisfaction. Deirdre was glad that it was all over, and a fair will it was, too, considering Dudley’s unstable temperament.
“However. . ." Mr. Skidley added, rustling the papers. Sir Nevil edged forward on his chair. A thin film of perspiration coated his brow. Mr. Skidley looked apologetically from the duchess to Sir Nevil and continued his speech.
“There might not be as large a balance as you are expecting. Lord Dudley made some unwise investments over the years—there was a disastrous plunge in some stocks he . . ."
The duchess knocked her cane on the floor and called him to attention. “How much?” she demanded.
“Three hundred and nine pounds, two shillings, and six-pence each, after all costs are paid,” Mr. Skidley said. He hung his head in shame at being the bearer of such dreadful news.
“That’s impossible!” Sir Nevil gasped, jumping up from his chair.
His voice was drowned out by the mucous sounds coming from the duchess’s throat. Deirdre couldn’t quite tell whether her aunt was laughing or crying.
“You’re quite certain about this, Mr. Skidley?” her grace asked when she had gotten her outburst under control.
“There is no doubt whatsoever, your grace. The papers are all here for you and Sir Nevil to study at your leisure.”
“I’ve wasted enough time, thank ye kindly. You don’t carry the reputation of a crook in this neighborhood. I’ll have my man of business take a look at your papers soon. Come along, Deirdre. We’ll go home and plan what to do with our ‘fortune.’ Perhaps a little trip. It ought to just about get us to Banting. Bad luck for you, Nevil,” she added as she hobbled past him on her way out the door.
Sir Nevil didn’t hear. He sat in bewildered silence, staring at Mr. Skidley. “It’s impossible,” he muttered over and over.
“That was real handsome of my husband,” Adelaide said. She began looking over the room with a proprietarial air, but even before Mr. Skidley collected his papers to leave, she asked him, “What do you figure I can get for the place?”
He recommended that she visit a real-estate agent in Banting, which she planned to do as soon as she could get a lift into town. Mr. Skidley was helpful in that respect. Sir Nevil was still sitting, muttering it was impossible, when they left.
The duchess was anxious to discuss the news of the will with Belami, to ensure that it didn’t change his determination to have Deirdre. She suggested that they go to Banting while the carriage was on the road. She sent her own servant up to his room at the inn and met Belami in a private parlor, as she disliked mounting stairs.
“We’ve come to give you the outcome of the will,” she told him even before he sat down. “If Dudley planned to change his will, he didn’t do it other than to make the house and some cash over to Miss Pankhurst. Nevil told us he had done that much, you recall. The balance was split evenly between Nevil and me—all two pennies of it,” she added.
Deirdre was dissatisfied with this poor telling. “It’s the worst take-in there ever was,” she added. “He only had six hundred pounds left after the bequest to Adelaide. Poor Nevil was white with shock. I never saw him so shaken.”
The angry stiffening of Belami’s face gave rise to the worst fears in the duchess’s breast. Ever mindful of money herself, she imputed the same rapacity to everyone else. Perhaps he’d only pressed on with the engagement because of what he’d read on that little piece of paper. He thought Deirdre was to get half of Dudley’s estate and wouldn’t be quick to throw over such an heiress. But it was really Deirdre’s concern over Nevil that had caused Belami’s expression.
“Where is Nevil now?” Dick asked.
“He was still at the Grange when we left,” Deirdre said.
“Miss Pankhurst will soon boot him out or charge him rent,” the duchess added. “It is to be hoped she don’t mean to take up residence there. I, for one, shan’t receive her.”
They discussed the will for a while. Tea was ordered, and before they left, and before Deirdre and Dick managed any private conversation, there was a terrific battering at the door.
“That’s either an earthquake or Mr. Straus,” Belami said, and went to see who was calling.
It was indeed Mr. Straus, but Mr. Straus in a new mood. His large face was bright red with anger. He forgot such civilities as saying good day and entered pointing a finger at the duchess.
“It won’t work, your grace!” he accused.
The duchess glared at him, but addressed her speech to Belami. “What is this imbecile talking about?”
“Mr. Straus?” Belami asked politely.
“You’re all in it together. You don’t fool Gerhard Straus so easily. Don’t think to escape the gallows by this trumped-up confession, for it won’t fadge.”
“Confession?” her grace asked. “He’s mad. Quite mad. Call the manager, Belami. I won’t be insulted in my own private parlor.”
“Perhaps you’d care to explain this extraordinary visit, Mr. Straus,” Dick suggested.
“Aye, and happen you’d all care to explain Sir Nevil Ryder’s confession to a murder he didn’t commit! It’s collusion, that’s what it is.”
“Nevil confessed!” the duchess gasped, clutching at her heart, which felt as if it would fly from her chest. “Upon my word, did you hear that, Deirdre? What did I tell you? I knew all along he’d done it, but I never thought he’d be such a gudgeon as to own up to it.”
“It won’t save you, my fine lady,” Mr. Straus said. “I’ll have a word with you when you’re through supping tea, Lord Belami.” On this terse speech he turned and swooped away as suddenly and unexpectedly as he had entered.
The other three looked at one another in blank incomprehension. “I can’t understand what Nevil’s up to,” Dick exclaimed. Deirdre squirmed in her seat and finally figured out what Nevil had meant the night before. He had taken the harebrained notion of confessing to save the duchess. So brave of him and so foolish!
“Not understand? It’s perfectly clear to me,” the duchess said. “He’s done it because he fears I am in danger. We Patmores are a close family. Oh, we have our little frictions, but when it comes down to it, we stick together. This is extremely kind of Nevil. I am deeply touched by his consideration. But then Ethelberta, his dear mama, was closer to me than any of my other sisters. I wonder where he is. We must go and speak to him to thank him, Deirdre.”
She went to the desk to inquire about his whereabouts, which gave Deirdre and Dick a moment together. "Did you know anything about this?” Dick asked testily.
“No! Of course not. I would have stopped him if I had. It is so dangerous and won’t serve any purpose."
“It’s completely insane,” Dick said. "No one will believe him, of course. He must be counting on that. But why do it? Why involve himself so directly? Why submit all his movements to such close scrutiny?”
“He’s doing it to save our aunt,” Deirdre said. Nothing else made any sense. “It’s foolishly chivalrous of him, of course, but rather sweet.”
Dick gave a look of deep disgust. “Are we talking about the same man? Sir Nevil Ryder, chivalrous?”
“Please remember he is my cousin, Dick,” she said testily. “As your investigations have been so unhelpful, it was kind of him to intervene. We’ve misjudged him. I feel very badly for the things I’ve been suspecting Nevil of.”
“What about his conversation with Polly, after which she mysteriously disappeared?” Dick reminded her.
“Post hoc arguing. The talk didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the disappearance. I learned the use of logic from you. You haven’t heard from London yet?”
“There hasn’t been time.”
“We must have misunderstood—misinterpreted—that conversation. Ac-tually, it was Pronto who reported it, you recall, and God knows he’s no reliable source at the best of times.”
“I don’t believe my ears!” Dick stormed. “It’s some new stunt Nevil’s playing off. I don’t know yet what it can be, but he’s up to something.”
“And thank God for it! It’s time someone did something useful. You’re too suspicious, too quick to believe the worst of Nevil.”
This oblique charge that he had been dragging his heels inflamed Belami, but he quelled his anger. “I can see any slur on Nevil isn’t to be countenanced. Have I understood the terms of your decree properly, I wonder? Is it only I who am to have the honor of your hand if I prove the duchess innocent, or was a similar honor bestowed on Sir Nevil?”
"I never charged you to prove her innocent! And I never said I’d marry you if you did either. I only said I wouldn't marry you if Auntie is convicted. No one would want to marry the relative of a murderer,” she pointed out.
“Then you’ll die an old maid,” he said sharply. “Because if the duchess is innocent, your cousin Nevil is as guilty as sin.”
“Oh!” She gave a gasp of horror. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her. She was kin to a criminal either way. The best course seemed to be to leave the crime unsolved. “I wish you’d stop your investigation,” she said on a sigh.
“Oh, don’t worry yourself unduly, Miss Gower. Remember, you haven’t promised to marry me if I solve the case."
Dick turned on his heel and went off to look for Straus. He found him in the common room, cooling his hot temper with an ale. "I'd like to hear exactly what cock-and-bull story Ryder gave you,” Dick said.
Straus narrowed his eyes and examined Belami for a moment. "He tells me he never went to Bath at all. Don’t think that didn’t occur to me several days ago!”
“Of course he went. My groom knows every move he made,” Dick said.
“I’ve had close inquiries made in Bath as well. He was there, right enough. He tells me he was in the stable at the Grange the whole time, planning to shoot his uncle to get his share of the money from the will. When he saw the duchess take the bowl into the house, he slipped into the kitchen. When Anna left for a minute, he stirred arsenic into it. Just happened to have a packet of arsenic in his pocket, you see, when it was a gun he meant to use in the first place. And besides that foolishness, Anna never left the kitchen. I have notes on what she told me earlier. The duchess gave her the bowl and told her to heat it. She stuck it into the oven, then took it out and went with it to the dining room. Ryder knows his story wouldn’t stand up for five minutes in a court of law, you see, but if he insists he did it, it will confuse things. He didn’t even try to make it convincing. The kitchen at Fernvale is where it might conceivably have been done. The stuff was sitting about there for a while before it was taken to the Grange. Why, it’s a story concocted by an idiot.”
“I’ve heard Sir Nevil called a lot of things, but never before an idiot, Mr. Straus,” Belami objected.
“You heard about the will?” Straus asked. He was calming down now that he had had an opportunity to let off some steam.
“Yes, a bit of a shocker for Ryder, eh?”
“You see what he’s up to, of course. Trying to cozzen favor with the old malkin since he got so little blunt from the uncle. Old Charney’s pockets are deep, if local gossip serves. She’ll never fall for such a stunt, do you think?”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Belami replied. “The confession went down very well with the ladies. Did you discover anything more about Polly Shard?”
“She wasn’t seen hopping aboard any of the coaches. Didn’t buy a ticket in town at least.” Straus began a shifty-eyed examination of Belami. It was quite clear that he had some additional information he was dying to discuss. Belami ordered him another ale, and, before long, the news came out.
“What’s your opinion of the widow?” he asked. “The new widow, I refer to—the Pankhurst woman."
“Are you asking for an aesthetic opinion?” Belami parried.
“No, sir, I’m talking about her conduct. I’ll tell you mine,” he added without waiting for an answer. “I think the widow might be more deeply involved in this business than we ever suspected. I’ve been chatting to anybody in town who’d have a word with me and learned why she went flying off from the old fellow ten or so years ago. There was another man in the case,” he said, nodding his head wisely.
“Sir Nevil?” Belami asked eagerly.
“Nothing of the sort. Tommie Broome that runs the brandy up from Portsmouth. The old gaffer, Lord Dudley, was Tom’s best customer next to the inn here. Miss Pankhurst took to smiling at him when he made his deliveries, and since they’re a pair cut from the same bolt, before you could say one, two, three, she was slipping out to meet him on the sly. Patmore didn’t care for it and tried to get a leash on her. She wouldn’t have that and left him. She didn’t move in with Broome, however. She moved to Bath instead, but she paid Broome a visit yesterday morning.”
At the end of this speech, he sat still, waiting for Belami’s reaction. It was not as spectacular as Straus had hoped. “You see what I’m getting at? She had Tom do the job for heir.”
“But the poison wasn’t in the brandy. It was—at least we think it was—in the stew. And as Anna never left the kitchen, how did Tom get the poison into it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m working on now,” Straus replied. “And you’d better hope I succeed, or we’re back to one suspect—the Duchess of Charney.”
Belami said not a word about the arsenic being in her kitchen. Not that arsenic was hard to come by. Sir Nevil, if he was guilty, had gotten some—probably in London, as the chemist’s shop wasn’t one of his stops in Bath. His reaction was one of relief that a little more time might be given to him to think of something as Straus was now widening his field of suspects.
Before Straus left, he had only one more piece of news. “The inquest will be the day after tomorrow at ten in the morning, if you’d care to attend it,” he said. “The best I look for is a verdict of death by person or persons unknown. Someone has started the rumor that Lord Dudley did away with himself, but I don’t buy that. Why would he do it so close to his own birthday?”
“But on the other hand, why not?” Belami countered. “I should think a birthday is not a happy thing at Lord Dudley’s age.”
“You get presents, don’t you? A Patmore kill himself the day before he was to get presents? Not likely, my friend!”
On this kindling phrase, Mr. Straus arose and took his departure. Belami went back to the lobby, where the duchess was looking for him.
&nbs
p; Deirdre was with her. He looked for a token of softening in her mood, and when he found none, he held back any sign of pleasure.
“Sir Nevil is not here,” Deirdre said. “My aunt wants to go home now, so we’ll say good day.”
“I have a few things I’d like to look into here,” Belami said.
“I have left a note asking Sir Nevil to come to us for dinner. You’re welcome to join us, Belami, and Mr. Pilgrim as well,” the duchess said. “We’ll be counting on you. Good day."
And still there was no encouraging smile from Deirdre. She looked completely indifferent to his answer. “I’ll come if it’s possible,” he replied.
They were off in a swirl of black crape, and Dick returned to the common room to read his list of details to be looked into. There was now a new name on his list: Tom Broome. Polly Shard’s name still bore a question mark. It was high time Réal reported back on stealing the letter from Marsh. Last and most incomprehensible of all, there was Sir Nevil's freakish confession of murder. Why? Was it to win Deirdre’s affection? Was she that easily cozzened? At least Straus wasn’t, and neither was he.
Chapter 13
Sir Nevil found himself in such high aroma at Fernvale that he was invited to make a visit there. The minuscule size of his inheritance showed him the wisdom of accepting the offer, and the very evening of the funeral he sent off to the inn for his belongings. Lady Dudley, as Adelaide now called herself, had her luggage removed to the Grange. With a newly acquired air of noblesse oblige, she offered to “go snacks” with Nevil and pay half the bill run up at the Green Man, only caviling when he tried to include the stable charges.
Belami was unable to accept the duchess’s offer for dinner on the day of the funeral. Réal had finally reported back regarding the mail from Woolwich, and it was just possible that the letter from Marsh would arrive on the evening mail coach. Réal had insinuated himself into the good graces of the clerk assigned to the duty of sorting the mail and spent many an hour comfortably curled up in his office, puffing a cloud, and relating apocalyptic tales of Indian massacres and year-long snows in Canada. While the clerk sorted the letters, Réal kept his sharp black eyes peeled.