by Joan Smith
When he espied a missive addressed to his master, he invented a ruse to distract the clerk. Mr. Marsh had been thoughtful enough to inscribe his own name and address on the outer envelope and mark it “urgent.” Réal at once went into a coughing fit that required a glass of water, and by the time the glass was handed to him, the precious envelope was already inside his jacket. He soon took his leave and went darting off to the inn.
Réal was so swollen with pride at his accomplishment that he was hardly able to speak when he handed the letter to Belami. “This was very much dangerous work,” he pointed out. “Triflings with the post are the serious matter, but I, Pierre Réal, have made the grand success.”
Belami snatched the letter out of his fingers while he was still expostulating on his ingenuity. He was on the point of ripping it open when something stopped him. Instead, he opened it very carefully, in a way that didn’t preclude resealing it and returning it to the post office. His eyes flickered swiftly over the page, then he read it again more carefully to be certain that hope hadn’t colored his perception.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he breathed softly. A reckless smile lifted his lips, and he handed the letter back to Réal. “Glue this up and take it back where you got it.”
“It is no good?” Réal asked.
“It is excellent, Réal. You’ve earned yourself a bonus this night. The sky’s the limit. As soon as you get that letter safely back, come here and drive me to Fernvale. We’ll have to take Pronto’s carriage.”
* * * *
Such goings-on as returning the letter after all his trouble in securing it were quite incomprehensible to Réal, but he knew that he was back where he belonged, on the highest pedestal in England, and he was happy. He would claim no reward, no bonus for his work, but would rub salt in the master’s wound for his recent harsh words by being the best groom who ever held the ribbons and the most humble and modest in the entire world.
It was nine o’clock at night when the carriage headed to Fernvale. Pronto was so bored that he elected to go with Dick, and Dick was in such an elated mood that he would have taken up the dustman if he’d asked.
“Odd hour to be calling. Charney won’t like it,” Pronto warned him.
“Oh, yes, she will!” Belami replied, and laughed. “I just hope Ryder has left by the time we get there.”
Sir Nevil had left, but only to scoot across the meadow and begin making advances to Lady Dudley, as the duchess had intimated that Deirdre and Belami were re-engaged. The duchess had retired to her bedchamber, not that she had any hope of sleeping, but even sitting up was becoming a strain.
Deirdre was alone in the cavernous saloon, trying to make some sense of all the recent events. She was delighted at the unexpected call and didn’t even mind that Pronto was along to rob it of half the pleasure. At that troubled time in the romance, she half welcomed a third party’s presence. As soon as she saw the excited, febrile glow in Dick’s eyes she knew that he had some startling news, and she judged by the reckless smile adorning his lips that it was good news for them.
“What is it? What have you done?” she asked.
“Done? That has an accusing ring to it. I haven’t done anything, but I’ve learned that your aunt is innocent. Where is she?”
“She’s gone up to bed. Dick, tell me! What is it?” Her hands went to his lapels, and when she noticed she was pulling them, she let go and stepped back.
A hint of her perfume wafted to him. Dick’s hands went out to her, almost by instinct. He felt an urge to seize her in his arms and demand his reward. She read something of his thoughts in his eyes and lowered her own gaze.
“Letter from Marsh,” Pronto told her, as he was privy to the secret by this time. “No arsenic in the stew at all. All a hum.”
Dick was furious to have the wind pulled from his sails, but Deirdre didn’t believe Pronto, so at least Dick had the pleasure of reassuring her that it was true.
“It’s absolutely true. I read it in black and white, and very soon Straus will be reading it as well. This will throw a spanner into his case.”
“I’m so relieved!” Deirdre said. She felt as though a mountain had fallen from her shoulders. “And all Auntie’s worries were for nothing. Nevil, too! Oh, dear, he will look a fool now, saying he put the arsenic in the stew when there was none there at all.”
“He wouldn’t have said he did it if he’d had the least worry what that analysis would contain,” Dick told her. “Now I understand his great gesture of saving your aunt. He quite obviously knew where the arsenic wasn't. Do you really believe for one moment he doesn’t know where it was?”
Deirdre considered it, but became more confused than ever. “It begins to look as though Dudley inhaled it from the air. It wasn’t in anything he ate or drank. Where did it come from?”
Belami, who had given it considerable thought by this time, made a suggestion. “Obviously the table had been tampered with. Whatever contained the poison was removed, and an innocent, arsenic-free substitution made.”
Deirdre frowned, doubtful of this idea. “That points to Anna Wilkey. She was the only one there.”
“Ah, no! Polly was also there before we arrived the next morning,” Dick reminded her. “She returned around midnight. She might have done her—or Sir Nevil’s—work at that time, or she might have done it the next morning, when she claims she went in to clear the table. We know she was mixed up in something with Sir Nevil, vide the letter to Mrs. Haskell, their argument, and her flight.”
“I can’t believe she’d help Nevil to commit murder,” Deirdre said. Dick gave a satisfied smile that puzzled her. She didn’t even notice that she’d accepted Nevil’s being a murderer.
“Somebody helped him,” Pronto said. “Couldn’t have been there and in Bath. Dick and Straus checked up, and he was in Bath. Wouldn’t put it an inch past that Friday-faced girl, Anna, myself. And how about that Broome fellow, Dick? Did you learn anything about him?”
“Broome?” Deirdre asked. “That name sounds familiar. Where have I heard it before?”
“Adelaide’s fellow,” Pronto told her. “Gone off on the wrong tack, Dick. Broome and Adelaide—that’s who did the old boy in. Cui bono and all that. Adelaide’s the one got the lion’s share of what old Dudley had to leave. Broome was here to give her a hand. Two of them close as inkle weavers all along. Broome dropped a bit of arsenic into the old boy’s brandy and slipped in and replaced the decanter with clean goods after Dudley kicked the bucket.”
“Adelaide isn’t the one who’s been acting strange,” Dick pointed out. “Sir Nevil has hardly made a normal move since he arrived here. There was the story of the Bath chair, never bought or delivered. There was the argument with Polly. There is the mysterious matter of his arriving from Bath accoutered with new crape to honor a death he shouldn’t have been aware of. And, most bizarre of all, his inexplicable confession of having put arsenic in the stew. That’s the clincher,” Dick said firmly. “He never would have confessed if he’d feared for one moment it might possibly be true that there was arsenic in the stew.”
“And you think Polly is the one who helped him hide his traces?” Deirdre asked.
“I don’t see who else it might have been. He may have put the poison into the brandy himself before he left and asked her to remove the decanter—wash it and refill it with innocent brandy or just put a new decanter on the sideboard, if there happened to be two identical ones in the house.”
“Actually, Dudley had a set of six. At least three or four of them remain,” she said.
“Polly would also have had to fix up the glass Dudley drank from. That bore no traces of arsenic either,” Dick mentioned.
“Or it might have been in the salt shaker,” Pronto said.
Belami didn’t think so. “It might,” he admitted, “but on the other hand, Nevil couldn’t be positive his uncle would use salt. People usually taste their food before they add it, and if it’s salted to their taste, they don’t use it. Brandy,
on the other hand, was pretty certain to have been taken by Dudley, from what I hear.”
“I wonder if Polly could even have remembered such complicated instructions,” Deirdre said. “Nevil couldn’t have written them down, since she doesn’t read.”
“She’s sharp enough,” Dick thought out loud. “She had the wits to run when he turned mean on her. I wonder what he threatened the poor girl with.”
“Accessory,” Pronto suggested.
They discussed the details for some time, and finally Deirdre was talked around to at least half believing it. “I should tell Auntie. She’ll be so . . . No, she won’t be all that relieved to learn that Nevil’s a thoroughgoing wretch.”
She went upstairs to tell her aunt and discovered that the duchess had quacked herself with a dose of laudanum, as sleep was becoming impossible since the murder. A gentle rumble issued from her open mouth, indicating a deep sleep.
“Your explanation covers everything but the story of the Bath chair,” Deirdre mentioned later after a good deal more talk.
“Yes,” Dick agreed. “That keeps sticking in my craw, too. If Dudley had sent him to Bath for Adelaide, why invent a different excuse for going? He wanted to be miles away when the death occurred, of course, to look innocent, but why tell a silly lie like that about the chair?”
“No reason,” Pronto said. “Just showing off, letting on he was a big spender. Knew he’d never have to produce it, since he knew Dudley would be stone-cold dead. No point giving a Bath chair to a corpse. Really no point bringing Adelaide either, since whatever Dudley had to say to her, he wouldn’t be saying it.”
“Oh, but in case his trick hadn’t worked, you know; he would have to have Adelaide here if Dudley sent for her,” Deirdre said. “If Polly was indeed his accomplice, he must have been worried she’d make a botch of things.”
“There was also the matter of Nevil’s going directly to the inn instead of stopping at the Grange, as he usually does. Your aunt found it strange he came here before going to see Dudley, Deirdre,” Dick reminded her.
“You thought he might have been sniffing around for news,” she said, “trying to find out if his scheme had worked, before he went to the Grange. But still it’s odd he left Adelaide cooling her heels at the inn, instead of dropping her off at the Grange. I just don’t understand it. If Dudley called for her, he must have meant to give her rack and manger.”
Dick began pacing the room. His friends knew that he was deducing and didn’t interrupt him. Pronto leaned close to Deirdre and said, “He’ll soon tell us. I think myself Adelaide’s in it up to her ears. Why didn’t she make Nevil take her to see Dudley? Tell me that.”
Soon Dick stopped pacing and took up a stance before the others. “Let me try this on you,” he said, frowning to aid concentration. “First, Nevil’s accomplice was illiterate, so she couldn’t write and tell him if the plan had failed. Therefore, it was necessary for him to return to the Grange shortly after it should have worked. Neither Mrs. Haskell nor the servants said anything about Adelaide’s having been sent for.”
“That’s true,” Deirdre confirmed. "I remember one of the girls saying they had to prepare a room for Nevil’s return, but they hadn’t prepared a room for Adelaide.”
“So perhaps Dudley never asked Adelaide to come at all. Nevil is the only one who said Dudley sent for her. And with Dudley dead, who could deny the story? But he had to be sure Dudley was dead before he produced Adelaide.”
“Still don’t explain the Bath chair,” Pronto said.
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Dick said. “The duchess asked why Nevil had gone to Bath before any mention was made of the murder. She assumed at the time that he had been at the Grange before he came here and was aware of it. But he hadn’t been, and he wasn’t sure Dudley was dead. He couldn’t say Dudley had asked for Adelaide, so he had to invent a different excuse on the spur of the moment. The birthday was imminent, so he said he’d gone to buy a present. Then the duchess announced Dudley’s death, and we heard no more about the Bath chair.”
“Still don’t see why he dragged Adelaide along,” Pronto objected.
“He didn’t really need an excuse to come back, since the birthday was imminent,” Deirdre added. “He needed an excuse to get away while the actual murder was being committed, but bringing Adelaide was a troublesome thing for him. She must be involved, Dick.”
“In it up to her ears,” Pronto agreed.
“I’m not so sure of that,” Dick objected. “Nevil is swift to chummy up to anyone with money. The lawyer had been out to see Dudley and to make some money and the house over to Adelaide. I assume he threatened at the same time to cut Nevil off—the scribbled note found in his pocket suggests it—that is why Nevil had to move swiftly and kill him before he changed the will. Now suppose Nevil took the idea that everything was going to be left to Adelaide. And there was the possibility the will might be changed while he was away. He must have been on nettles to get back. With the possibility that Adelaide was about to become a wealthy widow, wouldn’t he want to befriend her? He’d want to be the first one in line to offer his hand, and by being nice to her before the death, it would lessen her suspicions that it was cream-pot love. Adelaide said he’d be making up to her if she were rich. Well, he’s over at the Grange this minute trying his luck, isn’t he?”
Pronto lowered his brows and scowled. “Always used to say the simplest explanation is the likeliest one. Don’t call this simple by a long shot. Adelaide and Nevil in it together—that’s simple. Your story is the worst mix-up I ever heard of.”
“It’s confusing, I admit,” Belami agreed, “but to misquote La Rochefoucauld, sometimes in life, situations develop that only the half-crazy can explain.”
“Sometimes you have to be completely looney. Think myself this is one of ‘em,” Pronto insisted. “Still, it’s your case. If you want to leave Adelaide out of your suspects, it’s no sweat off my nose.”
“That’s skin, Pronto,” Dick told him.
“No sweat off my skin,” Pronto amended obligingly.
Belami disliked such active listeners when he was explaining a case, but he forged on. “My mama tells me I tremble on that thin line that divides insanity and genius. I am not ingenious enough to think of a more simple explanation, in any case. Are you?”
“Ain’t even genius enough to understand half what you say,” Pronto replied.
“Well, I think I understand it,” Deirdre said, “but are you genius enough to prove any of this, Dick? Thus far, it’s all pretty circumstantial and based on the unfounded supposition that Nevil is a scoundrel and Adelaide an angel.”
“When the henhouse is ravaged and we see feathers in Reynard’s mouth, we tend to credit circumstantial evidence. Dudley is dead. Nevil had the strongest motive to kill him before the will was changed to disinherit him. He has behaved with incredible weirdness ever since his return. It remains only to prove it, and for that we’ll need to find Polly. She’s the crux of the matter.”
“Might be dead by now for all we know,” Pronto said. “Besides, wrong to leave out Adelaide. Cherchez la femme. Mean to keep an open mind myself.”
“So do I. Open but not gaping,” Dick replied. “Of course, Nevil might have brought Adelaide along to play the role of chief suspect. He knew the will had been changed to enlarge her portion. He knew she had a bad reputation hereabouts, and he had no way of knowing that the Duchess of Charney would oblige him by including herself so prominently among the suspects. She’s been worrying her conscience like Hamlet. No wonder Straus didn’t look beyond her for the guilty party. I half suspected her myself till she explained about the arsenic. In any case, Polly is still the crux of the matter. A femme for us to chercher, Pronto.”
Deirdre looked alert. “What explanation did my aunt give about the arsenic, Dick?” she asked. “She didn’t give me any.
“Oh, she had used it in the kitchen to kill some rodents or something,” he said hastily.
“She
never uses arsenic for mice and rats. The bag sat in that vase for years,” Deirdre said.
“Well, she says she used it to kill a pest, and since it’s gone and it wasn’t in Dudley’s mulligatawny, I’m inclined to believe her.” A frown of concentration formed on his brow. For half a minute he was silently engrossed in some thought, then his brow cleared.
“I don’t believe it,” Deirdre said. “And neither do you.”
Dick was quick to change the subject. “My valet went to London yesterday afternoon to bring Polly back. If she’s there, and he can induce her to return, she should be here sometime tomorrow. We have a few plans to make to bait our trap.”
He pulled out his notebook and began enumerating various items. It seemed very much like old times. Deirdre cast a wistful eye on Pronto and tried to think how she might get rid of him before Dick left.
“I’ll want Straus in on this,” Dick said. “We’ll require brandy, one of those decanters of your late uncle’s, Deirdre, and someone to stand guard at the various doors. The Grange, I think, is the easiest place to hold the party.”
“Party!” Deirdre exclaimed.
“Wrong. Worst spot in England for a party,” Pronto mumbled. “Besides, Pankhurst is in on it. Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”
“If it is a surprise party for Nevil, Dick, you’d best be quick about giving us our instructions. He’ll be back any moment,” Deirdre warned him.
“All you and the duchess have to do is be there. I’ll notify you of the time. And speaking of time, it is rather late. We’d best leave, Pronto.” He gave a hopeful look in Deirdre’s direction, then Pronto’s, and said, “Er, would you mind getting our coats from the hallway, Pronto?”
“Eh? Why can’t the butler give ‘em to us?”
‘‘No doubt he will if you just have a word with him,’’ Dick said.