by Gary Lovisi
“I don’t doubt that an intelligent, resourceful man with hate in his heart could accomplish anything he wanted if he put his mind to it.”
“I relish the compliment. Or is it an accusation?”
I wondered about that myself.
“You’re wrong about me, you know,” said Mountjoy, coming to a sudden halt. He was very possibly correct, of course. I was then, and remain to this day, wrong about a good many things.
“I’m probably your most valuable witness,” he continued, “since I’m the only person in Overdale who is not a hypocrite.”
“Since the death of the Reverend Parbold, of course.”
He smiled. “By no means. I should say that carrying on with a married parishioner would qualify as an act of hypocrisy, wouldn’t you?”
I would have hated for Mountjoy to see my expression at that point, but I daresay he had anticipated my reaction. At least now I knew what he’d meant about ‘old times’ and why Parbold had found it a distasteful topic for luncheon conversation. Undeterred, I pressed on. “I suppose you’re too much of a gentleman to name the lady in question?” I asked.
“You suppose incorrectly, Miss Caine. The lady’s name was Mrs Serena Meridian.”
One could hardly forget the name Meridian in a hurry, and I remembered Elspeth’s apparent fondness for the young church organist.
“And is Serena, Jago Meridian’s wife?” I asked.
“His mother. I did say it was a somewhat awkward gathering. Did you really think that was entirely my responsibility?”
In a town the size of Overdale, there are certain people whose job it is to know everyone else’s business: the elderly spinster (don’t get me started on that Marple woman again), the general practitioner, and the policeman. Did I think that the indolent Inspector Troughton knew all about Parbold’s affair with Serena Meridian? Oh yes. Did I want to know why he had neglected to mention this extremely pertinent detail? Oh my, yes.
* * * *
Upon returning to my temporary abode, I discovered that my host was as good as his word and had spent the afternoon catching up on my adventures in the latest Tittle Tattle.
I related the details of my conversation with Claude Mountjoy, but I had the impression that he wasn’t giving me his complete attention. I couldn’t be sure, you see, whether his lazy eye wasn’t scanning the pages of the publication in his lap. When I’d finished, however, he simply shook his head and said, “I don’t know how you do it, Miss, I really don’t.”
Both eyes observed my less than gruntled expression. He sighed.
“Yes, yes, I knew,” he admitted. “I was called to the Meridian place when it all came out. Victor Meridian, Jago’s dad, just went berserk. Quite a temper on him.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know, I haven’t got to the end yet, have I?”
In frustration, I swept the magazine from his lap and right into the fireplace. Which, it being summer, wasn’t lit, which is a pity, as I doubt I could have done it again if I tried.
Troughton looked up at me without a trace of shame, unless he kept it hidden under his wrinkles.
“After that little fracas, Serena broke it off with Parbold, and all seemed well again. Then six months later, Victor up and shot himself. Maybe he never really got over it, or maybe it was something else, I dunno. He always did have a rather dark, resentful side to him. Played darts with him once—he was a very poor loser. Never again.”
“And how old would Jago have been at the time?”
“Oh, I can’t recall, it was all so long ago. But an impressionable age. Definitely an impressionable age.”
I’d always imagined that I’d had a good relationship with Troughton, but I couldn’t shake the feeling now that he was making fun of me. I wondered if that had always been the case.
“What sort of an effect do you suppose a parent’s suicide would have on a young boy?” I wondered aloud.
“Good question,” was the reply. “P’raps you should ask him.” He retrieved his copy of Tittle Tattle from the grate.
Frustrated by Troughton’s disobliging nature, I decided to take a long walk, which might very well lead me to Jago Meridian’s front door. I had known better than to ask whether the results of the examination of the lemon had arrived. Even in London, these things take an inordinate amount of time. But I continued to pin my hopes on it. After all, it was the only significant difference between Parbold’s lunch and everyone else’s. They’d all eaten sandwiches, hadn’t they? Well, no—Jago Meridian hadn’t eaten, but Elspeth and Mountjoy certainly had, and they weren’t dead. No, everyone else had taken milk with his or her tea—it just had to be the lemon. I stopped for a moment, aware that a notion was tickling the back of my brain. What was it? No, gone again. I just had to hope that it would make itself known before I had to return to London. I should add that I wasn’t in the least bit troubled over the issue of how the killer got his hands on a dose of Datura; it’s my experience that if a person’s determined enough, they can do whatever they set their mind to doing.
Jago Meridian had just prepared a pot of tea when I arrived at his home. In whichever direction I cared to look as I sat at the kitchen table, a wealth of household tasks had been left half-finished. Frankly, I was surprised that Jago—who turned out to be as slight from the front as I’d observed him being from the back—had managed to complete the entire tea-brewing process. I couldn’t help noticing, however, that where he had taken his tea with milk and sugar at the Vicarage, he had neither during our discussion. I asked him about it.
“I just ran out,” he replied with a gormless grin. “I’m that hopeless sort of bachelor you read about in women’s magazines.” I wondered whether Elspeth wasn’t the sort of woman who would put some order into his life. Probably too late for him to make a romantic gesture now, though—she’d been about to return to Boston on the day of the murder and would be delayed only a few more days.
I had failed to notice that Jago had been talking to me as I considered all this—extremely inconsiderate of him to butt in on a lady’s private reverie, I’d say.
“Hmm?” I queried.
“I said what was it you wanted to ask me, Miss Caine?”
“Oh, that. Did you poison the Reverend Parbold?”
The cup quivered in his hand and a little of the dark brew splashed onto the saucer below.
“Quite direct, aren’t you?” he asked with a nervous laugh.
“Yes. Did you?”
“No, why on Earth should I?”
“Perhaps because he was responsible for your father’s suicide?”
Jago shook his head vigorously, as though battling some harsh interrogation or inner conflict. “I—I don’t know that for certain. I mean, I never saw the note. Mother burned it.”
“And where is your mother?”
“She died in 1925. It’s just me now. And the echoes.”
And the unfinished chores, I thought. Could a man incapable of completing a simple task like painting the banisters have the staying power required to commit a murder? And not your common or garden stab-in-the back either, but a clever and horrible poisoning? Frankly, I hadn’t the faintest idea. The psychology of the individual, as the Belgian likes to call it, has never been my strongest suit.
Once again, I realised that Jago Meridian had been inconsiderate enough to be talking while I was thinking. Luckily, I was able to tell from his rather obvious mime that he was offering me a cup of tea.
“No,” I replied, bluntly. Very bluntly, now I come to think of it; not even a thank-you. How rude.
“You surely don’t think it’s poisoned?” Jago responded.
“Is it?” I asked.
He put the cup to his lips and made a big show of swallowing a mouthful. “Delicious.
Care for a cup?”
“No. Did you ever at least think about killing the vicar?”
“How is it going to sound if I say ‘yes’?”
“I rather think you just did.” Quite a sharp response, that. Clearly, I was on form that day.
“I thought about it every day of my life, Miss Caine. Every day. And every day I did nothing about it.”
I wondered whether he’d ever read Hamlet. If he hadn’t, I could have assured him that he wasn’t missing much. But that’s another matter entirely—did I ever tell you about the killing at Chandler’s Block in Devon? I didn’t? Oh well, another time, then.
“Tell me about that last day,” I asked. “What went on at the luncheon; what was said and by whom.”
Jago frowned. “Well, we talked about you, Miss Caine. I mean, what else was there to talk about? The Colonel’s arrest was the biggest thing to happen in Overdale since—well, ever. Claude—Mr Mountjoy—described you as a colossal brain and a trim ankle. Then Elspeth said—well, that’s not important.”
“I’d like to hear it all the same,” I said.
“She said, ‘I haven’t actually seen her, but from what I hear, her ankles aren’t as trim as all that.’ Sorry. Americans are rather forthright, aren’t they? All the same, Mr Parbold chided her for it.
“Claude asked what I thought. I had seen you about the town, but he called it ‘admiring the Goddess from afar.’ He, er, he asked me to estimate the circumference of your ankles.”
I smiled. At least, I smile whenever I think about it now, so I suppose I must have smiled then, also.
“The only reason I mention it at all,” he continued, “is because of what happened next. I don’t know whether you’ve heard this, but Claude couldn’t resist baiting Mr Parbold, and that part of the conversation provided him with the perfect opportunity. The moment I saw the corners of his lips twitch, I knew he was going to say something provocative. ‘You know, now I think about it,’ Claude said, ‘she has all the qualifications to be an actual goddess. All-seeing, all-knowing . . . the only difference between Miss Caine and the popular Christian deity is that she exists, whereas the figure we popularly refer to as—’
“Well, as you can imagine, Mr Parbold wasn’t going to put up with this sort of talk at the Vicarage. ‘That is enough!’ he raged. He apologised to Elspeth for raising his voice, but he stood his ground nonetheless. Claude was highly amused, of course,” said Jago. “ ‘I would have thought the good Lord was big enough and old enough to look after himself,’ Claude said. ‘Apparently, I was mistaken. How blind I’ve been.’ Well, the old man was almost apoplectic by this stage, which only gave Claude the opportunity to mock him further. ‘A touch of indigestion? Perhaps you’re finally finding your own words hard to swallow?’
“When it became clear that something was wrong, it was . . . well, it was all very strange. Claude was confused, hopelessly lost. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? Elspeth had to tell me at least three times to fetch the doctor. I just sat there, frozen . . . just watching him, until at last he was dead. I still don’t know how I feel about it. Should I be happy? Relieved? Scared? I’m just—empty inside. That’s everything that I can remember, at any rate. Is any of it of use?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” I confessed, “but thank you, anyway, Mr Meridian.”
“Call me Jago,” he said, flashing me a winning smile of which I would not have thought him capable.
It wasn’t until I was on my way back to Troughton’s home that I realised that I’d forgotten to ask Jago why he hadn’t eaten any sandwiches that fateful day. I made a mental note to stop making mental notes and start making actual notes instead. There was no tremendous mystery behind it, in any case. If you found yourself invited to dine with the man who caroused with your mother and hastened your father to his grave, would you have much of an appetite? Really, the luncheon was the worst of all possible worlds, so far as Parbold would have been concerned: on one side, the resentments of Jago Meridian, a young man who’s confessed to fantasizing about murder, on the other, Claude Mountjoy, whose existence seems to have been given over to tormenting the late clergyman. I thought I’d at least worked out the method of poisoning, but I also had a suspicion that I was overlooking something fearfully obvious. What had I been thinking of when that half-notion had begun to bother me? Troughton, it seemed, had taken himself off to who knew where for who knew what purpose—I found it hard to imagine that it could be police work. So I settled myself down in his armchair and started to read my latest adventure. After a few paragraphs, I felt one of my tension headaches coming on. The depiction of Hilary Caine, Girl Detective in Tittle Tattle was about as far from reality as . . . well, I’m in danger of repeating myself on that point, aren’t I?
So I decided instead to close my eyes and count my blessings, which included at that time the fact that I hadn’t heard from my father in at least two years. As for my life as a semi-fictional detective, it wasn’t all bad. I had the opportunity to travel, and I also had funds for the time being. And unlike Holmes, I didn’t have to bother about my client because I could get on very nicely without a client, thank you very much. Of course, life was easier still for the Wimseys and the Poirots of this world. Despite the fact that the Belgian claimed to be a private detective, both men seemed to trip over corpses wherever they went, which struck me as extremely poor judgement on someone’s part. I could never be that fortunate—except on this particular occasion, of course. But that was neither here nor there . . . wasn’t it?
“Comfortable, Miss Caine?”
“Delightfully so, Inspector. I take it I’ve been asleep?”
“With a big beaming smile on your face,” Troughton replied.
“Hardly surprising,” I replied. “I’m in a good mood, and I doubt if anything could spoil it.”
“Not even this?” He held out a piece of paper. “It arrived at the station half an hour ago. I went over there to see it for myself. Looks like your theories have come to nothing.”
I read the telegram and laughed. “Don’t you believe it. As a matter of fact, I think I’m ready to confront our merry band of suspects. The Vicarage would be an appropriate venue, don’t you think? You see, I’ve finally discovered that all-important clue I’ve been searching for.”
Troughton was unperturbed by my revelation. “Care to let me in on it, Miss Caine?”
I took great satisfaction in replying, “Sorry, Inspector, holiday’s over. But I will say this: that clue has been staring you in the face all this time.”
* * * *
It was another beautiful day. I waited as Elspeth Seagrave, Claude Mountjoy, and Jago Meridian were seated around the dining room table for the first time since the murder of Alistair Parbold. The young people were in no mood for conversation. Mountjoy, of course, could not be silenced.
“I say, Elspeth, this is wonderfully exciting, isn’t it? I hope I turn out to be the murderer. I’m always hungry for fresh sensation.”
“Claude, don’t joke,” said Elspeth, wearily.
“Gentlemen, Miss Seagrave,” I said at last. “Thank you for coming to the Vicarage today.”
Of course, none of them had really had a choice in the matter; Inspector Troughton can be quite persuasive when given sufficient encouragement. Now, however, he was quite happy in his usual position, slouched against a wall, simply observing proceedings.
“I don’t want to inconvenience all but one of you more than necessary, so I’ll get this over with as soon as possible. On the day Alistair Parbold was murdered, I was sure I’d identified the method by which he was poisoned. After all, he was the only person to take lemon with his tea.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Elspeth asked, “So the poison was in the lemon?”
“Oh, it’s really very simple. Just inject it with a hypodermic and Bob’s your unc
le.”
Mountjoy inserted a finger in his ear and began an excavation. “I don’t see how that helps you, Miss Caine. I mean, any one of us could have done it.”
“In fact, it helps us less than that, Mr Mountjoy.” I displayed the telegram for the benefit of his two friends. “It turns out that my suspicions were incorrect. The poison was not in the lemon. Then I realised I’d been looking in the wrong place entirely. Fortunately, I drew up a list of everyone’s lunchtime consumptions on the day of the murder, and it’s quite obvious that the poison could have been nowhere else but in the teapot.”
For a longer moment, no one spoke.
“But we all drank the tea, Miss Caine,” Mountjoy pointed out. “Surely we’d all be dead.”
“Too true, Claude. In fact, the only way the three of you could have been immune to its effects would have been if you’d all taken the antidote almost immediately. You all took milk in your tea, didn’t you?”
For an even longer . . . oh well, you get the idea.
“The milk?” repeated Elspeth.
“The milk. You, Elspeth, never touch sugar, so that only leaves the milk, which you all had with your tea, except the victim. I’ve investigated a dozen poisoning cases, but I have to admit this one is quite unique. The murderer should take some pride in that.”
Troughton—who, true to form, had remained silent in the background—spoke up at last. “But which of them is the murderer, Miss Caine? As far as I can see, it could still be any one of them.”
“Well, that should have been obvious from the start, Inspector, but the identification of the guilty party hinges on one important factor. Remember, I told you it was staring you in the face from the beginning. Unfortunately, it only stared me in the face when I looked in a mirror.”
“Are you confessing, Miss Caine?”
I chuckled. “Not hardly. But for the first time ever, I find that I’m the vital clue in one of my own investigations. Miss Seagrave, what was the principal topic of conversation during the luncheon?”