Grave Mistake ra-30

by Ngaio Marsh

  At half-past two they arrived at Greengages. It was a converted Edwardian mansion approached by an avenue, sheltered by a stand of conifers and surrounded by ample lawns in which flower-beds had been cut like graves.

  There were a number of residents strolling about with visitors or sitting under brilliant umbrellas on exterior furnishers’ contraptions.

  “She does know we’re coming, doesnt she?” Verity asked. She had begun to feel apprehensive.

  “You and me, she knows,” said Prunella. “I didn’t mention Gideon. Actually.”

  “Oh, Prue!”

  “I thought you might sort of ease him in,” Prue whispered.

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Nor do I,” said Gideon. “Darling, why can’t we just—”

  “There she is!” cried Verity. “Over there beyond the calceolarias and lobelia under an orange brolly. She’s waving. She’s seen us.”

  “Godma V, please. Gideon and I’ll sit in the car and when you wave we’ll come. Please.”

  Verity thought: “I’ve eaten their astronomical luncheon and drunk their champagne so now I turn plug-ugly and refuse?”

  “All right,” she said, “but don’t blame me if it goes hay-wire.”

  She set off across the lawn.

  Nobody has invented a really satisfactory technique for the gradual approach of people who have already exchanged greetings from afar. Continue to grin while a grin dwindles into a grimace? Assume a sudden absorption in the surroundings? Make as if sunk in meditation? Break into a joyous earner? Shout? Whistle? Burst, even, into song?

  Verity tried none of these methods. She walked fast and when she got within hailing distance cried: “There you are!”

  Sybil had the advantage in so far as she wore enormous dark sunglasses. She waved and smiled and pointed, as if in mock astonishment or admiration at Verity and when she arrived extended her arms for an embrace.

  “Darling Verry!” she cried. “You’ve come after all.” She waved Verity into a canvas chair, seemed to gaze at her fixedly for an uneasy moment or two and then said with a change of voice: “Whose car’s that? Don’t tell me. It’s Gideon Markos’s. He’s driven you both over. You needn’t say anything. They’re engaged!”

  This, in a way, was a relief. Verity, for once, was pleased by Sybil’s prescience. “Well, yes,” she said, “they are. And honestly, Syb, there doesn’t seem to me to be anything against it.”

  “In that case,” said Sybil, all cordiality spent, “why are they going on like this? Skulking in the car and sending you to soften me up: If you call that the behaviour of a civilized young man! Prue would never be like that on her own initiative. He’s persuaded her.”

  “The boot’s on the other foot. He was all for tackling you himself.”

  “Cheek! Thick-skinned push. One knows where he got that from.”

  “Where?”

  “God knows.”

  “You’ve just said you do.”

  “Don’t quibble, darling,” said Sybil.

  “I can’t make out what, apart from instinctive promptings, sets you against Gideon. He’s intelligent, eminently presentable, obviously rich—”

  “Yes, and where does it come from?”

  “—and, which is the only basically important bit, he seems to be a young man of good character and in love with Prue.”

  “John Swingletree’s devoted to her. Utterly devoted. And she was—” Sybil boggled for a moment and then said loudly, “she was getting to be very fond of him.”

  “The Lord Swingletree, would that be?”

  “Yes, it would and you needn’t say it like that.”

  “I’m not saying it like anything. Syb, they’re over there waiting to come to you. Do be kind. You won’t get anywhere by being anything else.”

  “She’s under age.”

  “I think she’ll wait until she’s not or else do a bunk. Really.”

  Sybil was silent for a moment and then said: “Do you know what I think? I think it’s a put-up job between him and his father. They want to get their hands on Quintern.”

  “Oh, my dear old Syb!”

  “All right. You wait. Just you wait.”

  This was said with all her old vigour and obstinacy and yet with a very slight drag, a kind of flatness in her utterance. Was it because of this that Verity had the impression that Sybil did not really mind all that much about her daughter’s engagement? There was an extraordinary suggestion of hesitancy and yet of suppressed excitement — almost of jubilation.

  The pampered little hand she raised to her sunglasses quivered. It removed the glasses and for Verity the afternoon turned cold.

  Sybil’s face was blankly smooth as if it had been ironed. It had no expression. Her great china-blue eyes really might have been those of a doll.

  “All right,” she said. “On your own head be it. Let them come. I won’t make scenes. But I warn you I’ll never come round. Never.”

  A sudden wave of compassion visited Verity.

  “Would you rather wait a bit?” she asked. “How are you, Syb? You haven’t told me. Are you better?”

  “Much, much better. Basil Schramm is fantastic. I’ve never had a doctor like him. Truly. He so understands. I expect,” Sybil’s voice luxuriated, “he’ll be livid when he hears about this visit. He won’t let me be upset. I told him about Charmless Claude and he said I must on no account see him. He’s given orders. Verry, he’s quite fantastic,” said Sybil. The warmth of these eulogies found no complementary expression in her face or voice. She wandered on, gossiping about Schramm and her treatment and his nurse. Sister Jackson, who, she said complacently, resented his taking so much trouble over her. “My dear,” said Sybil, “jealous! Don’t you worry, I’ve got that one buttoned up.”

  “Well,” Verity said, swallowing her disquietude, “perhaps you’d better let me tell these two that you’ll see Prue by herself for a moment. How would that be?”

  “I’ll see them both,” said Sybil. “Now.”

  “Shall I fetch them, then?”

  “Can’t you just wave?” she asked fretfully.

  As there seemed to be nothing else for it, Verity walked into the sunlight and waved. Prunella’s hand answered from the car. She got out, followed by Gideon, and they came quickly across the lawn. Verity knew Sybil would be on the watch for any signs of a conference however brief and waited instead of going to meet them. When they came up with her she said under her breath: “It’s tricky. Don’t upset her.”

  Prunella broke into a run. She knelt by her mother and looked into her face. There was a moment’s hesitation and then she kissed her.

  “Darling Mummy,” she said.

  Verity turned to the car.

  There she sat and watched the group of three under the orange canopy. They might have been placed there for a painter like Troy Alleyn. The afternoon light, broken and diffused, made nebulous figures of them so that they seemed to shimmer and swim a little. Sybil had put her sunglasses on again so perhaps, thought Verity, Prue won’t notice anything.

  Now Gideon had moved. He stood by Sybil’s chair and raised her hand to his lips. “She ought to like that,” Verity thought. “That ought to mean she’s yielding but I don’t think it does.”

  She found it intolerable to sit in the car and decided to stroll back toward the gates. She would be in full view. If she was wanted Gideon could come and get her.

  A bus had drawn up outside the main gates. A number of people got out and began to walk up the drive. Among them were two men, one of whom carried a great basket of lilies. He wore a countrified tweed suit and hat and looked rather distinguished. It came as quite a shock to recognize him as Bruce Gardener in his best clothes. Sybil would have said he was “perfectly presentable.”

  And a greater and much more disquieting shock to realize that his shambling, ramshackle companion was Claude Carter.

  vi

  When Verity was a girl there had been a brief craze for what were known
as rhymes of impending disaster — facetious couplets usually on the lines of: “Auntie Maude’s mislaid her glasses and thinks the burglar’s making passes,” accompanied by a childish drawing of a simpering lady being man-handled by a masked thug.

  Why was she now reminded of this puerile squib? Why did she see her old friend in immediate jeopardy: threatened by something undefined but infinitely more disquieting than any nuisance Claude Carter could inflict upon her? Why should Verity feel as if the afternoon, now turned sultry, was closing about Sybil? Had she only imagined that there was an odd immobility in Sybil’s face?

  And what ought she to do about Bruce and Claude?

  She pulled herself together and went to meet them.

  Bruce was delighted to see her. He raised his tweed hat high in the air, beamed across the lilies and greeted her in his richest and most suspect Scots. He was, he said, paying his usual wee Saturday visit to his puir leddy and how had Miss Preston found her the noo? Would there be an improvement in her condeetion, then?

  Verity said she didn’t think Mrs. Foster seemed very well and that at the moment she had visitors to which Bruce predictably replied that he would bide a wee. And if she didna fancy any further visitors he’d leave the lilies at the desk to be put in her room. “She likes to know how her garden prospers,” he said. Claude had listened to this exchange with a half-smile and a shifting eye.

  “You found your way here, after all?” Verity said to him since she could scarcely say nothing.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Thanks to Bruce. He’s sure she’ll be glad to see me.”

  Bruce looked, Verity thought, as if he would like to disown this remark and indeed began to say he’d no’ put it that way when Claude said: “That’s her, over there, isn’t it? Is that Prue with her?”

  “Yes,” said Verity shortly.

  “Who’s the jet-set type?”

  “A friend.”

  “I think I’ll just investigate,” he said with a pallid show of effrontery and made as if to set out.

  “Claude, please wait,” Verity said and in her dismay turned to Bruce. He said at once: “Ou, now, Mr. Carter, would you no’ consider it more advisable to bide a while?”

  “No,” said Claude over his shoulder, “thank you, I wouldn’t,” and continued on his way.

  Verity thought: “I can’t run after him and hang on his arm and make a scene. Prue and Gideon will have to cope.”

  Prue certainly did. The distance was too great for words to be distinguished and the scene came over like a mime. Sybil reached out a hand and clutched her daughter’s arm. Prue turned, saw Claude and rose. Gideon made a. gesture of enquiry. Then Prue marched down upon Claude.

  They faced each other, standing close together, Prue very upright, rather a dignified little figure, Claude with his back to Verity, his head lowered. And in the distance Sybil being helped to her feet by Gideon and walked toward the house.

  “She’ll be better indoors,” said Bruce in a worried voice, “she will that.”

  Verity had almost forgotten him but there he stood gazing anxiously over the riot of lilies he carried. At that moment Verity actually liked him.

  Prue evidently said something final to Claude. She walked quickly toward the house, joined her mother and Gideon on the steps, took Sybil’s arm and led her indoors. Claude stared after them, turned toward Verity, changed his mind and sloped off in the direction of the trees.

  “It wasna on any invitation of mine he came,” said Bruce hotly. “He worrumed the information oot of me.”

  “I can well believe it,” said Verity.

  Gideon came to them.

  “It’s all right,” he said to Verity. “Prue’s taking Mrs. Foster up to her room.” And to Bruce: “Perhaps you could wait in the entrance hall until Miss Prunella comes down.”

  “I’ll do that, sir, thank you,” Bruce said and went indoors.

  Gideon smiled down at Verity. He had, she thought, an engaging smile. “What a very bumpy sort of a visit,” he said.

  “How was it shaping up? Before Charmless Claude intervened?”

  “Might have been worse, I suppose. Not much worse, though. The reverse of open arms and cries of rapturous welcome. You must have done some wonderful softening-up, Miss Preston, for her to receive me at all. We couldn’t be more grateful.” He hesitated for a moment. “I hope you don’t mind my asking but is there — is she — Prue’s mother — I don’t know how to say it. Is there something—?” He touched his face.

  “I know what you mean. Yes. There is.”

  “I only wondered.”

  “It’s new.”

  “I think Prue’s seen it. Prue’s upset. She managed awfully well but she is upset.”

  “Prue’s explained Charmless Claude, has she?”

  “Yes. Pretty ghastly specimen. She coped marvellously,” said Gideon proudly.

  “Here she comes.”

  When Prunella joined them she was white-faced but perfectly composed. “We can go now,” she said and got into the car.

  “Where’s your bag?” asked Gideon.

  “What? Oh, damn,” said Prunella, “I’ve left it up there. Oh, what a fool! Now I’ll have to go back.”

  “Shall I?”

  “It’s in her room. And she’s been pretty beastly to you.”

  “Perhaps I could better myself by a blithe change of manner.”

  “What a good idea,” cried Prunella. “Yes, do let’s try it. Say she looks like Mrs. Onassis.”

  “She doesn’t. Not remotely. Nobody less.”

  “She thinks she does.”

  “One can but try,” Gideon said. “There’s nothing to lose.”

  “No more there is.”

  He was gone for longer than they expected. When he returned with Prunella’s bag he looked dubious. He started up the car and drove off.

  “Any good?” Prunella ventured.

  “She didn’t actually throw anything at me.”

  “Oh,” said Prunella. “Like that, was it.”

  She was very quiet on the homeward drive. Verity, in the back seat, saw her put her hand on Gideon’s knee. He laid his own hand briefly over it and looked down at her. “He knows exactly how to handle her,” Verity thought. “There’s going to be no doubt about who’s the boss.”

  When they arrived at Keys she asked them to come in for a drink but Gideon said his father would be expecting them.

  “I’ll see Godma V in,” said Prue as Gideon prepared to do so.

  She followed Verity indoors and kissed and thanked her very prettily. Then she said: “About Mummy. Has she had a stroke?”

  “My dear child, why?”

  “You noticed. I could see you did.”

  “I don’t think it looked like that. In any case they — the doctor — would have let you know if anything serious was wrong.”

  “P’raps he didn’t know. He may not be a good doctor. Sorry, I forgot he was a friend.”

  “He’s not. Not to matter.”

  “I think I’ll ring him up. I think there’s something wrong Honestly, don’t you?”

  “I did wonder and yet—”

  “What?”

  “In a funny sort of way she seemed — well — excited, pleased.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “It’s very odd,” said Prunella. “Everything was odd. Out of focus, kind of. Anyway I will ring up that doctor. I’ll ring him up tomorrow. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  Verity said: “Yes, darling. I do. It should put your mind at rest.”

  But it was going to be a long tfme before Prunella’s mind would be in that enviable condition.

  vii

  At five minutes past nine that evening, Sister Jackson, the resident nurse at Greengages, paused at Sybil Foster’s door. She could hear the television. She tapped, opened and after a long pause approached the bed. Five minutes later she left the room and walked rather quickly down the passage.

  At ten-thirty Dr. Schramm telephoned Prune
lla to tell her that her mother was dead.

  Chapter 3: Alleyn

  i

  Basil looked distinguished, Verity had to admit: exactly as he ought to look under the circumstances, and he behaved as one would wish him to behave, with dignity and propriety, with deference and with precisely the right shade of controlled emotion.

  “I had no reason whatever to suspect that beyond symptoms of nervous exhaustion, which had markedly improved, there was anything the matter,” he said. “I feel I must add that I am astonished that she should have taken this step. She was in the best of spirits when I last saw her.”

  “When was that, Dr. Schramm?” asked the coroner.

  “On that same morning. About eight o’clock. I was going up to London and looked in on some of my patients before I left. I did not get back to Greengages until a few minutes after ten in the evening.”

  “To find?”

  “To find that she had died.”

  “Can you describe the circumstances?”

  “Yes. She had asked me to get a book for her in London: the autobiography of a Princess — somebody — I forget the name. I went to her room to deliver it. Our bedrooms are large and comfortable and are often used as sitting-rooms. I have been told that she went up to hers later that afternoon. Long before her actual bedtime. She had dinner there, watching television. I knocked and there was no reply but I could hear the television and presumed that because of it she had not heard me. I went in. She was in bed and lying on her back. Her bedside table-lamp was on and I saw at once that a bottle of tablets was overturned and several — five, in fact — were scattered over the surface of the table. Her drinking glass was empty but had been used and was lying on the floor. Subsequently a faint trace of alcohol — Scotch — was found in the glass. A small bottle of Scotch, empty, was on the table. She sometimes used to take a modest nightcap. Her jug of water was almost empty. I examined her and found that she was dead. It was then twenty minutes past ten.”