by Ngaio Marsh
“Still,” Verity said. “He’d have been sitting pretty at Quintern if Sybil had lived.”
“Not if Dr. Schramm knew anything about it. They had a row and he intimated to Gardener, almost in so many words, that he’d get the sack.”
After a long pause, Verity said: “What about the stamp?”
“The Black Alexander? He knew about it. Captain Carter had talked about it. Bruce Gardener,” said Alleyn, “is in some ways the most accomplished villain I’ve come across. He’s never told me a lie when it wasn’t necessary. Over a long, long span, probably from his boyhood, he’s developed the persona that has served him best: the honest, downright chap; winning, plausible, a bit of a character with the added slightly phoney touch of the pawky Scot. By and large,” said Alleyn, “a loss to the Stage. I can see him stealing the show in superior soap.”
“The stamp?”
“Ah, yes. He hasn’t admitted it but I’ve no doubt he knew perfectly well that his sister lived in his captain’s village and that the stamp had never been found. Hence the multiplicity of asparagus and mushroom beds.”
“And then — Claude?”
“Yes. And along comes Claude and Claude’s found a map with a point marked X and while heart-stricken Bruce is digging his kind and generous lady’s grave Claude has a go in the fireplace and strikes it rich.”
“Oh, well!” said Verity and gave it up. And then, with great difficulty, she said: “I would be glad to know — Basil Smythe wasn’t in any way involved, was he? I mean — as her doctor he couldn’t be held to have been irresponsible or anything?”
“Nothing like that.”
“But — there’s something, isn’t there?”
“Well, yes. It appears that the Dr. Schramm who qualified at Lausanne was never Mr. Smythe, and I’m afraid Schramm was not a family name of Mr. Smythe’s mama. But it appears he will inherit his fortune. He evidently suggested — no doubt with great tact — that as the change had not been confirmed by deed poll, Smythe was still his legal name. And Smythe, to Mr. Rattisbon’s extreme chagrin, it is in the Will.”
“That,” said Verity, “is I’m afraid all too believable.”
Alleyn waited for a moment and then said: “You’ll see, won’t you, why I was so anxious that Prunella should be taken away before we went to work in the churchyard?”
“What? Oh, that. Yes. Yes, of course I do.”
“If she was on the high seas she couldn’t be asked as next of kin to identify.”
“That would have been — too horrible.”
Alleyn got to his feet. “Whereas she is now, no doubt, contemplating the flesh-pots of the Côte d’Azure and running herself in as the future daughter-in-law of the Markos millions.”
“Yes,” Verity said, catching her breath in a half-sigh, “I expect so.”
“You sound as if you regret it.”
“Not really. She’s a level-headed child and it’s the height of elderly arrogance to condemn the young for having different tastes from one’s own. It’s not my scene,” said Verity, “but I think she’ll be very happy in it.”
And at the moment, Prunella was very happy indeed. She was stretched out in a chaise-longue looking at the harbour of Antibes, drinking iced lemonade and half-listening to Nikolas and Gideon, who were talking about the post from London that had just been brought aboard.
Mr. Markos had opened up a newspaper. He gave an instantly stifled exclamation and made a quick movement to refold the paper.
But he was too late. Prunella and Gideon had both looked up as an errant breeze caught at the front page.
BLACK ALEXANDER
Famous Stamp Found on Murdered Man
“It’s no good, darlings,” Prunella said after a pause, “trying to hide it all up. I’m bound to hear, you know, sooner or later.”
Gideon kissed her. Mr. Markos, after making a deeply sympathetic noise, said: “Well — perhaps.”
“Go on,” said Prunella. “You know you’re dying to read it.”
So he read it and as he did so the circumspection of the man of affairs and the avid, dotty desire of the collector were strangely combined in Mr. Markos. He folded the paper.
“Darling child,” said Mr. Markos. “You now possess a fortune.”
“I suppose I must.”
He picked up her hands and beat them gently together. “You will, of course, take advice. It will be a momentous decision. But if,” said Mr. Markos, kissing first one hand and then the other, “if after due deliberation you decide to sell, may your father-in-law have the first refusal? Speaking quite cold-bloodedly, of course,” said Mr. Markos.
The well-dressed, expensively gloved and strikingly handsome passenger settled into his seat and fastened his belt.
Heathrow had passed off quietly.
He wondered when it would be advisable to return. Not, he fancied, for some considerable time. As they moved off the label attached to an elegant suitcase in the luggage rack slipped down and dangled over his head.
Dr. Basil Schramm
Passenger to New York
Concorde
Flight 123
The End
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