Death of a Fool ra-19

by Ngaio Marsh

  He said, “Your solicitor will be the man to talk to about that. Unless your father made a later Will, I should think this one ought to be all right.”

  “And then us’ll have enough to turn this old shop into a proper masterpiece of a garridge, won’t us, chaps?” Ernie demanded excitedly.

  Dan said seriously, “It’s not the occasion to bring that up, now, Ern. It’ll come due for considering at the proper time.”

  Chris said, “Why not consider it now? It’s at the back of what we’re thinking. And with all this great heap of cash — well!”

  Andy said, “I don’t fancy talking about it, knowing how set he was agin it.” He turned to Alleyn. “Seems to me, sir, we ought to be axing you what’s the right thing to do with all this stuff.”

  “You should leave everything as it is until the Will is proved. But I don’t really know about these things and I’ve got to be off. Inspector Fox will stay here until the ambulance comes. I’d suggest that when your — your astonishing search is completed, you do very carefully count and lock away all this money. Indeed, if I may say so, I think you should keep a tally as you go. Goodnight.”

  They broke into a subdued chorus of acknowledgment. Alleyn glanced at Fox and turned to go out. Simon said, “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do if I was watching you, all you bods. Cheery-ho-ho,” and accompanied Alleyn to the cars. Fox walked down with them.

  “Like a lot of great big kids, really, aren’t they?” Simon said.

  Alleyn was non-committal.

  “Well, Ern is, anyway,” Simon said defensively. “Just a great big kid.” He opened the door for Alleyn and stood with his hand still on it. He looked at his boots and kicked the snow, at the moment rather like a small boy, himself.

  “You all seem to pick on the old Corp,” Simon mumbled.

  “We only want the facts from him, you know. As from everybody else.”

  “But he’s not like everybody else. He’ll tell you anything. Irresponsible.”

  (“He’s going to say it again,” Alleyn thought.)

  “Just like a great big kid,” Simon added punctually.

  “Don’t worry,” Alleyn said. “We’ll try not to lose our heads.”

  Simon grinned and looked at him sideways.

  “It’s nice for them, all the same,” he said. He rubbed his fingers and thumb together.

  “Oh!” Alleyn said, “the Guiser’s hoard. Yes. Grand, for them, isn’t it? I must get on.”

  He started his engine. It was cold and sluggish and he revved it up noisily. Ernie appeared in the pool of light outside the smithy door. He came slowly towards the car and then stopped. Something in his demeanor arrested Alleyn.

  “Hi-ya, Corp,” Simon called out cheerfully. It was characteristic of him to bestow perpetual greetings.

  Alleyn suddenly decided to take a chance. “See here,” he said hurriedly to Simon. “I want to ask Ernie something. I could get him by himself, but I’ve a better chance of a reasonable answer if you stand by. Will you?”

  “Look here, though —”

  “Ernie,” Alleyn called, “just a second, will you?” Ernie moved forward.

  “If you’re trying to catch him out—” Simon began.

  “Do you suggest there’s anything to catch?”

  “No.”

  “Ernie,” Alleyn said, “come here a moment.” Ernie walked slowly towards them, looking at Simon.

  “Tell me,” Alleyn said, “why did you say the German lady killed your father?”

  Chris Andersen had come into the smithy doorway. Ernie and Simon had their backs turned to him.

  Ernie said, “I never. What I said, she done it.”

  “Ah, for Pete’s sake!” Simon ejaculated. “Go on! Go right ahead. I daresay he knows, and, anyway, it couldn’t matter less. Go on.”

  But Ernie seemed to have been struck by another thought. “Wummen!” he observed. “It’s them that’s the trouble, all through, just like what the Guiser reckoned. Look at our Chris.”

  The figure standing in the over-dramatic light from the smithy turned its head, stirred a little and was still again.

  “What about him?” Alleyn asked very quietly and lifted a warning finger at Simon.

  Ernie assumed a lordly off-hand expression. “You can’t,” he said, “tell me nothing I don’t know about them two,” and incontinently began to giggle.

  Fox suddenly said, “Is that so? Fancy!”

  Ernie glanced at him. “Ar! That’s right. Him and Trix.”

  “And the Guiser?” Alleyn suggested under his breath.

  Ernie gave a long affirmative whistle.

  Chris moved down towards them and neither Simon nor Ernie heard him. Alleyn stamped in the snow as if to warm his feet, keeping time with Chris.

  Simon appealed to Alleyn. “Honest to God,” he said, “I don’t know what this one’s about. Honest to God.”

  “What’s it all about, Corp?” Simon began obediently. “Where did the Guiser come into it? What’s the gen? Come on.”

  Ernie, always more reasonable with Simon than with anyone else, said at once, “Beg pardon, sir. I was meaning about Trix and what I told the Guiser I seen. You know. Her and Mr. Ralph.”

  Simon said, “Hell!” and to Alleyn, “I can’t see this is of any interest to you, you know.”

  Chris was close behind his brother.

  “Was there a row about it?” Alleyn asked Ernie. “On Sunday?”

  Ernie whistled again, piercingly.

  Chris’s hand closed on his brother’s arm. He twisted Ernie round to face him.

  “What did I tell you?” he said, and slapped him across the face.

  Ernie made a curious sound, half whimper, half giggle. Simon, suddenly very tough indeed, shouldered between them.

  “Was that necessary?” he asked Chris.

  “You mind your own bloody business,” Chris rejoined. He turned on his heel and went back into the smithy. Fox, after a glance at Alleyn, followed him.

  “By God!” Simon said thoughtfully. He put his arm across Ernie’s shoulders.

  “Forget it, Corp,” he said. “It’s like what I said: nobody argues with the dumb. You talk too much, Corp.” He looked at Alleyn. “Give him a break, sir,” Simon said. “Can’t you?”

  But Ernie burst out in loud lamentation. “Wummen!” he declared. “There you are! Like what the old man said. They’re all the same, that lot. Look what the fureigness done on us. Look what she done.”

  “All right,” Alleyn said. “What did she do?”

  “Easy on, easy, now, Corp. What did I tell you?” Simon urged very anxiously and looked appealingly at Alleyn. “Have a heart,” he begged. He moved towards Ernie and checked abruptly. He stared at something beyond the rear of Alleyn’s car.

  Out of range of the light from the smithy, but visible against the background of snow and faintly illuminated by a hurricane lanthorn that one of them carried, were three figures. They came forward slowly into the light and were revealed.

  Dr. Otterly, Mrs. Bünz and Ralph Stayne.

  Mrs. Bünz’s voice sounded lonely and small on the night air and had no more endurance than the jets of frozen breath that accompanied it. It was like the voice of an invalid.

  “What is he saying about me? He is speaking lies. You must not believe what he tells you. It is because I was a German. They are in league against me. They think of me as an enemy, still.”

  “Go on, Ernie,” Alleyn said.

  “No!” Ralph Stayne shouted, and then, with an air that seemed to be strangely compounded of sheepishness and defiance, added:

  “She’s right. It’s not fair.”

  Dr. Otterly said, “I really do think, Alleyn —”

  Mrs. Bünz gabbled, “I thank you. I thank you, gentlemen.” She moved forward.

  “You keep out of yur,” Ernie said and backed away from her. “Don’t you go and overlook us’ns.”

  He actually threw up his forearm as if to protect himself, turned aside and sp
at noisily.

  “There you are!” Simon said angrily to Alleyn. “That’s what that all adds up to.”

  “All right, all right,” Alleyn said.

  He looked past Simon at the smithy. Fox had come out and was massively at hand. Behind him stood the rest of the Andersen brothers, fitfully illuminated. Fox and one of the other men had torches and, whether by accident or design, their shafts of light reached out like fingers to Mrs. Bünz’s face.

  It was worth looking at. As the image from a lantern slide that is being withdrawn may be momentarily overlaid by its successor, so alarm modulated into fanaticism in Mrs. Bünz’s face. Her lips moved. Out came another little jet of breath. She whispered, “Wunderbar!” She advanced a pace towards Ernie, who at once retired upon his brothers. She clasped her hands and became lyrical.

  “It is incredible,” Mrs. Bünz whispered, “and it is very, very interesting and important. He believes me to have the Evil Eye. It is remarkable.”

  Without a word, the five brothers turned away and went back into the smithy.

  “You are determined, all of you,” Alleyn said with unusual vehemence, “to muck up the course of justice, aren’t you? What are you three doing here?”

  They had walked down from the pub, it appeared. Mrs. Bünz wished to send a telegram and to buy some eucalyptus from the village shop, which she had been told would be open. Ralph was on his way home. Dr. Otterly had punctured a tyre and was looking for an Andersen to change the wheel for him.

  “I’m meant to be dining with you at the castle,” he said. “Two nights running, I may tell you, which is an acid test, metaphorically and clinically, for any elderly stomach. I’ll be damn’ late if I don’t get moving.”

  “I’ll drive you up.”

  “Like me to change your wheel, Doc?” Simon offered.

  “I didn’t expect you’d be here. Yes, will you, Begg? And do the repair? I’ll pick the car up on my way back and collect the wheel from your garage to-morrow.”

  “Okey-doke, sir,” Simon said. “I’ll get cracking, then.” He tramped off, whistling self-consciously.

  “Well,” Ralph Stayne said from out of the shadows behind Alleyn’s car, “I’ll be off, too, I think. Good-night.”

  They heard the snow squeak under his boots as he walked away.

  “I also,” said Mrs. Bünz.

  “Mrs. Bünz,” Alleyn said, “do you really believe it was only the look in your eye that made Ernie say what he did about you?”

  “But yes. It is one of the oldest European superstitions. It is fascinating to find it. The expression ‘overlooking’ proves it. I am immensely interested,” Mrs. Bünz said rather breathlessly.

  “Go and send your telegram,” Alleyn rejoined crossly. “You are behaving foolishly, Mrs. Bünz. Nobody, least of all the police, wants to bully you or dragoon you or brain-wash you, or whatever you’re frightened of. Go and get your eucalyptus and snuff it up and let us hope it clears your head for you. Guten Abend, Mrs. Bünz.”

  He walked quickly up the path to Fox.

  “I’ll hand you all that on a plate, Fox,” he said. “Keep the tabs on Ernie. If necessary, we’ll have to lock him up. What a party! All right?”

  “All right, Mr. Alleyn.”

  “Hell, we must go! Where’s Otterly? Oh, there you are. Come on.”

  He ran down the path and slipped into the car. Dr. Otterly followed slowly.

  Fox watched them churn off in the direction of Mardian Castle.

  Chapter X

  Dialogue for a Dancer

  The elderly parlour-maid put an exquisite silver dish filled with puckered old apples on the table. Dame Alice, Dulcie, Alleyn and Dr. Otterly removed their mats and finger bowls from their plates. Nobody helped themselves to apples.

  The combined aftermath of pallid soup, of the goose that was undoubtedly the victim of Ernie’s spleen and of Queen Pudding lingered in the cold room together with the delicate memory of a superb red wine. The parlour-maid returned, placed a decanter in front of Dame Alice and then withdrew.

  “Same as last night,” Dame Alice said. She removed the stopper and pushed the decanter towards Dr. Otterly.

  “I can scarcely believe my good fortune,” he replied. He helped himself and leant back in his chair. “We’re greatly honoured, believe me, Alleyn. A noble wine.”

  The nobility of the port was discussed for some time. Dame Alice, who was evidently an expert, barked out information about it, no doubt in much the same manner as that of her male forebears. Alleyn changed down (or up, according to the point of view) into the appropriate gear and all the talk was of vintages, body and aroma. Under the beneficent influence of the port even the dreadful memory of wet Brussels sprouts was gradually effaced.

  Dulcie, who was dressed in brown velveteen with a lace collar, had recovered her usual air of vague acquiescence, though she occasionally threw Alleyn a glance that seemed to suggest that she knew a trick worth two of his and could look after herself if the need arose.

  In the drawing-room, Alleyn had seen an old copy of one of those publications that are dedicated to the profitable enshrinement of family relationships. Evidently, Dame Alice and Dulcie had consulted this work with reference to himself. They now settled down to a gruelling examination of the kind that leaves not a second-cousin unturned nor a collateral unexplored. It was a pastime that he did not particularly care for and it gave him no opportunity to lead the conversation in the direction he had hoped it would take.

  Presently, however, when the port had gone round a second time, some execrable coffee had been offered and a maternal great-aunt of Alleyn’s had been tabulated and dismissed, the parlour-maid went out and Dame Alice suddenly shouted:

  “Got yer man?”

  “Not yet,” Alleyn confessed.

  “Know who did it?”

  “We have our ideas.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “Why?”

  “We might be wrong and then what fools we’d look.”

  “I’ll tell yer who I’d back for it.”

  “Who?” asked Alleyn in his turn.

  “Ernest Andersen. He took the head off that goose you’ve just eaten and you may depend upon it he did as much for his father. Over-excited. Gets above himself on Sword Wednesday, always. Was it a full moon last night, Otters?”

  “I — yes, I rather think — yes. Though, of course, one couldn’t see it.”

  “There yar! All the more reason. They always get worst when the moon’s full. Dulcie does, don’t you, Dulcie?” asked her terrible aunt.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Akky, I wasn’t listening.”

  “There yar! I said you always get excited when the moon’s full.”

  “Well, I think it’s awfully pretty,” Dulcie said, putting her head on one side.

  “How,” Alleyn intervened rather hurriedly, “do you think Ernie managed it, Dame Alice?”

  “That’s for you to find out.”

  “True.”

  “Pass the port. Help yerself.”

  Alleyn did so.

  “Have you heard about the great hoard of money that’s turned up at Copse Forge?” he asked.

  They were much interested in this news. Dame Alice said the Andersens had hoarded money for as long as they’d been at the forge, a matter of four centuries and more, and that Dan would do just the same now that his turn had come.

  “I don’t know so much about that, you know,” Dr. Otterly said, squinting at his port. “The boys and Simon Begg have been talking for a long time about converting the forge into a garage and petrol station. Looking forward to when the new road goes through.”

  This, as might have been expected, aroused a fury in Dame Alice. Alleyn listened to a long diatribe, during which her teeth began to play up, against new roads, petrol pumps and the decline of proper feeling in the artisan classes.

  “William,” she said (she pronounced it Will’m), “would never’ve had it. Never! He told me what h
is fools of sons were plottin’. Who’s the feller that’s put ’em up to it?”

  “Young Begg, Aunt Akky.”

  “Begg? Begg? What’s he got to do with it? He’s a grocer.”

  “No, Aunt Akky, he left the shop during the war and went into the Air Force and now he’s got a garage. He was here yesterday.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that, Dulcie. Of course I know young Begg was here. I’d have given him a piece of my mind if you’d told me what he was up ter.”

  “When did you see William Andersen, Dame Alice?”

  “What? When? Last week. I sent for ’im. Sensible old feller, Will’m Andersen.”

  “Are we allowed to ask why you sent for him?”

  “Can if yer like. I told ’im to stop his grand-daughter makin’ sheep’s eyes at my nephew.”

  “Goodness!” Dulcie said, “was she? Did Ralph like it? Is that what you meant, Aunt Akky, when you said Ralph was a rake?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t mind my cutting in,” Dr. Otterly ventured, “I don’t believe little Miss Camilla made sheep’s eyes at Ralph. She’s a charming child with very nice manners.”

  “Will’m ’greed with me. Look what happened when his girl loped with young Campion. That sort of mix-up never answers and he knew it.”

  “One can’t be too careful, can one, Aunt Akky,” Dulcie said, “with men?”

  “Lor’, Dulcie, what a stoopid gel you are. When,” Dame Alice asked brutally, “have you had to look after yerself, I’d like to know?”

  “Ah-ha, Aunt Akky!”

  “Fiddlesticks!”

  The parlour-maid re-appeared with cigarettes and, surprisingly, a great box of cigars.

  “I picked ’em up,” Dame Alice said, “at old Tim Comberdale’s sale. We’ll give you ten minutes. You can bring ’em to the drawin’-room. Come on, Dulcie.”

  She held out her arm. Dulcie began to collect herself.

  “Let me haul,” Alleyn said, “may I?”

  “Thanks. Bit groggy in the fetlocks, these days. Go with the best, once I’m up.”

  He opened the door. She toddled rapidly towards it and looked up at him.