Poison in the Pen (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 29)

by Patricia Wentworth

  Frank’s memory began to wake up.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember. She’s some sort of relation, isn’t she – used to run the house?’

  ‘Darling, she couldn’t run a rabbit-hutch! She’s an umpteenth cousin of old Jonathan’s, and when he took on Georgina it was considered the right thing to have someone like that in the house. I think he clung to her as a protection against nurses and governesses who wanted to boss him or marry him. Miss Vinnie says there were several determined attempts, so you may say Mrs. Fabian began by being Jonathan’s chaperone. Miss Vinnie says he was dreadfully nervous about breaths of scandal. And of course Mrs. Fabian has clung like a leech. No, that’s too bad of me – she’s perfectly harmless, only quite terribly inefficient. I couldn’t stand it myself, but I expect they are used to her. It’s all right as long as Georgina doesn’t let herself get so used to Johnny that she wakes up one morning and finds she has married him.’

  ‘Any reason why she shouldn’t?’

  A bright colour came up under Cicely’s brown skin,

  ‘As if you didn’t know! He makes love to every girl he meets, and if Georgina married him she would have to look after him for the rest of her life – and she’s not that sort, you know.’

  ‘What sort is she?’

  Cicely’s expression changed. Her really lovely sherry-coloured eyes looked up at him.

  ‘She is—’ She hesitated for a word, and then said, ‘vulnerable. Most people wouldn’t tell you that. They would say that she had looks and – and everything she wanted. But they don’t know. She doesn’t know either. She thinks everyone is like herself. She – she – oh, well she wouldn’t know a snake if she saw one.’

  ‘You’re being harsh, aren’t you? Is Johnny Fabian the snake?’

  Cicely’s chin lifted.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – he might be.’

  She bit her lip, and her colour went out like a blown flame. He had an impression that if she hadn’t been dancing she might have stamped her foot. As it was, she jerked against his arm and came out with a burst of words.

  ‘The trouble is she’ll have a great deal too much money.’

  Cicely herself had had too much money.* Lady Evelyn Abbott’s considerable fortune had gone past her father and Frank to the fifteen-year-old grand-daughter who was the only relation with whom she had not contrived to quarrel, and the first year of Cicely’s marriage had nearly come to grief upon the prejudices and suspicions which her grand-mother’s twisted mind had implanted. The memory of those miserable months was in her voice as she spoke.

  Frank gave her a light answer.

  ‘Most people could put up with that complaint.’ And then, as she looked up at him again startled, ‘Don’t make too much of it, Cis. Johnny wouldn’t anyway.’

  She said quite sharply like a little scratching cat,

  ‘Anthony might.’

  ‘Anthony? My good girl!’

  Her voice turned obstinate.

  ‘I don’t think he would like a very rich wife. Some people don’t.’

  ‘Some people might think more about the wife than about the money. Personally, of course, I am waiting for a super heiress.’

  ‘And when you’ve found her?’

  ‘I shall forsake a sordid life of crime and return to the Sussex Downs and keep bees like Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘I should have thought you might have found your heiress by now if you had really looked for her.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Perhaps I haven’t really looked!’

  ‘Frank, why haven’t you? Is it because of that Susan What’s-her-name? Someone once told Mummy she was the only woman you had ever really been in love with.’

  ‘And you always believe everything that anyone tells Monica?’

  Cicely persisted.

  ‘Was there really a Susan?’

  ‘Quite a number of them. It’s a popular name.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you won’t tell me—’

  ‘So that you may tell Monica, and Monica may tell all her dearest friends? Thank you, my child!’

  She made a little cross face.

  ‘Oh, well, you’ll have to marry some day. But I don’t think Georgina would be any good She’s as fair as you are. You ought to marry a dark girl, or at any rate a brown one.’

  ‘Like you?’

  Cicely showed the tip of her tongue again.

  ‘Exactly like me. What a pity I’m not twins!’

  * Eternity Ring.

  TWO

  FRANK ABBOTT DROVE down to Field End with Anthony Hallam on the following Saturday evening. They ran into fog and arrived so much later than they meant to that they were shown directly to their rooms and were obliged to hurry over their dressing. They had left the fog behind them, but all that he could see of the house as they drove up to it was the square Georgian look and enough light filtering through the curtains to show that not one of the rooms inside was dark. Memory supplied the rest – two ornamental gates both standing wide, a courtyard designed for the old coaching days, and the whole front of the house hung with Virginia creeper. He had spent school holidays not much more than a mile away at Deeping, when old Lady Evelyn was still reigning in Abbottsleigh and had not as yet had any irrevocable quarrel with him. He knew all this part of the country like the back of his hand. Deeping village still alluded to him as Mr. Frank, and he could remember Field End in an early September frost, standing foursquare with its face to the road, hung with a crimson, vermilion and scarlet tapestry. There would be no leaves now, only a winter tracery of slender brown stems. He could not recall that he had ever been inside the house before, though he had known Jonathan Field by sight, tall and thin, with a habit of walking bare-headed in the wildest weather with his rather long grey hair blowing out behind him.

  Coming down dressed with Anthony, they encountered Jonathan in the hall. Frank didn’t know what he had expected, but there was a distinct jab of surprise as he realised how little the old boy had changed. The tall, thin figure was just as upright, the grey hair no greyer, the whole look and aspect so entirely that supplied by memory, that he could almost have expected to hear his grandmother announced and to see her make an imposing entrance in the black velvet and diamonds of a state occasion.

  The picture was momentarily so vivid that the entrance of Mrs. Fabian struck a jarring note. She came from the direction of the dining-room, and he remembered that she had always been in a hurry. She was in a hurry now – quite breathless with it in fact, her hair, which was no longer brown but had never made up its mind to turn grey, floating rather wildly from a twist of purple chiffon, and the diamond brooch at her shoulder coming undone. It actually dropped off as she shook hands with Anthony. And then, when he had picked it up and whilst she was fastening it, Frank was being explained and she was asserting that of course she remembered him perfectly.

  ‘You used to stay with Lady Evelyn at Abbottsleigh in your school holidays. I don’t think I ever really met you, but I used to think how tall and thin you were – and so very much like your grandmother.’

  This was not, of course, the most tactful approach. Although perfectly well aware of his resemblance to that formidable lady, it did not please her grandson to be reminded of the fact. Her portrait still dominated the drawing-room at Abbottsleigh with its long pale face, its bony nose, pale eyes, and the sleek fair hair above them.

  He said, ‘So everyone tells me,’ and she went on in a rambling inconsequent manner,

  ‘But Georgina was only a little girl then – you won’t remember her, but you will remember my step-son, Johnny Fabian – he was always here a good deal, but perhaps that was later on, because of course there was a family quarrel, wasn’t there, and you stopped coming down. Family quarrels are always so distressing – of course any quarrels are. Your cousin Cicely and her husband – everyone was so glad when that was made up, and I believe they are coming here tonight. My dear mother brought us up never to let the sun go down on our wrath. “Kiss and be friends ere nig
ht descends” was what she used to say. And there was a verse my German governess made me learn – dear me, I hope I can remember it … Ah, yes, I can!’ She held up her hand where a number of inexpensive and very dirty rings clustered like swarming bees, and quoted:

  ‘Und hüte deine Zunge wohl,

  Bald ist ein boses Wort gestagt,

  Die Stunde kommt, die Stunde kommt,

  Wenn du an Gräbern stehst und klagst.

  ‘But if you don’t understand German, perhaps I had better translate. Fraülein Weingarten used to make me say it every day:

  ‘Guard your tongue well,

  An angry word is soon spoken,

  The hour will come, the hour will come,

  When you will stand and mourn by graves.

  ‘Not really a very cheerful verse to teach a child, but she always said I had a heedless tongue. Oh dear, it all seems so long ago.’ She strayed on, saying vaguely, ‘I really think I heard a car. Did anyone else hear it?’

  From a little distance it was possible to observe that she was wearing what would have been a perfectly good black lace dress if she had not had the bright idea of relieving it with some bits of faded fur, a couple of purple bows, and a large bunch of rather tumbled violets. There her attempts at adornment ceased. She displayed indeterminate features quite innocent of any effort in that direction. It was even doubtful whether they so much as knew the touch of a powder-puff.

  Jonathan Field looked at his watch and said,

  ‘Georgina ought to be down. Where is she? She and Mirrie – they ought both to be here.’

  A very small voice said, ‘Oh, Uncle Jonathan—’ and there beside them was a little creature in a white dress. She had dark curls, and the dress was all soft fluffy frills. She hung on Jonathan’s arm and looked up at him with pansy-brown eyes.

  ‘Don’t – oh please don’t be vexed! She won’t be long – she really won’t. I expect it was my fault – she was helping me. And it’s going to be such a lovely party. You mustn’t be vexed.’ She was tugging at his arm like a child, but so softly as to give the effect of a caress.

  Jonathan Field smiled indulgently. Anthony said, ‘Hullo, Mirrie!’ and Frank Abbott found himself being introduced. The brown eyes transferred their upward look. They were of exactly the same shade as the clustering curls, but the lashes were darker, though whether this was due to nature or to art it was impossible to discern. The words of the introduction had been ‘My niece Mirrie Field’. Old Jonathan’s smile had been practically a doting one. Distant cousin’s daughter my foot – if she didn’t finish up co-heiress with the real niece, he was a Dutchman! The eyes alone with their look of trusting appeal could have done the trick hands down, but the eyes plus the curls, that little round soft face, and the mouth with its suggestion of a childish pout made a certainty of it. He wondered what the mouth was pouting for. Sweets, kisses, or anything else that came its way?

  Anthony Hallam said,

  ‘Is that the new rig-out? It’s very successful. I suppose Georgina was helping you to dress.’

  She sparkled at him for a moment, and then the lashes dropped. A very small foot drew circles on the polished floor.

  ‘Well – no – I had things to do and I didn’t get them finished, so I had to ask Georgina. She’s so good, but I’m afraid she was vexed. I mean, she’s so good about everything herself and I haven’t had a lot of practice, but I didn’t – oh, I really didn’t mean to make her late.’ Her voice trembled a little and the eyes were raised again.

  But Anthony Hallam had turned and was looking past her and across the hall. He said, ‘Oh, well, she’s coming now,’ and just as the lobby door opened to admit the first of the guests Georgina Grey came into sight at the head of the stairs and began to descend them.

  A late entrance is nearly always an effective one. Frank wondered a little cynically whether she had planned it. But if she had, there was a flaw in the timing. Guests were streaming into the hall, old Jonathan was greeting them, and the new-found niece was being brought forward with a hand on her shoulder to be presented in the most affectionate manner. Only Frank himself and Anthony Hallam had the leisure to watch Georgina come down the stairs.

  She was worth watching too, and it was evident that Anthony thought so. Frank saw a tall girl in a silver dress – a tall fair girl with a lovely figure and pale gold hair. She had white skin, a red mouth, and eyes of a strange dark grey. Eyebrows and lashes were no more than a couple of shades darker than her hair, but the eyes had a black ring about the iris, and the iris was the colour of deep water under a cloudy sky. It could look grey or it could look green, but always and in any light it was arresting. Frank, who was something of an expert, considered that the eyes were the making of her. If they had been blue the whole effect would have been too pale. If they had been brown – but of course they wouldn’t be, not with that hair, and he was prepared to bet that the hair was natural. She had the right skin for it and she wore as little make-up as a girl considered decent. She came down without any appearance of hurry, went past them with a smile for Anthony, and was in the thick of the greetings.

  There had been a string of names not always easy to allocate – Lord and Lady Pondesbury, Mr. and Mrs. Shotterleigh, Miss Mary Shotterleigh, Miss Deborah Shotterleigh, Mr. Vincent, Mr. and Mrs Warrender. Frank identified Lord Pondesbury, and remembered the Shotterleigh twins as prim little girls exactly alike, who looked as if they couldn’t say boo to a goose. One of them was in pink and the other in blue, and they still looked prim.

  Johnny Fabian, latest of the house-party, came running down after Georgina. He was as always in the best of spirits, ignored the brief frown accorded him by Jonathan, and began to talk and laugh with everyone. The Shotterleigh girls brightened perceptibly. Mirrie Field’s colour rose. She didn’t speak to him, she just stood there and made a picture – brown curls, white frills, a small string of pearls about a soft white throat, dark lashes dropped over soft brown eyes.

  When Georgina had spoken to everyone else she came across to Anthony and Frank. She rested a hand on Anthony’s arm, gave him a second smile, and acknowledged Frank’s introduction with friendliness and charm. He had been thinking that Johnny Fabian really hadn’t changed in the least – he probably never would. The dark hair which insisted on curling no matter how short it was cut would probably recede with the passing years, but the dancing blue eyes would keep their merry sparkle and the engaging smile still bring him more smiles in return than fell to most men’s lot. It had got him out of scrapes at home, at school, in the army, and it would continue to do so. He turned it on pretty girls and on plain ones, upon the elderly, the clever, the dull, and the disappointed. Frank had never known him well – just a chance encounter here and there – but he was clapped on the shoulder and greeted like an old friend.

  ‘Hullo there! Ages since we met. How’s crime?’

  Frank said, ‘Much as usual.’

  Johnny turned to Georgina.

  ‘Our famous detective, in case you don’t know. A shining light of what American books talk of as the Homicide Squad. A Lieutenant in the Homicide Squad, that’s what he would be over there. Sounds much more imposing than a Detective Inspector or whatever he is at Scotland Yard.’

  Frank laughed.

  ‘And what are you doing with yourself?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t I hear about your going into shipping or something?’

  Johnny shook his head.

  ‘Not shipping. Something frightfully dreary that I never really got the hang of – I think they call themselves General Importers. There was a second cousin twice removed of my grandfather’s who was a sleeping partner, he got me in, and after about six months a partner who wasn’t asleep chucked me out. It was practically bound to happen, because if I ever came across a business that was a smell under the nose, that was it.’

  ‘So what are you doing now?’

  ‘Well, a misguided aunt left me her little all a few months ago, and I am looking round for something to put it into. It�
�s difficult of course, because what I want is an amusing job where there isn’t any boss and where I don’t have to do any work. And meanwhile I do a spot of car-coping – pick ’em up cheap and sell ’em as dear as I can, with a lick of paint and what have you to make ’em go down easy.’

  Jonathan Field called across the hall to them.

  ‘Well, we’re all here now, I think. Georgina, has everybody come?’

  Her hand dropped from Anthony’s arm and she went over to him.

  ‘Yes, darling, I think so. And there’s Stokes to say that we can go in. Will you take Lady Pondesbury?’

  Jonathan Field gave his arm to a muscular lady who looked rather as if she had come out in a brick-coloured mask and short red gloves. Between these two extremely sun-burned portions and the black satin in which the rest of her was encased there were large milk-white arms and a considerable area of milk-white back and chest. She wore what she had no hesitation in describing as a copy of the ancestral diamond and ruby necklace which had been sold to pay the estate duties on her father-in-law’s decease some fifteen years earlier. Her husband Lord Pondesbury, a horsy little man with a swivel eye, approached Georgina. Jonathan Field observed the forms of his youth. In his house people still went in to dinner two by two in a seemly and orderly manner. Frank found himself with Mary Shotterleigh, and saw Anthony go in with Mirrie Field.

  THREE

  LOOKING BACK ON it afterwards, Frank found himself remembering a number of disjointed bits and pieces. The complete picture had been there like one of those large jigsaw puzzles laid out upon a table. It had been there for him to look at, and if it is true that the memory never really loses anything, it was still there to be remembered. But when he came to look back on it, it was as if someone had picked up a handful of pieces here and there and tossed them into his lap. Some of them fell in groups, and others singly. Some of them fell right, and some of them fell wrong. Some made nonsense. He had to unscramble them and try and get them together again. One of the more successful efforts brought back the scene in Jonathan’s study. They had finished dinner and there was time to fill in before the dance guests arrived. Now just how many of them were there? Himself and Anthony. It was Anthony who had asked whether Jonathan would show them his collection, and Lord Pondesbury had said, ‘Not for me, old boy. I don’t know one end of a fingerprint from the other and I don’t want to. I’ll go and have a word with Marcia Warrender about that two-year-old of hers.’