“You mean, you haven’t?”
“Isn’t it quaint? Tell me, just when did you say your cousin Mary turned up out of the blue?”
“Two days ago. The day you and I met.”
“That’s what I thought you said. So it was after I dumped that paint in the cellar?”
“Yes. In fact she and I found it together, when we went down for a bottle of wine. Actually, she said something about having seen a teenager hanging around. I suppose that was you.”
“So she knew about the grille. It might have given her the idea.”
“Mary? But she was on her way to the ferry.”
“She said. She could perfectly well have hung around, collected the bag of papers, come back later on, dumped it down when we were at Mrs Vansittart’s or even the day before. We were both dead to the world, remember; we’d never have noticed.”
“But we didn’t feel anything yesterday.”
“We’ve no idea how long it takes to build up. You said so yourself.”
“But it’s absurd. Why Mary? And after all these years, too.”
“Because something’s changed,” said Veronica.
“Well, I suppose everything’s changed; that’s true enough. Look at us.”
“Ah,” said Veronica, “but Mary didn’t know you and I were going to get together, on account of it hadn’t happened. So that wasn’t it. Father’s death, yes, that might have had something to do with it. Or your moving here? Maybe no one could get at you when you were at the Hall with all those smarmy servants.”
“But why, Veronica?”
“You’ve always wondered if my father was right about the old lady’s death, haven’t you? It came over loud and clear when you told me about it. You were so careful what you said. You didn’t say she committed suicide. You said that was what the coroner decided. And that was why you didn’t want to see any of them. You didn’t trust them, and you seem to have been dead right. Tell me, do you think Father wondered too?”
“Veronica, I just don’t know. We never talked about it. I think that was one of the things that went wrong between us.”
“I should just about think it might be. So who did you think had done it?”
“All of them together. It seemed the only way it could have happened. Making me the scapegoat, see? If I’d been found guilty of the old lady’s murder, I couldn’t have inherited her estate – and it would have been divided among them as next of kin. Sitting in that cell, I even started wondering if they could have got me down on purpose. She kept changing her will, you understand. It was all left to the fifty-two letter alphabet when I got there. And that would have done no one any good.”
“And did it work out?”
“Yes. She changed her will almost at once. In my favour. So that she could hold it over me.”
“Not a nice old lady.”
“She wasn’t. But bullying her family was the way she managed to enjoy her life, and you have to respect her for that. Not bad still to be an active functioning tyrant in your nineties.”
“You don’t in the least believe she killed herself, do you?”
“No. I’m afraid I don’t. But it’s years ago, Veronica. Mary told me that the older generation of Ffeatherses are mostly dead or in homes.”
“And the younger ones?”
“Well, Mary and Mark you know about.”
“If you believe Mary. And who else?”
“Ludwig and Leonora. They were Seward Ffeathers’ children – he was the older son. Their father wanted them to be musicians, hence the names, but they were mad on science. They’ve totally vanished into the United States, Mary said. Not so much as a Christmas card.”
“Sinister?”
“Not necessarily. Their father’s senile; they may have seen it coming and wanted out from under. It would be like them.”
“What about their mother?”
“She was always a complete nonentity, but Mary says she took on a new lease of life when Seward went downhill: had him sectioned and is doing her own thing at last. I don’t know what form it takes.”
“So she’s not in a home. A question mark over her. And over the vanished children. After all, if they were into science they might have been able to whip up the slow-acting miracle poison no one could trace.”
“It was just an overdose of her own pills. The problem was, how had she got it, if I hadn’t given it to her. Which I didn’t.”
“I believe you,” said Veronica. “Who else is there?”
“Just Priss. Now that was a surprise. She was Joseph Ffeathers’ daughter – he was the younger son. She wanted to train as a social worker, that was the kind of person she was, but old Mrs Ffeathers wouldn’t put up the money. So she just hung around at the Hall and her mother kept dragging young men down for her, and no good came of it. And all the time she was carrying on with another cousin, Mrs Ffeathers’ lawyer. Mary told me about it the other day. Secret assignations and lurking in corridors, all that. They got married after the old lady died, and everyone was flabbergasted, Mary said. Well, so was I; she was such a white mouse of a girl and he was very much the man of the world. Older, of course, running his own firm. He was my cousin too, and my trustee. Geoffrey and I always thought it was his fault somehow that all my money vanished while I was growing up, but Geoffrey said there was no way we could prove it. He said I’d had trouble enough already without a long legal battle getting nowhere but lawyers’ fees. And after all, I had old Mrs Ffeathers’ money by then so it really didn’t matter.”
“I keep wondering what you did about the money.”
“What I did?”
“Like, they all seem to have managed all right without it. Going off to America, marrying shady young lawyers, settling comfortably into old people’s homes. You gave them some of it, didn’t you?”
“Well, of course I did. How could I not? Mrs Ffeathers hadn’t in the least meant me to have it. It was just part of the game she played. I found a new lawyer, Mr Jones here in Leyning, who saw my point of view, and we settled annuities on the lot of them. Wonderful to have so much that I could. Geoffrey was furious.”
“I bet he was. Not what he meant at all. I say, you haven’t left any of the rest of it back to them in your will, have you, since he died? Have you let them know it? Or might they think you had?”
“I can’t think how. I told you, till the other day I’d seen none of them since it all happened.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Patience.”
“Are you bullying me?”
“Trying to. Strictly for your own good. You have, haven’t you? It stands to reason you would. And somebody’s guessed it, or found out, and got impatient. And Mary’s the one who was here.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You mean, you won’t believe it.”
“I suppose I do.” They had finished their lunch by now. “Let’s have some coffee.” She got up to put on the kettle. “If Mary caught the ferry, she’s out of it. The snag is – I feel the most complete fool – I didn’t get her address. She said she’d be in touch and we left it at that. I was a bit off balance that day.”
“My fault,” said Veronica. “I’m sorry. The police could find out, Patience.”
“I am not going to the police.”
“I told you we’d quarrel sooner or later,” said Veronica cheerfully. “It seems to be sooner. But you’re the boss. Mind you, one thing we could do is look up Ffeathers in the London phone book. I shouldn’t think there’d be many of them. Or Brigances, come to that. Ring them and see where they were the other night. Have you got one?”
“London phone book? Yes, an old one. It’s on the shelf in my bedroom.”
“I’ll get it.”
As she ran upstairs the front door bell rang and Patience turned off the kettle and went to answer it.
“Mary!” she exclaimed. And then, looking past her: “My goodness – Mark!” Just for a moment she had not been sure. The black hair was shockingly white ab
ove black eyebrows, the good bones stronger than ever in the tanned face.
“He would come,” said Mary. “When I told him about your haunt, he said I shouldn’t have left you on your own like that. We’ve been burning up the road to get here. It’s good to find you’re OK, Patience.”
“Well, up to a point.” Patience stepped back to usher them in. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you both. It’s been a long time, Mark.” She held out her hand. “You don’t look old enough.”
“I feel it.” His warm hand clasped hers. “And let’s hope we have both changed for the better. A brave cousin would kiss you, Patience.”
“Would he?” Patience shut the door behind him. “Here’s my haunt.” Veronica was coming down the stairs with the telephone book. “May I introduce Veronica Lavolle, Geoffrey’s illegitimate daughter. Veronica, we don’t need that. Here are Mary and Mark Brigance, come to make sure I’m all right. We were just going to look you up in the London book, Mary,” she explained. “Something rather sinister happened here after you left, and Veronica suspected you. Come in.” She ushered them into the dining room. “I was just going to make some coffee. Get some more cups, Veronica, would you? And the biscuit tin … You’ve had lunch?”
“Yes, on the ferry.” Mary shed her jacket and settled at the dining table. “And very nasty it was. Nice to meet you, Veronica, but aren’t you rather a surprise? And what exactly did you suspect me of?”
“She’s turned out to be a wonderfully nice surprise,” Patience said. “Once we’d explained ourselves. Her mother died, you see, and she thought it was all my fault.”
“Whereas it was Geoffrey Crankshaw’s, of course,” said Mark. “I never could like that man, Patience, though I suppose that’s not altogether surprising. How old are you, Veronica?”
“Everyone asks that.” Veronica passed him the biscuit tin. “And the answer is eighteen, but it had been going on for years before that.”
“Oh, Patience,” said Mary.
“I’m getting used to it.” It was almost true. “And look at the bonus I’ve got out of it. Veronica is going to come and live with me,” she told them. “We’re going to fix up for her to do the A levels she missed because her mother was ill.”
“And we’ve just had our first difference,” said Veronica. “If you don’t ask them, Patience, I shall.” She handed Mary a cup of coffee. “You caught the ferry that day you lunched here?” she asked.
“Of course I did. I met Mark according to plan, and here we are as a result. But why do you ask?”
“Because of the sinister thing that happened,” said Mark. “What was it, Patience?”
“Somebody dropped a bag of newspapers on to the air vent from the cellar,” Patience told him. “The one Veronica poured the paint through. We both felt a bit strange this morning and luckily Veronica went down to clear up the paint and saw what had happened. I’m afraid she thought—”
“It had given me a bright idea,” said Mary. “But why, Patience?”
“Ancient history,” said Mark. “That’s what I was afraid of. But it wasn’t us two, Veronica, and we could prove it easily enough.”
“Natch,” said Veronica. “I feel a proper clot.”
“You shouldn’t. You were thinking on exactly the right lines. I’ve been afraid, always, that something would churn it all up again. It was too good to be true, that coroner’s finding, wasn’t it, Patience?”
“You knew?”
“I’m more ashamed of that than of anything I ever did. Yes, I knew. It was my mother, you see. I heard her say something to Uncle Joseph, that first dreadful morning. I was numb with shock that day, taking it in. They had to be in it, all three of them, she and Joseph and Seward. Got you down; hoped Gran would leave it all to you; and then … Their own mother.”
“Sick,” said Veronica.
“But how did they do it?” asked Patience.
“I hardly dared even wonder, for fear Geoffrey Crankshaw would read my mind, but I always thought it must have been something cooked up by Ludwig and Leonora – a slow-acting capsule, or something. They vanished pretty quickly to the States afterwards and were never heard from again. Those days when you were in gaol were the worst of my life, Patience.”
“I didn’t enjoy them very much myself.”
“And then Crankshaw turned up, thank God, and proved it suicide, and I didn’t need to speak up after all, and send my mother to prison. I told Mary I was sure you were innocent; we just needed to wait a bit, I hoped.”
“I couldn’t understand why,” Mary joined in. “You should have told me, Mark; I wouldn’t have let you wait.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t. I’m sorry, Patience, sorrier than I can say. I’ve wanted to tell you that ever since, but you wouldn’t see us, afterwards, and I couldn’t blame you. It’s been on my mind always; unfinished business, a running sore—”
“But why should it break out again now?” asked Mary.
“That’s what Veronica and I were wondering.” Patience poured more coffee for them all. “We think it has to do with Geoffrey’s death.”
“It’s hard to see why.” Mark reached out for a biscuit. “The case could hardly be more closed. I’m sure Mother and Uncle Joseph were the moving spirits in the plot against you, Patience, and they’re both dead. Seward and Emily are out of it; what brains they had are gone for good. Which leaves Grisel of the older generation, and she has been a surprise. But they’d never have let her in on the plot, not the droop she was then.”
“What about Priss?” Patience began, but Veronica interrupted her.
“You’ve got to tell them, Patience. Or if you won’t, I will. I don’t think it’s ancient history at all.” She turned to Mark. “Isn’t there a statute of something-or-other about old crimes? You can’t drag them up again? And this one really is old as the hills. No, I think it’s Patience’s lunatic will has started things up again.”
“Will?” Mark asked.
“If I worked it out, surely you can. Who do you think she has left all that money back to, now Father is dead?”
“Oh, Veronica …” Patience felt herself slowly turning scarlet.
But Mark was laughing. “Bright girl, Veronica. You’re quite right, we should have worked it out. And you think one of us has done so, and is getting impatient? It might be true, at that,” he went on, “but thank God it’s not Mary or me. Well, that settles it, Mar; we’ll confirm those bookings at the Black Stag, and you two must dine there with us tonight. Meanwhile I’ll get on the phone and act the returning prodigal ringing round the family to get back in touch and find out in passing where they all were – when, Patience?”
“Last night or the night before, we think it must have been. And that reminds me of something. What about Mrs Vansittart’s dark lady, Veronica? The one who didn’t leave a note. She never did come back.”
“Unless it was to drop the bag down,” said Veronica. “And scarper.”
“Who’s Mrs Vansittart?” asked Mark. “And what dark lady?”
“Mrs Vansittart’s a neighbour across the road,” Patience told him. “Veronica and I went shopping in Brighton yesterday and when we got back she told us she had seen this dark-haired, dark-glassed woman ringing at my doorbell and generally hanging around.”
“A bit late in the season for dark glasses,” said Mary.
“That’s what I thought.”
“What sort of age?”
“Well, Mrs Vansittart obviously thought it was a friend of mine, so our age, kind of.”
“So it could be Leonora or Priss,” said Mark. “I’ll tell you one thing, Patience; I’m going to tell all the family that you are changing your will, and you must do it.”
“Oh, I’m going to,” said Patience. “I’m seeing my solicitor tomorrow.”
“Good.” He looked at his watch. “Come on, Mar, time to go and face the smell of gravy at the Black Stag. I didn’t believe it could still hang around there after all these years, but it does.
What time would you like to eat, Patience?”
“Seven thirty maybe? But come here for a drink first. Any time after six.”
“Splendid. And if the postman brings you a parcel of poisoned chocolates between now and then, don’t eat them, either of you. Good to meet you, Veronica; I hope you are going to be a niece to Mary and me.”
“Cool,” said Veronica, showing them out. And then, rejoining Patience: “Wow!”
“Isn’t he?” agreed Patience.
“It’s something about the brown skin and the white hair and the instant decisions, I reckon. If he wants to drag me off to his cave, I’ll go. I liked Mary, too, but of course we’ve only got their word for it that they were on the ferry like they said.”
“Oh, Veronica!”
“It’s true, but I’m like you, I don’t believe it for a minute. So where does that leave us?”
“Baffled.”
“Not altogether, you know. Think, Patience! At least you know your instinct was right. The old lady’s death was murder, by a group of them, just like you thought. And you can’t honestly blame Mark for not wanting to split on his mum, can you?”
“No, of course not.” After trying for so long to forget that hostile group she had found united against her on the morning of Mrs Ffeathers’ death, now she was trying to remember the individual faces and their expressions. No use. She could not. She had been too shocked to notice more than Mark’s withdrawal.
“It’s all such a long time ago,” said Veronica, reading her mind. “Best forgotten, don’t you think? Water under the dam? All that. Or do I mean the bridge? Whatever, the thing is it’s now we need to think about, not old then. I’m sure Mark’ll find your dark lady for you and sort her out, now he’s into it. I bet he’s sorted worse things than that in his time, wouldn’t you think?”
“Yes.” She spoke mechanically. Her mind was spinning out of control. She could not talk about Mark. She picked up her coffee cup and stacked it with Veronica’s.
“No.” Veronica reached out gently to take it from her. “You look knackered, Patience, and I don’t wonder. I’m going to make you a hot water bottle and tuck you up in bed.” She moved across the room to put on the kettle.
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