Grave Mistake (15 page)

“No more there is.”

“It’s disgusting,” said Sister Jackson. “Being left like this.”

“Horrid, isn’t it? Could you just give us a picture of how things were when you arrived on the scene?”

She did so, eyeing him closely and with a certain air of appraisal. It emerged that she had been in her room and thinking of retiring when Dr. Schramm telephoned her, asking her to come at once to Number 20. There she found him stooping over the bed on which lay Mrs. Foster, dead and cooling. Dr. Schramm had drawn her attention to the table and its contents and told her to go to the surgery and fetch the equipment needed to empty the stomach. She was to do this without saying anything to anyone she met.

“We knew it was far too late to be of any use,” she said, “but we did it. Dr. Schramm said the contents should be kept and they were. In a sealed jar. We had to move the table away from the bed but nothing else was disturbed. Dr. Schramm was very particular about that. Very.”

“And then?”

“We informed Mr. Delaware, the manager. He was upset, of course. They don’t like that sort of thing. Then we got Dr. Field-Innis to come over from Upper Quintern and he said the police should be informed. We couldn’t see why but he said he thought they ought to be. So they were.”

Alleyn noticed the increased usage of the first person plural in this narrative and wondered if he only imagined that it sounded possessive.

He thanked Sister Jackson warmly and handed her a glossy photograph of Mr. Fox’s Aunt Elsie which was kept for this purpose. Aunt Elsie had become a kind of code-person between Alleyn and Fox and was sometimes used as a warning signal when one of them wished to alert the other without being seen to do so. Sister Jackson failed to identify Aunt Elsie and was predictably intrigued. He returned the photograph to its envelope and said they needn’t trouble her any longer. Having dropped his handkerchief over his hand, he opened the door to her.

“Pay no attention,” he said. “We do these things, hoping they give us the right image. Goodbye, Sister.” In passing between him and Fox her hand brushed his. She rustled off down the passage, one hundred and fifty pounds of active femininity if she was an ounce.

“Cripes,” said Fox thoughtfully.

“Did she establish contact?”

“
En passant
,” he confessed in his careful French. “What about you, Mr. Alleyn?”

“
En passant, moi aussi.
”

“Do you reckon,” Mr. Fox mused, “she knew about the engagement?”

“Do you?”

“If she did, I’d say she didn’t much fancy it,” said Fox.

“We’d better push on. You might pack up that glass slipper, Fox. We’ll get Sir James to look at it.”

“In case somebody put prussic acid in it?”

“Something like that. After all there was and
is
a strong smell of almonds. Only ‘Oasis,’ you’ll tell me, and I’m afraid you’ll be right.”

On their way out the receptionist said she had made enquiries as to the electrical repairs man. Nobody knew anything about him except the girl who had given him Mrs. Foster’s flowers. He told her he had been sent to repair a lamp in Number 20 and the lady had asked him to collect her flowers when he went down to his car to get a new bulb for the bedside lamp. She couldn’t really describe him except that he was slight, short and well-spoken and didn’t wear overall but did wear spectacles.

“What d’you make of that?” said Alleyn when they got outside.

“Funny,” said Fox. “Sussy. Whatever way you look at it, not convincing.”

“There wasn’t a new bulb in the bedside lamp. Old bulb, murky on top. Ready to conk out.”

“Lilies in the basin, though.”

“True.”

“What now, then?”

Alleyn looked at his watch. “I’ve got a date with the coroner,” he said. “In one hour. At Upper Quintern. In the meantime Bailey and Thompson had better give these premises the full treatment. Every inch of them.”

“Looking for what?”

“All the usual stuff. Latent prints, including Sister J.’s on Aunt Elsie, of course. Schramm’s will be on the book wrapping and Prunella Foster’s and her mother’s on the vanity box. We’ve got to remember the room was done over in the morning by the housemaids so anything that crops up will have been established during the day. We haven’t finished with that sickening little room, Br’er Fox. Not by a long bloody chalk.”

i

“—in view of which circumstances, members of the jury,” said the coroner, “you may consider that the appropriate decision would be again to adjourn these proceedings
sine die
.”

Not surprisingly the jury embraced this suggestion and out into the age-old quietude of Upper Quintern village walked the people who, in one way or another, were involved, or had been obliged to concern themselves in the death of Sybil Foster: her daughter, her solicitor, her oldest friend, her gardener, the doctor she had disregarded and the doctor who had become her fiancé. And her stepson, who by her death inherited the life interest left by her first husband. Her last and preposterous Will and Testament could not upset this entailment nor, according to Mr. Rattisbon, could this Will itself be upset. G. M. Johnson and Marleena Briggs, chambermaids on the second floor of the hotel, confessed with uneasy giggles that they had witnessed Mrs. Foster’s signature a week before she died.

This Will provided the only sensation of the inquest. Nobody seemed to be overwhelmingly surprised at Bruce Gardener’s legacy of £25,000 but the Swingletree clause and the sumptuous inheritance of Dr. Schramm caused a sort of stupefaction in court. Three reporters from the provincial press were seen to be stimulated. Verity Preston, who was there because her goddaughter seemed to expect it, had a horrid foreboding of growing publicity.

The inquest had again been held in the parish hall. The spire of St Crispin’s-in-Quintern cast its shadow over an open space at the foot of steps that led up to the church. The local people referred to this area as the “green” but it was little more than a rough lateral bulge in the lane. Upper Quintern was really a village only by virtue of its church and was the smallest of its kind: hamlet would have seemed a more appropriate title.

Sunlight, diffused by autumnal haze, the absence of wind and, until car engines started up, of other than countrified sounds, all seemed to set at a remove any process other than the rooted habit of the Kentish soil. Somehow or another, Verity thought, whatever the encroachments, continuity survives. And then she thought that it had taken this particular encroachment to put the idea into her head.

She wondered if Young Mr. Rattisbon would expect a repetition of their former conviviality and decided to wait until he emerged. People came together in desultory groups and broke up again. They had the air of having been involved in some social contretemps.

Prunella came out between the two Markos men. Clearly she was shaken; Gideon held her hand and his father with his elegant head inclined, stooped over her. Again, Verity had the feeling that they absorbed Prunella.

Prunella saw her godmother, said something to the men and came to Verity.

“Godma V,” she said. “Did you know? I meant to let you know. It’s the day after the day after tomorrow-Thursday — they’re going to — they say we can—”

“Well, darling,” said Verity, “that’s a good thing, isn’t it? What time?”

“Three-thirty. Here. I’m telling hardly anyone: just very old friends like you. And bunches of flowers out of our gardens, don’t you think?”

“I do indeed. Would you like me to bring you? Or — are you—?”

Prunella seemed to hesitate and then said: “That’s sweet of you, Godma V. Gideon and Papa M are — coming with me but — could we sit together, please?”

“Of course we could,” Verity said and kissed her.

The jury had come out. Some straggled away to the bus stop, some to a car. The landlord of the Passcoigne Arms was accompanied into the pub by three of his fellow jurors. The coroner appeared with Mr. Rattisbon. They stood together in the porch, looking at their feet and conversing. They were joined by two others.

Prunella, who held Verity’s hand, said: “Who’s that, I wonder? Do you know? The tall one?”

“It’s the one who called on me. Superintendent Alleyn.”

“I can see what you mean about him,” said Prunella.

The three representatives of the provincial press slid up to Alleyn and began to speak to him. Alleyn looked over their heads toward Verity and Prunella and as if he had signalled to her Verity moved to hide Prunella from the men. At the same instant Bruce Gardener came out of the hall and at once the three men closed round him.

Alleyn came over to Verity and Prunella.

“Good morning, Miss Preston,” he said. “I wondered if you’d be here.” And to Prunella. “Miss Foster? I expect your splendid Mrs. Jobbin told you I’d called. She was very kind and let me come into your house.
Did
she tell you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I was out.”

“There wasn’t any need, at that juncture, to bother you.
I’m
sorry you’re having such a horrid time. Actually,” Alleyn said, “I may have to ask you to see me one of these days but only if it’s really necessary. I promise.”

“O.K.,” Prunella said. “Whenever you like. O.K.”

“My dear Alleyn!” said a voice behind Verity. “How very nice to meet you again.”

Mr. Markos had come up, with Gideon, unnoticed by the others. The temper of the little scene changed with their appearance. He put his arm round Prunella and told Alleyn how well Troy’s picture looked. He said Alleyn really ought to come and see it. He appealed to Verity for support and by a certain change in his manner seemed to attach a special importace to her answer. Verity was reminded of poor Syb’s encomium before she took against the Markoses. She had said that Nikolas Markos was “ultra sophisticated” and “a complete man of the world.” He’s a man of a world I don’t belong to, Verity thought, but we have things in common, nevertheless.

“Miss Preston will support me,” Mr. Markos said, “won’t you?”

Verity pulled herself together and said the picture was a triumph.

Alleyn said: “The painter will be delighted,” and to all of them: “The gentlemen of the press look like heading this way. I suggest it might be as well if Miss Foster escaped.”

“Yes, of course,” said Gideon quickly. “Darling, let’s go to the car. Quick.”

But a stillness had fallen on the people who remained at the scene. Verity turned and saw that Dr. Schramm had come out into the sunshine. The reporters fastened on him.

A handsome car was parked nearby. Verity thought: that’s got to be his car. He’ll have to come past us to get to it. We can’t break up and bolt.

He said something — “No comment,” Verity supposed — to the press and walked briskly toward the group. As he passed them he lifted his hat. “Good morning, Verity,” he said. “Hullo, Markos, how are you? Morning, Superintendent.” He paused, looked at Prunella, gave a little bow and continued on his way. It had been well done, Verity thought, if you had the nerve to do it, and she was filled with a kind of anger that he had included her in his performance.

Mr. Markos said: “We all of us make mistakes. Come along, children.”

Verity, left with Alleyn, supposed Mr. Markos had referred to his dinner-party.

“I must be off,” she said. She thought: Death creates social contretemps. One doesn’t say: “See you on Thursday” when the meeting will be at a funeral.

Her car was next to Alleyn’s and he walked beside her. Dr. Schramm drove past them and lifted a gloved hand as he did so.

“That child’s surviving all this pretty well, isn’t she?” Alleyn asked. “On the whole, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes. I think she is. She’s sustained by her engagement.”

“To young Markos? Yes. And by her godmama, too, one suspects?”

“Me! Not at all. Or anyway, not as much as I’d like.”

He grunted companionably, opened her car door for her and stood by while she fastened her safety belt. She was about to say goodbye but changed her mind. “Mr. Alleyn,” she said, “I gather that probate has been granted or passed or whatever it is? On the second Will?”

“It’s not a
fait accompli
but it will be. Unless, of course, she made yet another and later one, which doesn’t seem likely. Would it be safe to tell you something in confidence?”

Verity, surprised, said: “I don’t break confidences but if it’s anything that I would want to speak about to Prunella, you’d better not tell me.”

“I don’t think you would want to but I’d make an exception of Prunella. Dr. Schramm and Mrs. Foster were engaged to be married.”

In the silence that she was unable to break Verity thought that it really was not so very surprising, this information. There was even a kind of logic about it. Given Syb. And given Basil Schramm.

Alleyn said: “Rather staggering news, perhaps?”

“No, no,” she heard herself saying. “Not really. I’m just — trying to assimilate it. Why did you tell me?”

“Partly because I thought there was a chance that she might have confided it to you that afternoon but mostly because I had an idea it might be disagreeable for you to learn of it accidentally.”

“Will it be made known, then? Will
he
make it known?”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “I’m sure. If it’s anything to go by, he did tell
me
.”

“I suppose it explains the Will?”

“That’s the general idea, of course.”

Verity heard herself say: “Poor Syb.” And then: “I hope it doesn’t come out. Because of Prue.”

“Would she mind so much?”

“Oh, I think so. Don’t you? The young mind terribly if they believe their parents have made asses of themselves.”

“And would any woman engaging herself to Dr. Schramm make an ass of herself?”

“Yes,” said Verity. “She would. I did.”

ii

When Alleyn had gone Verity sat inert in her car and wondered what had possessed her to tell him something that for twenty-odd years she had told nobody. A policeman! More than that, a policeman who must, the way things had gone, take a keen professional interest in Basil Schramm, might even — no, almost certainly did — think of him as a “Suspect.” And she turned cold when she forced herself to complete the sequence — a suspect in what might turn out to be a case of foul play: of — very well, then, use the terrible soft word — of murder.

He had not followed up her statement or pressed her with questions nor, indeed, did he seem to be greatly interested. He merely said: “Did you? Sickening for you,” made one or two remarks of no particular significance and said goodbye. He drove off with a large companion who could not be anything that was not constabular. Mr. Rattisbon, too, looking gravely preoccupied, entered his own elderly car and quitted the scene.

Still Verity remained, miserably inert. One or two locals sauntered off. The Vicar and Jim Jobbin, who was part-time sexton, came out of the church and surveyed the weathered company of headstones. The Vicar pointed to the right and they made off in that direction, round the church. Verity knew, with a jolt, that they discussed the making of a grave. Sybil’s remotest Passcoigne forebears lay in the vault but there was a family plot among the trees beyond the south transept.

Then she saw that Bruce Gardener, in his Harris tweed suit, had come out of the hall and was climbing up the steps to the church. He followed the Vicar and Jim Jobbin and disappeared. Verity had noticed him at the inquest. He had sat at the back, taller than his neighbours, upright, with his gardener’s hands on his thighs, very decorous and solemn. She thought that perhaps he wanted to ask about the funeral, about flowers from Quintern Place, it might be. If so, that was nice of Bruce. She herself, she thought, must offer to do something about flowers. She would wait a little longer and speak to the Vicar,

“Good morning,” said Claude Carter, leaning on the passenger’s door.

Her heart seemed to leap into her throat. She had been looking out of the driver’s window and he must have come up from behind the car on her blind side.

“Sorry,” he said, and grinned. “Made you jump, did I?”

“Yes.”

“My mistake. I just wondered if I might cadge a lift to the turn-off. If you’re going home, that is.”

There was nothing she wanted less but she said yes, if he didn’t mind waiting while she went up to the church. He said he wasn’t in a hurry and got in. He had removed his vestigial beard, she noticed, and had his hair cut to a conservative length. He was tidily dressed and looked less hang-dog than usual There was even a hint of submerged jauntiness about him.

“Smoking allowed?” he asked.

She left him lighting his cigarette in a guarded manner as if he was afraid someone would snatch it out of his mouth.

At the head of the steps she met the Vicar returning with Bruce and Jim. To her surprise Jim, a bald man with a loud voice, was now bent double. He was hovered over by the Vicar.

“It’s a fair bugger,” he shouted. “Comes over you like a bloody thunderclap. Stooping down to pull up them bloody teazles and now look at me. Should of minded me own business.”

“Yes, well: jolly bad luck,” said the Vicar. “Oh. Hullo, Miss Preston. We’re in trouble as you see. Jim’s smitten with lumbago.”

“Will he be able to negotiate the descent?” Bruce speculated anxiously. “That’s what I ask myself. Awa’ wi ye, man, and let us handle you doon the steps.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll handle myself if left to myself, won’t I?”

“Jim!” said Verity, “
what
a bore for you. I’ll drive you home.”

“No, ta all the same, Miss Preston. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. I’m best left to manage myself and if you’ll excuse me that’s what I’ll do. I’ll use the handrail. Only,” he added with a sudden, shout of agony, “I’d be obliged if I wasn’t watched.”

“Perhaps,” said the Vicar, “we’d better—?”

Jim, moving like a gaffer in a Victorian melodrama, achieved the handrail and clung to it. He shouted: “I won’t be able to do the job now, will I?”

There was an awkward silence broken by Bruce. “Dinna fash yourself,” he said. “No problem. With the Mister’s kind permission I’ll dig it myself and think it an honour. I will that.”

“The full six foot, mind.”

“Ou aye,” Bruce agreed. “All of it. I’m a guid hand at digging,” he added.

“Fair enough,” said Jim and began to ease himself down the steps.

“This is a most fortunate solution, Bruce,” said the Vicar. “Shall we just leave Jim as he wishes?” and he ushered them into the church.