Sweet Poison, page 16
“If you’re afraid, give them to me,” said Riley angrily. “If they could have you arrested for carrying a hundred tesserae, so they can if you’re carrying twenty.” He held out his hand.
“They won’t have me arrested,” said Roger. “I think I’ve put a spoke in their wheel. The police won’t take any notice of any further accusation: Mallett thinks they’re all mad. And so they are, if this afternoon’s proceedings are anything to go by.” He glared at Cornelia. “This young woman here accused me of poisoning her father.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did; not in front of me, in front of the Superintendent and the doctor. And why? ‘Hell hath no fury—’”
“Oh, shut up!” Cornelia rushed out of the room.
“Not a Regency expression,” said Roger.
“Poor girl, she’s overwrought,” said the Professor.
“Rubbish,” said Miss Smith.
The Professor turned right round and adjusted his spectacles to stare at her. Miss Smith spoke to him only.
“You’re a great deal too kind and considerate. She insults you to your face, and you say almost nothing. Let her go. You don’t know what a spitfire she is. Everybody’s afraid of her. Now I’ve said my say, I’ll pack and leave. But I repeat, I think you’re a thousand times too good for her.”
“My dear young lady,” said Professor Bose, “those are the first words of appreciation I’ve had in this house since Augustus died. Certainly you shall not pack and leave. I can’t do without you. Stay and be my—secretary, as we arranged. Let us go and talk about it together. I’m sure we shall be able to come to terms which will suit us both very well indeed.”
He rose and with a courtly bow offered her his arm. They went out together.
3
Roger and Riley looked after them. So did Martin, who passed them in the doorway.
“The old goat seems to have gotten himself another bride,” said Roger. “Not as good-looking as Cornelia but more useful.”
“Imagine that!” said Riley. “I bet he’ll make her work.”
“And I bet she’ll make him pay for it,” said Roger. “And she’ll give the rest of the household hell—if they stay. Cornelia especially will have something to shout about.”
“There’ll be murder done,” said Martin. “Real murder. Don’t leave any of those poison tablets behind, Roger.”
“The police still have them.”
“Cornelia can look after herself,” said Riley. “I say, Royden, is it true you kissed her? You’re a brave man.”
“A man is always said to have kissed a woman,” said Roger gloomily, “if he’s a gentleman. It’s like divorce.”
“Suppose,” said Riley, “you give up being a gentleman and tell us what happened. I’m curious.”
“I will not,” said Roger. “How did you know?”
“Crowley saw you over the wall.”
“Then you know fine what happened.”
“Not necessarily,” said Riley. “Crowley’s no friend of yours.”
“I’ll knock his block off.”
“Happy little party we’ve become,” said Riley. “Our work looks like being a great success. I must mention in my report how we all worked together with the true team-spirit.” He picked up, as if absent-mindedly, the remaining tesserae from the table and put them into his pocket. “Don’t bother about these any more, Roger: I’ll deal with them.”
“Are you wise?” said Martin.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care, but that old goat is not going to get the better of me.”
Roger emptied the handful of tesserae from his own pocket and handed them to Riley.
“I still want to go to London.”
“No doubt. But you’re in no mood to handle the matter of the mosaic. You go and chase your lady-love. I must say I’m glad you still prefer Dulcibella.”
Roger blushed. “The trouble is, I don’t know where to look for her. Certainly nobody here will give me her address.”
“By the way,” said Riley, “I wonder what’s become of the children. If they were around, we’d hear them or see them. And where are that governess and tutor?”
“Perhaps,” said Martin, “Mrs. Gale took them with her—the children, I mean, of course.”
“Perhaps,” said Riley, “the Professor—or Cornelia— or Miss Smith—have killed them and eaten them on toast.”
“Hem!” coughed Roger.
Old Mrs. Gale stood in the doorway.
4
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. “Nice of you to call. Do you want anything? Is there anybody you wish to see?”
“No thank you, ma’am,” said Riley, recovering first. “We came to inquire after your health, if you please.”
“I wondered,” she said, “if you were from the school. I hope Henry is all right. He’s not very strong. Isabella is much stronger.”
“We are not from the school,” said Riley. “But we are most interested to hear of your grandchildren. By the way, where is Henry?”
“Dulcibella arranged for them both to go to boarding schools. She took them there when she left. Henry is at— I forget the name.” She looked round her. “I could get the address. It’s in Sussex—they’re both in Sussex—near Canterbury.”
“Canterbury is in Kent, ma’am,” said Martin.
“Is it?” She was not interested. “I know it’s too far for any of us to visit them. But then, Dulcibella arranged that purposely. She left us in a rather unfriendly spirit. She never was one of the family. My poor son—” Her eyes widened as she noticed Roger. “Are you the young man—”
Riley cut in hastily: “No, ma’am. Mr. Royden has gone home. This is his twin brother: this is George.”
Roger was obliged to answer to the name of “George” and bow.
“Your brother is a very wicked young man,” said old Mrs. Gale. “He was, in a sense, responsible for my son’s death. He brought a nasty poison into this house—and he was being far too familiar with my son’s wife. I suppose,” she added, eyeing them with keen suspicion, “your brother has gone after her—now that my son is dead?”
Roger said: “It’s possible, ma’am. I am anxious to find him. We are worried about him.”
“Disappeared,” said Riley, shaking his head, “disappeared after the inquest.”
“A guilty conscience,” said old Mrs. Gale, “is a terrible scourge—or so it used to be in my young days. Conscience seems to be left out of the modern young men and young women.”
“If,” said Roger, “you could give me Mrs. Gale’s address—”
“I am Mrs. Gale,” said the old lady, drawing herself up.
“I beg your pardon: Mrs. Augustus Gale.”
“She is not that any longer,” snapped Augustus’s mother.
“Mrs. Dulcibella Gale,” said Roger, getting exasperated.
“Yes, I can tell you that: she asked to have her letters forwarded to—let me see.”
She searched her memory while Roger fumed.
“No, I don’t think she gave us an address,” said old Mrs. Gale at last. “Ask the Professor. No, don’t ask him; he is too absent-minded and forgetful. Ask Miss Smith: she knows everything. Is she still here? I don’t know why she should be: there’s no work for her now.”
“She’s here,” said Riley. “She’s with the Professor somewhere. She doesn’t know Mrs. Dulcibella’s whereabouts: we asked her. I mean, George asked her. You can’t think how keen he is to find his brother.”
Roger hoped Riley wouldn’t overdo it: the old lady was no fool.
“I know,” she said. “Get in touch with her solicitors: it’s a London address. I can give you that. That was what she left us: she didn’t trust us, you see. I’ll go and get it. I have it in my desk.” She waddled out, leaving them on tenterhooks.
5
While they were standing there waiting, and Riley was exasperating Roger by continuing to call him “George” while Martin tried clumsily to keep the peace, the door opened. Rupert entered, carrying a gun. Behind him was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a pea-soup-green suit.
“Hullo, chaps!” said Rupert. “You back again? I hear one of you swiped the bits of marble this morning. Good for you! But you’d better look out: my sister and old Nanny-goat will have your blood.”
Riley stepped forward. “Don’t worry: it’s all arranged. By the way, I thought you hated shooting.” He glanced down at the pair of rabbits dangling from Rupert’s right hand; their muzzles dripped blood on to the pale carpet.
“Oh, I enjoy it fine now that Dad’s not here to tell me to do it,” said Rupert carelessly. He tossed the rabbits through the open door into the hall. “By the way, where is old Nanny-goat—do you know?”
“You mean the Professor?”
“Surely.”
“He’s out walking with Miss Smith,” said Riley. “I think he’s arranging for her new duties.”
Rupert goggled. “I did see them in the distance as I came in,” he said. “They had their heads close together. Do I get your meaning? Do you mean the old satyr has dropped my sister for that plain puss with the glasses?”
“Your sister has dropped him,” said Riley, “and Miss Smith has caught him.”
“Good for her!” said Rupert. “I always thought Cornelia must be off her head to let my father bully her into marrying that old sinner. In fact I offered to break his neck, or throw him down the steps—but she wouldn’t agree.” He leaned the gun against a chair, and threw himself on to a sofa. “God, what a change my father’s departure has made in this place!” He glanced at the clock. “We ought to be just starting dinner.” He remembered the stranger. “Come in, McGarten. These three gentlemen are archæologists. I forget their names. You’d better introduce yourselves. McGarten wants to see the Joan Farmer museum. Do you chaps know enough about it to show him round?” He said to McGarten: “They’re really interested in some Roman mosaics.”
McGarten bowed. “I come from the University of Ohio. There is great interest in Joan Farmer in the United States. I’m the great-great-nephew of James McGarten, who fought you in the War of Independence.” He bowed again as if to indicate that so far as he was concerned this little matter was forgiven and forgotten. “In fact, I believe my ancestor once met Joan Farmer’s husband, who was an actor called Owen. Anyway, in my family we have several Farmer relics, and we had some idea of presenting one of these to your museum here. But I understand that the owner, Augustus Gale, has just died.”
“Take him down to the museum,” said Rupert, “and show him what we’ve got. I’ll go and get my grandmother. She’s the owner of the house now, and she’s the one to whom you should give the relic. Don’t,” he said to McGarten, “whatever you do, give it to that old chap with the white beard.”
He explained to Riley: “It’s a gold cross set with diamonds, a tribute to Joan Farmer from some admirer. Bose would pretend to be ‘examining’ it and we’d never see it again. Don’t give it to Cornelia, either. She’s got a ‘thing’ about Joan Farmer: she’d probably get rid of it in some way.” As Riley led McGarten to the door, Rupert called after them: “Take him to the museum, and then if you like to the Joan Farmer site outside. I’ll rustle up drinks for you by the time you come back.” He hauled on the bell-rope and yelled: “Robert! Blast that fellow, there’s no discipline in this house now. If he comes, tell him to bring drinks—I’ll go and get Granny.” He left.
6
Old Mrs. Gale returned carrying a piece of paper. She handed it to Roger.
“Here you are, young man.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Of course, I know who you are. That rascally Irishman didn’t deceive me for a moment. Twin brother George, indeed! Does he think I’m in my dotage?” She smiled. “Don’t be alarmed: I know it was just his joke. One can forgive an Irishman anything.” There was a pause.
“I hope,” said Roger, deeply embarrassed, “you don’t really think I had anything to do with the death of your son, except by accident?”
“I know you didn’t, young man. You see, I know the real culprit.”
“You do?”
“Myself. I should never have told him—about you and Dulcibella. It was very wrong of me and I’m paying for it.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Roger could think of to say.
Mrs. Gale gave him a sharp look, seemed about to say more, and then changed the subject.
“Who was that man I saw coming in with Rupert just now?”
“An American. He has come to see the Joan Farmer museum. His name is McGarten.”
“Ah. Our lives will be unbearable henceforth—especially when we begin charging a fee as Professor Bose wishes. By the way, where is the Professor? He should be showing the visitor around: we don’t want strangers let loose alone in the museum. They may take something: we’ve had a theft there already, I’m told. Cornelia said something about it.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” said Roger. “The American has come to give you something, not to take anything away.”
“Give me something,” said Mrs. Gale, looking sharply suspicious.
“A relic for the museum: a Joan Farmer relic—a gold cross set with diamonds, I gather.”
“I don’t want it. I hate the whole thing. I wish we’d never come here. My son was as mad in pursuit of this dead woman as if she’d been alive. I’ve often heard him speak of a gold cross set with diamonds: he knew it was in America and he wanted at one time to go over there and try to get it back. Fortunately he couldn’t afford the journey. Where’s the young man? We must offer him something to eat. Where’s that Mr. Riley? I want to tell him something—something that will please him. I have come to a decision—an important decision.” She sounded excited.
“I think your grandson has gone to see about some refreshment,” said Roger. “McGarten will be back presently. Riley is with him. It’ll be all right. Do sit down, ma’am, and don’t agitate yourself.”
Old Mrs. Gale sat down with a sigh.
“At my age, it’s hard to suffer such a blow. I’m afraid I shall have to leave here. I don’t wish to stay now that Augustus is gone—and the children are gone, too. Professor Bose will be glad to get rid of me and have full charge. Cornelia, it seems, doesn’t want to marry him. I shall take her with me if she’ll come. We’ll go and live in some brighter spot, on the south coast: Bournemouth, perhaps. Somewhere gay, removed from the past. I am tired of the past. At my age, when one has so little future to look forward to, one has no time to spare for contemplating anything but the present. My own past, perhaps, but not this Joan Farmer’s. That reminds me: I mean to arrange through the lawyers that your archæological expedition shall have access to the piece of Roman mosaic that lies inside our boundary wall.”
“You do?” said Roger and Martin together.
“I could never quite see my son’s point of view. But he was obstinate about some things. It was that hillock— the wretched hillock on which was the summer-house where that woman wrote her plays.”
“We shall try to preserve the hillock,” said Martin eagerly. “We don’t wish—we never have wished—to damage anything.”
“You’d do better,” said old Mrs. Gale, “to get rid of it. It’s nothing but a nuisance and always has been. After all, we can’t always be preserving something where somebody has done something, can we? If we did, there’d be no progress. Still, I shouldn’t say anything about it yet if I were you.” She leaned towards them confidentially. “I’ll see to it: I’ll tell Mr. Riley. The Professor will be angry, but I’m not dead yet. I think I’ll stay here after all, just to annoy him.”
Rupert entered, followed by Robert, carrying a larger tray.
“Oh, there you are, Grandma—at the receipt of custom. Good. Not tea this time!” he said to the others. “Aren’t they back yet?”
At that moment there were sounds outside. McGarten and Riley burst into the room. They looked scared.
“Something happened?” said Rupert coolly.
“In the museum! The portrait!” gasped McGarten. He led the way out. Riley said quietly to old Mrs. Gale:
“Don’t disturb yourself, ma’am. The portrait of Joan Farmer is a little damaged. I think it can be repaired.” He turned to Roger and Martin. “It’s curious. Come and have a look.”
They all went except Rupert and Mrs. Gale.
7
It was McGarten who led the way to the museum, he who pointed out the damage.
“Look there: somebody has climbed up and made an incision.”
They looked. The incision was across the mouth; it had been carefully done, and the canvas had been turned back so that the effect was of a grin showing projecting teeth: it was horrible.
“Nasty bit of work,” said Riley.
The portrait hung on the wall at the end of the gallery. It was full length and not far short of life size; it hung from a picture-rail, and the base of the frame reached the floor. McGarten took his stand beside it; his head was a little above that of the woman in the picture.
“I won’t touch it,” he said, “though I long to restore the original expression.”
“You know it!” said Riley.
“Everyone all over the world knows this portrait of Joan Farmer,” said McGarten reverently. “It is the only one in existence, so far as we know: painted five or six years before she died, when she was in her prime.” He bent forward as if to look at some detail, and laid his hand on the side of the frame. The picture moved.
“One moment,” said Roger. He walked to the picture, moved it outward a little more, and looked behind it. He emerged looking red and flustered.
“This is a police matter, of course,” said McGarten. “Have we any check on visitors?”
“I think,” said Riley, “you are the first outside visitor; the house isn’t open yet to visitors. I don’t think anyone but members of the family have been here lately.”
“And yourselves.”
“We have not left the drawing-room. Some member of the family has been with us all the time. We must leave it to old Mrs. Gale to decide whether she’ll call in the police. I don’t think she will; they’ve only just left. I expect she’s had enough of them.”
