Slight Mourning Read online

  They’d all come to church today—the guests of Saturday night. She wasn’t surprised. She’d expected to see the Renvilles, the Marchmonts, the Washbys, and the professor here. In the play Fellowship would only go so far with Everyman when poor Everyman had to report to Death. They—the guests—were Saturday night’s Fellowship and Jollity at Friday’s funeral, who would also come thus far and no further.

  And now she came to think of it, Fellowship had been the first of his companions on the way to desert Everyman. Even Knowledge had stayed by his side a little longer. Then Knowledge too had left him …

  She heard the approaching funeral party reach the church porch.

  Kindred, Discretion, Beauty, Strength, and Five Wits had all stayed with the allegorical Everyman for a while and then gone, leaving him with only Good Deeds to support him in his rendering to Death.

  Kindred, she thought confusedly, were still with Bill Fent—would stay with him just a short while longer. They would be behind the coffin. That would make Saturday night’s party complete.

  Twelve. Fellowship, Kindred, and Everyman …

  She turned her gaze toward the door and marked off Bill Fent’s kindred as they entered the church.

  Helen Fent, Bill’s widow, a dark-haired, intense woman, pale but outwardly composed.

  Or doped for the morning. You never knew these days, though Cynthia herself never touched anything stronger than aspirin …

  Helen was being supported by Bill’s cousin Quentin Fent.

  Then came Annabel Pollock, another cousin, looking quite distraught and leaning heavily on the arm of an elderly man. An uncle on the mother’s side, Cynthia Paterson thought.

  After them came the usual miscellaneous assortment of distant relatives dredged up by a family funeral and made prominent by occasion. They, decided Cynthia from her vast human experience, would have come to Constance Parva for the funeral and would go away again after the reading of the Will …

  The prospect of Bill Fent’s Will being read that day had troubled Detective Inspector Sloan.

  “I don’t see why it should,” Superintendent Leeyes had said testily.

  “If someone did set out to kill him,” protested Sloan, “they might benefit from his death before we could stop them.”

  “Come, come, Sloan, be reasonable,” said Leeyes. “Even if we handed over the entire case to Detective Constable Crosby … which Heaven forbid,” he added hurriedly, rolling his eyes upward in supplication, “I daresay even he would solve it before any lawyer we’ve ever known wound up Fent’s estate—or anyone else’s, come to that.”

  “Perhaps, sir, but …”

  “Besides, we want to know what’s in it, too, don’t we? There may be big mortgages, attachments, and so forth on the property. To say nothing,” added Leeyes, warming to his theme, “of sundry by-blows and what have you.”

  “Dead and never called him father?” suggested Sloan ironically.

  “People say what they mean in Wills,” said the superintendent. “About the only time they do, too.”

  “Even so …”

  “Discreet inquiries, that’s what we’re supposed to be making, Sloan, in case either everything’s above-board after all or we frighten off suspects. We’re not supposed to be shouting the odds from the roof tops.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And if we stop them reading the Will there’ll be hell to pay from Fent’s solicitors for a start—invoking the law left, right, and centre, I expect.”

  “Yes, sir.” In his more thoughtful moments Detective Inspector Sloan, policeman, liked to think of himself as an upholder of the law but this didn’t seem to be the moment to say so.

  “There’s another thing, Sloan …”

  “Sir?”

  “If the press get hold of this too soon …”

  Sloan nodded. He didn’t need to say anything. If there was one subject in the whole wide world at which he was completely at one with Superintendent Leeyes it was the press.

  “… then,” continued his superior officer, “the whole case would be blown wide open.”

  “If there is a case,” Sloan reminded him.

  “If there is a case. And if there isn’t, Sloan, then where do we stand?”

  “In trouble,” agreed Sloan mordantly. “Up to our necks.”

  The superintendent poked a finger at the report on his desk. “He did die from a ruptured aorta … there’s no doubt about that. That’s the devil of it.”

  “The noxious substance was there,” said Sloan. “At least, that’s what Dr. Dabbe said.” He paused. “I think.”

  Leeyes snorted. “A fat lot of help we’re going to get from our friendly neighbourhood pathologist. I’ve had another go at him, by the way …”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, Sloan.”

  “No, sir?”

  “Apparently,” said Leeyes savagely, “poison is like beauty …”

  Sloan waited.

  “It’s in the eye of the beholder,” growled Leeyes.

  “Never.”

  “That’s what he said. How the poison acts is nothing to do with the law. Nor the result of the poisoning. It’s all in the mind of the person who administers it.”

  “So even if whatever was there hadn’t harmed him, if whoever gave it to him meant it to, then there’s a case?”

  “That’s it.”

  Sloan considered this in silence for a moment.

  The superintendent indicated the telephone on his desk. “I tried to ring him again a few minutes ago but he’s not at the hospital. Gone out to look for a hair to split, I expect.”

  But Sloan was still thinking about Bill Fent. “Let’s get this quite straight, sir. He died from injuries received in a road traffic accident …”

  “Agreed.”

  “What we are checking on is whether someone tried to kill him first.”

  “Got it in one, Sloan.”

  “Which makes it attempted murder.”

  “Agreed,” said the superintendent. “Or murder full stop.”

  “How come?”

  “If he had the accident because of the poison.”

  “The lawyers are going to like this one, sir, aren’t they?”

  “Never mind about the lawyers,” grumbled Leeyes. “They can look after themselves if anyone can. What about us?”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Sloan fervently. “Give me a straightforward manual strangulation any day of the week. At least you do know where you are then …”

  Sloan’s discreet inquiries had already included a chat with Professor Berry, which told him nothing that he didn’t know already, and a visit to Dr. Paul Washby’s home and surgery.

  “He still lives over the shop, sir,” Crosby had observed as their car slipped into the village. “Real country stuff.”

  “Good.” Sloan eyed the pleasant Georgian house in the middle of Constance Parva High Street with approval. “All the more likely to catch him at home.”

  “Mrs. Washby?” began Constable Crosby to the attractive young woman who opened the door. “We’re …”

  “I’m the receptionist,” said the girl rather shortly. “Would you wait in here, please …”

  When she had gone Sloan looked at the ceiling and remarked to no one in particular, “When I started in the Force they warned me never to shake hands with the butler.”

  The good-looking young woman reappeared. “Doctor is just finishing his afternoon surgery. He’ll see you now. This way, please …”

  “Just a quick word, Dr. Washby, if we may,” began Sloan easily. The receptionist, he noted, took her time about leaving the room. “I’ve already seen Professor Berry because our Traffic Division have asked us to check up on one or two small matters arising out of Saturday’s fatal accident.”

  “Quite so.” Dr. Washby jerked his head vigorously. Country doctor he might be but there was nothing conspicuously rural about him. His suit was London-tailored and his manner far from buc
olic.

  “If,” said Sloan, “the deceased was in good health and so on.”

  “As far as I know he was,” Washby said. He pulled a desk diary toward him. “Will I be wanted at the inquest?”

  “Not at this stage, Doctor, I don’t think. You were his usual medical adviser, though?”

  “Oh, yes.” The doctor ran a hand through his hair. “Since I’ve been here, that is. And Dr. Whittaker—that was my predecessor—before me.”

  “Eyesight?”

  “I don’t think I’d ever examined it.” Washby frowned. “But he never complained of anything being wrong—and he was a dam good shot.”

  “What about sudden dizzy turns—that sort of thing?”

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “There again, not to my knowledge. Something like that might account for the accident though. Of course, you can get a dizzy spell from a simple digestive upset. You don’t need to have anything really wrong.” He pulled his lips down in a long grimace. “God, Inspector, how I wish I’d taken old Berry home myself on Saturday night and then all this might not have happened.”

  “On the other hand,” pointed out Sloan, “it still might.”

  “What? How?” Washby gave another quick frown. “I always take Tappet’s Corner at snail’s-pace myself. I’ve attended too many accidents there already. Rotten bit of road. Something should be done about it.”

  “I was thinking of the other driver,” said Sloan.

  “I was forgetting about him,” admitted Paul Washby immediately. “Yes. He might well have hit me for six too. Us, actually. I had my wife with me. Could have been all his fault, when you come to think about it. Probably was. Fent was a good driver.”

  “Blame,” remarked Sloan sententiously, “is always a difficult thing …”

  “Especially when one driver is dead …”

  “Especially when there’s no junction involved,” said Sloan sedately. It was surprising how much of Inspector Harpe’s troubles rubbed off on the rest of the Force.

  Washby nodded. “Quite so. And knowing won’t bring Fent back again anyway.”

  “No.” Sloan paused. “We did wonder, Doctor, if he had any special worries—something that might have impaired his concentration. We find as a rule that a lot of the drivers who have traffic accidents have something on their minds.” This was Happy Harry’s road credo again.

  The general practitioner pursed his lips. “I shouldn’t have thought he had. Not that I knew about anyway, There was the development, of course, but …”

  “What development?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet. But it will, I expect. We had main drainage put in the village last year in spite of Miss Paterson and all the other old stagers who thought it was a pity. As soon as that happened the property companies started sniffing around.” He gave a quick grin. “Sewer rats Cynthia Paterson and her cronies called them.”

  “And?”

  “And they wanted to buy some of Bill Fent’s land. It’s about the only ground round here the planning people would give permission for because of its position near the centre of the village. Within the village envelope somebody told me—whatever that may mean.” Washby grimaced. “Bill Fent couldn’t sell because of an entail or something on the property and the property wallahs wouldn’t lease—not enough money in that, I suppose, these days. They’re not silly.”

  “I don’t quite see what …”

  “I know Bill was scratching around to see if he couldn’t raise enough capital to develop it himself because he told me. I think he was a bit worried about that. After all he was saddled with that damn great Park to keep up and precious little to do it on.”

  “Did you give him anything for his worries?”

  “I don’t remember that I did.” The doctor cocked his eyebrow inquiringly at Sloan. “I could check though …”

  “If you would …”

  Washby flipped a switch and leaned forward to speak into some sort of communications box. “Jean, bring me Mr. Fent’s record, will you, please? Here we are. No. No, there’s nothing down here, Inspector. I didn’t prescribe anything for worry for him.”

  “What about for his wife?”

  Washby hesitated. “I couldn’t say, Inspector. Mrs. Fent is not a patient of mine. I believe she sees a woman doctor in Berebury but you would have to ask her that.”

  Sloan nodded comfortably. “That’ll be our Dr. Harriet Baird, I expect. A lot of the ladies go to her.”

  Cynthia Paterson, lady gardener, turned her attention back to the principal mourners—those who would remain when the more distant connections had gone home.

  Helen Fent, widow, Annabel Pollock, cousin, and Quentin Fent, cousin. With Bill Fent, deceased, that had made twelve on Saturday night.

  There had nearly been one more. Cynthia Paterson had been distinctly punctual that evening—in fact she had been the first of the dinner guests to arrive.

  “I know I’m too soon,” she apologized to Bill Fent when he answered the door. “That’s the trouble with a bicycle.”

  “Beats the internal combustion engine any day,” Bill Fent had agreed solemnly. “Come in. We’ve got another visitor. Peter Miller. I was just chatting to him about our mutual boundary.”

  “Evening, Miss Paterson,” said the farmer.

  “There now,” she said in confusion, “I’m interrupting you both.”

  “I was just going,” Peter Miller assured her, downing the last of his drink. “Truly.” He turned to Bill Fent. “Wasn’t I?”

  “Well,” Bill Fent had said gravely, “we’d settled that I’d pick up some spiles from Greg Fitch first thing on Monday morning and get something done about that fence.”

  “Good. Your shrubs aren’t going to like my Jersey cows any more than my Jersey cows are going to like your shrubs.”

  “True,” said Bill.

  “Good fences make good neighbours,” Peter Miller had added sententiously.

  “As long as you don’t want the bounds beating again,” said Cynthia Paterson brightly, her quick ear detecting undercurrents. The two men facing each other looked curiously alike in their controlled crossness. A bit like bantam cocks already squared up but trying not to fight. “Young Tommy Pennyfeather hasn’t got over his bruises yet, I hear.”

  Both men had laughed and the moment passed.

  “Quite sure you won’t stay for dinner, Miller?” Bill Fent asked as the doorbell rang again.

  “Quite sure, thank you.” Miller put his empty glass down, the ice still unmelted. “I must be off. Didn’t mean to bother you on a Saturday evening anyway …” he added gruffly.

  “I don’t suppose,” said Bill Fent more easily, “that even a prize herd of Jerseys as good as yours know the days of the week.”

  Miller grinned. “Not yet. Though they’re real lovelies …”

  “Just as well he didn’t stay,” said Bill when the young farmer had gone. “We’d have been thirteen at table. Helen wouldn’t have liked that.”

  “No.”

  “Unlucky.”

  “Because of Judas,” said Cynthia Paterson.

  “Not that I’m superstitious myself.”

  “Of course not,” said Cynthia Paterson. “It’s just that you wouldn’t actually want to be thirteen at table.”

  “Now you’re pulling my leg.” He paused on his way to the door. “I say—don’t forget to tell Annabel you like her flower arrangements, will you? She thinks a lot of your opinion … and she’s been at ’em all day while Helen saw to the food. Milly Pennyfeather’s going to wash up for us.”

  But Cynthia Paterson hadn’t liked Annabel Pollock’s flower arrangements one little bit. And her dislike hadn’t been anything to do with the way in which the flowers had been arranged. Annabel Pollock was an artistic creature, with a good eye for colour and design, and her floral arrangements were always a pleasure to look at.

  It was their colours she didn’t like. Red and white. No hospital sister would ever have them alone together in a patient�
��s vase on her ward if she could help it Mixed with other colours, yes. Just the two, no. Red for blood and white for death.

  Unlucky. Annabel was a nurse and she should have known that.

  Bill Fent’s coffin had reached the chancel steps now.

  “We brought nothing into this world,” intoned the rector of Constance Parva in a Church of England quaver, “and it is certain that we can carry nothing out …”

  Peter Miller might just as well have stayed at Strontfield Park on Saturday night, thought Cynthia Paterson, thirteen or not. Bill Fent couldn’t very well have been unluckier than he had been.

  FOUR

  Sloan knew why it was that Crosby still had the deceased’s anatomy on his mind at the funeral. It dated from their visit to the pathologist on his home ground. That had been on the Wednesday afternoon.

  “Come in, Sloan, come in,” Dr. Dabbe had called out cheerfully as the two policemen had knocked on the hospital laboratory door. “Welcome to our place of employment. It’s Constable Crosby you’ve got with you, isn’t it? Thought I knew the face. Come along in, boy. You’ll find all this very interesting and it’s all good experience.” He waved a hand. “Now, this gentleman here is Dr. Writtle from the Home Office. He’s an analyst.”

  The fourth man in the laboratory nodded formally to the policemen.

  “I suppose I should remember to call you a chemical analyst, eh, Writtle?” said Dr. Dabbe.

  “I’m certainly not a stock market one.”

  The pathologist grinned slyly. “Nor yet a psychoanalyst.”

  “God forbid,” said Writtle fervently. “I like to know what I’m doing.”

  “And so say all of us,” chorused Dabbe. “Well, what we’re doing this afternoon is very interesting—come, come, why such a long face, Sloan?”

  “I don’t like interesting cases, Doctor,” said Sloan stolidly. “Make a lot of work do cases that you people call interesting.”

  “Do you hear that, Writtle?” cried the pathologist. “Good job I’m not sensitive.”

  “You should try the Civil Service, Dabbe,” said the analyst genially. “No use being sensitive there. We get blamed for everything. And the Home Office always cops what can’t be pinned onto anybody else.”