Not to Be Taken Read online

  ‘Excuse me, madam, may I speak to you a moment?’

  ‘Yes, Pritchard,’ Angela replied petulantly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The sexton is here, madam. He wishes to know if it will be convenient for him to fill in the grave tomorrow.’

  ‘Convenient?’ Angela looked bewildered. ‘How can I know whether it’s convenient for him?’

  ‘I think he means after your telegram, madam.’

  ‘Telegram? What telegram?’ As usual Angela appealed to the nearest person. ‘What does she mean, Douglas?’

  A sudden feeling of uneasiness invaded me. ‘Would you like me to go and speak to him, Angela?’

  ‘Oh, would you? Thank you so much, Douglas.’

  I went out. The sexton, who combined that post with those of village carpenter, joiner and undertaker, and only became a sexton when duty commanded, was waiting at the back door.

  ‘Yes, Blake?’ I said non-committally.

  The old man touched his cap. ‘I only wanted to know if Mrs Waterhouse would like me to fill the grave in tomorrow, sir, or shall I put it off any longer? By rights it ought to have been done today, but when she sent me that telegram…’

  ‘Yes, of course. By the way, have you the telegram on you?’

  ‘Yes sir, I believe I got it in me pocket. Let’s see now.’ He dragged out an enormous collection of very dirty pieces of paper and began to sort them through with maddening slowness. Of course Blake knew just as well as I did that Angela had sent him no telegram, but the decencies had to be preserved; and for sheer instinctive tact, commend me to any West Anglian countryman.

  At last the telegram was found, and I read it through quickly. It ran:

  DO NOT FILL IN GRAVE PENDING INSTRUCTIONS FROM ME. WATERHOUSE.

  It was addressed to ‘The Sexton, Anneypenny, Dorset,’ and it had been handed in at ten twenty-seven that morning in London.

  I gave it back to the old man.

  ‘I think, Blake,’ I said, ‘that I shouldn’t bother Mrs Waterhouse this evening. I’ll see that she sends you the instructions tomorrow.’

  3

  I thus took a dislike to Cyril Waterhouse before I had even met him.

  This dislike was confirmed during dinner. The man’s appearance I have already described: his manner was unpleasing in the extreme. Toward Frances and myself he was coldly civil but let us see plainly that he considered us inconvenient interlopers; toward his sister-in-law he was cold and curt to the verge of rudeness, and over it. Dinner that evening was not a happy meal.

  When the two women had withdrawn and Pritchard had served us with our coffee, Waterhouse broke through the laboured small talk with which I was trying to ease the situation and said abruptly:

  ‘I’m not at all satisfied about my brother’s death. I understand that you and your wife saw as much of his illness as anyone. Please give me some account of it.’

  I complied, of course, with as good a grace as I could muster. The illness had followed the usual course of summer diarrhoea, I told him, and death had been due to collapse following the intense physical strain. Everything, so far as I understood, had been perfectly normal.

  ‘He had been expected to die?’ Waterhouse asked.

  I answered no, his death had been a surprise and a terrible shock to all of us.

  Waterhouse began to peel a peach from one of the Gable glasshouses in a scientific way, as if he were dissecting a fact.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he remarked. ‘Why was no second doctor called in? Can you tell me that?’

  ‘I suppose Doctor Brougham saw no necessity.’

  ‘He did not consider my brother’s condition dangerous?’

  ‘So far as I know, he didn’t. Serious perhaps, but not dangerous… Though this sort of question,’ I added, a little stiffly, for I was becoming nettled by this examination, ‘would surely be better addressed to him.’

  He took no notice of my intended snub. ‘And why was no professional nurse sent for?’

  ‘Miss Brougham very kindly undertook the nursing. She is a most competent woman.’

  ‘Is she a trained nurse?’

  ‘Technically, no,’ I replied a little lamely. ‘But she is certainly the equivalent in value, and more than the equivalent.’

  He sliced his peach in two and flipped the stone neatly onto his plate. ‘This fellow Brougham. What’s he like? Is he any good?’

  ‘Doctor Brougham is considered one of the ablest surgeons in the county,’ I replied with distaste.

  ‘No doubt, but it isn’t his surgery that’s in question. What use is he as a physician?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Waterhouse,’ I said at last, ‘but you must make enquiries of this sort elsewhere. Brougham is one of my oldest friends, I have full faith in him, and I can’t listen to the innuendoes contained in your questions.’ I paused for a moment and then added: ‘I think, nevertheless, that it might be better if you were to tell me exactly what is in your mind. I know of the telegram you sent to the sexton here, which seems to me frankly a most outrageous thing to have done unless you have the strongest grounds for suspicion. But what is it you suspect?’

  The man’s answer was certainly frank.

  ‘Very well. Perhaps it would be best. I suspect that my brother was poisoned. Can you honestly tell me that the same suspicion has never occurred to you?’

  ‘But good heavens,’ I began, ‘the idea is…’ I hesitated. I could not help myself. The thought of that bottle of medicine now lying in a locked drawer in my desk came to me as a sudden horrible shock. For why had Frances removed it if not out of exactly the same suspicion as I was now being taxed with? ‘The idea is preposterous,’ I concluded.

  Unhappily my hesitation had not passed unnoticed. ‘I see that the same thought has occurred to you,’ Waterhouse commented dryly.

  ‘You mean food poisoning, of course?’ I asked, feebly enough.

  ‘No, I do not mean food poisoning.’

  ‘But who could have a motive for poisoning your brother?’ I protested as warmly as I could. ‘We were all very fond of him. He was –’

  ‘It’s you who are going too fast now,’ Waterhouse interrupted with a chilly little smile. ‘I’m not accusing anyone of having poisoned him. I merely say that the suspicion is in my mind that he died as a result of poison, and I feel it my duty to verify or disprove that suspicion. If my suspicion were to prove correct there is nothing at present to suggest to me that the poison might have been administered to him by any other person. It might have got into him by accident, or it might have been suicide. That would be a matter for the police.’

  I felt that somehow I ought to be able to dispel the man’s suspicion there and then. I knew that now if ever was the time to do so. I was not at all sure that, in spite of his rather repellent manner, he was genuinely hoping that I could and would. But all I found myself able to do was to ask:

  ‘But what do you intend to do?’

  He answered briskly, as if in some way I had made his mind up for him.

  ‘I intend to insist on a post-mortem.’ He saw that I was about to protest, and forestalled me. ‘Why not? There can be nothing to lose by it. We all want to get at the truth, I suppose – even my brother’s closest friends.’

  ‘But it will make such a lot of talk,’ was all I could find to oppose the idea. ‘It would be most unpleasant for Angela.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He favoured me again with the chilly little smile. ‘The request, of course, must come from Angela herself. I propose to put the suggestion to her now, if you’ve finished, and I shall look to you to support me. As a man of the world you can see that it’s a very reasonable one. And as for talk, you may be sure there’s plenty of that going already.

  ‘And you must admit’ – again the chilly smile was in evidence – ‘you must admit that telegram of mine to the sexton was a good i
dea. It’s saved us the extreme unpleasantness of an exhumation.’

  4

  If I had at first been inclined to ascribe Cyril Waterhouse’s determination to make trouble to resentment over Angela’s remissness in not letting him know at once of his brother’s death, I soon saw that I was wrong. He was resentful, no doubt, and equally without doubt he had no liking for poor Angela, but his conviction that there had been something wrong in his brother’s death was a perfectly genuine one.

  There was a painful scene in the drawing-room, of course.

  Angela wept and had hysterics and refused for a long while to have anything to do with the idea of a post-mortem. She protested and she appealed, but neither tears nor pleas had the least effect upon Cyril. Never losing his temper, never even departing from his demeanour of cold calm, he insisted and continued to insist. I could not advise Angela that his suggestion was altogether an unreasonable one, and Frances, after taking some time to make up her mind, decided, too, that if anyone had any doubt, however ill-founded, such a doubt ought to be cleared up before it was too late. Neither she nor I hinted that we at any rate had some reason to believe that the doubt might not be so ill-founded.

  Angela was therefore in a minority of one; and of course in the end she gave in. There was really nothing else she could do.

  Then she tearfully announced an intention of going at once to bed.

  But that, it appeared, did not suit her brother-in-law.

  ‘Not just yet, please, Angela,’ he said with an assumption of authority which irritated me. ‘If Mr and Mrs Sewell will excuse us, there are one or two things which it is imperative to do as quickly as possible.’

  ‘We’ll go home,’ Frances said quickly, and arose.

  But Cyril had a use for us. ‘If you and your husband would be good enough to stay a little while, I think it would be advisable.’

  Even Frances seemed nonplussed before the man’s evident determination to arrange matters exactly as he saw fit.

  ‘Well, if you want us to stay…’

  ‘I should be grateful. Both Angela and I, you see,’ Cyril said with deliberation, ‘may be looked upon as prejudiced parties. It might be useful later to have had two independent witnesses. You will understand perhaps when I add that I wish to ask about John’s will.’ He turned to Angela. ‘I imagine you have no objection to my examining the document, Angela?’

  Angela looked her most helpless. ‘Of course I wouldn’t. But I haven’t seen it myself.’

  Cyril looked really flabbergasted. ‘You haven’t seen it? But aren’t you in touch with his solicitors? Haven’t they produced it? What on earth is all this?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Ventnor rang up,’ Angela explained, beginning to weep again, ‘but he said they haven’t got John’s will. He said John didn’t make a will with them. I don’t see why you should blame me, Cyril.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you, Angela. I only want to find out the facts. Did Mr Ventnor give you to understand that John died intestate, then? I must say it seems most improbable.’

  ‘What does that mean, Douglas?’ Angela appealed to me.

  ‘That he never made a will.’

  ‘Oh no. At least I don’t think so. You see, Mr Ventnor said that John told him there was a will. He told me, too, a long time ago. Before we went to Brazil.’

  ‘You know what its contents were?’

  ‘Yes, John told me, of course.’

  ‘Well, what were they?’

  ‘Oh, he left everything to me.’

  Cyril’s face did not change. ‘Have you any idea where the will is now?’

  ‘No, I don’t know. How could I? But I expect it would be in John’s desk, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You haven’t even looked?’ Cyril asked incredulously.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Angela, beginning to cry once more. ‘You don’t expect me to rummage through poor John’s papers almost before he’s buried, do you? I think it’s horrible.’

  Cyril looked at me. ‘I think perhaps if you’ll come with me, we ought to do this at once. Angela, please get us John’s keys.’

  I had to show him the way to the library, for he did not know his way about the house, and he at once tried the drawers of the big mahogany desk where John had spent so many hours drawing his plans and elevations. Only one drawer was locked. A key from the ring which Angela brought fitted it. Cyril drew it open and lifted out half-a-dozen folded documents. There were five insurance policies and the will.

  Without more ado Cyril opened the letter and glanced through it. I could not help seeing that it was very short. I noticed, too, that Cyril’s jaw seemed to tighten rather curiously as he read.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said tonelessly. ‘Everything is left to you, Angela. Well, I congratulate you. You will be a wealthy woman.’

  ‘Oh, Cyril, how can you be so heartless?’

  ‘I’m only stating the fact. I see, by the way, that there is a codicil apportioning his life insurance. Five thousand pounds is set aside for the payment of death duties; forty-five thousand pounds is left to you outright; and the income of a further fifty thousand is left to you, the capital to revert to Maurice on your remarriage or death. Five, forty-five, fifty…good heavens!’ He snatched up the insurance policies and began to look through them with something more like agitation than I had yet seen in him.

  Laying them down again, he stared at Angela.

  ‘A hundred thousand pounds! And taken out only five years ago. Why, the premiums must have been colossal. Did you know that John had insured his life for a hundred thousand pounds, Angela?’

  ‘I knew he was insured, of course,’ Angela fluttered. ‘I don’t think he ever told me how much it was. Why? Is it a lot?’

  Cyril looked at her with compressed lips. ‘A remarkably large amount.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s a good thing, I suppose,’ Angela said vaguely. ‘Oh dear, my head is aching so. I’m not very strong, Cyril, you know, and all this has been a terrible strain. I think I’ll go to bed now.’

  ‘In just a few minutes,’ Cyril demurred. ‘Sewell, if you’ll take Angela back to the drawing-room, there is something I wish to do before I rejoin you. Angela, where can I find Miss Bergmann?’

  ‘Mitzi? Oh dear.’ Angela held her forehead in both hands, as if the effort to think was almost too much for her bursting brain. ‘Well, I expect she’s in the sewing-room.’ She described its situation in vague terms, which I amplified.

  Cyril held the door open for her and disappeared up the staircase.

  On the way back to the drawing-room I asked Angela who Maurice was, and learned that he was Cyril’s only son and John’s only nephew.

  ‘A pleasant surprise for him,’ I remarked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it was a surprise, was it?’ Angela said absently. ‘I mean, John had written to tell Maurice about it a long time ago. I remember he said so when he told me.’

  ‘You knew about the hundred thousand, then?’

  ‘Oh dear, what does it matter?’ Angela said petulantly. ‘I knew John had insured himself, and I knew I was to get it all while I was alive, or the income or something, and Maurice wouldn’t get any till I was dead. What does it matter?’

  Privately I thought it might matter a great deal, but I did not say so. I also found time to admire Cyril’s control. He must have heard of the provision for Maurice, and perhaps he hoped for a substantial legacy for himself; yet his face had not altered at all in the drawing-room when Angela told him so casually that she was to have everything.

  Cyril’s three minutes lengthened out to half an hour, and then to three quarters. It was not until nearly fifty minutes later he reappeared and intimated with great politeness that Angela might now go to bed, and we might take our departure – which we did, not unthankfully.

  It was not until a day or two later that we learned how that fifty minutes had
been employed: in a careful search, assisted by a Mitzi willing or unwilling but no doubt intrigued, of Angela’s bedroom, rest room and bathroom.

  What he expected to find was pretty obvious; what he did find was detailed in the coroner’s court later. But the inference to me was that, if he had been speaking the truth when he told me after dinner that he had suspicion of no definite person, the discovery of the will and its provisions had quite altered that.

  5

  Frances and I did not talk much on our way home that evening.

  Only after she had gone upstairs and I had locked the house up and followed her did she call me in from my dressing-room.

  She was sitting in front of her mirror, a pot of cold cream in her hand, and she continued to rub it into her face while we talked. I remember that, for it struck me as such a good example of the way the trivial combines in life with the significant.

  ‘Douglas, I can’t help feeling worried. We backed that man up, you know, about the post-mortem. Were we right?’ ‘I think we were.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be much better to leave things? After all, there’s no real suspicion of anything, is there? I mean, it’s all so impossible. John…us… Angela… Why not leave things?’

  ‘When things go over a certain line it’s impossible to leave them.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But… Douglas, I’m frightened. This post-mortem – what are they going to find?’

  chapter four

  Misbehaviour of a Lady

  I met Harold Cheam in the village the next afternoon.

  I had put in a hard morning grease-banding the pear orchard against a bad invasion of winter moth and, while not deliberately avoiding Oswald’s Gable and all its complications, had not been sorry to put it out of my mind for a time. Angela had all my sympathy, but it was no place of mine to constitute myself her guardian.

  I had therefore heard nothing of any further developments, and I am afraid it had slipped my memory completely that I had promised old Blake to let him know about the grave.