Overture to Death

He wandered restlessly into the library, half-hoping that the door into the study would be open. It was closed. He could hear the murmur of a woman’s voice. On and on. What the hell could she have to say? Then a baritone interjection in which he read urgency and vehemence. Then a long pause.

“My God!” thought Henry. “If he has proposed to her!”

He whistled raucously, took an encyclopaedia from the shelves, banged the glass door and slammed the book down on the table.

He heard his father exclaim. A chair castor squeaked and the voices grew more distant. They had moved to the far end of the room.

Henry flung himself into an arm-chair, and once again the conundrum of the murder beset him. Who did the police believe had tried to murder Eleanor Prentice? Which would they say had the greatest reason for wishing Eleanor dead? With the thud of fear that came upon him whenever he thought of this, he supposed that he himself had most reason for wishing Eleanor out of the way. Was it possible that Alleyn suspected him? Whom did Alleyn suspect? Not Dinah, surely, not the rector, not his own father. Templett, then? Or — yes — Mrs. Ross? But, Alleyn would surely reason, if Templett was the murderer, it was a successful murder, since it was Templett who insisted that Eleanor shouldn’t play the piano. Alleyn would wonder if Templett had told Mrs. Ross he would not allow Eleanor to play. Did Dinah’s tirade against Mrs. Ross mean that Dinah suspected her? Had the police any idea who could have gone to the piano after there were people in the hall, and yet not been seen? Already the story of Gladys Wright had reached Pen Cuckoo. And as final conjecture, perhaps they would ask themselves if Eleanor Prentice in some way had faked her finger and set the trap for her bosom enemy. Or might they agree with the rector and call it a case of attempted murder and suicide?

He leapt to his feet. There was no longer a sound of voices in the study. They must have gone out by the french window.

Henry opened the door and walked in. No. they were still there. Mrs. Ross sat in the window with her back to the light. Jocelyn Jernigham faced the door. When Henry saw Jocelyn he cried out: “Father, what’s the matter?”

Jocelyn said, “Nothing’s the matter.”

Mrs. Ross said, “Hullo! Good-afternoon.”

“Good-afternoon,” said Henry. “Father, are you ill?”

“No. Don’t come bursting into the room asking people if they’re ill. It’s ridiculous.”

“But your face! It’s absolutely ashen.”

“I’ve got indigestion.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I thought he looked pale,” said Mrs. Ross solicitously.

“He’s absolutely green.”

“I’m nothing of the sort,” said Jocelyn angrily.

v

“Mrs. Ross and I are talking privately, Henry.”

“I’m sorry,” said Henry stubbornly, “but I know there’s something wrong here. What is it?”

“There’s nothing wrong, my dear boy,” she said lightly.

He stared at her.

“I’m afraid I still think there is.”

“Well, I very much hope you won’t still think there is when we tell you all about it. At the moment I’m afraid it’s a secret.” She looked at Jocelyn. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes. Of course. Go away, boy, you’re making a fool of yourself.”

“Are you sure,” Henry asked slowly, “that nobody is making a fool of you?”

Taylor came in. He looked slightly disgruntled.

“Inspector Fox to see you, sir. I told him — ”

“Good-afternoon, sir,” said a rumbling voice, and the bulk of Inspector Fox filled the doorway. v

Henry saw the squire look quickly from the open window to Mrs. Ross. Taylor stood aside and Fox walked in.

“I hope you’ll excuse me coming straight in like this, sir,” said Fox. “Chief Inspector Alleyn asked me to call. I took the liberty of following your butler. Perhaps I ought to have waited.”

“No, no,” said Jocelyn. “Sit down, er — ”

“Fox, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”

Fox placed his bowler on a near-by table. He turned to Henry.

“Good-afternoon, sir. We met last night, didn’t we?”

“This is Inspector Fox, Mrs. Ross,” said Henry.

“Good-afternoon, madam,” said Fox tranquilly. Then he sat down. As Alleyn once remarked to Nigel, there was a certain dignity about Fox.

Mrs. Ross smiled charmingly.

“I must take myself off,” she said, “and not interrupt Mr. Fox. Don’t move, anybody, please.”

“If it’s not troubling you too much, Mrs. Ross,” said Fox, “I’d be obliged if you’d wait for a moment. There are one or two little routine questions for general inquiry, and it will save me taking up your time later on.”

“But I’m longing to stay, Mr. Fox.”

“Thank you, madam.”

Fox took out his spectacles and placed them on his nose. He then drew his note-book from an inside pocket, opened it and stared at it.

“Yes,” he said. “Now, the first item’s a small matter, really. Did anybody present find the onion in the teapot?”

“What!” Henry ejaculated.

Fox fixed his eyes on him.

“The onion in the teapot, sir.”

“Which onion in what teapot?” demanded Jocelyn.

Fox turned to him.

“Young Biggins, sir, has admitted that he put a Spanish onion in the teapot used on the stage. We’d like to know who removed it.”

Mrs. Ross burst out laughing.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but it is rather fu

“It sounds rather a ridiculous sort of thing, doesn’t it, madam?” agreed Fox gravely. “Do you know anything about it?”

“I’m afraid not. I think Mr. Alleyn has already accused me of an onion.”

“Did you happen to hear anything of it, sir?”

“Good Lord, no,” said Jocelyn.

“And you, Mr. Henry?”

“Not I,” said Henry.

“The next matter,” said Fox, making a note, “is the window. I understand you found it open on Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Ross.”

“Yes. We shut it.”

“Yes. You’d already shut it once, hadn’t you? At midday?”

“Yes, I had.”

“Who opened it?” inquired Fox, and he looked first at Jocelyn and then at Henry. They both shook their heads.

“I should think it was probably Miss Prentice.

“My cousin,” said Henry. “She has a deep-rooted mania—” He checked himself. “She’s a fresh-air fiend of the worst variety and continually complained that the hall was stuffy.”

“I wonder if I might ask Miss Prentice?” said Fox. “Is she at home, sir?”

The squire looked extremely uncomfortable.

“I think she’s — ah — she’s — ah — in. Yes.”

“Do you want me any longer, Mr. Fox?” asked Mrs. Ross.

“I think that will be all for the present, thank you, madam. The chief inspector would be much obliged if you could come down to the hall at about 9.15 this evening.”

“Oh? Yes, very well.”

“Thank you very much, madam.”

“I’ll see you out,” said the squire hurriedly.

They went out by the french window.

Henry offered Fox a cigarette.

“No. Thank you very much, all the same, sir.”

“Mr. Fox,” said Henry. “What do you think of the rector’s theory? I mean, the idea that Miss Campanula set the trap for my cousin, and that something happened to make her so miserable that when she was asked to play she thought: ‘Oh, well, this settles it. Here goes!’ ”

“Would you have said the deceased lady seemed very unhappy, sir?”

“Well, you know, I didn’t notice her very much. But I’ve been thinking it over, and — yes — she was rather odd. She was damned odd. For one thing, she’d evidently had a colossal row with my cousin. Or rather my cousin seemed friendly enough, but Miss C. wouldn’t say a word to her. She was a cranky old cup of tea, you know, and we none of us took much notice. Know what I mean?”

“I understand, sir,” said Fox, looking hard at Henry. “Perhaps if I could just have a word with Miss Prentice.”

“Oh, Lord!” said Henry ruefully. “Look here, Mr. Fox, you’ll find her pretty rum. You’ll think we specialize in eccentric spinsters in this part of the world, but I promise you I think the shock of this business has pushed her off at the deep-end. She seems to think the murderer’s made a mess of the first attempt, and sooner or later will have another go at her.”