A Guilty Thing Surprised Part 11

10.

'WHY didn't I tell you that my wife had made a will? Frankly, Chief Inspector, because I'd forgotten all about it.' Quentin Nightingale had seemed bewildered at first, but now he smiled a slightly derisory smile as if at someone making a mountain out of a molehill. He had negotiated his own mountain and descended it with only a few bruises. Why bother him now with trivialities? 'I don't for a moment suppose it's legal. It was just a piece of nonsense my wife took into her head, you know.'

'No, I don't know,' said Wexford, refusing the offer of a leather chair and standing instead against the tall bookcase. 'I imagine that people in your position have their solicitors draw up their wills for them. Who is your solicitor, Mr Nightingale?'

'But no solicitor was involved. I told you it was just a piece of nonsense. Really, I can't think how you came to hear of it.' He paused expectantly, but when it became clear to him that Wexford didn't intend to enlighten him, he said, with an edge of impatience to his voice, 'I'd better tell you about it.'

'I wish you would,' said Wexford, leaning his head against the hard smooth bindings of Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic.

'Well, it was last summer. My wife and I had decided on Bermuda for our holiday and naturally we intended to fly. Although my wife had flown before-when we went to America seven years ago-she didn't like flying and we usually went on holiday by sea and car.'

'She was afraid to fly?'

'Oh, come. "Afraid" is putting it too strongly.'

'If she made a will,' Wexford retorted, 'I suppose it was because she thought she might die. "Afraid" isn't too strong a word to use about the antic.i.p.ation of death.'

'You're looking at it much too dramatically,' Quentin said with exasperation. 'She was a little anxious but she was quite prepared to joke about it. This will was a sort of joke. I told you I never took it seriously.'

He stopped talking and listened for a second. By straining his ears Wexford too could just hear the sound of Katje's radio from far above them. Then Quentin's eyes met his and the other man flushed slightly. He went on in quick impatient tones. 'One day she said she was making a will -and I saw her scribbling something on a sheet of paper. I'm afraid I didn't even look at it. I took it for one of those romantic fads very feminine women go in for. I remember my mother,' he said, going off at a tangent, 'when my youngest sister was born, going and having her photograph taken to be a last memento for my father in case she died in childbirth, and writing farewell letters for all her other children. But of course she didn't die any more than Elizabeth ...'

'But your wife did die, Mr Nightingale,' Wexford said quietly.

Quentin looked down and clasped his hands together.

'Yes ... About this will, I took it for nonsense, as I've said. I doubt if it was even witnessed.'

'One person witnessed it, at any rate,' said Wexford. 'Lionel Marriott.'

Quentin raised his eyes and there was genuine surprise in them.

'Mr Nightingale, I can't just let this go by. What became of this piece of paper your wife was "scribbling" on?'

'She gave it to me and asked me to put it in my safe.'

'And did you?'

'Well, yes, I did. Elizabeth insisted on my doing so in her presence. Oh, it was very silly but I didn't want to distress her.'

'Is it still there?'

'I suppose so,' Quentin said wonderingly. 'I told you, I forgot all about it and I imagine Elizabeth did too when we got back safe and sound.'

Wexford said heavily, 'I'll trouble you to open that safe now, sir, if you please.'

Eyeing Wexford as if he thought he was dealing with a lunatic who needed to be humoured, Quentin lifted down from the study wall a small Stubbs oil of a phaeton and pair. Behind it, set into the wall, was a steel door. Murmuring the combination under his breath, Quentin opened it to reveal a s.p.a.ce about the size of a large biscuit tin. The safe contained a neat stack of papers which Wexford supposed to be share certificates and personal doc.u.ments, and several leather jewel boxes. Quentin took out a handful of papers. He leafed through them and then, his expression still amused and derisive, held out to Wexford a long brown envelope.

'It's in there,' he said.

'May I?' Wexford's tone left no room for refusal. He slit open the envelope and drew out a sheet of expensive blue writing paper headed with the Manor address. The paper was covered with a bold, rather masculine handwriting. Wexford turned it over, glanced at the foot of the reverse side and said in his strong official voice, 'This is a perfectly legal will, sir, none the less valid and binding because it was not made on a will form or in the presence of a lawyer.'

'Good heavens!' said Quentin. He sat down, leaving the safe door open.

'It is witnessed by -let me see- Myrtle Annie Cantrip and Lionel Hepburn Marriott and correctly signed by your wife. You'd find yourself up against a great deal of trouble if you tried to contest it.'

'But I don't want to contest it.'

'I think you'd better read it before you commit yourself, Mr Nightingale.'

'What does it say?' Quentin's face was now utterly bewildered, the smile wiped away. 'Will you read it me, Mr Wexford?'

'Very well.' At last Wexford sat down. He cleared his throat and read in the same expressionless voice:

"'This is the last will and testament of me, Elizabeth Frances Nightingale, born Villiers, being of sound mind. This is my last will and revokes all other wills made by me." ' Here Mrs Nightingale's knowledge of legal language had apparently dried up, for she continued in a more natural manner, interspersed, however, with occasional officialese. ' "I leave all my money, including the money my husband invested for me, to Sean Arthur Lovell, of 2 Church Cottages, Myfleet, in the county of Suss.e.x, in the hope that he will use it in the furtherance of his ambition ...." '

'Good heavens!' Quentin said again. 'Good heavens!'

'... and all the personal jewellery I possess to my sister-in-law, Georgina Villiers, of 55 Kingsmarkham Road, Cl.u.s.terwell ." '

Here Wexford paused and raised his eyebrows. so that she may indulge her love of adornment, although as a virtuous woman her price is above rubies." '

'Elizabeth wrote that?' Quentin asked in a hollow voice.

'Yes, sir.'

They were both surprised, Wexford thought, but probably for different reasons. For his part he was astonished that the woman whom her brother had described as frivolous and empty-headed should have had the wit to compose it and the knowledge to give it that malevolent bite. Quentin's astonishment stemmed perhaps from the malevolence alone. He had gone pale.

'Is that all?' he asked.

'That's all. How much money did your wife leave, sir?'

'Oh, nothing to speak of.' Quentin forced a laugh. 'She was overdrawn, as a matter of fact, on her private account. There's about three hundred pounds that I invested for her years ago.'

'Mmhm. I'm sure you won't grudge that to young Lovell. Is something troubling you, sir?'

'No, well, I ...'

'Mrs Villiers,' said Wexford thoughtfully, 'is a lady who seems fond of jewellery, as your wife -er, pointed out. Let us hope there are a few nice pieces for her.'

'A few nice pieces!' Quentin suddenly sprang to his feet. 'My wife's jewellery is in those boxes.' He plunged his hands into the safe. 'At a rough estimate,' he said, 'I'd value it at thirty thousand pounds.'

Wexford had seen too many precious stones to be dazzled by this small but brilliant collection. He was, in any case, not given to gasping, and his face was calm with a hint of taciturnity as he watched Quentin open the three boxes.

One was of white leather, one of green and the third of teak inlaid with onyx. Quentin had placed them on his writing desk and lifted the lids to disclose more boxes, tiny caskets for rings and ear-rings, longer cases for bracelets and necklaces.

Quentin took out one of the rings, a diamond halfhoop, set in platinum, and held it to the light.

'It was her engagement ring,' he said. 'She wore it sometimes, when,' he said, his voice growing hoa.r.s.e, 'I particularly asked her to.' He looked at Wexford. 'Perhaps I could buy it from Georgina.'

'Your wife was fond of her?'

'I don't know,' Quentin said hopelessly, pus.h.i.+ng the ring back into its velvet bed. 'I never thought much about it. She must have been ... And yet she can't have been, can she? You couldn't be fond of someone and leave that cruel message for them. I don't understand it.'

'We know Mrs Nightingale had a strong dislike for her brother. Perhaps that dislike extended itself to his wife.'

Quentin closed the ring box. 'The idea seems to have got about,' he said carefully, 'that my wife and her brother were at daggers drawn.'

Wexford raised his eyebrows. 'it isn't true?'

'It seems strange for me, her husband, to say this, but really I don't know. Denys never found fault with her to me and as for Elizabeth... Well, she never tried to stop him coming to the house, although it's true she did sometimes say rather spiteful things to me about him when we were alone. And yet, you know, I used to see her lookwell, almost compa.s.sionately at him when we were all three together. I never saw signs of any real hatred.'

'Perhaps you're not a man who probes much into other people's motives and emotions.'

'I can't be, can I?' Quentin said sadly. 'Otherwise I'd have seen that Elizabeth didn't enjoy Georgina's company and I'd have ...

I'd have realised she was going secretly into the forest at night. No, I suppose Elizabeth and Denys did have a genuine dislike of each other and I hadn't the perception to see it. Or I didn't want to.' He spoke quietly now and with slight embarra.s.sment. 'When you love people you want them to love each other and you convince yourself they do. I hate the idea of malicious stories going round that there was some sort of feud.'

There was a short silence and then Wexford said, 'Back to this will, sir. You evidently didn't know of your wife's friends.h.i.+p with Scan Lovell?'

'I knew she took a maternal interest in him. We had no children of our own. She asked me to get a friend of mine at the B.B.C. to hear him sing and I wasn't too keen, but I will now. It's the least thing-and the last thingI can do for her.'

'Forgive me-you never suspected the interest might be more than maternal?'

Quentin screwed up his face in distaste, shaking his head violently. 'Oh G.o.d,' he said, 'there can't have been, but if there was ... I've no right to sit in judgment, not while I and Katje ... Mr Wexford, I don't understand all these undercurrents. I don't understand any of it.'

'Nor do l,'said Wexford grimly.

Meanwhile Burden was making discoveries of his own. Emerging from the Old House and from the gate to the courtyard which surrounded it, he encountered Mrs Cantrip coming from the kitchen garden with a bunch of parsley in her hand.

'Oh, you startled me, sir,' she said. 'You walk so soft. Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Getting a bit late for that, isn't it?' said Burden looking at his watch and seeing that it was half past five. 'When do you knock off, anyway?'

'Supposed to be at four and that's a fact, but we're all at sixes and sevens these days, don't know where we are. Come on, sir, do. It'll do you good and there's Will waiting to have a word with you.'

'What does he want me for?' Burden walked towards the house with her.

'He wouldn't say, sir. Something about a scarf, I reckon.'

In the kitchen Will Palmer sat at the table next to the man Burden had observed earlier talking over her gate to Mrs Lovell. They were drinking tea from cups of dark glazed earthenware. The other man's presence in the kitchen was explained by the two rabbits, four wood pigeons and a basket of eggs that filled a checkered counter top.

As soon as he saw Burden, Palmer got to his feet.

'Got something to show you, governor.'

'Well?' Burden took his teacup from Mrs Cantrip, removing it as far as possible from the dead game.

'This is it.' With an air of triumph, Palmer produced from under the table a wet polythene bag, its neck fastened with garden twine. Burden undid the string and pulled out a piece of material. It was dampish but not wet and it was still plainly recognisable as a silk scarf.

The design on it was art nouveau, a stylised exquisite pattern of gold leaves on a primrose ground. Across the centre of the scarf was a long brown stain. Burden frowned. I Where did you find this?'

'In a hole in the oak way down Cleever's Vale.'

'And where might Cleever's Vale be?'

Palmer's face registered a stunned astonishment. It was evidently inconceivable to him that anyone, especially a policeman, should be ignorant of something that to Myfleet was as much a part of the scene as the forest itself.

Mrs Cantrip said impatiently, 'It's part of the estate, sir, part of the park, the bit you come to first when you're coming this way from Kingsmarkham.'

'I was by way of clearing that old fungus from the oak,' Palmer said, recovering from his astonishment. 'Then I come on this hole, see? Likely an owl made it ...'

'Squirrel,' said the other man laconically, wiping his mouth. His face was very dark with a good day's growth of beard.

'Or a squirrel, as I was going to say, Alf,' said Palmer, ruffled. 'An owl or a squirrel, it being over-large for a woodp.e.c.k.e.r.'

'Spare me the natural history.'

'All right, governor, no need to get sarky.' Palmer's expression gained a new importance as the door to the garden opened and Sean came in to take his place at the table. 'This hole would be about six feet up, I reckon,' Palmer continued. 'Level with the top of my head, it was.'

'Rot,'said the swarthy man.

Palmer glared at him, but, apparently deciding that the interjection referred to the cause of the hole rather than to the nonsensical content of his remarks, went on, 'This old fungus were all round the hole. What we call the Oyster Mushroom, sir, on account of his cap looks like an oyster, see? The Poor Man's Oyster we calls him in these parts and mighty good fried he is, I can tell you.'

'Stewed.'

'Or stewed, Alf,' said Palmer more graciously. 'To cut a long story short, I stuck me hand in this hole and that's what I found, what's in that bag.'

'In the bag? Or did you put it in?'

'It wasn't in no bag, governor. just rolled up and stuffed down the hole.'

'Have you ever seen it before?'

'Of course he has,' said Mrs Cantrip. 'It belonged to poor Mrs Nightingale. She used to wear it for a headscarf like when she went out walking.' She bent over the scarf and recoiled sharply. 'Would that be her blood, sir?'

'I'm afraid so.'

Sean Lovell jerked to his feet.