‘That certainly means a new will,’ pronounced Laura. ‘No wonder Florian’s got that foxy smile!’
‘Wolfish smile,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘If what you suggest is true, Bernardo’s fortune may not turn out to be so great, after all. I wonder whether he knows that?’
‘Bound to, I should think. Binnie’s sure to know, and, that being so, I bet she’s lost no time in communicating the unwelcome tidings to her loved one.’
‘I do not think she is unduly mercenary. She may have been instrumental in persuading Bernard van Zestien to include her brother in the new will as a surety for his good behaviour, you know.’
‘Florian’s bargaining-point, too, I don’t doubt. Ah, well, our connection with the houses of van Zestien, Colwyn-Welch and Rose appears to be over. Among the correspondence this morning there are several invitations for Christmas week and the New Year. You’d better look them over and see who’s going to collect the wooden spoon.’
A few days passed. Dame Beatrice did some routine clinical work, Laura some equally routine office work. Then came the letter from Gavin and a copy of a local paper.
‘Read where I’ve marked,’ commanded Laura’s husband. ‘We have been called in by the local police. They’ve lost the scent — if there ever
‘Dashed rummy,’ commented Laura. She handed the letter and the copy of the local paper to her employer. They were at breakfast in the high-ceilinged dining-room of Dame Beatrice’s Kensington house. The marked column was on the front page and, moreover, had pride of place by being in the heaviest type. ‘Gavin’s got a job on, I should say. This pub is the one where we had a drink that day and, although I don’t know the name, there was only one barmaid there, so far as I know, so this dead woman must be she.’
‘Hydrocyanic acid,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Hardly the most likely poison to be obtained in a small country town, let alone in a village. I see that an inquest has been held and that the jury have returned an open verdict. The police are continuing to investigate the matter.’
‘That means they’re not satisfied,’ said Laura, unnecessarily. ‘What’s more, a barmaid being more or less of a public character, anyone could have murdered her. I mean, you can’t exclude a jealous boy-friend and her dearest relations, of course, but it could just as easily be one of the customers.’
‘Motive?’
‘She’d spotted him passing betting-slips or treating somebody under eighteen to a drink in the bar,’ said Laura readily. Dame Beatrice cackled.
‘As motives for murder, they seem to me inadequate,’ she said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ retorted Laura. ‘I’ve heard you say, yourself, and more than once, that there’s no such thing as an inadequate motive. If it seems adequate to the perpetrator, then it’s adequate and no more questions need be asked.
‘
‘I mean, suppose it was the local vicar,’ argued Laura, pressing home her advantage, ‘and she’d blackmailed him, or threatened to get up in the middle of Matins (which all country people are apt to attend because the pubs don’t open until twelve on a Sunday, whereas they’re all open at seven on Sunday evenings, right in the middle of the Nunc Dimittis or something) and denounce him to the congregation. She might even have threatened to report him to his bishop, and that certainly would have peeled the orphreys off his chasuble, or whatever it is.’
‘One thing,’ remarked Dame Beatrice, gazing at her secretary across the table with fascinated admiration. ‘Whatever virtue there may be in your processes of thought, there is no doubt about the source of your expressive and unlikely metaphors.’
‘Do we toddle up to Derbyshire and have a look-see? — or would that hamper Gavin in the execution of his duties?’ demanded Laura.
‘I really think it might. Far better, I think, to interview Florian.’
‘What could
‘No, I don’t think he did, except inadvertently — but, of course, one never knows.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What I mean is that this girl’s death, and the manner of it, have started in me a train of thought, but, as I may be making wild guesses, I prefer to disclose nothing until I have proved or disproved my conclusions.’
Leyden Hall was on the telephone. Binnie took Dame Beatrice’s personal call.
‘Come and see Florian? Yes, of course you may,’ she said. ‘Hold on a minute, please, Dame Beatrice. I’ll just have a word with Granduncle and let him know you’re coming.’
Arrangements were soon concluded, and two days later George was driving Dame Beatrice to North Norfolk. Laura was left behind and was bidden to go down to the Stone House, where Dame Beatrice would join her later and would furnish her with any news she had been able to gather from Florian.
In North Norfolk an autumn snap was in the air and the ducks and swans on the lake, into which Florian had plunged after his passage-at-arms with Bernardo, looked unhappy, Dame Beatrice thought. The deciduous trees in the wood that led down to the river had shed most of their leaves; horse-chestnut burrs were on the ground and the grass of the lawn was damp and rough. George drove round to the front of the house and Dame Beatrice rang a jangling bell. A maidservant showed her into the library and announced her. Florian and his granduncle got up out of deep chairs. Binnie ran forward with outstretched hands.
It was not until after dinner that the object of the visit was announced. Then, when coffee had been cleared away and they were again in the library and were seated around a coal fire (it was so much cosier in the library than in the enormous drawing-room upstairs, Binnie had said), Dame Beatrice produced the newspaper she had brought with her. She passed it straight to Florian.
‘Did you know this girl?’ she asked. Florian, frowning, read the marked column.
‘Not by name, but I must have had drinks in her bar,’ he said. ‘How on earth did she get herself poisoned? The
